‘To the Crow,’ say Steve and Jasper, and they all drain their beers and slam them on the table with a crack that echoes like a shot.
Gino waits with a ladle in one hand, a plate in the other and an expectant smile on his face. ‘What’s it for you this evening?’
‘The sweet potato, please Gino.’
‘Good choice,’ he says, spooning dumplings and curry onto the plate. ‘A new recipe and it needs a little adjustment but not too bad.’ He slides the plate across the serving hatch. ‘Here’s yours and I’ve got the other in the hot drawer when you’re ready.’
‘Thanks, Gino, I’ll be back for it.’
One for the Crow, he thinks, as he weaves his way among the tables to where Greg, Mara and Stuart sit, eating quietly. Greg shifts his chair and slides his thumb over Josh’s hand as he sits down. ‘Good show?’ he asks gently. Greg does everything gently. He’s the kind of guy who’d hold your hair back as you’re puking from too much tequila and never try to worm his way into your bed as payment, let you store the stupid things you bought online in his cabin while you sort the returns and wait for a day off to lug them to the post office, turn up to meet your parents with flowers for your mum and a firm handshake for your dad. Josh doesn’t deserve him. He never has.
‘Yeah, fine,’ he says, shovelling sweet potatoes with his fork. ‘You know.’
‘Your second act solo was good.’ Mara says. ‘You landedall thosetoursperfectly. Cecile won’t have a thing to say about it.’
Josh waves his fork morosely. ‘I’m sure she’ll find something.’
He eats without pausing, plunging forkful after forkful into his mouth, only half listening to the conversation. Stuart is talking about an article he read this afternoon about spiders that roam the sky, and Greg is chiming in with stories of his brother’s pet tarantula. Josh has heard these stories, first from Greg and then from his parents during that awkward lunch two years ago, when the Grub stopped in Chelmsford for a day off and Greg’s dad picked them up at the station. He’s heard all the stories Greg has to tell by now. They live the same lives, know the same people, live the same day over and over again. All that changes is Gino’s menu and their roles in the show. Although Greg’s knees are too shot to perform anything but the King or the corps de ballet these days, so his life is even more boring. He should retire. Josh can see he’s in pain, has to lie there every night while Greg faffs about with pillows between his legs, has to help him to the ice bath, has to watch him grimace his way through the first part of ballet class while he waits for his threadbare, creaky cartilage to warm up.
It’s obviously Cecile’s job to say something, except she won’t because the last time she sacked someone it was Charlotte, who was snatched a few days later. It’s a chink in Cecile’s armour, that day when Charlotte got taken. Never spoken of anymore, never mentioned, but a small nugget ofpower the dancers have clawed back from her. Sometimes Josh catches her watching Greg do an exercise with something like grief twisting her mouth, and when he’s had a couple of beers he fantasises about Cecile telling Greg he has to leave, and then Greg being snatched. No, the fantasy is not about Greg being snatched, it is about how Josh will behave afterwards. How he’ll empty out their cabin of Greg’s things and give them to Belinda without a single tear. How he’ll sit in dignified silence in the dressing room as he gets ready for the show. How he’ll bow his head in curtain calls, how he’ll go discreetly to bed with anyone he wants: Ritchie, Theo, Solomon, Jack the double bass, Henry the violinist. Unbidden, the memory of Ritchie’s bare torso flashes through his mind. He was drunk, they were all drunk, it was a pledge renewal and Greg had – unusually for him – peaked early and gone to bed. The night before a day off and the Grub was a carnival of bacchanalia. Even Belinda was there, sipping on a G and T, masterminding the gentlehissssssof pressure from the assorted cast and crew, letting just enough desperation escape for them all to be able to get through the next month of shows without mutiny. It was enough to send him to bed with Ritchie. The smell, the taste, the difference of him, the way he moved so surprisingly Josh was knocked him off his metaphorical feet again and again.
Greg is saying something. Josh doesn’t bother to listen because it barely matters and he’ll have either heard it before or will hear it again, and Mara and Stuart laugh.
‘All right, that’s me.’ Mara stacks a couple of the dirtyplates on her tray and stands up. ‘Going to get an early night.’ She’ll dance the Crow tomorrow and she’s conscientious these days about her sleep and her warm-ups. ‘The privileges of age, gentlemen.’
Josh glances at the clock on the wall. Ten thirty-two. There was a time when he’d have thought that was early, a party only just started. Now he’s bone-weary at this time every night, especially after a big show. Ballet is ageing: it disintegrates your cells until you’re nothing but ash covered in sequins. He’s twenty-seven and already feeling his ankles freeze and his shoulders seize. No wonder Greg can hardly move on cold mornings. The privileges of age.
‘Night, Mara,’ he mumbles through his dinner.
Stuart, who only has to do the orchard and wedding dances tomorrow, slaps Josh on the back and follows Mara, stopping briefly to chat to Benji, Zuleika and Romero, who are sharing a plate of the tiny chocolate truffles Gino makes for you whenever you debut a role. Josh and Greg sit alone at their table while the noise of the dining car swells with alcohol and the sweet, blessed release of another show done on this eternal tour.
There’s a little tap on the table and Josh looks up, fork half to his mouth. It’s the oboe, Jean, smiling at Greg. She looks distracted, clutching her phone in one hand, the grey wisps of her hair breaking free from the old lady barrette she wears.
‘Is tomorrow still okay for our appointment?’ she asks. Greg’s giving out free massages to anyone who wants them,trying to get his hours in for his qualification. Josh used to volunteer but now he makes excuses because it is too terrible to lie there with Greg’s hands on him and feel nothing but irritation.
‘Of course! I don’t have any rehearsals, so I’ll see you at three.’ Jean’s phone trills and she glances at it, flushes and hastily excuses herself.
‘There’s a bloke,’ Josh mumbles as he chews a parsnip.
‘What?’
‘Jean. Giddy as a bride. I bet you anything she’s seeing someone.’ So much easier to gossip about others rather than deal with the sterile wreck of his own life.
‘Someone in the outside world?’ Greg sips his beer. ‘I’ve always thought she and Mackie would suit each other.’
Josh shrugs. ‘Could be Mackie. He might be texting her from the Grit, sending her cheeky photos.’
Greg laughs. ‘No! Mackie’s a gentleman. That’s the sort of thing Derek would do.’
‘Maybe Jean’s secret lover is Derek.’
Greg grimaces. ‘Now you’re going too far. Jean is a lovely lady and I absolutely refuse to think of her involved with that gremlin.’
Josh grins, but he wishes Mara and Stuart were still here. They would get a lot of comic mileage out of the idea of Derek’s romantic relations.
Silence again, filled only with Josh’s sticky mouthfuls and Greg slurping at a beer. He is jealous of Jean, he realises, jealous of that secret blush on her neck, jealous of a passionthat he is now not sure he has ever had with Greg.Just break up with me already, Josh thinks,let this thing rot.Because of course it is rotten. They planted something years ago and it had all the potential of a seed tucked up tight in the warm, damp soil, but nothing ever germinated, no shoot or roots ever troubled it. Yet still they’re here. Sharing a cabin, sharing a stage, sharing a life.
Greg takes a breath ready to say something and although he loathes himself for it, the long force of habit makes Josh look up from his plate.
