Our company was considered avant-garde, although we used classical technique and even sometimes danced en pointe. We used new and buzz-worthy choreographers and non-traditional music, and performed acrobatics that made people marvel, bringing more and more fans to our shows. We were a relatively small company, twenty four dancers, but we were growing and had just moved into a larger theater space earlier in the year.
And my place in this scrappy little company? I suppose I was one of the stars, although when you dance for a small company and don’t make much money, you don’t feel like a star. Nor did I have much of an ego. I didn’t dance for the ovation. I danced because I had to dance, because it was who I was. But I was able to do the more spectacular tricks of the choreography, which earned me respect and made the roses fall at my feet. It was a good life, and now, since my breakup with Joe, it had become my whole life for better or worse.
These exercises were bone memory, a meditation. I could cycle through them half asleep. Point. Reach. Turn. Bend. It was so simple and precise. It was comfortable absentia, a mantra for the body that I couldn’t live without. I leaned back into a graceful, languorous stretch. I smiled, catching Grégoire’s eyes over my shoulder. Then my smile froze and I almost fell off balance, because there, over Grégoire’s shoulder, my eyes found him.
It was all I could do not to whip my head around, turn back to take a longer look at him leaning against the wall. He stood casually, his arms crossed over his chest, but his eyes had been fixed on me.
I swallowed hard, tried to keep my mind on my work. A flush rose in my cheeks as I realized I’d flubbed a tendu. Somehow I knew without a doubt that he noticed. In fact, I pictured him smiling that same amused smile he’d given me in the hall. I fixed my eyes on some point across the room and kept them there. I refused to look at him even when I turned to work his way. I was so tired of thinking of this man and now he here he was, in class, the one place I could usually relax. The whole time I fought with myself to put him from my mind, all I could think was that his eyes were really that blue.
When we finished at the barre, I turned to Grégoire.“Who is that?” I asked, nodding over my shoulder.
Grégoire looked in his direction. “That, my dear, is a new patron of our company. Smile nicely for the very rich man.” He gazed over at him with a broad, fake smile. I pinched his arm hard.
“Stop it, G! What is he doing here?”
“I don’t know what he’s doing here. Seeing where all his hard earned dollars go. Watching class. Watching you, right now.”
“Stop looking at him.” I felt like I was back in middle school, in the cafeteria checking out boys.
“He’s still looking at you,” breathed Grégoire.
I looked over at the man finally, and his eyes met mine and held them until I flinched first and looked away.
“What is he, some kind of businessman?”
“Yes.”
“He dresses like one. Is he gay?”
“He’s a very rich and very straight developer,” Grégoire chirped back. “His name is Matthew Norris.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I met him yesterday. We were all drooling over him. He was meeting with Maureen.”
Maureen, the business manager of the company. I glared at Grégoire as he shot another admiring glance Mr. Norris’s way. “I thought you had a boyfriend that you just adored.”
“I do. I can look. He’s looking at you again.”
“So what?” I feigned disinterest but Grégoire saw right through me.
“You’re not attached anymore,” he said with an all-too-knowing grin. “He’s still looking at you.”
To my relief, the rehearsal master called us to attention and continued the class.
* * *
After the show that night I went back to Georges’s place with Grégoire. He’d begged me to come since Georges was out of town, but as soon as we got there, I figured out what he was up to. He immediately booted up his boyfriend’s computer.
We searched using the keywords Matthew Norris, developer, New York, and I was amazed at how many results came up. I browsed over the pages for a while until I started to feel like a stalker, and then left with a show of boredom and went into the other room. But Grégoire kept at it, dug through articles and postings to turn up facts on him. He called out them out to me while I pretended disinterest in front of the TV.
“He’s divorced,” he yelled out. “Years ago. And you wouldn’t believe what he had to pay her to get out of it.”
“Did he cheat on her?”
“It doesn’t say. Hold on, I’ll try to find out.”
I rolled my eyes. Even if he discovered Mr. Norris was a cheating scumbag, he wouldn’t have told me because he clearly wanted me to hook up with him. Even if he discovered he had leprosy, ate babies in satanic rituals, and ran a meth lab, he still wouldn’t have told me on the off chance we’d actually go out.
“Damn, he has a girlfriend,” he sighed a moment later. Then, “Oh, they recently broke up. Ha!” A triumphant laugh. “He’s available, Lu!”
I didn’t reply but a part of me got excited. He’s available. Did he want me? He was a single man, rich, handsome, a patron of the arts. Grégoire said he’d been watching me during class...
But what did he actually want with me? The way he’d looked at me... He’d looked at me like he already knew me. He’d handled me in the hall like I was already his. That’s why it had felt so strange. It had been a possessive grip when he had no right to possession. He was clearly a man who was used to getting anything he wanted, but just because he donated to the company didn’t mean he could choose a girl from the ranks for his pleasure. For his pleasure. Why on earth did my mind automatically go there? Maybe he only liked my dancing. Maybe he just wanted to be friends.
No, I didn’t get that vibe from him. When he looked at me, when he’d touched me, it wasn’t friendliness I felt. My mind snapped from its train of thought when Grégoire started printing. “God, G.” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “What are you doing this for?”
“For you, dearest,” he said in my ear, and then dropped a photograph in my lap.
Yes, it was him, larger than life. The blond hair, the blue eyes that haunted my dreams. The broad face, the masculine features, the perfect smile. I shivered and felt strangely afraid. I handed it back to him. “I want you to have it. Something to stroke to while Georges is out of town.”
“Oh, come on!” He shoved the picture back into my hands. “It took me fifteen minutes to figure out how to blow that up for you.”
“I don’t want it.” I ignored him even though he was inches from my face, smiling his mischievous smile. “I have absolutely no interest in this rich prick.”
“He’s not a prick. I know you’re not big on guys right now,” he said, “but this guy! What do you think he’s worth? How many millions?”
“Why does that matter?” I shook my head. “It probably just makes him weird.”
“Weird?”
“Yes, weird. All rich people are weird. And he’s totally weird. I can tell that he is.”
“Georges is rich, and he’s not weird.”
“Yes he is, if what you tell me about your sex life is true.”
Grégoire laughed, jumped over the sofa and curled up with his head in my lap. “Oh, Lucy.”
I didn’t reply, just ran my fingers through his sleek black hair.
“You know what? I think you’re really, really sad.” He stroked my leg, soft and slow. “I think this thing with Joe has tripped you up.”
“It hasn’t. It’s just made me realize some things about love.”
“Love?” Grégoire snorted. “You don’t know anything about love, Lucy Merritt.”
He teased, but his words hit a little too close to home. Anyway, who was he to lecture me about love? “I’m going,” I muttered, pushing him out of my lap.
“Aw, don’t be mad.”
“I’m tired. It’s late, you stupid
French pretty boy. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice night.”
“Don’t forget your photo,” he said, holding out the picture of Matthew Norris.
“Thanks.” I crumpled it into a fistful of paper before shoving it in my bag, feeling full of fear and frustration and lust.
* * *
As soon as I got home, of course, I took out the photo, smoothed out the wrinkles as best I could. I lay on my bed and looked at it a long time, trying to inure myself to the beauty of his face.
And yes, I found him unbearably beautiful, which was strange, because he was far from a classically beautiful man. He actually looked rather coarse and rough around the edges. Animalistic, my uncooperative mind whispered. Yes, that was exactly what he was, animal male disguised in a suit. The proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, and me, I was the sheep. I looked at his eyes a long time hoping and wishing it wasn’t true, but then I remembered his hand on my arm, his look in the rehearsal hall, and I knew that it was true. I was his prey.