by Lola Keeley
“Giving me editorial approval?” Victoria’s hackles raise in suspicion. She shouldn’t antagonize Rick this soon, not when she hasn’t worked much more with Anna, but putting her plans in print makes them almost impossible to undo. “The last thing you wrote about me was that I was washed up and Metropolitan should have taken Liza Wade instead of me.”
“I owed Liza a favor, okay?” Michelle shrinks a little under the scrutiny. “I know I owe you bigger, but you dropped me a long time ago for your flavors of the month.”
Anna is back on her feet and stretching out her legs in a gentle warm-up that shouldn’t dislodge hair or makeup.
“Fine,” Victoria says. “I admit I could do with the publicity. The brochure alone doesn’t make a loud enough statement. This all comes through me, nothing to Rick, understood?”
“Atta girl,” Michelle teases. “Man, you still can’t stand anyone else being the boss, huh?”
“He’s not my boss,” Victoria says. “He just writes the checks.”
“Whatever you say. You might want to get your flunkies working on your look now,” Michelle suggests, setting the light meter down and pulling out her phone to tap at. “Because I just told my editor the feature has you too.”
“Michelle—”
“Done deal,” Michelle cuts her off. “I’ll be gentle.”
“First time for everything.” Victoria considers her options. She doesn’t miss the rigors of full dress and makeup for every performance, that’s for damn sure. That said, it wasn’t entirely awful to dress up on Saturday night to woo the crowd a little. It only takes a moment to catch Susan’s eye, and with a jerk of her head, Victoria is on her way to be plastered with products and have her hair tugged at.
“Well,” Susan can’t help commenting as she rifles through the rack, plucking from the selection a sheer black blouse that Victoria recognizes as Givenchy. Of course it’s exactly in Victoria’s size, and Susan doesn’t even need to double-check herself. That precision is still a pleasure to watch in action. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m shy,” Victoria says. “I just haven’t felt like making myself the story. What do you have for Anna if we want to go splashy? Not for the official materials. The Times.”
“Of course,” Susan says. “Have you broken the news to Anna yet?”
“After her promo shots. Why should she care if it’s a few more flashes?”
“She won’t.” Susan is working through the racks again, holding up something red that Victoria almost wishes she were tall enough to pull off without heels.
“Though I suspect we might need a fistful of valium for the interview part,” Victoria says.
“Interview with the Times?” Susan throws a judgmental look before an eyeshadow brush causes Victoria to close her eyes. “Well, that’s going to upset some people who’ve been more than accommodating so far.”
“Not my problem.” Victoria ignores the faint pang of guilt for Delphine. It is something of a coup, and Liza will no doubt be on the phone to snipe at her sister the minute the spread hits a newsstand. Still, bulletproofing her plan is the most important thing here, and Victoria is a master of contingencies. Anna is going to be the star of the season, and that’s not a reflection on Delphine. If she takes it that way? Well, Victoria will tell Delphine to adjust.
“Sounds like asking for trouble to me,” Susan says as Victoria takes the blouse from her, hair still being teased and coaxed into curls. She gestures at Victoria’s half-finished look. “But damn, I’d forgotten you could still turn all this on when you feel like it.”
Victoria rolls her eyes.
Anna’s cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling, so it’s a relief when Michelle barks at her to “get serious.” They run through a variety of poses, Anna spending most of it en pointe until she’s instructed to turn or bend to catch certain lighting angles. She can’t wait for this weirdness to be over, especially when Michelle switches to handheld and gets right up in Anna’s face. Isn’t that what zoom lenses are for?
“Thanks for that,” Michelle says as she walks past them. “I was talking to Ramos about some aerial shots with flowing fabrics. The crew here can rig up a swing and I’ll edit it out in post. We’ll start with some basics in black, though. I’ll need at least three or four looks.”
“Why?” Anna blurts.
“Options.” Michelle shrugs. “You okay with getting hoisted up in the air?”
Anna nods. It’s just a jump where someone holds her in place.
“Dare I ask about an actual concept?” Victoria turns her focus on their photographer.
“You can ask while I’m getting some practice shots.” Michelle points toward the area in front of the cameras. “Let me get my lights balanced for you.”
“And me?” Anna chimes in. “Do I change, or…?”
“Side by side,” Michelle decides. “I’m thinking, Victoria, you want to go with possessive, if this is about staking a claim so Rick can’t take the credit by spring.”
“You want possessive?” Victoria repeats, a displeased curl to her lips. “If this is another pitch for your BDSM ballet series…”
Anna almost falls over at that. Thank God she has decent balance.
“Whatever,” Michelle says with a groan. “You’re good to go, so let’s get the Chosen One in shot with you.”
“Come along, Anya,” Victoria says. “The sooner we do this, the sooner everyone gets to go home.”
Anna complies, one foot in front of the other. Somehow it feels like the longest walk of her life.
It doesn’t seem foolish until Anna is standing barely a foot away from Victoria, awkward and unsure all over again. Only then does Victoria realize how she’s framing herself: the aging artist and her bright young muse.
At least Anna scrubs up well, so there’s no mortification on that front. She seems very focused on the translucent material of Victoria’s shirt, and in that moment she’s grateful Kim’s been so insistent on keeping her in shape. A lifetime of strenuous exercise and limiting diet laid the groundwork, and God knows this place keeps her active.
“You could both start by acting like you’ve met before,” Michelle says.
Victoria rolls her eyes. Laying a firm hand on Anna’s shoulder, she steps in closer. Both of them stand, facing the camera, the only contact palm against half-bared shoulder; it’s nothing spectacular. It’s enough to let Anna accept the new normal, though, and she finally relaxes under Victoria’s light grip.
“So when you two get done saying Mass…,” Michelle snorts, but she’s up in their faces a moment later, catching them close and off guard.
Victoria wants to recoil, but there’s an example to be set. She’s been on display since she was five years old. This isn’t any different. When Michelle steps back to frame them some other way, Victoria lets her hand trail down Anna’s practically naked back, the touch barely a suggestion. At her waist, Victoria grips again, pulling Anna closer in a one-armed embrace of sorts. It’s a lazy power move, but Anna leans into it without hesitation this time.
Good. Better. It even shuts Michelle up.
“It needs…something,” Victoria mutters as they mix up the complementary poses. “Right now we could be anyone, anything. It has to scream ballet.”
“I’m wearing a tutu.” Anna points out the black mesh, and it’s not an unreasonable point.
“Yes, and next round you should try one of those adjustable skirts everyone’s so crazy about. Brings attention back to your legs. Can we get a little spray over here? She’s starting to dry out.”
A junior styling minion is sent over with a bottle of hydrating mist, and Anna is sprayed with very little ceremony. It brings out the light tan on her legs, and the sheen is almost tempting to run fingers over.
“I don’t think I can do a real magazine spread,” Anna says, sudden and urgent. “It’s too much. Nobody else—”
“Stop that,” Victoria says. “Stop worrying about everyone
else and putting them in front of your own success. If I teach you nothing else, Anya, at least let me teach you that. Nobility is severely overrated.”
“But—”
“Wait here.” Victoria holds up a finger to halt Michelle in her tracks. It gives her an excuse for a lens and filter change, anyway. It only takes a moment to retrieve her purse and the copy of Vogue she shoved into it this morning. “Look,” she commands Anna, handing it over.
Victoria hasn’t looked at the black-and-white spread in years, but she remembers the chill in the air with perfect clarity, the way the rough cement of the balcony felt under her arms, against the backs of her thighs. Bare legs, a slip of a black dress, all attitude and boundless ambition. She can’t give those things to Anna, but she can help her recognize them.
“Wow, this is your first Vogue,” Anna breathes.
For a moment, Victoria can see her as an adolescent at the stage door, voice awed and eyes wide. Did Anna ever stay after a show? Victoria can’t pretend she ever paid much attention; most nights she’d slip out through a side door and into the anonymity of a New York evening.
“I had this, but then I lost it.”
It would be so easy to make a cutting joke. Chastened by the previous day, Victoria chooses her words more carefully, in case Anna means lost in the fire.
“You can have that one, then. I hope your shrine to me is appropriately unsettling, Anya. I don’t believe in half measures.”
“Oh, I’ve got the votive candles and surveillance shots, sure,” Anna teases right back, the shadow that passed over her chased by another brilliant smile. “Do I need a lock of your hair too?”
“Not bad,” Victoria says. “Susan has some dresses, but I don’t think we’ve quite set the world alight with this duet, do you?”
“No,” Anna admits. “What would make it more? It should be striking, like your choreography.”
“You already got the gig. But as ass-kissing goes, points for effort. You have more ribbon in that sack you lug around?”
“Of course I do,” Anna answers with a faint eye roll of her own. “What are you thinking?”
“Gimme,” Victoria says.
Anna does as she’s told. A moment later Victoria takes Anna’s hand, and slips the pale peach ribbon around her wrist, starting with one firm knot. “Willis, get over here.”
“Oh,” Michelle announces on seeing Victoria’s intention. Leaving the camera dangling around her neck, she steps right in and ties the other end of the ribbon tight around Victoria’s own wrist. “This might work. Tug of war?”
“Something like that,” Victoria half agrees. “Start with that, and then maybe wrapping around our arms, almost binding us together?”
“Definitely.” Michelle positions them.
Anna is utterly compliant as long as she’s tethered to Victoria.
The flashes start to fire again in earnest.
“Okay?” Victoria asks, when they turn from staring down the camera to focusing on each other.
“Fine,” Anna says. “Dresses after this?”
“Start with the red.” Victoria reaches for more ribbon, wrapping it around their touching forearms. “And don’t spend too long on that swing. You’ll need all your ribs working this week.”
“Of course.” Anna squeezes Victoria’s hand where their fingers are intertwined, her palm as warm as the ribbon is cool. “You don’t think this might look…you know?”
“Let them speculate.” Victoria shrugs off the question. “Speculation sells tickets.”
“That’s kind of cynical,” Anna argues.
“Business always is.” Victoria gives Michelle and her camera a downright seductive glance. Anna watches before following suit. Judging by the increased flurry of shutter clicks, they’re on to something.
Still on a high, Anna clutches the magazine all the way downtown on the subway. Only when she emerges in Tribeca does she think to preserve her precious gift by easing it into the protected section inside her bag that usually holds a laptop or her jewelry. For some reason the score from La Traviata is in her head, and so she hums it on the short walk of a few blocks to Jess’s apartment building. Maybe Anna will indulge herself—one trip with all her things in a cab would be preferable to hauling it over two or three by subway. She’s trying to guess at cab fare when she opens the door with Jess’s spare key.
Perhaps that’s why it takes a moment to register.
There’s the sofa, same as always. Only instead of Anna’s clothes, or her folded bedsheets and pillows from the night before, there’s Jess. At least Anna’s pretty sure it’s Jess, because the leggy ballerina on top of her—one with very long legs and curly hair, is blocking most of Anna’s view.
“Oh my God!” Anna yelps, almost concussing herself on the open door as she tries to turn around. “What the…? Oh my God!”
“Hey, calm down.” Jess starts to soothe her, but it sounds honest-to-god muffled and Anna doesn’t want to think about what might be pressed against Jess’s face and oh this day just got weird. Weirder than Victoria Ford-tying-her-up-in-ribbons weird, and nowhere near as pleasant.
“Did you at least move my clothes before you…you…” Anna covers her eyes with one hand and picks her way to her pile of bags, grabbing as best she can with only one hand free. The room smells like, well, sex, and neither Jess nor Irina seems to have their breathing back under control yet.
“Don’t be a prude, malenkaya,” Irina says, tone teasing, and she sounds a little toasted for this time on a Monday afternoon.
“Don’t,” Anna warns, looking up long enough to make eye contact and see Irina’s sly grin. “I have to go settle into my new place. Just…whatever.”
“Anna, wait!” Jess calls after her, but Anna has momentum and she won’t be stopped. She rushes out of the apartment with all the bags she can carry, grateful she repacks most things before leaving each morning. Trying to stop Jess stealing her T-shirts has finally paid off. Her sister’s current lack of any clothing is not something Anna wants to dwell on. How the hell did they get from Saturday night to that? No, no. She doesn’t want to know.
She’s going home, or to what has to pass for it now. Stumbling over the last few steps, Anna makes up her mind about that cab. She hails the first one she sees, and it miraculously stops for her. She hurls her bags into the backseat. There are only a few hours of her day off left, so she may as well enjoy them.
CHAPTER 15
Days blow past surprisingly fast, not least because Victoria works Anna harder than she’s ever worked before. They barely talk beyond barked instructions and the occasional hesitant question from Anna. Their individual rehearsals are curtailed by the demands of the corps for the coming shows, as Anna picks up The Nutcracker as well as La Bayadère.
There are grumblings from everyone after a few days. Where Anna hoped David would be a kinder prospect, his rehearsals are still the ballet equivalent of boot camp. The competing sets of choreography are like overlapping drumbeats in her head, but she smiles and raises her arms and does it all over again.
She dances, she eats, she sleeps.
She rubs arnica into everything that aches and ices her feet with as much care as she can muster. Aside from the chatter during classes and the occasional lunch with Ethan, Anna doesn’t speak much with anyone. Jess texts and calls in decreasing frequency, finally accepting Anna’s silence.
Avoiding Irina is easy enough at first when Anna’s face still flushes at the sight of her, but the warm-up classes are only so crowded and avoiding eye contact is tricky with mirrors on every wall. In the hurry to escape one morning after a week has passed, Anna bumps into her on the way out of the room and gets only a knowing smile in response.
The brochures have been printed but not delivered. Anna can’t wait to see them, but she’s far more nervous about Michelle’s article and photos due to run in the Sunday New York Times. When the day finally rolls around, Anna leaves for the Metropolitan Center just a little giddy at the thought of
stopping by the newsstand at the end of her block. She could have looked online of course, but that just doesn’t feel right. She doesn’t make it out of the building before she’s accosted by her sister, who smacks her on the arm with a rolled-up copy of the Times.
“Enough!” Jess barks at her. “You’ve had your sulking time, Anna.”
“Don’t even talk to me,” Anna says, hoping the doorman on duty today doesn’t overhear.
“Oh, quit the puritan-in-a-tutu routine. We talked about this before you moved here. We’re grown-ups now, and I’m not going to act like we’re in high school just to give you a comfort zone.”
“You could avoid banging my colleagues.” Anna’s huffy and not caring if she sounds it. “I mean, how did you go from helping her home to that, anyway?”
“Anna Gale, if that is your way of saying you want the juicy details—”
“Fine!” Anna yanks the newspaper off her sister. “You’re buying the coffee. And don’t crease me!”
“Anna, it’s really… I mean, you might wanna take a moment.”
“It’s bad? Oh God, I knew Michelle hated me on sight. I haven’t seen the brochures yet, but—”
“No, no.” Jess grabs her by the shoulders. Weekend brunchers and joggers pound past on the New York sidewalk, barely batting an eyelid at the emotional scene playing out between sisters. “I mean, it’s gonna blow your mind. You might want to sit down before you look at it. That…that is the real deal.”
“You’re not messing with me?”
“Would I risk that right now?”
“Oh God.” Anna groans. “It’s like I can’t breathe right. I want to see, but I don’t know if I can look.”
“There’s a coffee shop around the corner.” Jess steers Anna and her newspaper in the right direction. “Let’s do this.”
“Victoria?”
