“Ma’am, it takes me forever to read English,” I said, giving her my best smile. “I really want to take this class, but I’ll be late . . .” and I gestured to the forms.
She frowned.
“Arlene is very strict about that—this is her studio and she’ll be teaching the second part of the class today. She likes to keep up to date with students.”
I pressed my hands together in a prayer.
“I promise I’ll fill them in after.”
“I don’t know . . . she has very high standards.”
I leaned on the counter and saw her eyes widen slightly, and knew that I was winning her over.
“I’m very good,” I said, smiling conspiratorially.
She shook her head and chuckled.
“You’re a smooth one alright. Go on then, off you go! But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Arlene usually makes half the class cry.”
“I never cry,” I said, winking at her.
Grinning, I stuck the papers in the back pocket of my jeans and hurried to the locker room.
I read the first paragraph of the top sheet.
Our classes draw on movement material from upcoming productions, teaching a dynamic release-based class, focusing on skeletal connections and imagery to find an ease and flow of movement through the body. Classes begin with exploratory work alone or with a partner and then move on to formal exercises that build towards driving movement sequences. Emphasis is placed on momentum, inversion and an expansive use of space combined with core strength. Expect your warm up to take at least 40 minutes of a 60 minute class.
My eyes glazed over. I couldn’t be bothered to read any more.
I threw on a tank top, long-sleeved tee, sweatshirt and sweatpants. I liked to be able to peel off layers as I warmed up.
There were two other guys and 12 girls in the studio, and most of them were doing stretches at a long ballet barre fixed down one side. That threw me a little, because I wasn’t ballet trained, and always did a jazz warmup. I hoped I hadn’t crashed the wrong class. But then I noticed that only one of the girls was wearing ballet pumps, and I relaxed.
“Hi, you’re new.”
The girl with the ballet pumps was smiling up at me as she worked through a series of barre exercises: second position pliés and other movements I recognized.
“Kinda.” Then I nodded at her ballet pumps. “Arlene does the jazz warmup, yeah?”
Her eyes widened in horror. “Ugh, no way! Is she teaching the class today?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Part of it—that’s what I was told.”
The girl shuddered. “She’s a monster. Everyone hates her.”
I smiled at the look on her face. All dancers have teachers they can’t stand—usually because they’re the tough ones who won’t let you get away with anything.
While I was waiting for the class to begin, I started my own warmup. I was already warm from jogging here, but that’s nothing like a dance warmup. I rolled my neck up and down, side to side, and the same with my shoulders. Then I did isolations of my rib cage. Non-ballroom people don’t do that, but it’s huge for us. Have you ever seen a Samba? The way dancers can make the rib cage ripple? That’s an isolation. I did it forward, back, side to side, then around, and the same with my hips.
Ballet trained people don’t move the hips like we do. They dance like they have brooms up their asses if they try to do ballroom—great extension, but no hip action.
Then stretches and lunges, rumba walks, cha cha locks, samba basics and jive triple step.
I noticed that I was getting stared at by the other dancers—looked like I was the only ballroom trained person here. Huh, this class was going to get interesting.
A woman of about 30 dressed in leggings and a tank top that advertised the dance studio walked into the room.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m MJ. I’ll be taking your warmup for the first part of the class, then Arlene will design a jazz routine with a Latin ballroom theme. Meredith, you need to change to jazz sneakers.”
The girl with the ballet pumps looked terrified.
“I don’t . . .”
“You have character shoes?”
“Yes, MJ.”
“And please make sure your mobile phones are switched off. Arlene won’t tolerate interruptions.”
I wondered what the punishment for that would be.
She took us through upper leg and hamstring stretches, shoulder rolls, pliés, lunges, and made the guys do twice as much abs work as the girls.
Then jazz hip stretches, oversplits and jazz leap straddle jumps.
“Big and graceful,” yelled MJ.
I shed the sweatshirt early on, feeling the stretch in my muscles, but not yet completely loose.
Ten minutes later, I was sweating freely, and had peeled down to sweats and a tank top.
I saw the door open and a woman of about 60 dressed in black entered. I guessed this was Arlene.
She watched critically for several minutes, and I felt the energy level in the room ramp up. They all hated her, but they wanted to impress her, too.
MJ stepped back respectfully, and we all listened carefully as Arlene spewed out a list of instructions for the run—a long and complicated series of steps that got us moving across the whole studio. This was the kind of thing you did in auditions—usually classes weren’t so intense. But I liked this, it suited my style.
Only two of us got everything right on the first run, and Arlene’s eyes narrowed in fury.
“That was terrible! Two out of 15! That is not acceptable. You have to pick this up more quickly. Meredith, you’re throwing away your free arm! Rose, that’s a syncopated head snap at the end. Adam, you’re dancing with your mouth open—you’re not a fish! Focus! Come on! Give me some energy! You’re tired after forty minutes? You think your feet hurt now? This is easy! Attitude! Again! Again!”
At the end of a really fucking intense 20 minutes of Arlene drilling us, we were all panting like we’d just run the Kentucky Derby, sweat pouring from us, but it felt good. The endorphin high was amazing—only performance beat it.
MJ took us through the cool-down, and I lay on the hard floor, stretching out slowly, letting my heartrate return to normal. My body knew this, understood it, craved it.
“New boy!”
I turned my head to look. Arlene was pointing at me.
The ballet girl muttered under her breath, “The beast awakes . . .”
I had to hide a smile as I replied.
“Ma’am?”
“My office.”
And she turned and stalked out.
Was Arlene pissed that I hadn’t filled out the forms? MJ gave me a look that I couldn’t interpret.
“Her office is behind reception. Good luck.”
“Do I need it?”
“You have met Arlene?” she chuckled, shaking her head.
Pulling my sweatshirt over my soaked body so I didn’t cool down too quickly, I headed for Arlene’s office.
I’d enjoyed her workout—she reminded me of a Russian coach I’d had once, drilled in the Soviet style. Nothing was scary after that.
Arlene glanced up from her desk as I walked in, and pointed her pen at a chair opposite. I slid into it and waited as she signed a piece of paper with a flourish.
“I haven’t seen you before.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t been in London very long. I just got off a long tour and . . .”
“What tour?”
“Did you see Slave?”
Her eyes brightened. “Yes! Very inspiring. Which role were you?”
“Volkov, the wolf.”
“Ah! The boy-on-boy Argentine tango—very nice work.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“It explains why you’re in performance shape. Any injuries?”
I shook my head, wondering where all this was leading.
“And what are your plans now?” she asked, tappi
ng her pen against the desk.
“We tour again in the winter. I’m in London for three months. No plans.”
“Where are you from?”
“Slovenia.”
“Good—no visa necessary. Hmm, well, here’s the pitch. I’m the choreographer for the West End show The Bodyguard—have you seen it?”
“I’ve seen the movie,” I admitted.
“Completely different,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m looking for a swing dancer. One of my boys fractured his metatarsal and he’ll be off for eight to ten weeks; another is getting married,” and she rolled her eyes, “and, well, I won’t go on, but I need a replacement. I saw how you handled the runs I gave you today—you could slot in straightaway, dancing three or four times a week, plus understudy rehearsals. Pay is Equity rates plus. You’d take home £1,500 a month—more if you do more shows.”
It wasn’t great money for a West End show that made its backers a good profit, but it would be three or four grand I didn’t have now.
Being a swing dancer was a bit shit, but it might be fun for a while, and nothing I hadn’t done before. It doesn’t mean dancing swing-style either: it’s being an understudy who knows all the roles for your gender, and you can get called on to dance at short notice. You have to know all the parts in case anyone is injured or on vacation.
“Sure, why not.”
“Good. It’s basic backup work, nothing you can’t handle,” and she gave a quick smile that showed me her real personality. “Get yourself to the Dominion Theatre at 10AM tomorrow—it’s just off Tottenham Court Road. Report to Kathryn, she’s the Dance Captain. You’ll learn the routines in the morning, rehearse with the other dancers in the afternoon, and go for costume fittings. All being well, you’ll be on stage by Monday night or maybe the Sunday matinée. Any questions?”
“Do I get a contract?”
She laughed. “Smart boy! Yes, you do. What’s your name?”
“Luka Kokot.”
“Well, Luka, you’ll get your contract when you turn up for work tomorrow. Don’t let me down.”
“No, ma’am.”
We shook hands and I headed back to the locker room a little dazed. Landing a job was the last thing I had in mind. But yeah, definitely worked for me now that Seth . . .
I turned the thought off and hit the showers.
By the time I got out of the studio, it was early evening and I was hungry. I’d slept through breakfast, skipped lunch to get to class, and now I could have eaten the ass-end of a mule.
A burger bar was calling my name, and I sat down to a Whopper with everything and a chocolate milkshake. I could eat whatever I wanted and never put on an ounce. In fact, keeping my weight up could be an issue on tour. Although Ash had ensured that we stayed in nice hotels with good food, and not the shithouses I’d been in on the German and Australian tour last year. But sometimes nothing beats a greasy burger.
I stopped off at a pub for a beer. I loved London pubs—they were different from anywhere else in the world. America did bars, but London did pubs. The one I chose was off of the main street, and I’d only found it by accident. It was really quiet and only seemed popular with old guys who took three hours to drink a pint of dark bitter ale, and laborers from a nearby construction site. You could order eel pie with mashed potatoes. It sounded disgusting—and I really wanted to try it sometime.
No one hit on me and no one spoke to me, other than the heavily made up woman serving at the bar. Her earrings jangled when she moved her head, and a man could get lost in that cleavage for a week and never see daylight—if you didn’t mind sleeping with a woman older than your grandmother.
“You look like a man who has a lot on his mind, luv,” she said, pulling a pint from the barrel with arms that looked as if they could crush a bear.
“Yeah, some,” I smiled at her.
“Well, you know what they say, ‘the only easy day was yesterday’.”
It was quiet, no music or TV allowed, and I watched the dust swirls caught in the evening twilight as I sat nursing my drink. No one bothered me here. I sat on a threadbare bench seat and let the tiredness settle through me. Perhaps it was a mistake going back to work so soon—my body needed rest. But the thought of having nothing to do and no one to do it with was not the liberation I’d expected: it was depressing.
Images of Seth pressed into my brain. How had I not noticed that he had the same eyes as Sarah? I remembered her talking about her brother, and Seth had even told me that his sister had taught him some dance moves.
I sipped the cold beer and let my eyes drift shut.
I’d slept with both of them—what a clusterfuck.
I listened to the conversations going on around me—bets on horse-racing mostly, but also a few comments about women. The same all over the world.
I finished the beer and headed home. My exciting evening included working out how Sarah’s washing machine operated, and watching TV.
Tomorrow was going to be a long day, but I was looking forward to it.
I was surprised to see a fancy white Benz parked outside Sarah’s apartment—especially since it wasn’t the kind of street that had many expensive cars. But then I saw Seth step out of the driver’s side and walk toward me.
“Can we talk?”
I studied him for a moment. He was wearing charcoal suit pants and a white shirt with a blue tie hanging loosely around his neck. He’d obviously come from work.
I glanced at my wristwatch.
“Please, Luka?”
I blew out a breath. “Sure. Come on in—you know the way.”
As he followed me, I could feel his eyes on me the entire time. It was slightly unnerving. I tossed my gym bag in a corner and ran some water from the kitchen faucet until it was cold, filling a glass. Then I leaned back against the sink.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I’m really sorry about last night,” he began, his hands shoved into his pants pockets. “It was so weird. But just because you and Sarah are friends, there’s no reason why we can’t see each other, is there?”
There was one big, fat reason.
“It’s not a good idea.”
“Why not? It’s not like you slept with Sarah or anything.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but he rushed on, not giving me a chance to answer, or not wanting to hear what I’d say.
“We’ve got a chance of something good here, Luka. I’d like to try again. Can we?”
“I don’t . . .”
“Don’t say no. Just . . . think about it for a while. Let’s . . . hang out. Please?”
“Hang out?”
He grinned at me, the smile that I was beginning to hope for.
“I guess . . .”
“Great!” he said. “And it looks like you finally bought some groceries.”
“Yeah, it makes a change from eating hotel food all of the time. I’m kind of looking forward to cooking for myself.”
“Really? Are you any good?”
“Haha, maybe. It’s been a while.”
“Sarah hates cooking—and she loves being on tour.”
“I know.”
“Yes, I suppose you would.”
He hesitated, and I hated that the easiness we’d had yesterday was gone. He laughed awkwardly.
“She says she’d happily live in hotels her whole life—room service forever.”
I gave him a polite smile, having nothing to add, and he coughed self-consciously.
“I helped her buy this flat—as an investment, really.”
“Yeah?”
“So she’d always have somewhere to come back to . . . other than crashing at my place and tossing her stuff everywhere. Or, well, going back to our mother’s,” and he pulled a funny face.
“I have an apartment in Koper—my hometown—for the same reason, but I sublet it.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
There was a lot Seth didn’t know about me.
?
??What’s Koper like?”
“Quaint, old fashioned,” I smiled. “But it’s only a few kilometers from the border with Italy, and it’s on the coast. We don’t have a whole lot of coast.”
“What’s it like living there?”
“I didn’t grow up there, but yeah, I like it. When I’m not touring.”
“Do you like touring?”
“There are pros and cons,” I said, leaning back and closing my eyes.
“Such as?” he prompted.
My eyes drifted open and I turned my head to see him watching me intently, as if every word was golden.
“Sarah must have talked about this?”
“I want to know what it’s like for you.”
“Okay . . . well . . . it’s a full time job being an artist. Your workload is crazy. Being on tour for months, for a year maybe, you get to travel the world and sightsee; you get to do what you love and you’re getting paid for your passion. So travel is the good bit, one of the pros, but it’s also one of the cons—living out of a suitcase. People think it’s super glamorous being in a new hotel every other day. But you wake up and don’t even know what city you’re in half the time. It’s very insular, like you’re in a little bubble of unreality. You miss your family and friends, but the people you travel with become family.”
“So . . . Sarah is your family?”
I winced. The thought was an uncomfortable one, so I shrugged for an answer.
“We’re friends,” I said at last.
“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand how it is with you.”
“What do you want, Seth?”
“I want you,” he said simply.
I shook my head, watching his lips turn down with disappointment.
“We can be friends though, can’t we?”
I hesitated. I could use a friend, but things with Seth were complicated.
“Yeah, we can be friends.”
The words tumbled from my tongue without permission.
Seth smiled with relief and yanked off his tie, shoving it in a pocket.
“Um, well . . . do you want to go to the pub? Have a swift half?”
“Not really,” I said honestly. “I’m pretty beat and tomorrow is going to be really busy.”