***
Sophie ran to the tube station, darting through the heavy traffic of Highbury. She glanced at her watch; time was of the essence. Then a force jolted her to a stop, pulling her shoulder back. Sophie whirled round, clenching her fists. A fairy floss dress thrust at her face. Sophie stepped back with caution as the coat hanger almost poked her in the nose.
“You forgot it. You can’t be late tonight, and I know how caught up you get.”
Sophie grappled to hold the garment steady, away from her body. Peeking over the ruffles, Carol stood in her bright pink pig slippers, a silk pink nightgown wrapped round her shoulders and last night’s mascara smudged over her face. A glow of triumph exuded from her face, but her grin slowly faded, as she tugged a wisp of Sophie’s carrot hair from under the baseball cap.
“Oh Jeeeeezzzee,” Carol hissed.
Sophie shrugged Carol’s hand away. “It’s fine. What are you doing awake? I heard you come home after four.” Sophie noticed circles under her friend’s eyes and wondered whether Carol had gone to visit Josh, or whether something urgent had come up at the theatre.
“Oh Soph, I had no idea it would turn orange.” Guilt spread across her friend’s face. “Keep the dress. Please keep it.”
“No. It’s fine.”
“What are you going to do? Did you want me to dye it again?”
“No, no, I’ve got a plan. Why are you awake so early, running around the street like this?” Sophie indicated the dressing gown, noting that the silk hung only to her mid-thigh.
“What’s wrong with this? No one cares about me. I live in London, millions of people come to this tube station every day.” Carol put her hand on her hip, tapping her slippers on the pavement, the fluffy, pink pig’s head nodding in agreement as Carol’s foot went up and down. “Besides, you’re the one in my cap and sunglasses.” It was true. Sophie had borrowed one of Carol’s many hats – a black baseball cap – the most understated one in Carol’s collection.
“Well, can I borrow it?” Sophie shifted the dark sunglasses over her face feeling somewhat like a celebrity hiding from the masses, large oval circles covering half her face, lenses coming down to the middle of her cheeks.
“’Course you can borrow them. I think the glasses look better on you anyway.”
“Thanks.” Sophie supposed that was a compliment. She wrinkled her nose. The circular, goggled frames, although fashionable, made her feel like a fly. But if she took her cap off and left the sunglasses on, she supposed she’d look like a bee. It was a pity it wasn’t closer to Halloween, as she had the perfect headgear. At least no one would recognise her.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You should have rung or texted. I could have asked some of my friends to come over after the show and help.”
“I’m going to my hairdresser, she’ll sort me out.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Sophie shifted on her feet, thanking the shade of the lenses, almost black, to hide her expression. “No.” She hoped her hairdresser could help her, but it had been too late to make an appointment last night.
“What if you can’t get one?”
“Someone will do it.”
“You’re not going to race into work are you? This is an emergency; you’ve got a date tonight.”
“It’s not a date. I’m considering cancelling anyway, if I can’t fix this.” Sophie tucked a wisp of stray hair back into her cap.
“You can’t cancel.”
“Why not?” Of course she could cancel. This was a disaster.
A sparkle flashed across Carol’s face, her lips twitched, slowly extended from ear to ear. “That’s why I raced out to tell you.” Carol swept up the ends of her dressing gown into the tips of her fingers with a graceful motion, and bent into a deep curtsey.
“What is it?”
Carol leapt and twirled, pig-slippered, she performed a pirouette on the sidewalk without a care in the world, even when tube passengers stopped and stared. Sophie was waiting for someone to throw a coin in her direction.
“What is it?” Sophie pulled her hand to her chest, her heart beat rapidly.
“You are looking at….” Carol paused for effect.
“What? Tell me, damn it.”
Carol’s voice came out dramatically, loudly, like she was centre stage at the theatre. “For one night only, you’re looking at the Swan Queen! You’ll even get a chance to see me! You have to come tonight. You have to!”
“Oh my God! That’s amazing!” Sophie shrieked, leaning over to hug Carol. She pulled back and stared into her friend’s face. “How did this happen?”
“The lead is sick! Frightfully ill, the doctor says – she hasn’t been eating, mind you, but we won’t tell the doctor that. You know how dancers get when they’re in the spotlight. Anyway, she collapsed – that’s why I had to go in last night, perfect all the moves because I’m front and centre tonight. I rehearsed, dancing my little butt off for hours last night, making sure that I’ve got all the moves down.”
“I don’t want you to get sick too. So go home and rest before the performance.”
“I’m too excited to rest. Can I help you at all?”
Sophie frowned, realising the dark circles were larger than she’d seen before on her friend. Carol always did this, hyped herself up when she got over excited. She took her friend’s hands, patted them gently. “Run yourself a warm bath, I have some salts in my room. You need to calm down, get some sleep, so you can do your best tonight. Don’t you worry about me, I’ll be fine. Matthew and I will see you tonight. Good luck.”
“Don’t say that. It’s bad luck.”
“What am I supposed to say? Break a leg? Not very good for a dancer is it?”
“Well ‘break a leg’ is the act, one foot behind the other.” Carol bowed down. “Get it? It’s an archaic expression for bowing or curtseying. But if you want, say ‘merde.’ That’s what we all say; it’s French.”
Sophie scratched her head. “Is that the right slang?” Sophie asked, her brain working in overdrive. “I’ve heard a different meaning for that word.”
“No, no, it’s French for ‘break a leg’. We all use it. I’m more than just a pretty face.” Carol leapt in the air, floating on her personal high. “Ciao, ciao.” She waved, dashing across the hectic road.
Sophie frowned. The only French translation she knew for merde was a profanity, a curse uttered more likely when a dancer broke their own leg. Sophie sighed, she’d probably misheard. It wasn’t like she was fluent in French. Besides, Sophie probably had had about as much sleep as her friend, worrying about her hair. Who cared if the ballet dancers were shouting ‘shit’ for encouragement rather than ‘good-luck’?