No—I fuckingleapinto love with her. Or maybe I’ve been in love with her since that day, and the love has been dormant, like bulbs under the soil, waiting for the sun to warm them so they can unfurl and burst into bloom.
She’s gone. Disappeared backstage.
I have to see her again. Her email, her phone number—they’re both on the audition form. I grip it with my sweating hands.
Marj pokes my arm with a long nail. “You seem smitten.”
When I don’t speak, Gil interjects. “Her song was too short. But she’s pretty, and she can dance. I say we use her for the chorus.”
“We’ll go through the options later after we’ve heard everyone,” Marj counters. “If there’s anything I’ve learned in thirty years of show business, it’s never to decide until you’ve seen the whole bunch. Sometimes, the best one will pop up right at the end.”
But though we see and hear plenty of talent throughout the rest of the day, no one compares to Christine. When she appears for the dance auditions that afternoon, I am feral for the way she moves.
Some dancers are technically perfect, and some possess not only the skills and training, but also an extra sizzle of passion in every sweeping movement. Christine is the latter. She dances like she’s on the brink of madness, like she’s holding back a stunning amount of power, like there’s a suppressed fire coursing through that slender body. She doesn’t just perform the steps—she interprets them. Every flowing gesture, every arch of her spine, every extension of her leg is clean, crisp, beautiful.
I can’t get enough of her dancing, and I desperately want to hear her voice again. She’s brilliant, compassionate, charming—afucking muse. And it maddens me that neither Marj nor Gil seem as enamored with her as I am. I try not to gush about her when we’re sitting at the Leroux bar afterward, talking through the auditions over drinks.
“What do we think about Carlotta for the role of Eugenie?” says Gil.
“I’d thought of her for Ovina,” Marj counters.
“Then who’s our star?”
“That one with the nose ring, Chanel,” says Marj. “Raoul, what do you think? Chanel or Carlotta?”
I take a deliberate sip of my drink. “I can see Carlotta as Ovina—or a version of Eugenie, but she’s more bold and brash and saucy than I’d imagined. And Chanel…I don’t think she’s a strong enough dancer. To be honest, I’d prefer casting Christine as Eugenie.”
“The Daaé girl?” Gil chuckles. “She’s sexy, sure, but we need a star with a big personality, not some mousy little virgin with a pretty voice.”
“Okay, I’m done.” Marj gets up and gathers her things, bracelets clinking on her wrists. “I’ve had about as much of you as I can take for one day, Gil.”
“Come on, Marj, you know I’m right,” he calls after her, but she only flutters her ring-laden fingers at me as she breezes out of the Leroux.
Her words echo in my head.Grow some balls, Raoul.
“You’re wrong,” I say quietly.
“What’s that?” Gil says, smiling even as his brows bend.
My heart is beating insanely fast, and my palms are sweating again. But I speak a little louder, despite the panic racing through my veins. “I said you’re wrong. And you should show Miss Daaé more respect. The comments you’ve been making about her are not appropriate.”
Gil gives a short, incredulous laugh. “Sure, okay. So you’re one ofthose, huh? A male feminist? The kind that can’t just hang with the guys? Good to know.” He gulps his drink, slams down the glass. “I think Marj had the right idea. Let’s get some rest and talk about this tomorrow. Think it over, Raoul. You’ll come to the right decision.”
He rises and pushes in his chair.
My hands are shaking, so I hide them under the table. “And the right decision is doing whatever you want?”
He grips the back of the chair and leans down, his voice low. “Let’s put it this way. You’re lucky to have the New Orpheum for your little musical. And we’re happy to support you as a favor to your sister, so long as this arrangement remains mutually beneficial. I’m a patron of the arts, sure, but I’m also a businessman. I didn’t get where I am by being politically correct or ignoring the bottom line. I know you’re this dewy young artist, and you want to be true to your creative side or whatever the shit, and I respect that, I do. But when it comes to marketability and turning a profit, you should listen to the big boys. Okay, son?”
He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, then strolls out of the bar.
I’m sweating so much that my glasses have slid down my nose. I push them back up with trembling fingers.
At least I said something. Defended Christine. And it had the effect I feared it would.
I have to walk a fine line with Gil Leveque, or I’ll lose everything I’ve worked for. If he tells my sister I haven’t been cooperative, the musical will be the last of my worries.
Philippa lets me have some freedom—as long as I do exactly what she wants.
