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In came Simone. No sports bra required, the sexiest strappy leotards adorned her pre-pubescent boy’s physique every day. The mirror smiled her way and gave a rousing speech: so perfect, so skinny, hair like spun gold, the longest of legs and such a neat little nose. The corner of Simone’s mouth raised in a sneer as she glanced at us, but at least she didn’t speak.
Our teacher arrived with an arm flourish which was at once a greeting and a call to stand ready. Peter had taught me since I was six years old, and his attitude had always been that of a somewhat judgemental father.
“You look unusually full of inspiration today, Amalphia,” he said, walking over and placing his palm on my cheek. “Let’s put it to work.”
At the barre everything was simple. You were right, or you were wrong. You were good, but you could get better. Having missed my usual solitary pre-class warm-up and stretch, I needed the grounding strength of the barre more than ever. Peter always used set routines, allowing focus to be on the improvement of form rather than remembering choreography. The intricate and slow adagio sequence was designed to develop height and control. This type of work typified perfectly the continual improvement possible through perseverance, so I was not pleased to have it interrupted by late arrivals into the room.
The mirror stretched to accommodate Madame Genevieve, the head of our school. Once a great ballet dancer, she had since become a powerfully beautiful plus-size woman. Her confidence and poise allowed her to wear outfits that anyone else would have looked ridiculous in. Today’s flowery purple dress with a monkey on the back, and green trainers adorned with ladybirds, called to mind exotic jungles and floral scents. But her earlier speech echoed. The official autism diagnosis had ticked a box that secured my scholarship. The recent removal of that diagnosis, a decision I had been assured would have no negative impact, actually meant no allowances would ever be made for me again. It was effectively a punishment for coping too well, or seeming to. Madame was just waiting for me to put an inappropriate foot wrong and then... She’d let it hang. The person behind her now, here in the studio, was dressed all in black which was oddly soothing, until I recognised his eyes.
Madame talked to Peter, and I inspected the chocolate thief. Justin was right. The man moved with a grace that meant ballet. The shape of his thigh muscles under the black jeans proclaimed the same, though his legs were not bulky like those of some male dancers. He sat down on a chair by the piano and ran a hand back through his dark blond hair.
I stared. He stared back, face expressionless, or perhaps stern. Could it be some sort of grumpy resting face? But no, he was actively looking at me. I waited for a sign of apology or recognition. His gaze moved off round the room without offering a hint of either. Only then did I notice the other intruder in our midst. Standing beside the brown-eyed man, the woman wore the most unpleasant array of red colours. I detected a strong and expensive perfume too. That had to be coming from her. This wearer of cloying scent and clashing shades was looking right back at me, her red lipsticked mouth turned up ever so slightly at the sides: mocking, thinking she knew something.
Well. I didn’t look their way again for the rest of the twenty minutes they remained in the studio, instead pouring vigour and energy, possibly more than was warranted, into each and every exercise. My legs had never been higher. All jumps were at maximum velocity. It felt good. My eyes flashed big and dark and dramatic in the mirror, and then my hair fell down. But the man in black, and the woman in red, had already left with Madame.
Simone led the post-class discussion. “Do you think he’s looking for students?” she asked the room in general. “His new school in Scotland is meant to be amazing. For starters, it’s in a castle and has the biggest dance studio in Britain. It’s got a swimming pool and a theatre. It’s just amazing!”
“Who is the amazing one, exactly?” asked Justin.
She gaped at us in disbelief. “Do you two actually live under some sort of special-needs rock somewhere?”
Justin opened his mouth to retort, but Simone spoke gratingly on.
“Aleksandr Zolotov? The great Ukrainian dancer? He’s amazingly famous! Any dance publication would tell you this. Honestly!” And with a toss of her golden head, she flounced from the room.
Justin took a bite of toast as we stood in our small ‘must buy chairs’ kitchen the next morning. He looked out the window at the damp grey day and bemoaned the fact that the only thing his father had ever given him was the flat we both lived in.
“Well, that and my Indian Ocean good looks, of course.”
“You are very beautiful,” I agreed.
“But have I ever met him?”
“No,” I said, knowing my lines in this role by heart.
“How often do I get to soak up the sun in Mauritius while visiting him in his beautiful house?”
“Never.”
“I could be there now, Phi,” he said, gesturing at the weather. “My Mauritian blood doesn’t like the cold.”
“You’d be missing college.”
He looked at me, possibly irritated by my deviation from the usual line of plain agreement. “Like you, today,” he said and sighed. “I’d bunk off with you if you’d do something more fun.”
But I was quite happy with my plans. College wasn’t somewhere I wanted to be on Tuesdays, despite the trouble that the absences incurred. I sought other dance floors and companions once a week, the break allowing me to cope better with the usual routine when I returned to it.
Walking into the flat that evening, after my refreshing day of fun, I found Justin lying on the sofa with his legs propped up on a pile of cushions. A damp washcloth on his forehead completed the look of abject misery.
“I take back every trouser-packing, nice thing I said about him,” moaned my friend, raising his head and removing the washcloth. “Sexy and Slavic he may be, but he’s a sadist. He doesn’t explain his planned sadism properly and then makes you feel stupid for getting it wrong. You’re for it tomorrow; he was most upset that you weren’t there. ‘You are living with Amalphia?’ he asked me. I said yes, as if I was straight and dating you, or something. I don’t know why. Why do I do that? He is by the way. Totally. No gay man could dream up such torture.”
We’d been moved into the Ukrainian dancer’s new morning ballet class for what was to be a term-long audition for his school in Scotland.
“But we haven’t said we want to try out for it,” I said. “Shouldn’t an audition be a choice?”
“Exactly,” agreed Justin. “Madame’s whims gone awry again, and we get shafted. Not in a wholesome man-up-your-bum way, you understand. And then there’s the woman in red. She looks at you like you’re dirt. Dirt, Phi! And then she smirks and writes stuff down.”
“Well, I’m not going.”
