“Is something wrong?” Catherine asked. “If you want to take some time to think about this, you should.”
“No, it’s not that. I’m just in shock.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Catherine shrugged. “You’re observant and opinionated, and an excellent advocate for other dancers. That photo project makes me think you have a good sense of what modern balletgoers want and what gets them excited about ballet. Which is important, because we can’t rely on, forgive me, rich old New Yorkers forever. The world is changing, and I think you understand that ballet will have to change with it. Assuming you don’t mind the other, less enjoyable parts of the job, I suspect you’ll find this work very gratifying. And you’d be doing me a favor, too,” she added conspiratorially.
“Why?”
“Well, I want to stay in this job for as long as I can, but I’d be silly not to think about my successor. This current model for finding one is clearly broken, but unless I can find some other way of doing things, I won’t be able to get the board to understand that. If we can show that this new way can work, we can set an example for other companies, and they can make sure that they’re picking the best people for the job, not just the people they’ve always picked. It’s not just about NYB, it’s about ballet as a whole.”
Carly gave her another smile, a full one this time. “You want to lead,” she said.
“I do,” Catherine agreed. “I’m sick of the Great Man model of ballet. I want great women, great people, a great collective. I want people who care about the future of ballet more than its past, and I don’t want to figure this all out on my own.”
For the first time in days, Carly’s limbs didn’t feel heavy with dread. She stood and shook Catherine’s hand and walked out of the office, pride and relief warring in her chest. She had a job, and more than that, she had Catherine’s trust and admiration. She’dearnedthat. All by herself.
Well, not all by herself. Nick had helped. But Nick was gone now, far away in Sydney or Scotland or Chiang Mai or whatever photogenic location he’d chosen for his firstVoguephoto shoot. She was on her own now, and she was fine with that. Perfectly fine. As the elevator opened and she slumped against its mirrored walls, she could almost believe it.
Out on the plaza, she zipped her coat up to her throat and flipped up her hood. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, she’d been sweltering in the Sydney sunshine. The trees around Lincoln Center were spindly and bare, and chunks of dirty gray snow were scattered around the stretch of grass next to the opera house. The pond had been drained, and the fountain was still. She dug her hands into her pockets and felt her phone vibrate. For a split second, she hoped it was Nick, but she squashed that hope as quickly as it had flared. She needed to tell Heather what had just happened. Quickly, with fingers numb from shock and cold, she checked the time in Sydney. Too late to call—if Heather was even awake, she was almost certainly busy with honeymoon-type activities.
Carly, 11:37AM: Not fired! Not only not fired, but Catherine wants me to shadow her to see if I’d be any good at running a company. Call me when you can … I want to make a plan.
She paused, then sent another text.
Carly, 11:38AM: Don’t call me until AFTER opening night. The plan can wait.
She stared down at her screen, hovering her thumb over Nick’s name. She didn’t know where in the world he was now, and she didn’t want to care. She didn’t want to start every morning remembering how it had felt to wake up next to him, his warm body curled elegantly around hers. She didn’t want to think about his Freshwater-blue eyes every time she made eye contact with another man. She missed him enough to make her ribs ache, and she wanted to tell him that their plan had worked in a roundabout way, and she was furious with him, and she didn’t want to feel any of that.
Forty minutes later, she climbed out of the subway station at Canal Street and dragged her jetlagged limbs up the stairs to her apartment, letting herself in the door with a deep, bone-tired sigh. She’d just flopped down on the couch and let her body sink into the saggy old cushions when there was a sharp knock at her door.
Carly sat up with a start and for a second all she could do was stare, suddenly alert, at the door. When another knock came, she pulled herself off the couch and opened the front door to find a messenger in a bright yellow jacket and matching beanie waiting for her, a package in one hand and a table in the other.
“Carly Montgomery?” he asked.
Carly nodded, and he held out the tablet. “Sign here, please.”
She signed without thinking, and he handed over the package, which was about the size of a book but weighed almost nothing. “Thanks,” she said numbly, and he nodded and hurried toward the stairwell.
Carly closed the door behind her and leaned against it, gazing down at the package in her hands. It was wrapped in thick, dark green paper she thought she recognized. Trying to ignore the way her heart had raced at the knock on the door, then sank when she saw the courier, she slipped a finger under the seam of the paper and prised it open. Of course Nick hadn’t followed her back to New York, she chastised herself. Of course he hadn’t dropped his fancyVoguecontract to beg for her forgiveness—and that was good, because she didn’t want him to. He’d lied to her, over and over again. She didn’t want him, at all. Nodding decisively, and ignoring the lingering ache of disappointment that throbbed in her chest, she lifted the paper away.
And revealed her hideous, Nick-scented T-shirt, ironed and carefully folded into a neat rectangle, with a piece of sturdy, green-trimmed paper pinned to the chest. The initials at the top of the card were MPM. Marlene Parker-Montgomery.
You left this behind, her mother had written in her distinctive, looping hand,and I thought you might want it back.
Chapter 28
Santorini was everything Nick had been promised. The light was so sharp, the colors so bold and bright. White, turquoise, ochre. The air was crisp and salty, the water was clear, the food put Sydney and Paris and Berlin to shame. The days reminded him of winter in Sydney: a chill in the air, but a warm, low sun that stuck around well into the evening. And because it was low season, he and the smallVoguecrew had all the most picturesque and tourist-friendly locations to themselves. On this shoot, his models were a South Korean dancer named Hana and a former principal from the Birmingham Royal Ballet named Stella. They were both gorgeous and easy to work with—experienced at modeling and easy to coach. The night before their first shoot, they’d all gone out to a little beachside restaurant and stayed for hours, drinking Greek wine and sharing stories about their dance careers until the waiters started stacking chairs on tables.
After five days of shooting all over the island—on a black sand beach, on a yacht moored next to a volcanic island, in a hillside monastery—they were almost done. Hana and Stella had each been photographed in a closet’s worth of couture, and Hana had asked the shoot director at least three times if she could keep the marigold-yellow gown she’d worn on the yacht. Beth, the production director, had answered every time with a firm no—“Not unless you have a spare $3,000”—which was about what each of the women had been paid for the week. Stella had shaken her head ruefully and told Hana to take the money.
From Santorini, he’d head to London, then to Portugal, then to Croatia, and then to India. He’d never be in one place for more than ten days, but he found the prospect of constant motion thrilling. Last time he’d stayed put for a few weeks, he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. Better to keep moving, even if it meant going where the wind took him.
Beside him, Beth checked her laptop, where she could see the images he was taking in close to real time.
“Do you think you have everything you need?” he asked, as he took a few more shots of Stella, who was posing against the ancient stone wall of the monastery, pulling up her swirling shell-pink gown just enough for the camera to see her relevéd feet. It was the last outfit of the day and the last day of the shoot.
“I think so,” Beth muttered, not looking away from the screen. “You?”
“Yeah, I think so,” he agreed. It had been a long week, and the back of his neck was prickling with the beginnings of a sunburn.
