“Okay, how about the good news?” A moment too late, I realize maybe that was the good news. Perhaps she sees a future together for them.
At this rate, I won’t be tying the knot. Despite what my mother may think of me, I’m not interested in all the drama that comes with dating. Seriously, Giselle has told me stories that make me glad I’m single.
Not glad that I occasionally get lonely, but I don’t dwell on that. Plus, it’s nothing that a puppy couldn’t fix. Adopting a dog is a someday plan for when Blancbourg gets over this rough patch.
“The good news, no, the great news, is that my friend Maggie is going to come work for you.”
I’d asked if Giselle wanted to take a position here, and I can’t deny I’m a little shocked she took it as an invitation to canvas her friends and neighbors to see if they’d like to work for the esteemed etiquette school.
After asking about a dozen questions, I’m somewhat satisfied Maggie isn’t one of Giselle’s questionable friends—seriously, she tends to be like a squirrel, picking up nuts wherever she goes.At the market, she makes a new best friend. The movies? She exchanges numbers with someone who loves sappy romances as much as she does. And don’t get me started on the beachside restaurant where she waits tables. She practically knows the whole town.
I have to get to my office, so we hang up, but not before Giselle promises that she’ll send a photo of Garrison if I agree to give Maggie a chance.
After getting off the phone, I gaze out the window and take a deep breath. The sun shines over Concordia as Intherness, the capital city in the distance, begins a new day.
Just as I’m about to step out the door, I catch my reflection in the mirror. In my haste, I forgot to remove my ballerina bun, planted high and tight on my head.
I pull the pins, unfurl my long dark hair, and hastily smooth it into my usual low bun, just above the nape of my neck. A few strands of hair fall loose around my face. I smooth them with my fingers, but they refuse to go back into place. In the reflection of the mirror, the rug and the chair are askew. A prick of anxiety at things not being where they belong forms tension around my shoulders.
However, being late will be worse. Without time to fix things properly, I exit. But as I do, I have the sense that it isn’t only my hair and the furnishings that are out of place. Something is also off inside, in my heart. I tell myself to let it go because pondering my feelings isn’t something I do. Ever.
After the pressure from my mother and the tumultuous and emotional years in the ballet academy and company, I decided to take charge and rule my life with logic and reason.
There isn’t time or space for desires and dreams—not like Giselle. I’m punctual, practical, and accept nothing less than perfection.
However, once again, a tickling sensation reaches the corners of my eyes as I stride down the hall. I hastily swipe it away.
“Stop being a baby,” I scold myself in French.
Standing outside the meeting room, I tug at the hem of my blazer, take a deep breath, and remind myself why I’m the youngest headmistress in the history of BlancbourgAcademy d’Etiquette in Concordia. Once I set my eyes on a goal, I work harder than anyone until it’s achieved.
Over the years, my mother, ballet masters, mistresses, and coaches had all commented and applauded my rare ability to go into what they called “fifth gear.” When everyone else topped out at fourth gear, I could go harder, faster, and longer.
In the instance of getting the job at the school, it was purely practical. I needed a place to live in a country I’d never been to. I’d traveled with a single piece of luggage and Giselle’s parents’ suggestion that I’d be able to make it in Concordia—and have done so. At the time, I was alone and sometimes scared—not that I’d ever admit it. However, it fueled me to outperform my fellow job candidates.
I push the thoughts of my humble beginnings from my mind and enter the meeting room. It’s much like the rest of the manor at Blancbourg, with corniced ceilings, wallpaper on the upper half of the walls, and ornately carved wood panels on the lower half. Dark burled wood furniture with a high patina dots the perimeter of the room, along with gilded gold frames hanging on the walls containing oil paintings of important historical figures.
It’s all familiar and comfortable, as far as I’m concerned, except for one thing. In the center of the room, the Board of Regents sits in a row behind a polished oak table. They’re almost, but not quite, as intimidating as coming before a panel of ballet judges.
After making a few announcements, they voice their concern about finances, the budget, and cutting costs.
This probably isn’t the time to inform them that I’ve hired three new instructors, but I do so anyway. The expected questions come from the board.
I reply as simply as possible, “In order to instruct etiquette, we need people qualified to do so.”
“And how do you plan to pay for that?” A brash voice comes from behind where the various remaining employees at Blancbourg sit in wooden chairs, including Arthur Fitzgerald. He’s the doorman, butler, and jack-of-all-trades at the manor who does just about anything and everything. I don’t know what I’d do without him. He gives me a soft smile of understanding at the comment made by our bursar.
“Mrs. Harrow, please do not speak out of turn,” a member of the board reminds her.
More than ever, I appreciate the formality and orderly nature of the meeting. It wouldn’t be fair to say that Regina Harrow is a thorn in my side, but she’s not a swatch of fine silk fabric either.
We discuss expectations and goals for the coming fiscal quarter and how to achieve them with the new coaches. Speaking of, I expect they’re waiting for me in my office. I glance at the clock. So far today, it feels like I’ve been perpetually off by a second, a minute, or an hour.
The Board of Regents wraps up the meeting with a dismal financial forecast. I make a mental note to come up with a way to fix that. My mental notes would fill an entire wall with yellow Post-its.
When I get to my office, my phone rings off the hook. I answer and receive an earful from a man with an American English accent, blustering about football players. “Open your newspaper and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Or don’t if you want to preserve your dignity. Never in my life have—” I can’t get a word in edgewise as he continues to outline a scandal among the professional athletes.
Giselle and her new guy, Garrison, come to mind.
