‘I know you fucking won’t.’ Zuleika lets go of his jacket with a little shove, opens the door to the corridor with a graceful, silent fury. Romero slips behind her, already easing the itchy jacket off his shoulders. He doesn’t want to get involved. Let her burn off a bit of steam, let her feel above someone. That should calm her down.
In the dressing room, Romero hangs up his jacket and sinks into his chair. He stretches to one side, then the other. The second act is the big one for the Blue Suitor but he’s ready. He isn’t nervous, but he’ll make a little show of warming up and practising a few turns and lifts with Zuleika when Charlie announces act two beginners. She likes to get worked up, Romero’s realised, after being her main partner for a few months now. It masks her nerves. And she’s been even more on edge since Michael’s girlfriend left him and the violin solo in the Bluepas de deuxhas turned into a dirge that sends the Grit’s tannoys wild with weeping and makes everyone quiet and glum.What do you think of, when Michael gets going during ourpas de deux?she asked him a couple of months ago, when it became apparent that Michael’s grief wasn’t going anywhere. He likes Zuleika, but he wasn’t about to tell anyone, not even Gino, what memories really force themselves into his mind – his father’s fists, his mother’s screams, the fat, groping hands of his uncle under the duvet – so he made something up.My mum’s funeral, he’d said with a sad little smile, hoping this conversation wasgoing to be short.What about you?he’d asked and her face had darkened in a way that made him think he was going to regret asking.The week my dad came out of prison.
You’re his pledge-mate, aren’t you?Greg had said to Romero the week after this tannoy business started.Can’t you have a word, try to cheer him up a bit?And Romero had genuinely tried, sitting with him for breakfast, bringing him tasty little tidbits from Gino, chatting about nothing as they walked through the pleasant summer landscapes the Grub stopped in, but three months ago Romero had gone to Belinda to renew his pledge and Michael had not been there.Isn’t Michael coming?He’d asked, stupidly, and Belinda’s lips had tightened.I’m dealing with it, Romero. I appreciate you’ve been trying to help.
Josh, a week later during the second interval as he stepped in the puddle under the tannoy in his socks:I honestly believe Michael’s life would be better in a fairy court.
Mate!Stuart had said at the same time as Greg tuttedJosh!Josh had thrown his wet socks on the floor defensively.I’m not saying anything you’re not thinking.
Behind him, Luke clears his throat. Romero winces. He hopes the new boy isn’t going to start confiding all his woes, which must be legion, the way Cecile treats him. If he can’t help Michael then there’s not going to be much he can do for Luke.
‘It’s hard to learn all the choreography at once,’ Luke says with an embarrassed little smile. ‘But at least the music is nice.’
Romero makes a littlehmmmnoise and watches Lukepeel off the tights from the page costume in the mirror. He suppresses a twinge of guilt. He can’t be bothered right now to play agony uncle, let-me-give-you-a-pep-talk mentor. Right now he’s eating, and besides, no one did that for him. Greg and Stuart had been pleasant but fair enough, they were pleasant guys, Josh had been outright hostile and Charlotte had stood in the wings and laughed while Alina sewed him into the hunting dance costume he was too skinny for. He had certainly not mourned Charlotte when she was taken, though of course you’re not supposed to say that.
Romero watches as Luke picks up his phone and scrolls aimlessly, the guilty feeling spreading across his skin. Zuleika didn’t need to speak to him like that. The thing is, everyone’s still missing Alex, who had been genuinely popular among the cast and crew. Tall, good-looking, a good partner to dance with, a founding member of the Saturday night poker sessions – which are on indefinite hiatus now – replaced with someone shy and spotty, straight out of school.Where the fuck did Belinda find this kid?Josh had grumbled at the end of his first week.She couldn’t come up with someone who can learn the choreography?And Greg had touched Josh’s arm as a gentle rebuke but no one had said anything in Luke’s defence.
Romero looks at the plate of arancini. Now they’re going to taste like the feeling of wanting to do the right thing but not being sure what that is. A nightmare scenario: because everyone ignores him, Luke is snatched in the next week or so, which casts a pall of guilt over the whole company. Cecile will scream at Belinda,You didn’t let me have a properaudition! What do you expect?Mara will tell Josh that he’s a rotten excuse for a human being. And Romero will not be able to eat arancini again.
He turns around. ‘You’re missing a little spacing trick in the wedding dance. You know the bit before thechassé arabesque?’ Luke nods. ‘You need to travel the twoassemblésbefore that so you’re in front of the King by the time you turn downstage.’
So small, such a piece of nothing, but Luke looks pathetically grateful. ‘Thanks. I know exactly what you mean. I’ll do that tonight.’
Romero goes back to his arancini. He puts a jumper over his lap so he doesn’t spill crumbs on his tights and annoy Alina. He turns off the hot lightbulbs that ring his mirror, puts his feet up on the table and takes the other half of the first arancino between his forefinger and his thumb.
He spent his second month going straight to the dining car after the show to help Gino serve and clear up. In that time he learned he could stand to eat carrots if they were braised in olive oil, potatoes only if they were roasted, raw green peppers, cous cous, lamb’s lettuce, courgettes if they were steamed, lentils any and all ways, cream, mozzarella, sunflower seeds, chickpeas if they were whizzed into houmous, and salmon baked in the oven with a drizzle of lemon. Gino prodded him gently in the stomach one night.You’re making me very happy, he’d said.You’re getting fatter by the day.
A bolt of electricity passed between them. It was late,past midnight, and the dining car was empty, lurching with the Grub as it passed on wherever it was going. Romero drew back, but something, perhaps his contented bellyful of dhal, made him bold. He put out his hand and laid it on Gino’s chest. No spark now, just a warmth that spread from his fingertips and through Gino’s shirt and onto his skin, and he’d felt Gino melting towards him like butter on a slow, tender flame.
I’m too old for you, Gino had whispered, his voice thick and rough, but he had not pulled away. His beard was prickly on the soft skin of Romero’s neck.I could be your father. Go and find a boy your own age.
Romero takes the last bite of the first arancino and chews it slowly, deliberately, as he places the napkin back over the plate. Saffron, to feel the sun on your face on the first days of spring. Sticky rice, for the feeling of lying down to sleep, sated and happy. Breadcrumbs rolled in olive oil, for the crunch of warm boots in fresh snow. Mozzarella, for the gentle nuzzling into a baby’s soft neck.
The Crow’s solo is ending, the last, plaintive note of the oboe fading away into that curious silence that ends each act of this show, and Romero imagines Josh standing with his back to the audience as the curtain falls, back arched and arms raised as if calling rain. Slowly, deliberately, Romero licks each fingertip clean of the film of oil that coats his skin and lets a couple of stray crumbs dissolve on his tongue.
***
The orchestra wait for Jean to take her oboe from her lips, take a breath and swallow, then they all stand up as silently as they can and leave the pit, not daring, never daring to look back into the auditorium. They go straight to their green room where Wilf, Steve and Jasper tuck into their usual first interval snack – a bag of salted nuts each. Sandra the clarinet goes to the loo where she uses the last of the toilet paper, and she means to replace it but forgets as soon as she’s finished washing her hands. Max the second violin and David the new harp are talking about the football, Max swiping through his phone and reading out recent scores. Jean sits near them, silently sipping coffee from a Thermos. Her phone buzzes and a small smile creeps onto her lips as she picks it up. Lance strokes Yolanda’s black-silk-clad thigh but he is thinking about the smooth skin on Mara’s back as she stood in the corridor in the Queen costume, waiting for Alina to fasten the hooks. Michael sits tuning his violin, staring into space as he plucks at his E string. Henry sits just behind him, pretending to read something on his phone. A knock on the green room door and AJ opens it, standing awkwardly on the threshold.
‘May I speak with Henry a moment please?’ He smiles. ‘Nothing at all bad, I promise.’
Belinda drops her handbag on the floor and presses her temples. After a moment’s hesitation, she locks the door. Sitting at her desk is a wizened old woman wearing a bin bag covered with tiny black sequins.
‘Thank you for coming.’ Belinda says. ‘We have somepersonnel issues to deal with this evening.’ She pulls her notepad out of her handbag and flicks to her to-do list.
‘All right, I’ve got here: Is the new LX girl suitable; can we think of something to help the new dancer settle in; we have to do something about the changeling; can Anita dance the Crow; can Bella dance the White Princess; Wilf the cellist needs another formal warning about the booze; and last of all – what did you do with Michael’s heart?’
Upstairs on the dancers’ floor, Milly and Alina are in the women’s dressing room wrestling with Jessica’s Pearl waltz costume which has spontaneously lost a sleeve.
‘I didn’t do anything!’ Jessica looks stricken, standing with one pointe shoe on and one bare foot, her arm stretched high above her head. ‘I promise, I just put it on as usual!’
‘Fuck fuck fuck,’ whispers Alina through a mouthful of safety pins as she and Milly sew the sleeve back on, their needles diving through the seam like kingfishers in a brook. ‘This fucking show, these fucking tricks, I’m fucking sick of them.’
On stage the crew are moving scenery. Danny mutters to Kavi through his headset as he guides the seascape backdrop down onto the stage, painted blue and green with waves and clouds and small silvery flashes of what could be fish.
‘Your hands all right?’ Danny asks as the backdrop shudders a little. He winces and steps further out of the way, shielding his eyes from the lights as he squints up into the flies.
‘Fine, mate. The rope’s just a bit sticky.’
