Seeing a theater during rehearsal was like seeing a woman with her hair down. Unrecognizable, yet her true image became clear the more time you looked. No bells, no whistles, just being.
A body or two darted through the doorframe, nearly crashing into me on my way in. In the grand ascending aisles, a costume rack and two seamstresses. In the seats, members of the company waiting to be fitted. A small group in an ocean of upholstered seats.
On the floors, the thumping of ballet shoes as dancers ruined them until completion. Crushing, snapping, testing their handiwork as they broke the shoes on the hardwood. Some with needles tucked between their lips, ready to sew in their ribbons. A few had to alter the color, dyeing them to their skin tone or costume.
The wings of the stage were crowded with either sprites in tulle or creatures in suits. The two parties shifted in the shadows; some exchanged friendly words, some becametoofriendly and disappeared in twos. If you were lucky in this business, in escorting, you might find yourself as a mistress, kept or otherwise. The goal, after all, was to leave. Not all were so rewarded in their efforts by the time they aged out, and opportunities were fleeting.
On the stage were dancers, some standing and some sitting while completing their stretches and warm-ups. Barres were placed along the back, where one familiar brunette would be.
Lorelei, with her leg up and foot pointed to the ceiling, using a well-dressed fellow’s shoulder to rest her shoe. They were speaking, although breathless. When she looked away, he touched her leg, though it wasn’t to help her stretch, I suspected.
Her face was stern, mature. She almost held herself like an adult when no one was looking and she was determined to get something. Then her eyes drifted and found me at the edge of the stage.
“Petre, darling!” she squeaked, her leg whipping off the man’s shoulder so fast, the breeze misplaced his hair. She fluttered across the hardwood, falling to her knees between two lamps lining the very edgeof the stage. “You’re early, I thought you’d be here half an hour later than you are!”
“I thought it would be nice to decompress somewhere familiar before we go.” I smiled. “You’ll have to reserve me a seat for the premiere if you end up with the principal role.”
“You’ll have a seat with your name on it, I promise.” She winked. “Give me a few, I’ll be ready to leave once I redress.” She practically skipped backstage.
I watched her retreat, but I wasn’t the only one.
The man, cigarette in hand, eyes trained like a hound, was watching her move off the stage as if tempted to lunge. His hair was slicked back, no facial hair, perhaps an attempt to look more youthful. Though the aging of his skin placed him a little over mid-age. His attempt at a fresh-faced mask had failed, but it was hard to ignore the quality of his suit and shoes. Not one piece of lint, not one scuff on his shoes. This man could afford to groom, and to be groomed.
His eyes only settled when he realized I was watching, and he took a long drag of his cigarette before slinking off the other side of the stage, the snake slipping through the grass. If she and I weren’t spending lunch together, I couldn’t imagine what they’d be up to instead.
What Lorelei didn’t know about this business was what lurked under all the success stories and glamour. There were things, men, that she wasn’t ready to handle—and her current prospect looked exactly the type.
I only prayed that she fully understood the transactional nature of the work, and not to confuse it for something likelove.
Chapter Sixteen
The Artisan
Rare steak with delicate fat marbling the flesh plated upon fine china, a matching silver set meticulously arranged in a specific order. Only one of three wineglasses was full, one of the three forks used; I was unsure of when I would need the others or why they were present. I didn’t expect so much cutlery to eat one damned steak.
Using fine porcelain under a meal that required a sharp knife was like some sort of cruel game. You either eat stress-free or leave a hundred-dollar mistake slashed across the smooth surface.
The juices of the meat dripped as it was sliced, mingling with the almond-roasted greens and buttery potatoes, endless steam teasing my nose as I leaned close, not letting a scrap go to waste. It was hard to eat slowly, my stomach empty from the long day, insatiable in my current state. It was like I could only focus on eating, all energy dedicated to such.
“Is the food to your liking, Mr. Kamenev?” Petronille’s mother asked.
She put up a quick smile by the time my glance made it to the end of the table.
A kick at my knee.
I swallowed hard, glancing across the candlelit table, my wife’s scowl cutting through. She raised a brow, cutting her steak slowly intoa mouselike portion before pulling it from her fork between her teeth. Her brow twitched pointedly with a glare before she continued to peck at her food.
I straightened my posture, her father concealing a small gesture of amusement.
“My apologies.” I tried to seem gracious, whatever that would be. “It’s truly delicious. Compliments to the cooks.”
“Don’t be so hard on him, he’s a young man in need of real food. He is welcome to eat as much as the cook can throw.” Her father chuckled, offering a bit of a teasing look at her mother, who squinted at him, clearly unamused.
“Well, if Petre fed him, it would prevent the near choking he’s about to cause from such mouthfuls,” she muttered into her wineglass. “What do you feed him at home?” She turned her head to Petre.
She mumbled something.
“What was that?” her mother chirped.
