“You’re welcome, and we’re just delighted to have you joining us. We’re planning on announcing our newest guest principal artist in a press release tomorrow.” Heather could practically hear his wide smile. He’d assumed leadership determined to turn ANB into a world-class company, and it sent a little thrill through her to think she might suddenly be part of that plan. Her, alone. Heather Hays, the world-class artist, not Heather Hays, Jack Andersen’s girlfriend.
“If you’re feeling up to it, you’re welcome to join company class at ten o’clock,” he went on. “You can take it nice and easy and just do barre if you like, but you can meet the company and I can arrange a tour of the studios and a bit of the city.”
“That sounds great, thank you.”
“Wonderful. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then. Company class is in Studio B. Enjoy your evening.”
“Yes, see you then. Thank you again.”
Heather hung up and let out a shaky breath. This was really happening. She was really here, far away from Jack and the company and the mess that was her life in New York. Gathering her things, she set off back toward the house. On the corner of the main drag, she stopped and gazed at the hulking gray bridge, which sprouted out of its pale-yellow sandstone approaches and curved over the calm, dark water. Headlights whizzed across, red and gold, and a train slid slowly alongside them, glowing from within.
Davo, 6:12AM: Call me when u wake up
Marcus rolled groggily out of bed and walked the short distance to the kitchen, where the coffee machine was already gurgling. His stomach clenched with anxiety as he dialed his brother’s number.
“Hey,” Davo answered brusquely.
“You rang?” Marcus replied.
“Yeah, I did. Listen,” Davo said, in his usual stern and serious tone. Marcus could picture him stepping out of whatever house he and his crew were working on, maybe slipping into the back garden for some privacy. “I’m going over to Mum’s for dinner Sunday night, you should come too. We can try again.”
Marcus leaned against the counter and sighed. Since their dad had died, this was the only thing Davo wanted to talk about with him: his campaign to convince their mum she should sell the family home and downsize.
“Don’t you think she’s got a point?” he asked cautiously. “Yeah, the place is getting to be too much for her, but she doesn’t have to move out right away. We could hire a cleaner, or something.”
Davo tsked impatiently, and Marcus heard his brother’s kelpie Banjo bark in the background. “That’s just a short-term solution. And it’s not just the upkeep, it’s the stairs, too. They’re really steep, and there’s no bathroom downstairs, so she’s gotta go up and down all day.”
Marcus sighed. Solving that problem would be much more expensive than hiring a cleaner. He thought about the little brick house where he and Davo had grown up. The Campbells’ home was small, especially compared to the luxury homes that started springing up on the Northern Beaches in the last decade as even people with plenty of money started getting pushed into middle-class suburbs. Still, Marcus had had a hard time getting up those stairs on crutches, and his mum’s osteoarthritis wasn’t getting any better. He and Davo had both noticed it was getting harder for her to get around the house, and to keep the place in decent nick. And now that his dad was gone...
“I just don’t want to rush her,” Marcus said, determined to stop his thoughts drifting in that direction. “She’s had a hard year, like we have, and moving is really stressful.”
“Yeah, but the market’s having a great year, so if she moves fast, she can get a really good price.”
Marcus sighed again, trying not to think about what modern monstrosity a new owner would inevitably build once they bought his childhood home and knocked it down. There was no stopping Davo once he got an idea into his head, but Marcus really wished he would be a little less terse with their mum as he was shooing her out the door of her own house. The last time he’d brought this up with her, she nearly burst into tears. Marcus couldn’t let his brother go over there on his own. “I’ll be there on Sunday, but I need to get out the door now. I’ll text you later.”
“Yep, seeya,” Davo said quickly and hung up.
Marcus returned slowly to his bedroom and pulled on yesterday’s jeans, rolling up the left leg and strapping on his boot. He poured as much of the steaming coffee as he could into a travel mug, stashed it in his backpack, seized his crutches, and headed out.
An hour later, Marcus crutched his way down the central hallway at ANB. For what felt like the thousandth time, he bypassed the studios for the physio room, where Shaz was finishing up with another dancer. Pausing in the doorway, he called, “I’m here, I’m just gonna go change.”
Down at the end of the hallway, Marcus shouldered his way into the men’s locker room. After yesterday’s session, Sharon had been satisfied that he was ready to practice walking and pliés again today. Finally,finally, he was moving in the right direction.
Marcus sat on one of the locker room benches and carefully unwrapped his boot. He slid out of his jeans and gently worked his left foot into a pair of navy tracksuit pants. He’d just slid his right foot in and stood up to pull them on when he heard the door swing open behind him, followed by a loud gasp.
“Ohmygod,” a woman exclaimed as he whipped his head around. “I’m so sorry, I thought this was the women’s locker room!”
Marcus hastily pulled his pants up over his arse and crotch, then turned around to face her, too intrigued to be embarrassed. But she had turned back towards the door, and had her hands over her eyes, which seemed a little redundant to him.
“You can turn around,” he said, amused. “I’m fully clothed now.”
She didn’t move, her shoulders shrugged up towards her ears in obvious embarrassment. Marcus examined the back of her head, where a mass of dark brown hair was pinned in a sleek French twist. She was in a snug, deep-red warm-up jacket, and with her hands raised to her face, he could see the wings of her shoulder blades outlined clearly through the clinging fabric. Judging by her crinkly plastic garbage-bag pants and worn canvas slippers, she was ready for class. But she clearly wasn’t a company member, or she wouldn’t have come barging into the wrong locker room. Was she a guest teacher, or maybe a visiting choreographer? Even standing there with her hands over her face, she filled the run-down, dimly lit change room with a presence he couldn’t ignore. He didn’t know who she was, but something deep in his gut told him he wanted to.
She lowered her hands slowly and turned to look at him, her face a mask of pure mortification, and he stared. Instantly, Marcus recognized that face, those big brown eyes and those high cheekbones. He’d seen them on Instagram, on YouTube, on the cover ofBarremagazine.
It was Heather Hays.TheHeather Hays. Of New York Ballet.
What was The Heather Hays of New York Ballet doing here? And had The Heather Hays of New York Ballet just copped a look of his bare arse?
