Little Dancer Read online

  But he just says, “Do you think you’re silly?”

  I shake my head.

  “Use your words,” he says sternly.

  “No, I don’t. I love what I do, and I think I’m a good dancer. I wish they could see that.”

  “I think you are, too.

  I lift my head and look up at him, feeling a smile curve my lips. “You do?”

  “Of course. You move beautifully and you have excellent poise and style. That’s why it upsets me when you make mistakes or break my rules. You’re better than that. I want to make you see that.”

  His face is close to mine. Being praised as a dancer is so rare that I know I’ll be thinking about his words for days.

  “Now, will you come to me if you’re upset or worried about something in the future? That way we can ensure together that you don’t make mistakes.”

  My eyebrows lift with surprise. “I...suppose so?” He wants to hear about my parents trying to give me university brochures and taking my stuffed animals away? I can’t believe that.

  “Not suppose. Promise.”

  I bite my lip. This is all too strange. Fearsome Mr. Kingsolver has just spanked me, and now he’s holding me and asking me to tell him about my worries. What’s strangest is I’m enjoying every second of it.

  Could he be enjoying it, too? There’s still a dull ache between my legs, an ache of need, and I find myself wondering what it would feel like if Mr. Kingsolver’s large fingers moved between my thighs and started touching me there. My cheeks blaze with red and I look down. “I promise.”

  We lapse into silence and his fingers rub slow circles at the tops of my thighs, just where the burn from his hand begins.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair, and his words surprise me enough for me to look at him once more. His gaze is gentle. “I shouldn’t have threatened to fire you the other day. I upset you and made you afraid. I don’t want you to be afraid. I want you to want to not make mistakes. For me. I want you to want to please me.” He holds my chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you want to please me, Abby?”

  My throat catches, because his words echo so perfectly the feeling I had when I was submitting to his discipline: that I was hoping it was pleasing him. “Yes,” I breathe.

  “Good girl,” he says, and those words send a warm thrill through me again. “When I saw you dance the other night after I spoke to you in the wings, and I saw that you were perfect, I knew what you needed. I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner.”

  I frown, puzzled. “What I needed?”

  But he only gives me a half smile and sits up. “You’d better get your train. It’s late.”

  Reluctantly, I peel myself from his lap and stand up. My legs are still a little shaky and he steadies me with a strong hand on my waist.

  “Will you stay on the main streets where there’re plenty of streetlights?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Good. I want to know that you’re safe. Good night, Abby. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As I close the door to his office I see that he’s already picked up his pen and started writing again.

  Chapter Three

  I don’t know why, but the next morning when I thumb through the college brochures under my mother’s watchful eye I feel none of the anxiety and pressure I thought I’d feel.

  I look up at her when I’m done, then smile. “They all look wonderful. But I think I’m going to give the theater a proper go of it, then look at where I am in a year’s time.”

  “Oh—okay,” she says, taking the brochures back, her expression puzzled.

  I take the earlier train to work in case there’s a delay and trip lightly up Charing Cross Road toward the Palais Theater. The sight of it always lifts my spirits, but today it makes my heart pound and brings an excited flush to my cheeks.

  The performance goes off without a hitch. I don’t see Mr. Kingsolver but his presence is everywhere, as if he’s permeated the very air I breathe.

  When I arrive at the theater on Wednesday morning for the matinee, Gregory wants the chorus to alter a number to suit a new set, and we rehearse it quickly before the show. Mr. Kingsolver is standing in the wings, arms folded, watching us. I’m the last one to file off past him, a smile glimmering around my lips. When I glance up at him, his expression doesn’t change, but he winks at me. My blood sings.

  Half an hour before we go on, Gregory comes into our dressing room and tells us that one of the stars is leaving. She’s not a lead but she has a big part, a good part, as a dancing fairy, and everyone in the chorus is invited to audition for the role in front of him and Mr. Kingsolver after the matinee.

  “There’s a sign-up sheet outside. Go and put your name on it if you want to audition.”

  I hurry out and find that most of the rest of the chorus is clustered round the list, too. I suppose it makes sense—no one wants to be stuck in the chorus forever. I’ve got a good chance of getting the part, as Gregory made me the lead woodcutter a few months back and told me how much I deserved it.

  But as I stand there, waiting to reach the front of the queue, doubts begin to needle me. I have to audition in front of both Gregory and Mr. Kingsolver. None of the other girls have made mistakes and been reprimanded. What if they think I’m not trustworthy enough for the part?

  Mr. Kingsolver comes past and a few of the girls ask him questions about the role. I watch how attentive he is as he answers them. He’s taking them so seriously. I remember how flinty he can become when he’s displeased. What if I walk out onstage to audition and he gives me that look? Or worse, laughs at me?

  I turn on my heel and go back into the dressing room. It’s not worth the stress, I tell myself. You stood up to your mother and you’re doing what you love. Don’t push your luck.

  I spend the time between the matinee and the evening show ducking in and out of the dance supply stores in Soho, trailing my fingers over jars of sequins and the satiny ballet shoes. I can’t get enough of all the delicate, unspoiled prettiness. I buy some fabric flowers to sew into a flower crown, and then head back to the theater to get ready for the next performance.

  I have on my makeup and costume and I am about to duck into the wings when Mr. Kingsolver appears out of the darkness and takes hold of my wrist. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and says, “My office, after the show.” And then he’s gone.

  Have I done something wrong? Was I late? No, I wasn’t late. All the same, a tingle starts between my legs and I almost hope I have broken a rule, even though I’ve been doing my best to please him.

  At a quarter past ten, I’m standing outside his office door. With a forefinger I trace the gold lettering of his name, mouthing each letter with silent lips. Then I take a deep breath and knock.

  “Come.”

  He looks up when I come in and lays down his pen. “Abby. Thank you for coming.”

  He’s businesslike, brisk. I feel a twist of disappointment.

  “I wanted to ask why you didn’t audition to be Cara’s replacement.”

  My eyes widen. “What?”

  His eyes narrow. “Uh, pardon, Mr. Kingsolver?”

  “You’re a good dancer, Abby. I expected you to be there today. Do you not want the part?”

  “Of course I do.”

  He waits, one eyebrow raised.

  “I—I just didn’t think I should. The other girls haven’t made any mistakes lately. Not like me.”

  Getting up suddenly, he gestures for the door. “Come on. You can try out now. Gregory’s gone home but I can give him notes on your audition.”

  I try to tell him that it doesn’t matter, that one of the other girls will be perfect for the part, but he doesn’t listen. He takes me down onto the stage and turns on the spots, then waits in the stalls while I change int
o my warm-up gear in the wings. When I come back onto the stage the lights are so bright I can’t see him.

  “Do you know Cara’s part?” calls a disembodied voice.

  “Yes,” I say, hoping that I do remember it all.

  “Can you dance without music?”

  Oh, god. I’m going to make such a fool of myself. “Uh—yes, I think so.”

  “All right, then, whenever you’re ready. Don’t be nervous. You’re only dancing for me.”

  I realize I’m twisting my fingers together and I drop my hands. Okay. Cara’s part. I decide on her first dance, a lively little piece in a simple four-four time. I count off a beat in my head and then begin.

  But something’s not right. I can see the way Cara moves in my head and it’s not the way I’m moving. I keep dancing, telling myself that my body will relax into it, but I can’t seem to concentrate.

  Mr. Kingsolver comes forward and leans his forearms on the stage. One of the spots catches him. “Is something wrong, Abby?”

  I shake my head. The first chance I get at a big role and I’ve screwed it up. “It doesn’t feel right. I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m any good for this part.”

  He considers me a moment. “Wait there.”

  Two minutes pass. Then five. What is he doing? I hear footsteps behind me and Mr. Kingsolver comes out onto the stage carrying Cara’s silver fairy wings. I see from the way he’s holding them out that he intends me to put them on.

  “No, I can’t. We’re not supposed to touch anyone else’s costumes. Cara will kill me.”

  He gives me a severe look. “Cara’s not here. This is my theater, and I want you to wear the wings.”

  I bite my lip. Technically they’re his wings because it’s his theater. I notice he’s got a funny expression on his face as he watches me bite my lip. “All right.”

  He helps me into them, tightening the straps across my shoulders and asking if they feel comfortable.

  “Yes, they’re perfect.” Over my shoulder I admire how they flutter, and then do a twirl. “They’re so pretty.”

  He smiles, and my stomach flutters as much as the wings. Instead of going back to the stalls he walks to the side of the stage and waits for me to begin.

  This time when I dance, it all clicks into place. I can hear the music as if it’s playing, and it’s not Cara that I see in my head, but me. That’s why it wasn’t working before. I can’t dance like her. I can only dance like myself, and now, in the silver wings, I am the fairy.

  When I finish I turn to him, and he nods and says, “Very nice.”

  Again, I feel a twist of disappointment. I want him to say, “Excellent,” or “The part is yours.” But perhaps he has to talk to Gregory first.

  His fingers are gentle and practiced as he helps me out of the wings, and he tells me to change into my street clothes and wait for him while he takes the wings down to the dressing rooms.

  When he comes back he looks at his watch. “It’s late. I’ll drive you home. My car is behind the theater.”

  I start to protest that it’s too far and the trains are still running, but he’s switching off the stage lights and not listening. He guides me through the darkened theater, his large hand warm on my lower back.

  We get into his car, which is sleek and black. The interior smells like leather and him. I give him my address and we glide out onto the rain-slicked streets. Neither of us speaks. I want to ask him about my audition but I have the feeling that if he’s not talking about it, he doesn’t want to. Instead, I sneak looks at his large hands on the steering wheel.

  When we pull up outside my house he gets out of the car, as well. “You don’t need to walk me anywhere,” I say.

  But he just gives me a look, then goes up to the front door and pushes the doorbell. The lights in the front room are on. My parents are up. What are they going to think, me being driven home by my not-quite boss?

  I reach the front door just as it opens. My mother’s mouth parts in surprise when she sees me standing next to tall, handsome Mr. Kingsolver.

  “Um, I—” I begin.

  “Mrs. Williams. I’m Rufus Kingsolver, the owner of the Palais Theater. I kept Abby late tonight for an audition, so I wanted to be sure she got home safely.”

  “Oh. Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  My father has heard voices and has come to the door, as well. They shake hands, and then we all sort of just stand awkwardly, not saying anything. I see Mr. Kingsolver’s expression grow a shade chillier.

  “She did well, by the way. Your daughter is an excellent performer. But of course, you know that.”

  Prompted, my parents scramble to agree, that yes, of course I am, and they know it well.

  Mr. Kingsolver turns and looks down at me. I know what he’s doing, and I want to tell him how grateful I am. He remembers my confession from the other night, that my parents think what I do is silly. He’s showing them I’m a valued cast member, by the owner of the theater, no less.

  “Well, good night then,” he murmurs, looking only at me. And then he’s heading down the steps to his car without a backward look.

  * * *

  When I arrive at the theater the next day Gregory hails me in the corridor. “Mr. Kingsolver tells me you auditioned for the part of the dancing fairy yesterday, and he recommended that I see you, too.” He glances at his watch. “Can you warm up quickly and meet me onstage in fifteen minutes?”

  “Yes, thank you, Gregory!” I hurry into the dressing room to change into my warm-up gear. Mr. Kingsolver recommended that Gregory see my audition. That must mean he thought I was good enough for the part. I clamp down on my excitement, though, remembering how many other girls auditioned.

  The stagehands are busy with the props when I go upstairs, and Gregory is talking to the stage manager, their heads bent over his clipboard. He looks up and smiles when I approach, and then jumps down into the stalls.

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I dance the part, and I don’t need the wings this time. I feel as if they’re there, and I become the fairy once more. It’s such a joyous, openhearted dance, so different to that of the woodcutters’. When I’m finished Gregory calls me down to the front row.

  “Well, Mr. Kingsolver was right,” he murmurs, leafing through his notes. “You did dance it very well, and you have been with us longer than most of the other dancers who auditioned.” He smiles and looks up from his clipboard. “Would you like the part?”

  “Yes, please,” I say, still breathless from the dancing.

  “Well done, it’s yours.” He gives me a puzzled frown. “What I don’t understand, though, is why you didn’t audition in the first place. You need more ambition, Abby.”

  I tell him that I will try, but mostly I squeal into my cupped hands and hop about.

  I don’t see Mr. Kingsolver that day but he leaves a handwritten note tucked inside my sneakers that I find when I came offstage. Unsigned, but I know it is from him.

  Congratulations, kitten. Well deserved.

  The writing is strong and fluid. I smile and slip the piece of paper into my pocket.

  The other dancers are happy for me, though one or two do think it’s odd that they didn’t see me at the auditions. I just mutter something about doing it after the second show.

  My parents are in bed when I get home that night, but I hurry down to breakfast the next morning to tell them the good news.

  “We’ve got some news of our own,” my dad says, after he hugs me and tells me how happy he is for me. “Your mother and I have been talking about this for some time, and we’ve decided we want to move to the countryside.”

  “But that’s silly,” I say. “What will you do with the house?”

  “We’re going to sell it of course,” my mother says. “It’s come at such a
good time, your promotion, because the extra money will come in handy for your living expenses. Rents are expensive right now but I’m sure you’ll be able to find somewhere comfortable with flatmates your own age. Perhaps other dancers. Won’t that be nice?”

  I hear a buzzing in my ears. Living expenses. Flatmates. I didn’t think about my new role as a promotion, or that I might get more money because of it. I should have asked Gregory. Why didn’t it occur to me to ask? How will I know what I will be able to afford if I don’t know how much I earn? What if I don’t have enough money for food and travel after I’ve paid my rent? Where will I even live?

  The questions pile on top of each other until I don’t know where I should start. It’s not that I don’t think I’m capable of living away from home and taking care of myself. But the amount of energy and time I need to put into practical things sometimes makes me unable to focus on anything else. I wish I could just do the things that I am good at, like dancing.

  I realize my parents are looking at me with strained expressions, and I swallow and force a smile for them. “That’s great, guys. I’m so happy for you.”

  * * *

  The next day I head to the theater early to start rehearsing for Cara’s part that I’ll take over in a week and a half. I can feel the memory of the fairy wings and the steps are easy, like breathing.

  Smiling, though, or pretending that I’m happy and excited, isn’t. By the end of the day I’m worn-out by everyone’s expectations of me. They need to keep their noses out of my business. If they want smiles they should smile themselves, not stare at me waiting for me to give them what they want.

  By Sunday I’m exhausted, and all I can think about are the things I am going to do on my day off tomorrow. I’ve told my parents I’m going to browse the rental listings on our high street to “get a feel for the market.” It’s such a throwaway phrase, but it impresses them. Really I’m going to head to Westfield and watch the newest animated film, eat soft-serve with lots of sprinkles and browse every coloring book I can get my hands on. I won’t have to worry. I won’t have to think. Bliss.