Soft Limits Page 21

  He turns to the director at the front of the room. Gregory might hire us, direct us and be our real boss, but everyone has to defer to Mr. Kingsolver in his theater. Ten minutes ago, when I got offstage, Gregory took me aside privately and pointed out my mistakes, telling me I need to do better. Even one mistake is too many when there are hundreds of people in the audience who have spent upward of eighty pounds to see one of the most popular musicals in London. I understand, but I also want to defend myself and say, It’s not like me. I’m a good dancer, you know that.

  “For god’s sake, Gregory, give your dancers some discipline.” Then Mr. Kingsolver slams out of the room again.

  Gregory closes his leather-bound notebook, looking out over a sea of cowed heads. My gaze drops to the floor and I can breathe again, but they are short, painful breaths.

  “All right.” Gregory sighs, as if he’s had a long day. “There aren’t any more notes this evening. I’ll see you all at five tomorrow.”

  The twenty chorus dancers and I file slowly out of the room. I feel a few hands on my shoulders and whispered commiserations, but my head hangs low.

  Before I get to the door I glance at Gregory. His mouth is a thin, rueful line, and he turns away when he sees me looking. I’ll get no reassurance from him. If Mr. Kingsolver fires me, there’s nothing he’ll be able to do.

  I’m one of the last of the company to leave the theater after I’ve taken my makeup off and changed into my street clothes. At a quarter past ten I step out into the chilly air. It’s technically spring but winter hasn’t yet released its icy grip, so I huddle into my fluffy pink jumper and white jacket as I walk south toward Charing Cross station. The theatergoers are still on the streets, queuing outside restaurants for a late supper or heading to a bar for a nightcap.

  The tears start to burn my eyelids as I board the train. It’s always hard, leaving the lights and tumult of the theater behind, but tonight it’s especially distressing. I lean my head against the glass and watch the streetlamps flicker past. I don’t care that I’m crying now, fat tears sliding down my cheeks and plopping on my collar. Feeling like I’ve disappointed someone is the worst feeling in the world.

  By the time the train pulls into my station twenty minutes later I’ve wiped my cheeks and taken a few deep breaths. If my parents think I’m upset about something they’ll start on about the theater not having “long-term job prospects,” and all the other things they like to say.

  Why can’t you act your age?

  Be sensible, Abby. Dancing isn’t a real job.

  You need to be more responsible. You’re not a little girl anymore.

  Sometimes I don’t think you live in the real world.

  When I open the front door I stand in the silent hall for a moment. The house is dark, so my parents must have gone to bed already. Upstairs I stop in the doorway to my room. It’s painted plain white and there are two rectangular pillows on the bed where there were once frills and lace and a dozen scatter cushions, and two dozen stuffed animals. The shelves have lots of empty spaces between the paperback novels.

  This is not how I want it to look. I came home to this a year ago. “There you go!” my mother said brightly, folding up the plastic drip sheets. “It was becoming too silly to have you sleeping in a pink room at your age. I’ve put away all your toys and things, too. They’re in the box room upstairs for now, but we can have a garage sale and get rid of them when the weather is finer.” Then she smiled at me like she’d done something I should be grateful for.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. It felt like I was in a cell, not my own, comforting bedroom. My room had looked the same since I was four years old. It looked like how I felt on the inside, and she’d gutted it. Even now, a year later, it still feels like sleeping in a stranger’s room.

  I leave my bag on the floor and walk quietly upstairs. The box room is uncarpeted and chilly, and I open several cartons before I find the one I want: all my stuffed animals. I begged my mother not to have a garage sale, and she has relented so far. I scoop them out in armloads and lay down on the floor with them. They are my pillows, my warmth and my comfort. I breathe in their furry softness and close my eyes.

  * * *

  “Abby. What are you doing up here?”

  I wake with a start and see daylight. My head is pillowed on Mr. Snuffles and I’ve got my arms wrapped tightly around Chubbles the rabbit. I’ve slept all night on the box room floor. As I look up at my mother my sense of safety and warmth evaporates. Her mouth is twisted with the words she’s holding back.

  “I was just, uh, looking for something. When I got home.”

  “I see.” Her voice is breathy, like she’s annoyed, and she begins scooping up all my toys and putting them back in the box. She even pulls Chubbles out of my arms.

  “Are you still in yesterday’s clothes?” she calls after me as I push past her and head downstairs. “Abby, I wish you’d take better care of yourself.”

  In the kitchen I pour a glass of strawberry milk. It’s what I have for breakfast every morning but I can still feel my father frowning at me over his newspaper. I glance at the front page and grimace. War. The economy. Politicians lying. I don’t know how people can bury themselves under a tide of bad news first thing in the morning.

  My mother comes in and looks hard at me. “You haven’t read the brochures yet.”

  There is a pile of glossy flyers on the table, each one stamped with a college crest. She wants me to take a course in marketing or bookkeeping. My grades in high school were decent, and I could probably get in, but taking a course in something I dislike, and then—worse—getting a job with deadlines, performance reviews and presentations? I grip my glass and force myself to breathe slowly. “I didn’t have time yesterday.”

  She purses her lips. “Will you have time today?”

  My parents want me to study so that I’ll have something “to fall back on,” as they put it. They don’t think dancing is a real job. It doesn’t seem to matter to them that dancing is something I’m good at, or that it makes me happy.

  Do the other dancers feel pressured by their parents? I should ask them, but I’ve always felt too shy to get to know the other girls.

  “Abby! I asked you a question.”

  I jump. Why can’t she let up? If I get upset I’ll make more mistakes tonight, and Mr. Kingsolver will surely be watching me like a hawk. His warning rings in my ears. “Make one more mistake and you’re fired.”

  What about all those other times I didn’t make any mistakes? What about all those times I was perfect? I’m a good dancer. I’ll be fine as soon as I can find a way to stand up to my parents. I can do it. I’ll find a way. Somehow.

  I glance at my mother, who is frowning at me across the counter, and feel myself wilt. Today is not that day.

  “Soon. I promise.”

  As I leave the kitchen I hear my mother muttering to my father about my “excuses.”

  It’s a warm, sunny morning, so after my shower I change into a baby-pink leotard and gray leggings and take my yoga mat and e-reader into the back garden. My routine takes forty-five minutes and I force myself to concentrate on the stretches and poses.

  After I’ve finished I pick up my e-reader and lie on my tummy. I flick to my favorite story, a middle-grade book set in a magical realm with talking horses, and start to read. I know it by heart, and the lines of fluffy prose are soothing, almost hypnotic. I need this now. Nothing else is going to make me feel relaxed before I have to head for the theater and Mr. Kingsolver.

  My dad comes out into the garden after lunch. “What are you reading?” he asks, weeding dandelions out of the flowerbed.

  I look at the pony story on my e-reader. “It’s Pride and Prejudice,” I tell him.

  He nods approvingly, which means I’ve avoided yet another lecture. The back of my neck prickles and
I’m worried he’s going to look over my shoulder at the screen, so I roll up my mat and go to my bedroom.

  Chapter Two

  I’m up in the wings fifteen minutes before my cue, which isn’t allowed, but I’m worried that I’ll be late again. Also, I really love this scene. This is a production of Amarantha, a modern fairy tale with witches and heroes and fairies. I’m a woodcutter, along with five other girls, and we wear brown shorts and shirts and carry little axes. I’ve got my hair tucked up under my peaked cap and I’m watching the pretty fairies onstage in their floating tulle and silver wings, my lower lip caught between my teeth with envy.

  There’s a movement out of the corner of my eye. A man has appeared by my side in the dim light and folded his arms. I glance up and instantly quail. It’s Mr. Kingsolver. I straighten, my hands by my sides, trying to look professional and not like a dancer who’s disobeying rules. What was I thinking? Being up here more than five minutes early is enough to get me fired. My heart starts hammering against my ribs.

  He steps closer. His face is handsome in a steely way, like he’s been stamped out of metal. Because it’s late, there’s a dark pattern of stubble over the hard lines of his jaw.

  “Look at me.” He’s speaking softly but I can hear the command in his deep voice. I turn toward him and he puts his hand under my chin, forcing it up so I meet his eyes. They’re gunmetal gray in the dim light. “You’re not going to make any mistakes tonight. Is that clear?”

  My throat is too tight to speak. I’m burning up.

  “Well?” There’s an edge to his voice. His knuckles push against my throat. Does he know he’s pressing on my windpipe?

  I swallow and just manage, “Yes.”

  “Yes what?” His voice is quiet and insistent and demands to be obeyed.

  “Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”

  He forces my chin a little higher. He’s standing so close I catch the scent of him, a rich, piney scent that makes my knees tremble.

  “When you’re out there,” he murmurs, “don’t think about the audience. Think about me. You’re only dancing for me.”

  For him? I only ever danced for the audience and for myself. I’m proud when I know I’ve done a good job, and happy when I see the rapt faces in the stalls and hear the applause from the house. Resentment blazes in my chest that this terrifying figure has swept down into the wings to tell me I’m dancing for him. Is all he can think about the reputation of his theater?

  But when I look again, his eyes hold nothing of the raw fury that they did the previous day. He’s looking at me like he’s actually seeing me and not just a dancer he can order about. His hand holding my chin is firm but gentle. It’s a heady feeling, being singled out by Mr. Kingsolver, and something golden spreads through me. He’s demanding something of me that he knows I can do, and he wants me to do it for him.

  “Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”

  His eyes blaze into mine a moment longer. “Good girl.”

  Then he’s gone, but I can feel the ghost of his knuckles against my throat. A few minutes later the other woodcutters appear and we stand silently, waiting for our cue. My heart should be racing and there should be tears in my eyes after the encounter with Mr. Kingsolver, but I hear only the soft, growling warmth of that good girl. I’m grounded. I’m calm. The knowledge that Mr. Kingsolver will be watching makes me feel safe, not afraid.

  When our cue comes, I step out onto the stage and begin the dance, the others in my wake. I move like I’ve danced this dance my whole life. Everything is perfectly in place and I am at the center of things, like a clockwork doll within a great machine.

  I lift my eyes and see the outline of a large man standing right at the back of the theater, watching me. Somehow I know he’s watching only me.

  * * *

  I’m late. This never happens. I’m running up Charing Cross Road like the four horsemen of the apocalypse are on my heels, though it’s not the end of the world I fear, but something far worse.

  The theater comes into view and I glance at my wristwatch and whimper—I’m ten whole minutes late. The train sat on the wrong side of the river for twenty minutes with no explanation, and each second that ticked by seemed to take a month off my life. Mr. Kingsolver has strict rules, and never being late, even by a minute, is at the top of his list. I cross my fingers and hope that he won’t be here tonight, as he isn’t always at every performance.

  I push open the stage door and dash downstairs to the dressing rooms—and my heart plummets. Just before I disappear into the chorus’s communal dressing room I see Mr. Kingsolver and the director standing in the hallway, heads bent over Gregory’s notes. Mr. Kingsolver looks up, his dark brows drawn together, eyes arrowing into mine.

  I press my back against the closed door, breathing hard.

  The other dancers turn and look at me, then glance at the clock. One or two bite their lip.

  “Did he see you?” We all know Jacintha doesn’t mean Gregory.

  I nod, and she winces.

  “Maybe it’ll be okay,” says Kayla as she rolls on her tights. “You’re only a few minutes late. He can’t be that angry.”

  But we both know that’s not true.

  Despite my agitation the performance goes off without a hitch. I remind myself I’m a good dancer and that dancing is what I want to do. The echo of Mr. Kingsolver’s voice telling me I’m only dancing for him helps keep me grounded, too. Until the final curtain goes down, that is. And then I start to go to pieces, teeth worrying at the sides of my nails.

  Gregory gives us his notes on the performance. There are just a few, and afterward we all head for the dressing room. Then he calls out, “Oh, and, Abby, Mr. Kingsolver wants to see you in his office when you’re changed.”

  The others give me shocked looks. Tears prickle in my eyes. I’m going to lose the only thing in my life that means anything to me. My hands tremble as I wipe away my mascara and pancake foundation. One by one the girls touch my arm as they file out, bags slung over their shoulders.

  “Sorry, Abby.”

  “Yeah, sorry, Abby.”

  They know they won’t see me again after tonight.

  I collect my satchel, head out of the dressing rooms, and climb the staircase deep into the theater. It’s silent now. Everyone’s gone home. At the top of the stairs I see the wooden door with Rufus Kingsolver, Owner emblazoned in gold letters. I knock, and then turn the handle and push the door open.

  Mr. Kingsolver is sitting behind his desk, writing. His sleeves are rolled back to reveal strong forearms, lightly dusted with dark hair. The pen looks slender in his large, square hands.

  His eyes flick to mine. He doesn’t look pleased that I’ve opened the door without permission, and my insides clench. “Wait outside,” he directs.

  I close the door and stand on the landing, fingers twisting together. With each passing second the butterflies in my stomach multiply. My sneakered heel bounces silently against the floor. What can I say to make him change his mind about firing me? Is there anything I can do to convince him?

  Ten minutes later I hear his command. “Come.”

  * * * * *

  LITTLE DANCER by Brianna Hale, available now wherever Carina Press ebooks are sold.

  www.CarinaPress.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Brianna Hale

  Author’s Note

  Jane Eyre has long been my most beloved book and reading it at fourteen marked the beginning of my fascination with Gothic heroes and antiheroes.

  When I came up with the idea for Soft Limits in summer 2016, I was high on excitement for the shows I was seeing and booking. A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Globe. Notre-Dame de Paris starring Daniel Lavoie in Paris. Rufus Sewell in Art at the Old Vic. All these delicious tales and talented performers, and my wicked desire for the villain to get the girl for on
ce, culminated in this book.

  Keen-eyed Jane Eyre fans will have noted that Evie falling down in front of Frederic’s car in the opening chapter is a role reversal of the way Jane and Rochester first meet, and that Evie’s last name, Bell, is the pseudonym the Brontës used while they were alive.

  Dear readers, thank you for your support as always, and I hope you enjoyed reading about Evie and Frederic as much as I did writing them.

  Brianna Hale

  About the Author

  Brianna Hale couldn’t live without her notebook and an assortment of glitter pens, and when she’s not writing, she can usually be found with a book, fighting video-game monsters and aliens, or attending the theater. She believes that pink and empowerment aren’t mutually exclusive, and everyday adventures are possible. Brianna lives in London.

  Find her on Twitter (Twitter.com/_brianna_hale_) and Instagram (Instagram.com/briannahalebooks/) and at www.briannahale.com.

  Also available from Brianna Hale

  and Carina Press

  Little Dancer

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