“That’s some undertaking, but there’s only one problem,” said Troy, still chuckling away.
“And what’s that?”
“You’re too tall for a Gene Kelly role.”
Damon smiled, and I swore it was my undoing. “If Hugh Jackman can play Wolverine, then I can play Don Lockwood.”
Troy cast him a confused glance. “Who in the what now?”
“Wolverine is a five-foot-three Canadian played by a six-foot-two Aussie,” Damon explained. “Anything is possible.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Troy, glancing over his shoulder to call to his assistant. “Go Google if that’s true.”
The assistant came in with a tablet and handed it to Troy. He stared at the screen, scrolling through a web page. “Well, bugger me, you’re right,” he exclaimed. “Okay, I think this has been my favourite interview all year. We’ve gone from burlesque shows to gritty independent films to 1950s musicals to Marvel comics.”
“I like to keep things interesting,” said Damon.
“Well, goal achieved. So, how about we take a few questions from some callers?”
“By all means.”
About fifteen minutes later the segment was over, and Damon emerged through the studio door. I gushed at him, telling him how great he’d been. He’d answered all the caller questions with finesse and charm, and I couldn’t get over the change in him. If you’d asked me two months ago whether or not I thought he would’ve become so confident in his social skills, I’d have answered a definitive no. He’d come so far and I was so, so proud.
The car was there again to take us home, but on the ride I got a call from Farrah asking me to drop by her place because she wanted to measure me for a couple of costumes. I told her it was no problem before hanging up and proceeding to have a panic attack. Focusing on Damon and his radio interview had taken my mind off the impending doom of facing my stage fright.
His hand covered my shaking one as I slipped the phone back in my bag.
“Still feeling like you’re going to vomit every time you think of Friday?” he asked softly, and I was surprised by how spot-on he was. Thinking of going on stage had me petrified and wanting to spew my guts up. Yes, lovely imagery.
“It’s scary how you notice stuff sometimes,” I said, and he gave me a warm look.
“I notice everything about you, Rose.”
I blushed and glanced away. “Do you think the driver might be able to drop me off at Farrah’s? She needs to take some last-minute measurements.”
Damon moved forward and asked the driver to take a detour, and a few minutes later I was out of the car and waving him goodbye.
Once I was done at Farrah’s, I got the tube home. When I arrived back at the flat the place was empty, so I assumed Julian had either gone out to meet with friends or he had an appointment with a client. The idea of it being the latter made me both relieved and disappointed. I didn’t want him to be depressed, not ever, but at the same time I held out hope that this whole thing with Alicia might cause a change in him, make him want something different for himself.
I slept fitfully that night, waking up at around one or two to the sound of voices in the living room. It was Julian, but he was talking to someone. A woman. I crept out of bed and listened at my door, which I’d left slightly ajar. It only took me a moment to recognise Alicia’s voice.
What the hell was she doing here?
I shouldn’t have kept listening. I should’ve closed my door, climbed back into bed, and let them have their privacy. But for some reason, I just couldn’t. Call it nosiness. Call it meddling. Whatever it was, I was glued to the spot like Mr Tumnus in Narnia when he was frozen by the White Witch as punishment.
“I never meant to hurt you,” said Alicia. “In fact, from the first moment we met, I desired you. I desired you, but I hated myself for it, because I could see myself in your eyes. More importantly, I could see my father in your eyes. You were everything I always swore I’d stay away from.”
Her words made me catch my breath. Had what I’d said to her in Damon’s dressing room hit home? Was she here to apologise to Julian for messing him around?
“It sounds rather Freudian when you put it like that,” said Julian in his usual glib manner, but there was a tenderness in his voice, one I rarely saw him use with anyone other than me.
“My father was a farmer. He was also a cheater and a gambler. I can’t count the number of times I had to console my mom after another of his affairs came to light, or after he’d squandered all our money on the roulette table. Me and my brothers had to work our fingers to the bone just to scrape by. Nothing ever seemed like enough. The only thing that got me through was telling myself one day I’d be rich and famous, that I’d find a good, honest man to settle down with and be happy. A man who was nothing like him.”
Julian let out a sigh I couldn’t quite interpret. “That would be a beautiful life, Alicia, but perhaps beauty isn’t always what you imagined. Sometimes an artist visualises his work but ends up with something entirely different when he puts paint to canvas.”
“Am I supposed to be the artist in this analogy? Is my beautiful life the art that didn’t come out the way I’d envisioned?” Alicia let out a jaded laugh. “Because yeah, it certainly didn’t turn out like I planned, but it’s far from beautiful.”
“You are beautiful. Maybe that’s all that matters. Beautifully flawed. Beautifully perfect. Beautifully strong. Beautifully fragile,” he murmured, and I imagined he was touching her then, sliding his hand along her shoulder or fingering her silky red hair. “A dichotomy of contrasts.”
“Don’t,” Alicia begged, her voice a coarse plea.
“I won’t,” said Julian. “Not unless you ask me to.”
“And I won’t ask.”
Julian let out another long sigh, this one tired. “No. I know you won’t. I know you don’t want me, and I’m beginning to think I don’t really want you, either. I don’t know what I want. But I’d still like to be your friend if you’ll have me?”
“I could use a friend,” she sniffed.
“Then here I am. What’s troubling you, dear friend?”
She let out a watery laugh. “You. Everything.”
Julian laughed, too, soft and intimate. “I am trouble, this is true. Anything else?”
“Damon doesn’t want me. He never did.”
“If he doesn’t want you, then it wasn’t meant to be,” said Julian. “You can’t make someone love you, darling. That’s just a fact of life.”
Alicia let out a sound of frustration. “It just seems like nothing ever goes how I plan. My personal life is a mess, and on top of all that, I’m starting to feel like I’ve lost the connection with my character. Or maybe I never really had the connection to begin with. We open the show in less than two days, and I don’t feel ready at all. I feel like I’m going to walk out onto that stage and nobody’s going to believe me.”
“They’ll believe you. You simply have to find that connection, that spark. There must be something about Satine that you can relate to, something she feels that you feel yourself.”
“I’ve tried, but I’m way too stressed out half the time to focus,” Alicia said, sounding lost. In that moment, I felt for her. I forgot about all my jealousy and annoyance over her pursuit of Damon and simply saw her for who she was. A woman just like me, a woman who was scared.
“Well, let’s think about her, shall we?” Julian began, his voice kind. “Satine is a French courtesan living in Paris during the turn of the century. She has luxuries and admirers, an adoring audience, but she isn’t a part of normal society. In fact, if she were a real courtesan, Parisian society would’ve shunned her, barely acknowledged her existence. She lived in what the French termed the demi-monde, the half-world, a place of darkness and pleasure, but one not fit to be seen during the light of day. She was lusted after, lavished with gifts, her entire life endless parties and sex, but she was dying of tuberculosis, though syphilis probably would
’ve been more likely. She had the world at her feet, or the half-world, if we’re being specific, but she knew it was finite. She knew it couldn’t last.”
Alicia seemed taken aback, like she’d completely fallen under Julian’s spell as he wove the tale of Satine’s existence. “The poor woman.”
“You see what you’re feeling right now, hold on to it, don’t let it go. This is your connection to the character.”
“She must feel so alone.”
“She does. Alone but surrounded. Loved hopelessly, but loved nonetheless.”
“How do you know all this?” Alicia breathed.
“I read,” Julian answered vaguely. Of course, I knew there was more to it than that. In a way, he was a modern-day Satine. He knew it because he read, yes, but he also knew it because he lived it. I heard him stand and walk across the living room.
“Here,” he said.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a book I think you should read. La Dame Aux Camelias by Alexandre Dumas, fils.” I knew the title because it had sat for years amid our hodgepodge collection of dog-eared paperbacks. I’d never read it myself, but I knew it was one of Julian’s favourites.
“What’s it about?” Alicia asked.
“It’s about a courtesan quite like Satine, the young Marguerite Gautier, though the character is based on a real-life woman named Marie Duplessis. She was a courtesan and the author’s lover. The book tells the story of their affair. It’s where they took the story for the opera, La Traviata.”
“Oh,” she said. “I will. I’ll read it.” She sounded like she meant it.
“You can keep that copy. I have others,” said Julian causally, but I knew he was lying. That was his only copy, and he’d had it for years. It meant something to him, and I wasn’t sure if he should give it away so freely.
“Really? That’s so kind. Thank you,” she said, her voice still airy.
There was a quiet, and I thought Julian must have taken the book from her for a minute to flick through the pages, because the next thing he said was, “One of my favourite lines is in here.” A moment of silence passed. “Ah, I’ve found it. No matter how long I live, I shall live longer than you love me. Have you ever heard anything more heartbreaking in your life?” he asked wistfully.
I thought Alicia sounded like she might cry when she spoke. “Why? Why would you pick that as your favourite?”
“Because, my darling, I know how it feels. I know what it’s like to be constantly loved in a way that never lasts. And you, you know what it’s like to fear the end of adoration, just like Satine. If your career ever ends, where will that leave you?”
“It will leave me with a nicely padded bank account and a life of leisure,” she answered somewhat stiffly.
“Ah, but a healthy bank account is nothing if you have no one to share it with.”
“Julian, please.”
“I’m sorry. That was a horrible thing to say. Come here, let me read you a passage.”
At this I couldn’t listen anymore. They were both being too raw, too open with each other, and it wasn’t my place to intrude. Even though I still didn’t entirely trust Alicia, they deserved this moment, whatever it was, to be their own.
The following morning, I woke up to find Julian asleep on the couch. He looked wrecked. Alicia was nowhere to be seen, so I knew she must’ve gone home sometime after I’d gone back to sleep. Julian blinked open his eyes as I crawled in beside him, wrapped my arms around his shoulders, and held him close.
“Rose?” he said questioningly, his voice tired.
“I love you,” I whispered, and squeezed him tight. There was a second where he simply did nothing, but then he finally hugged me back, his entire body sinking into the comfort.
“I love you, too,” he whispered. “I love you, too.”
Twenty-Six.
*Rose*
The phone rang several times before the director answered curtly, “Yes?”
“Hi, Jacob, um, this is Rose Taylor.”
“What is it, Rose? I’m busy,” he snipped.
“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry for interrupting you, but I really need to talk to you about this part you’ve given me.”
“What about it?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Fuck off.”
“P-pardon?” I stammered, taken aback.
“Something wrong with your hearing, dear? I said, Fuck. Off. Iggy might be happy to continue babying you, but I’m not. You’re one of the most talented dancers I’ve seen in a long time, and yet you wallow in the background, never letting a soul see your talent. You’re doing this show, Rose. If I have to drag you kicking and screaming, you’re doing it. You can thank me when you’re picking up your Olivier award.”
And with that he hung up. I stood staring at the phone in my hand in both awe and panic, my gut churning. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. He was going to make me do this.
And I was going to be sick. Again.
All morning I’d been in a tizzy, pacing around the apartment like a madwoman. Glancing at the clock, I saw I was going to be late to rehearsals if I didn’t get my arse moving. I’d decided to call Jacob and tell him over the phone, because that way if he started berating me, I could hang up. Well, he did berate me – sort of. Only he was the one to hang up.
Was his particular brand of tough love what I needed? All I knew was that though his words were hostile, they’d bolstered me. He wasn’t giving me a choice, and there was a certain freedom in that. I had to go on stage because there was no option not to.
I was going to do this. I owed it to the girl who used to dance so unselfconsciously in front of the television, not giving a care about anyone else’s opinion. And I owed it to the woman I was now, the one who held her desires close, the one who secretly yearned for the excitement of the stage, of dancing in front of a live audience, but denied herself because of fear.
The entire day was a blur. Once I’d convinced myself I was going to be in the show, I put my all into it. I even stayed after hours to practice, making sure my moves were flawless. I barely saw Damon aside from when he was in character, and I was so bone tired after a day of nonstop practice that I could hardly keep my eyes open once I got home that night.
And then, almost in the blink of an eye, it was show time. I didn’t feel like me. I felt like somebody else. Perhaps that was the point. It was fifteen minutes before they opened the doors to ticket holders, and I’d found a quiet spot backstage where I could have a nice little private meltdown.
I was experiencing heart palpitations. My skin was clammy with sweat even though I’d taken two showers that morning. I just couldn’t seem to calm down, couldn’t seem to stop thinking of the fact that soon there would be hundreds of pairs of eyes on me, waiting to laugh, waiting to point and snicker when I failed.
“God,” somebody said from my right.
I turned to find Damon standing there in tuxedo pants and an off-white wife-beater vest. For a second I forgot all my panic, because there was no sight more delectable than Damon Atwood in a sleeveless top. He looked good enough to eat. I didn’t say anything, just took him in as he approached. His gaze wandered over the skimpy outfit I wore: a black corset, lace stockings, suspenders, and a frilly skirt that rose up at the front. It didn’t sound like a lot, but it actually covered up much of my body. My cleavage, however, was the focal point, and Damon couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away.
His hand went briefly to his crotch, discreetly adjusting himself as his cheeks coloured. I was blushing, too. What a pair we made.
“You look incredible, underdressed but incredible,” he finally uttered, his voice a husky rumble.
“I’m wearing more than a lot of the other dancers out there,” I replied with a soft laugh.
“It doesn’t feel that way. It feels obscene. Or maybe that’s just my perverted mind’s fault.”
A moment elapsed, one laced with arousal and the need to touch. I cleared my throat. “So, how a
re you feeling? Ready for our grand opening?”
“I’m surprisingly calm. I wish I could say the same for you,” he said, coming closer and taking my hand in his. “Rose, you’re shaking.”
“I know. I’m terrified.”
“But you’re so good. I couldn’t stop watching you yesterday during rehearsals. Jacob should count himself lucky that the other girl was injured. You’re so much better than her.”
“Damon! Don’t say that,” I exclaimed, horrified but at the same time delighted with the compliment.
He chuckled. “I know, but it’s true.” His other hand moved over my bare shoulder, and my skin prickled at his touch, my body silently screaming for more. I turned to him, wanting to rest my face on his chest but fearing I might get makeup all over his costume.
“I miss you,” he whispered then, his mouth so close I could practically taste him.
“Then why have you been staying away?” I asked.
I knew we were both on hectic schedules with preparations for the show, but I still wished he’d find a moment to come to me, a second for us to just be alone together. He was vital to my life now, and I couldn’t do without him.
“Oh, petal, such reproach in your eyes,” he murmured, taking my chin in his hand and tilting my head, preventing me from looking away. “But what beautiful eyes they are.”
I swallowed thickly, my heart hammering. Between my stage fright and Damon’s closeness, I was certain the poor beleaguered organ would soon give out on me. I stared at him. “You use that word like a weapon, you know. ‘Beautiful’ on your lips should be illegal, Damon Atwood. It makes me weak.”
“I stayed away because I’ve been ashamed of my anger, of how I hit Blake,” he confessed suddenly, taking me by surprise. “That’s not the kind of man I want to be for you. Only the weak-willed succumb to their tempers like that.”