“You said he was excited to meet me,” she said, turning to Yves.
“Yes, well—”
“Yes, well,” Fernando cut in, “sorry you made the trip for nothing. We don’t need another principal here.”
Yves gave him a harried look. “Yes, we do. We’ve lost two principals recently. Ashleigh and Mariel have both retired.”
“You said we were meeting to talk about the ballets for next year,” Fernando said to Yves.
“We will. We are. Now, if you’ve made enough of a scene, perhaps you’ll consider sitting down and behaving like a civil person.”
The director’s voice never rose above a level tone, but the reprimand was obvious. Rubio snapped his mouth shut and slid into the remaining seat, fidgeting with his jewel-patterned tie. He angled himself away from her, as if to deny her presence. Petra felt gob-smacked. She’d flown all the way across the ocean, only to sit here and endure his scorn?
“We talked about this,” he said to Yves in a stage whisper. “You said I got to pick. I told you, specifically, not this.”
At “this,” he flicked a finger at her, the ballerina-who-must-not-be-named.
“What’s wrong?” She shot him an arch look. “Afraid I’ll outshine you if I join the company?”
“Outshine me?” Fernando snorted. “Maybe in makeup you outshine me. You have a tragically big forehead.”
Yves made a faint, distressed sound as Petra drew herself up to her full height, which was not very high.
“I do not have a big forehead,” she said. “And I find it hypocritical that you’d talk about my ‘tragically big’ forehead considering those massive feet you drag around the stage.”
His expression hardened. “My feet are not massive. I have the best feet in ballet.”
“No, I have the best feet in ballet,” she corrected him. “Everyone knows that. Your feet are big and square like...like bricks.”
“Petra, Rubio, please, people are staring—” Yves tried to interject.
“Me and my big feet do not want to dance with you,” Fernando snapped. “I need a partner with grace and lyrical beauty. Not a big-forehead robot like you.”
She gasped. “I’m not a robot.”
“You dance like a robot. You’re famous because you’re Grigolyuk’s daughter,” he said, waving a hand. “Nothing more.”
That flippant wave infuriated her. She hated Fernando Rubio, hated him for dismissing her fame and accomplishments like they were nothing. She’d earned everything she’d achieved through her own hard work, not her father’s support. Grigolyuk had never even acknowledged her, although everyone knew he and her mother had had a torrid affair when they were partners at the New York Metropolitan Ballet, and that Petra looked exactly like him, down to his light blond hair and Slavic hazel eyes. And yeah, her mom had named her Petra to drive the point home.
But Hillary Hewitt had never demanded a paternity test or financial support. “Petr knows he’s your father,” she used to say. “If he doesn’t want you, we don’t want him.”
To this day, Petra lived by those words. She threw her napkin beside her plate and pushed back her chair.
“Forget it,” she said to Yves. “If he doesn’t want me, I don’t want him.”
The slim, stolid director shot up from his seat and followed her as she stormed toward the door.
“Petra, please, let me explain.” He drew her over by the coat room and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “Rubio wants you—he just doesn’t know it yet. He’s in a bad place right now. He was...” Yves paused, frowning. “He was very close to his previous partner.”
Well, that wasn’t the way to make Petra rethink things. After all the pain her father caused her mom, she was dead set against partner relationships. She wondered if The Great Rubio had knocked up Ashleigh Keaton, if that was why she’d left ballet.
“He doesn’t even know me,” she said. “How can he be so rude?”
Yves looked over his shoulder to where his star dancer sat alone, tapping his fingers on the table. “He’s a bit rough around the edges. Temperamental, like many artists. You shouldn’t take it personally. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“I don’t care how famous he is. I’m an artist too, and I’m not temperamental and condescending. I can dance with anyone in the world, anywhere I want to. New York, Paris, Berlin, Moscow.” She knew she sounded bitchy but, for God’s sake, she did not have a big forehead. She felt embarrassed and disappointed. Rejected. “You misled me,” she said. “I came here because you said Fernando Rubio wanted to dance with me.”
“He does! I promise you he does, it’s only a matter of adjustment and change.”
“You asked me here knowing he would refuse me. That doesn’t inspire a lot of trust.”
Yves sighed and removed his glasses. “I asked you here because he chased off the previous four prospects, and you’re the only one left.”
“What?” That kicked her ego right in the gut. “So I was your last-ditch choice? Really?”
“No, you were the most expensive choice. With Mr. Rubio on the payroll, we couldn’t afford another renowned dancer until a certain donor—who wishes to remain anonymous—agreed to foot the bill for your salary. I invited you to come the same day.” He put a hand over his lips and looked massively stressed out for a moment. He’d composed his expression by the time he looked up again. “Petra, you of all people must understand. Mr. Rubio needs a certain caliber of partner to inspire and motivate him, and that type of partner doesn’t grow on trees. You are his best match in the ballet world at the moment. The two of you could become a legend, one of those pairings that inspires a whole new generation of students to dance.”
We could, thought Petra, if he wasn’t such a braying ass.
“He said that he’d already told you no,” she said. “So why—”
“Mr. Rubio is saying no to everyone and everything right now,” Yves said, cutting her off. “Again, you shouldn’t take it personally.”
“It’s hard not to take it personally when someone says you dance like a robot.”
“We all know you don’t dance like a robot. Please, give him a little time and space to redeem himself. You know, he and his previous partner began their acquaintance under terrible circumstances.”
“Ashleigh Keaton? But they were—”
“Amazing together? Certainly, but they first met under the pressure of a last minute substitution. She wasn’t prepared, he was incensed. He called her a whale, if I remember correctly.”
“He called her a whale?”
“And she accidentally kicked him during the pas de deux, barely missing his testicles,” he said, setting off the accidentally with air quotes. “He stormed away after the curtain call and she ran to the dressing rooms and vomited. Repeatedly. It was a disaster, but from such beginnings they developed into one of the most notable partnerships City Ballet has ever known.”
“So what happened? Why did she leave the company?”
“Ashleigh is expecting a baby in the spring.”
She knew it! She shot a vicious glance at Fernando. “By him?”
Yves’ eyes widened. “No, by her husband. Ashleigh and Rubio were friends, nothing more. When he gets to know you better, he will be your friend too. Please, don’t leave yet. Dance with him tomorrow so he can see all you have to give, what a perfectly matched partner you’d be. We’re rehearsing Romeo and Juliet for the fall. Perhaps you already know the choreography.”
Petra sniffed and pulled at the clasp of her clutch. Of course she knew the choreography. Romeo and Juliet was a much-loved ballet, even if the maudlin, misery-of-cursed-love theme was a bit overblown. At twenty-eight, she’d danced the lead role in five different productions.
“If he wants to dance, I’ll dance. But if all I get from him is attitude, I’m heading back to New York.” She looked past Yves to where Rubio sat scowling at the table. “And I’d rather not stay for dinner. I seem to have lost my appetite.”
Yves
squeezed her hands. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll make this up to you, and I promise you’ll receive an apology from Mr. Rubio.”
Petra wouldn’t hold her breath on that one. She climbed into the back of a cab, still fuming. She’d really wanted things to work out here. London City Ballet had great facilities, savvy management, and some of the most lavish productions in the world. There was a history here, a history that extended far beyond that of the companies she’d danced for in the US. Her father had chosen to dance with City Ballet after he left Russia...and he still lived in London.