by Lisa Edward
Last drinks were called, but I’d had my fill already. Tiff had made sure that when I wasn’t dancing, we were at the bar and she was plying me with tequila, but enough was enough. “I’m heading home,” I told her as I struggled to stand straight. “And tonight was my last night of the pity party. Tomorrow starts a new day, and I want to stay laser-point focused on my career. Baxter Sampson is my past, and I have to accept that.”
She nodded approvingly and gave me a rousing round of applause. “Oh bravo, Jaz. You need to practice that in the mirror though if you want to convince anybody.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, placing my hands on my hips. “My career has to come first, and drinking every night isn’t helping.”
She hauled herself out of the booth and slung one arm around my shoulders. “Oh, I get that part. Dance comes first, second, and third for me. But Baxter Sampson, stripper or saint, will always be here.” She poked me hard in the chest, making me flinch. “If you want my advice—”
“Which I don’t.”
She rolled her eyes and continued, “Find a way to build a bridge and get over it.”
I scoffed. It wasn’t that simple.
“So he strips. So girls want a piece of that hard, tanned, smooth, delicious body,” she said hoarsely, then cleared her throat before continuing. “He’s not sleeping with them. He comes home to you every night, and he loves you. They may want him, but you have him.”
“I had him,” I said sadly. “Not anymore.”
“It’s academic. If you want him, he’s yours. But you’re going to need to act fast before he thinks all hope is lost and takes one of those painted bimbos home to cheer himself up.”
But could I really build a bridge? Could I sit at home on a Saturday night, knowing what he was doing and the reaction he was getting from the drunken party girls who would take him out the back for a quickie at the first chance they got?
“That’s it. I’m sworn off alcohol forever.” My head pounded. The stage lights were too bright. The orchestra, although at only half-strength, was way too loud. “I can’t even …” I’d been stretching on the floor warming up and laid down on my back, my eyes closed. “Not today. I’m too hungover.”
It was so unfair. Tiff never seemed to have any ill effects from our nights at Pointe. She would always breeze into rehearsals, fresh as a daisy, while I struggled to walk without every footstep sending reverberations through my entire body.
Pierre’s unnecessarily loud clapping drummed in my head. “All right, my little doves, James will not be joining us today so we will start, yes?”
It was no surprise James wasn’t joining us. For a James Bruckshaw production, he was hardly ever there.
I couldn’t get up. If I could have crawled under a row of seats and gone to sleep without being missed I would have, but Pierre had already seen me and stood in front of me, staring expectantly. “Up! Come, mon cherie. Time to be beautiful.”
I groaned, doubting that it would be possible to be anything other than an uncoordinated elephant with the way my head felt.
“Before you go,” he whispered as I tried to walk as lightly as possible to save jarring my head. “I have a gala ball to attend tonight. James was supposed to go but he’s unavailable so I must fill in.” He flipped his hand in the air. “Always filling in.”
I waited for the point of this conversation to come to light.
“So you will attend with me.”
“Oh no. I can’t.” My head shook as I backed away. “I’ve got … things to do, very important … stuff …”
His vise-like grip on my bicep stopped my retreat. “I’m not asking, Jasmine. It is part of your duty as the star of this production to accompany me on any promotional activities.” His steely eyes were cold. “You will be my date tonight, and you will wear something ravishing to please me.”
His grip loosened, and the warmth in his eyes returned. Now that he had enforced the rules and how I was expected to play by them, he was his charming self again, but the voice in my head had gone into a panic. How could I attend a gala ball with him as his date? The prospect would have been ridiculous if it wasn’t so terrifying. His words from the fundraising performance came to mind. He could make or break my career. It was all in my hands as to whether I chose to cooperate.
“What the heck do you wear to a gala ball?” It was clear, as I threw my clothes from the rack onto the bed until Tiff was nearly buried, that I had nothing suitable. Unless, of course, you could wear sweats and a T-shirt, which I highly doubted. That wouldn’t please Pierre, and I didn’t want to find out what he would do if he wasn’t pleased. I stopped mid-throw of yet another unsuitable dress. I had absolutely no intention of pleasing him in the way I believed he was expecting, so what would that do to my career?
“Geez, Tiff, what am I going to do?” I slumped on the edge of the bed. “There is no way I’m sleeping with him, or doing anything that involves exchanging bodily fluids.”
“Well, there is one thing you could do that involves fluids?”
I screwed up my face at her.
“You seem to be able to vomit at the drop of a hat. Just keep that up your sleeve in case you get into a sticky situation.” She gave me a playful wink, and I burst out laughing.
I was so grateful that we had become such close friends. She’d been my sounding board when I’d needed to talk, and talk … and talk about Bax. And although most of her advice regarding Pierre was less than useful, it did make me laugh, which relieved my stress levels.
“Well, it’s clear you’re going to have to borrow something.” She pushed all my clothes into a messy pile and stood. “Let’s go to my place.”
I’d stayed at Tiff’s apartment and it was lovely, fairly new and well furnished with odd pieces that somehow worked together, but it was also small and certainly didn’t scream money. “Do you have a ball gown?” I asked, surprised.
She gave me a knowing smirk. “Yes, I have ball gowns, and you can take your pick.”
I stopped walking. “Did you say gowns? As in more than one?”
She laughed. “Yes, Jaz. I don’t flaunt the fact but my family has a bit of money and, well, there have been occasions where I’ve had to wear the odd ball gown and play the dutiful daughter role for their society friends.”
I would never have guessed. I couldn’t recall ever meeting anyone wealthy, but if I had, I was sure they wouldn’t have acted the way Tiff did. She was normal—at least as normal as me and the rest of the dancers—and I didn’t know about the rest of them, but I was dirt poor.
The elevator dinged as we arrived on Tiff’s floor of her apartment building, and we entered the foyer. It was just your average foyer, nothing grand or elaborate. In fact, it looked as though it could do with a fresh coat of paint.
Her apartment was not much bigger than mine, but as I looked more closely at the furnishings, I realized that what I was seeing wasn’t mismatched op-shop pieces, but eclectic antiques. They were well crafted, sturdy, and made from solid wood. The upholstery was thick and still vibrantly colored with no worn threads or fading to be seen.
We entered the bedroom and I jumped on the bed. Now it was my turn to lounge around as she went through her wardrobe to find me something suitable.
“Ah, don’t sit down. Come take a look and tell me what you like.” She pulled open a single door, and I expected to see a tiny wardrobe packed with dresses. Instead, that one door led into a room that was almost as big as her entire bedroom.
“Oh. My. God!” My jaw hung open as I stepped into what was every girl’s fantasy. A walk-in wardrobe that was big enough to get lost in. “I could live in this room.” I pointed to one corner. “I could set up my bed there.” I spun around, taking in the opposite wall. “Have a couch and fridge over there.”
Tiffany laughed. “Well for now just take a look at the rack on the left wall and try on anything you like.”
I didn’t know where to begin. There were designers including Givenchy, Valentino,
Alexander McQueen—you name it, she had it—and everything from sheer to silk to embellished with gems and feathers. As I skimmed through gowns that I could only ever dream of owning, she pulled open a cupboard door, displaying at least one hundred pairs of shoes, all sorted by color and style.
“Now you’re just being mean,” I exclaimed. “How can one girl own so many pairs of shoes?” I left the gowns to ogle the footwear that ranged from pumps to stilettoes to strappy sandals and boots. If I lived to be ninety I would never own as many pairs of shoes in my lifetime as she owned at that very moment.
We finally pulled out three gowns that I just had to try on—a red satin strapless number, an emerald green sheer gown, and a black chiffon dress. They were all gorgeous and made me feel like a princess as I twirled in front of the mirror, but my main criteria was that the dress be elegant and understated, and to not show too much flesh in case Pierre got the wrong idea. In the end, we agreed on the simple black chiffon gown with delicate beading and a one-shouldered Roman toga-style neck line that draped and flowed without clinging too much.
“Next we need shoes, jewelry, and a wrap.”
Tiff had everything and was so gracious. Her jewelry was lavish and expensive, and I balked at the idea of borrowing any for fear of losing it, but she wasn’t worried. Simple diamond drop earrings and a matching bracelet set off the gown beautifully, and teamed perfectly with the embellished stilettoes. A warm but lightweight wrap completed the outfit. By the time my makeup was painted on and hair styled, I hardly recognized myself.
“This doesn’t look like me,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“But it is you. Wait …” Tiff rushed to her bag and pulled out her phone. “Let’s take a photo. You can send it to Baxter to remind him what a hot babe you are.” She held up the phone. “Come on, smile.”
But I couldn’t. Just the mere mention of Bax had my eyes welling with tears. I missed him so much my heart ached from loneliness.
“Hey, no crying. It took you ages to get your war-paint on.”
I forced a smile.
“That’s better.” She snapped off a photo. “One more for good luck. This will get Baxter running back with his tail between his legs.”
Shaking my head, I stayed silent. I didn’t want him running back because of a photo, or something he thought I may or may not have done. I wanted him to miss me as much as I missed him. For the heaviness in his heart to be so unbearable that the only way to ever feel whole again was to be with me. Because that was exactly how I was feeling.
IT WAS time to go. I’d messaged Pierre to tell him to pick me up from Tiffany’s instead of my place. At least she could keep me company and help calm my nerves until he arrived, and it meant that we wouldn’t be alone in my apartment, so there was no chance of him trying to get into my pants at the start of the night.
The security door buzzed, and my stomach backflipped. Not the excited backflip that Baxter would have given me, but a nervous dread that threatened to rise into my throat and choke me.
“Good luck, Jaz,” Tiff said on a hug. “You’ve got my number. If he gets out of hand, and you really can’t fend him off, just call me, okay?”
The elevator dinged and Pierre stepped out, dressed in a tux that fitted so perfectly I was sure it had been made for him. No rental for this man. From his slicked-back hair all the way down to his shiny black shoes he oozed charm and sophistication.
“You look magnifique, mon ange.” He kissed my cheeks lightly, and my skin flushed, which made him smile smugly. He may have taken my fluster as some schoolgirl crush, some sort of excitement on my behalf, but for me it was purely from the fact that he made me feel so damn uncomfortable.
“Good to see you, Pierre.” Tiff stepped up, grabbed both his shoulders roughly, and kissed his cheeks with gusto. “Always a pleasure.”
I sniggered behind my hand. I so wished she was coming to the ball as well. She had a way of diffusing any situation, and I had a feeling there would be quite a few moments throughout the course of the evening that would require her special kind of intervention.
I slid as far across the limo seat as I could and buckled up. Pierre had spared no expense, and I wondered if this was how he always travelled or if he was purposely trying to impress me. Between the tux and the limo, complete with champagne and canapes, I should have been swept off my feet and ready to drop my panties, but I wasn’t. As I pressed my hip into the car door, tapping my fingers impatiently against the soft leather seats, I wondered how long the car ride would be and when I could get out of this confined space and among people. I wanted to be lost in the crowd, to be invisible and ignored instead of feeling Pierre’s intense gaze burning through the fabric of this gorgeous gown until I felt naked and vulnerable.
“You look lovely tonight, Jasmine.” He edged closer along the seat.
“Aren’t you supposed to wear a seatbelt, Pierre?” I couldn’t move away any farther, and he was gaining ground inch by inch.
“Don’t be silly.” He was right beside me. “Have some champagne to celebrate.” He poured two glasses then passed me a glass and held up his in salute.
“What are we celebrating?”
“Why, the beginning of a beautiful and beneficial friendship of course. How does the saying go? Ah yes—you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”
“My back doesn’t need scratching it’s not itchy.” The bubbles tickled my nose as I drank the full glass down in one mouthful. “And I have no intention of scratching yours.”
His smirk did nothing to reassure me that he understood my position. “We will see, my little dove. If you want to have a long and successful career …” he shrugged nonchalantly, “you may have to make sacrifices.”
For the rest of the ride I gazed out the window, the cold night air frosting the glass and making everything appear soft and surreal. There was no way out. If I wanted to dance and have a career that I could build on after When the Ship Comes In, there would be choices to make. Decisions I would have to stand by and live with, and in time I may even be able to sleep soundly at night when the results of those choices had shaped my future for better or worse.
When the car stopped, I stayed staring out the window. When Pierre had said we were going to a ball I hadn’t imagined it would be this ball. The New York Museum Winter Ball was renowned for being a place to be seen for artistic types, and also for being a black-and-white-only occasion. Thanks for telling me, asshole. This could have gone so terribly wrong if I’d chosen one of the other gowns I’d tried on, but thank goodness we had decided on the black chiffon. I wondered if he had deliberately not told me to wear black or white, or if he had just assumed that I would know that this ball was on and of course drawn my own conclusions. I’d had no idea. I’d never travelled in these circles but more importantly, I’d never wanted to. Celebrity of this kind held no interest for me.
Guests posed for photographers as the driver opened my door, and I emerged from the car. Pierre came to my side and waved to a middle-aged couple who had just been photographed. “That’s Yvonne and Bernard Weston,” he whispered from the side of his mouth.
The names meant nothing to me.
As we made our way along the red carpet, Pierre pointed out other people he knew, and on occasion introduced me to them if they were close enough to speak to. By the time we entered the building I’d met at least ten toupee-wearing portly gentlemen and their wives, all with teased and fluffed hair and faces so paralyzed from plastic surgery I couldn’t tell if they were truly happy to meet me or not. I wasn’t bothered one way or the other to meet them, but Pierre seemed quite proud that he knew so many prominent art lovers and critics alike. The fact that I’d never heard of a single one of them made me realize that although I could name every prima ballerina in the American Ballet Company for the last fifty years, I was totally uneducated in every art form other than dance.
Despite dreading the event, I was in awe of the decorations as we entered the main hallway which
would be our dining room for the evening. From the black-and-white table settings to white floral center arrangements, all the way up to the frosted bulbs that hung in the thousands from the ceiling like icicles. It was a spectacle.
“Impressive, no?” Pierre said proudly, as if he’d been solely responsible for the adornments.
“Impressive, yes.” I nodded in agreement. “It must have taken a team of decorators days to do all this.” I swept my arm around, indicating to the display.
“Ah, yes. This is magnificent.” He leaned in close … too close. “I have seen better of course.” He shrugged. “And worse.”
Was this his idea of small-talk or was he trying to big note himself? I’d seen worse too, but every event had a team of people who worked their butts off to make it as successful as they possibly could. The fact that these people obviously had a truckload of cash to throw around, and would, by the end of the evening, have more truckloads of donations, meant that they could afford the extravagance that others couldn’t.
We checked the seating plan, and I found myself sandwiched between Pierre and Albert Rickman, a man who was ninety if he was a day and deaf as a post. This was going to be an unforgettable evening in the worst possible way, but at least there was music and alcohol. Lots of alcohol.
As a waiter who seemed to constantly hover around us, filled my glass with red wine for the umpteenth time, I felt Pierre’s palm come to rest on my knee. “Would you care to dance, Jasmine?” he asked with a firm squeeze.
I’d been yelling at poor old Albert for the past twenty minutes until my voice was hoarse, trying to explain to him my dance history of Boston Conservatory, followed by Boston Ballet, and now an independent New York production. I needed the break.
I acknowledged Pierre’s invitation, then turned to Albert. “We’re just going to dance.”
“You’re what?” he hollered.
“Going to dance.” I yelled back, over-pronouncing the words as if it would help him understand.
“Oh, no thank you, my dear. Bad hip. Old war injury.”
