said, grabbing his arm. But he shook her off. ‘We were just dancing.’
‘Ha!’ The laugh was a sharp stab of a sound—a laugh without a hint of humour. ‘Tell me you don’t feel anything for Brodie. Because it sure as hell didn’t look like a platonic dance between friends.’
She tried to find the words to explain how she felt, but she couldn’t. She closed her eyes and pressed her palm to her forehead. She opened them in time to see Scott’s fist flying at Brodie’s face.
‘No!’
REJECTION WAS HARD ENOUGH for the average person, and for a dancer it was constant. The half-hearted ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ after an unsuccessful audition? Yep, she’d had those. Bad write-up from the arts section of a local paper? Inevitable. An unenthusiastic audience? Unpleasant, but there’d be at least one in every dancer’s career.
Chantal Turner had been told it got easier, but it didn’t feel easy now to keep her chin in the air and her lips from trembling. Standing in the middle of the stage, with spotlights glaring down at her, she shifted from one bare foot to the other. The faded velvet of the theatre seats looked like a sea of red in front of her, while the stage lights caused spots to dance in her vision.
The stage was her favourite place in the whole world, but today it felt like a visual representation of her failure.
‘I’m afraid your style is not quite what we’re looking for,’ the director said, toying with his phone. ‘It’s very…’
He looked at his partner and they both shook their heads.
‘Traditional,’ he offered with a gentle smile. ‘We’re looking for dancers with a more modern, gritty style for this show.’
Chantal contemplated arguing—telling him that she could learn, she could adapt her style. But the thought of them saying no all over again was too much to deal with.
‘Thanks, anyway.’
At least she’d been allocated the last solo spot for the day, so no one was left to witness her rejection. She stopped for a moment to scuff her feet into a pair of sneakers and throw a hoodie over her tank top and shorts.
The last place had told her she was too abstract. Now she was too traditional. She bit down on her lower lip to keep the protest from spilling out. Some feedback was better than none, no matter how infuriatingly contradictory it was. Besides, it wasn’t professional to argue with directors—and she was, if nothing else, a professional. A professional who couldn’t seem to book any decent jobs of late…
This was the fourth audition she’d flunked in a month. Not even a glimmer of interest. They’d watched her with poker faces, their feedback delivered with surgical efficiency. The reasons had varied, but the results were the same. She knew her dancing was better than that.
At least it had used to be…
Her sneakers crunched on the gravel of the theatre car park as she walked to her beat-up old car. She was lucky the damn thing still ran; it had rust spots, and the red paint had flaked all over the place. It was so old it had a cassette player, and the gearbox always stuck in second gear. But it was probably the most reliable thing in her life, since all the time she’d invested in her dance study didn’t seem to be paying off. Not to mention her bank accounts were looking frighteningly lean.
No doubt her ex-husband, Derek, would be pleased to know that.
Ugh—she was not going to think about that stuffy control freak, or the shambles that had been her marriage.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, she checked her phone. A text from her mother wished her luck for her audition. She cringed; this was just another opportunity to prove she’d wasted all the sacrifices her mother had made for her dancing.
Staring at herself in the rearview mirror, Chantal pursed her lips. She would not let this beat her. It was a setback, but only a minor one. She’d been told she was a gifted dancer on many occasions. Hell, she’d even been filmed for a documentary on contemporary dance a few years back. She would get into one of these companies, even if it took every last ounce of her resolve.
Despite the positive affirmation, doubt crept through her, winding its way around her heart and lungs and stomach. Why was everything going so wrong now?
Panic rose in her chest, the bubble of anxiety swelling and making it hard to breathe. She closed her eyes and forced a long breath, calming herself. Panicking would not help. Thankfully, she’d finally managed to book a short-term dancing job in a small establishment just outside of Sydney. It wasn’t prestigious. But it didn’t have to be forever.
A small job would give her enough money to get herself through the next few weeks—and there was accommodation on site. She would fix this situation. No matter what.
She clenched and unclenched her fists—a technique she’d learned once to help relax her muscles whenever panic swelled. It had become a technique she relied on more and more. Thankfully the panic attacks were less like tidal waves these days, and more like the slosh of a pool after someone had dive-bombed. It wasn’t ideal, but she could manage it.
Baby steps… Every little bit of progress counts.
Shoving the dark thoughts aside, she pulled out of the car park and put her phone into the holder stuck to the window. As if on cue the phone buzzed to life with the smiling face of her old friend Willa. Chantal paused before answering. She wasn’t in the mood to talk, but she had a two-hour drive to get to her gig and music would only keep her amused for so long.
Besides, since her divorce Chantal had realised that real friends were few and far between, so she’d been making more of an effort to keep in touch with Willa. Ignoring her call now would go completely against that.
She tapped the screen of her phone and summoned her most cheerful voice. ‘Hey, Willa.’
‘How’s our favourite dancer?’
Willa’s bubbly greeting made a wave of nostalgia wash over her.
‘Taking the arts world by storm, I hope?’
Chantal forced a laugh. ‘Yeah, something like that. It’s a slow process, but I’m working on it.’
‘You’ll get there. I know it. That time I saw you dance at the Sydney Opera House was incredible. We’re all so proud of you for following your dream.’
Chantal’s stomach rocked. She knew not everyone Willa referred to would be proud of her—especially since it was her dancing that had caused their group to fall apart eight years ago.
Besides, they only saw what she wanted them to see. If you took her social media pages and her website at face value then she was living the creative dream. What they didn’t know was that Chantal cut out all the dark, unseemly bits she wasn’t proud of: her nasty divorce, her empty bank account, the reasons why she’d booked into some small-time gig on the coast when she should be concentrating on getting back into a proper dance company…
‘Thanks,
