‘It’s not a lie, Mum. It’s an escape. From mundanity and work and life and expectation. Here, people can be whoever they want to be.’ I tried to stop myself; it was no use trying to explain magic to someone who didn’t see it. ‘Look, let me show you to your table, and you’ll taste the food, have some of our finest wine and see the performances, and then you’ll understand.’
‘I hope so,’ she said, looking around herself in judgement. ‘I really do.’
Great. Excellent. I almost yelled that maybe she should get back on a train to Eastbourne and find herself a job if she was so concerned about how I made my money, but I bit my tongue. I may have drawn blood.
I locked eyes with Aria, nodded towards the man Casey was seating. She nodded imperceptibly, and started making a drink.
The blood orange Martini was the special of the evening, and I personally knew that Aria had made it at least fifteen times over the last two days, because I had tasted each and every one. A touch of Cointreau, a chunk of orange and pure vodka, shaken up until it was chilled and just sharp enough to stop the sweetness. Decorated with a perfect orange zest swirl, dusted in the barest trace of edible glitter.
‘Mum, let me show you to your table, okay?’ I led her over to a table for two, with a perfect view of the stage. I saw Casey seat the reviewer just behind her, to the right, a clear, unobstructed view of the centre of the stage, the huge sparkling Martini glass prop glistening in the dull light.
‘Jess will be right over to get your menu choices, okay?’ I said, plastering a fake smile on my face. I’d done it enough times over the years. Unfortunately, my mum was the only one who saw through it.
‘Don’t be angry at me, I was just giving my opinion.’ She narrowed her eyes as she settled into her seat.
‘And I will be happy to hear your opinion when you’ve experienced everything with an open mind, right?’
‘Of course, darling, what do you take me for?’
I walked away before I said something about not wanting to take her at all.
I fetched the perfectly presented cocktail from Aria at the bar, and she gave me a confident nod and smile. I placed it on a tray and waltzed over to the reporter. His eyes widened a little as he looked at me, taking in my outfit and the way it caught the light. He looked a little overwhelmed.
‘Well hello there, Mr…’
‘Reynolds. Steve, Steve Reynolds.’ He swallowed, looking around.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Reynolds. You’re our honoured guest this evening, so please accept our special aperitif, the Martini Club blood orange Martini.’ I placed it on the table with a flourish.
He laughed. ‘I stood out that much?’
‘We want everyone to feel welcome, that’s all.’ I was the epitome of nonchalant. ‘Do you have any questions for me, or shall I send one of the girls over to take your order?’
‘What kind of questions might I have?’ he asked, interest piqued, and I took a moment to survey him. Just because he was a journalist didn’t mean he wasn’t a creep.
‘Well, I’m the owner here, so if you wanted any background on the Martini Club and how it came to be, or what we’re doing here…’
‘Oh, you’re the owner…’ He checked his phone. ‘Arabella Hailstone?’
‘That’s me!’ I threw my hands up. ‘So, the show is about to start, and we’ll let you get settled and talk you through the menu, but if you want to chat at any point, you can ask at the bar.’
‘That’s very kind, Miss Hailstone.’ He smirked a little at that. ‘Real name?’
‘I’ll never tell.’ I winked and sashayed off.
When I got to the bar, I took a deep breath. Jacques approached, watching the table.
‘So, what’s he like?’
‘… a guy? I have no idea,’ I sighed, watching the back of his head as Jess went over, smiling as she leaned in. ‘We just have to make sure everything is perfect.’
‘Nothing less than perfection,’ Jacques recited, rolling his eyes. ‘Darling, everything is going to be fine. We’re the best. You know it, I know it, and soon enough that man over there is going to know it.’
‘And my mother?’
‘If your mother manages to say something negative about our show, I think you should ask for adoption papers. We, sweetheart, are magnificent. So calm the fuck down and have a drink.’
He slid a Martini over to me, dry and with a twist. It tasted like relief.
I had absolutely hated Martinis when I first drank one. They were sharp and strong and tasted like pure alcohol. But I’d persisted, purely because they were the kind of drink Arabella Hailstone would drink. They were sophisticated, simple, strong.
And so I kept drinking them, training myself to look for flavours. I tried expensive ones, in the hopes that would be different. I tried them with olives, with lemon. I made them myself at home. It was only after about a year that I could take that first sip without wincing.
Stupid, right? A stupid dream from a silly girl who watched those movies with sleek heroines sipping grown-up drinks, when really all she’d ever known was bright blue WKDs and cans of warm beer on the beach front. But it was all window dressing, all part of the same persona I had carefully cultivated – from the drinks, to the outfits, to the accent. I never gave details about those ponies or polo or holidays in the South of France, I just threw in a titbit and let them assume. And they always did. Because when you give someone enough of a character, they do the rest of the work.
It was a damn good Martini, but then again, when did Jacques ever let me down?
I was on edge, curbing my need to check on the unreadable Mr Reynolds, the kitchen, the performers or anyone else. I walked around greeting the big tables, as I usually did, looking for any stories or events that Desiree could use in her opening. Hen dos were always good for that. I brought over some complimentary drinks for the couple celebrating their anniversary, and I avoided my mother at all costs.
Desiree was excellent, as always. Funny, sassy and belting out ‘All That Jazz’ to start us off. I looked at smiling faces, watched as the bar staff scurried around fetching more bottles of wine, making more cocktails. Each dish presented to the tables was met with delight, stealing forkfuls from each other’s plates and laughing, closing their eyes as they tasted the food.
It is going to be fine.
I just kept repeating it to myself as I plastered that smile on my face, watching everything with a painful focus.
And then Taya’s act began.
She looked beautiful, dancing in the air, her pale blue leotard contrasting against her skin, wrapping herself in ribbons. She moved effortlessly, sweeping and climbing and twisting, moving perfectly in time to the music. I watched the audience for their responses, the delight and joy on their faces as they marvelled at Taya’s beauty, the inexplicable grace in the air.
When I looked back, she was falling, falling, falling.
Then I heard her scream.
* * *
Eight years of The Martini Club, and never once had we had an accident. Of course, there had been all the usual issues. Bruises from corsets done too tightly, spilt drinks, stubbed toes, everything soothed with a backstage bottle of champagne and a first aid kit.
Never a fall onstage, never a scream. Never that hushed silence as the audience didn’t know what to do. I rushed forward, and with Jacques, we helped her from the stage, tears streaming down her face. I wasn’t sure whether we should even be moving her, but I had to stop people from gawping, and already I could see the look on their faces, the way their fingertips hovered over their phones, wondering whether to take a picture or not. Humans are so incredibly animal in moments of chaos.
I held her close and we lifted her down so that her foot wasn’t touching the floor. It had bent at a particularly unpleasant angle, and all I could do was pray that Taya’s unending flexibility had saved her.
‘I’m so sorry, Bel, I’m so sorry!’ Taya whispered as we half carried her to the back of
the room. I signalled to Desiree, and the girls, who seemed to know exactly what to do. Desiree was excellent at damage control, relaxing the audience and putting them at ease again, calming them down, making them laugh. The girls were immediately in there, offering drinks, topping up glasses, making jokes and charming everyone. We slipped through behind a curtain at the back, and Jacques checked Taya’s ankle.
‘I don’t know what happened, I’ve never… I just, tonight! Why did it have to be tonight?’ Taya wept, head in her hands. She looked up and grasped my wrist. ‘Bel, I’m so sorry, please, please let me stay.’
It was at that moment I realized that maybe I hadn’t shown the soft side I’d thought I had. The poor girl might have a broken foot and she was worried about me firing her? What kind of monster was I?
‘Darling, everything is going to be fine.’ It was a testament to how much I needed Taya to believe that, because even saying such an outrageous lie made me want to burst into tears myself. ‘Mistakes happen.’
‘Not here.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s perfect here. It’s meant to be perfect.’
Oh, damn it to hell.
Of course, it was easy enough to trace that back to any number of moments. My mother’s own mantra, drummed into me from when I was young enough to toddle. ‘It has to be perfect, Annabelle, what’s the point if it’s not perfect? You know how many other girls out there want what you want? They will make sure they’re perfect – anything less is not good enough.’
How many times had she said that, demanded that of me? The weigh-ins, the comparisons, the second-place trophies immediately thrown in the bin because they meant nothing. I’d rescued one once, and she’d found it. After that, she started throwing them away before we even made it out of the competition hall, handing it to some bewildered little girl on the way out.
Apparently, old habits die hard.
I squeezed Taya’s hand, and looked down to Jacques. He shook his head, mouthing ‘broken’. I left clear instructions, got Jacques to collect Taya’s things, and we helped her into a cab to the hospital. I held her hand the whole way, even as she panicked about not working. We sat in the waiting room for an hour or so, and I told stories to make her laugh. I told her about going to my first burlesque class, and almost breaking the chair because I was too enthusiastic with my moves. She told me about teaching a dance class at the local community centre, and I saw her wince when she wondered how she would continue. Artists’ lives depend on working. There are no pensions, no sick pay, no back-up plan. It was a hard and lonely life. But Taya shone when she spoke about it.
‘I shouldn’t have let you do that routine,’ I said, after the X-ray was done. ‘I blame myself. You always practise a routine for at least two weeks before you bring it to me. That wasn’t the case this time, was it?’
Her eyes dropped to the floor. ‘I knew you needed something magic. I wanted to be the hero.’
I smiled at that. ‘Darling, you are absolutely a hero, but I didn’t need magic.’ I just needed one good night.
Taya blinked a little, the tiredness of the evening woven in with the shock and the painkillers.
‘Bel, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course,’ I said, hoping it wasn’t about the state of the club. I didn’t have the energy to lie.
‘Is your mum Anna Stone?’ Her eyes were wide as I nodded, half laughing.
‘You know her?’
‘I trained as a dancer, Bel, of course I know her! Stone was a legend, the technique, the dedication…’
‘The perfection?’ I offered her a smile, shaking my head. ‘That’s the one. But she always said she never really made it big as a dancer.’
Mum was known on the circuit when I was growing up, but I thought that was just because we were in that world. When we came back home, no one knew her, at least not for dance.
‘She’s not famous as a dancer, Bel, she’s famous as a trainer. She’s like the Dragon Mama of ballet!’ Taya widened her eyes, her hand resting on mine briefly. ‘Whenever I was starting to cave just before an audition, my teacher would say “Do you think Anna Stone’s girls are settling right now? You think they’re giving up when they’re tired?” and I’d work even harder.’
‘Wow, she managed to punish even people she didn’t know.’ I snorted, feeling a little bad. But it was almost a relief to know someone else had had a similar upbringing, at least in that way. The competition, the determination. But Taya had kept it, kept dancing.
‘Didn’t it ever sour it for you? Dancing?’
‘Sour it? What, all the training and the mean teachers and stuff?’ Taya wrinkled her nose.
‘Yeah, I mean… didn’t you just want to dance without someone telling you that you had to be the best person in the room?’
She thought about it for a moment. ‘I guess the only difference is now I’m the one telling me that I’m the best person in the room. Most of the time it pays off – tonight it made me stupid. But it doesn’t stop me loving it.’
I nodded, understanding, and feeling the tiniest bit of relief. I hadn’t pushed her perfectionism on her. We shared the same burden. One I’d never have learnt about if not for tonight.
‘On the other hand, there’s a reason I chose silks over ballet – en pointe never felt like flying to me.’
I thought about the freedom I had when I danced burlesque, or when I did salsa in the evenings. All of them felt like a lack of restriction, a burst of energy that was about passion more than precision. That felt like flying to me.
Taya’s boyfriend turned up when the cast was being put on, and he was so concerned that I was scared he might start crying in the waiting room. I’d soothed him, and when he saw her being wheeled out he blinked back tears. It was sort of charming, for a man of six foot two, huge and broad, to be so sensitive to her. I paid for their cab home, and went home myself. By that time it was two in the morning and I couldn’t face going back to the club. I had already messaged everyone to let them know Taya was fine. The question was, would the club be?
I was bone weary, too exhausted to do anything more than open my door, peer around it to see my mother asleep on the fold out sofa, a new set of sheets on it. I closed the door before the light could cross her face, and tiptoed into my bedroom. I got as far as unlacing my corset, wiping off my make-up and cleaning my teeth before I collapsed on my bed, exhausted. I wriggled into an old, oversized T-shirt and snuggled down into my duvet. I did not dream that night.
Chapter Six
I woke to a freezing glass of water over my face.
‘Annabelle,’ my mother said, ‘get up now or I’ll get another glass.’
I gasped, sputtering and coughing, that instant rage flashing as I wondered where I was, who I was, and what the hell was happening. Why is my mother here?
‘What the fuck?’
‘Language!’ My mother was rocking a pair of skinny jeans and a bright pink vest top, and her hair was perfectly done. She’d been up for a while, evidently. ‘Now get up, I’ve made breakfast.’
I rolled over, blinking until the face of the clock came into focus.
‘It’s seven a.m.,’ I groaned. ‘You do realize I didn’t get in till late?’
‘Because you’re a night owl?’ She tugged at the end of the cover, the way she did when I was a child.
‘Yes, and night owls are not good with mornings!’ I struggled to cling to the duvet, and eventually let go, taking satisfaction in hearing her squeak as she flew across the room.
‘That’s not what Sam said,’ my mother replied, and I immediately knew why her hair was done. I opened an eye. Yep, make-up too. Dear Lord.
‘Oh really, what did Sam say?’
‘He said you’re always up in the mornings, going to the gym, or taking a class, or doing something. So I thought I’d better help you get up. In case you missed one of these things you regularly do.’
There was doubt in her voice.
‘Mother, had it occurred to you that “early” for a mus
ician is, like, ten a.m.?’ I growled. But it was too late, I was up. No more time to hide in oblivion from today. Oh God, to have my mother see the one night that we had fucked up in years. At least, perhaps, she would have enjoyed the rest of the show, seen how the team had banded together. Perhaps she would have felt proud of me, in the way I handled it. At the very least, my mother would recognize that I’d had a hard night.
‘Sit down at the table, we need to talk,’ was all she said. I rolled my eyes and reached for my black silk robe with the peacocks on it, and shuffled around to the table. There was, thankfully, coffee. Small mercies.
‘What can I help you with at this fine hour?’ I croaked, inhaling the toasted smell of my drink, grabbing the mug before my mother could pour milk in.
‘Annabelle.’ She placed her hands on the table and leaned in, like she was the good cop in a depressing police drama. She had to crack that case. ‘You need to sell that club.’
I almost spilled my coffee. So much for good cop. ‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s a death trap! Look what happened last night! What if that girl sues you?’ My mother sat down at the table, grasping her mug of herbal tea. I could see her fighting the decision to sit down, losing the higher ground. She always liked to argue from a position of power. Which was probably why she’d got me when I was too tired to stand up, let alone say words.
‘She won’t sue me, Mum, she’s family.’ I took a breath. ‘Look, I know it’s concerning, but that is literally the first time that’s happened. It was a fluke.’
‘And you think people will want to work for someone who accepts flukes? You said this place was the best. What I saw last night, well, it could only be described as sloppy.’
Sloppy. Well, that word had a history all of its own. My form, my holds, my turns. My posture, my attitude. Sloppy. Always sloppy.
It was only Euan who’d changed that word for me. When we were holed up in the flat, and I’d come home from the bar and change into one of his T-shirts and a pair of shorts, and tie my hair up with a pen because I could never find an elastic band, and he’d say he loved to see me that way, sloppy and sexy. Completely undone. And something in me had released.
Martinis and Memories Page 7
