Little Dancer

“Damn straight, you tell him where it’s at.”

“We didn’t know you had it in you.”

I remember Rufus’s suggestion that I ask the other dancers where they live and if they know of any rooms available. I ask, and Alice tells me she has a friend who’s looking for a flatmate in Vauxhall, and she promises to text me the details.

They’re all gone before I’m finished getting ready, and I turn this way and that, looking in the mirror. I wasn’t sure how dressy I should be but I know that Rufus always wears button-down shirts so I opted for a knee-length cream dress with some embroidery on the yoke, and some of my new pastel hair clips to pin my hair off my face and give it some volume. It’s a little flat after wearing a wig. I finish the outfit off with some white patent kitten heels because they’re easy to walk in, and because I like how much taller he is than me; I don’t want to spoil it with high heels. I apply some lip gloss and turn this way and that in front of the mirror. Cute, I hope.

Rufus told me to meet him downstairs and when I come out of the dressing room he’s there, leaning one shoulder against the brick wall, arms folded. The butterflies that have been gathering in my stomach suddenly whip themselves into a flurry of activity. I’ve never been on a date before and I’m not entirely sure how they’re supposed to go—especially not dates with someone who’s declared he wants to be my dom. There have been so many firsts with Rufus. So many things that we’ve done or he’s talked about that I don’t understand yet. I feel daunted and excited at the same time.

He’s put a gray suit jacket on over his black shirt and he looks neat and handsome. After looking me over with a small smile on his face, he holds out his hand to me. I take it, and it’s large and warm. The butterflies stop beating their wings quite so frantically.

There are still lots of people on the streets despite it being just past ten o’clock, and all the restaurants are open and busy. I love this about the West End. It’s always buzzy and happy when I get out of the theater.

Rufus takes me to a restaurant a few streets away and talks to the maître d’, a woman in a glamorous, very tight red dress, and she shows us to a little booth in the corner. It’s the sort of place that has white linen draped over everything and two men in white jackets making cocktails behind the bar with exquisite care.

I like the coziness of the circular booth as it means we can sit next to each other. He drapes an arm along the back of the velvet seat and I angle myself toward him.

“You look like something the big bad wolf would like to gobble up,” he murmurs in my ear. “Am I supposed to think about food now?”

I pick up the menu and pretend to read it. “Well, I’m hungry,” I say. I’m not hungry, I’m nervous as hell, but I do my best to hide it.

The waiter appears and we order two courses and a glass of wine each.

“You know,” Rufus says, taking a sip of white wine when we’re alone again, “as this is a date we should probably get to know one another. I know you live with your mother and father. Any siblings?”

I like that he’s called it a date. I shake my head. “You?”

“One brother and one sister, both younger. My sister is married and living in Plymouth. My brother is in the army.”

I take a sip of my wine, and it’s cold and crisp. I think about the things I want to know about him. There are so many along the lines of Have you ever done what you do to me in your office to any of the other girls? and How did you get so good at hurting and then comforting and making me feel so grounded? I don’t want to sound nosy, though, and I’m too shy to ask about the things we have done, so I ask, “Have you always liked the theater?”

Rufus nods. “I grew up with it. I love the Palais. I love the building and I love seeing all the punters in the bar before the show, and all you performers rushing about with your powder and glitter and sequins. I love the rehearsals with the rosin on the stage and the dancers draped in the stall seats, taking direction and watching the scenes. It’s been a part of my life for as long as I remember.”

His eyes are glowing with gentle contemplation, and I feel a rush of happiness that he sees the magic of the Palais as much as I do. “Does your family own it?”

He nods, his expression dimming. “It belonged to my grandfather, then my father, and now me. My father’s still alive, but he signed it over to me a few years ago and moved up north.”

I sense some sadness surrounding this. He doesn’t change the subject, though, so I ask, “Did he retire?”

Rufus hesitates, and rubs a thumb over the dewy glass. “In a way. My mother got sick when I was a teenager. Very sick, and she needed a lot of care. My brother and sister had only just started high school. My father kept the family and the theater going. I helped out most nights at the theater and on weekends. Anything that needed doing. Box office. Bartending. Bumping out sets and fixing props. And I made sure my brother and sister did their homework and

had everything they needed. My father did the paperwork and looked after my mother.”

I reach out and put my hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry. That must have been so hard. Is she...?”

He nods. “She died when I was nineteen. From then on I more or less ran the theater because my father found it difficult to focus without her. He suddenly wasn’t torn between two demands but it was so much harder for him to do anything without her.”

He had to grow up fast, and take on so much work and family responsibility at such a young age. It’s no surprise he’s so good at running things now if he’s had all that practice. I wonder if that’s what made him the sort of man he is now, too, with his manner of authoritative benevolence.

“Your father must be so proud of the way you coped with everything, and how well the Palais is doing now.”

But Rufus just frowns and shrugs, and I sense we’ve hit a wall with this line of conversation.

Our starters arrive and we begin to eat; smoked salmon for me and rillettes for him.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you like about the theater?”

I play with my fork. “Oh, everything. The make-believe. The otherworldliness. The way people make a night of it, buying their tickets months before, putting the date in their calendar. Dressing up and going out to dinner. And then sitting in the dark for two hours, watching us. I think it’s the only place in the world where you just have to sit there and focus and watch the show, without sneaking looks at Facebook and talking to the person next to you. The other people in the audience just won’t allow it.”