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CHAPTER TWO
POSY’S CHEEKS ACHED but her smile didn’t waver, nor did she flinch as a bead of sweat rolled down her forehead, another trickling slowly down her back. Her muscles screamed for release but she kept perfectly still, one leg bent, an arm outstretched, head high, eyes fixed on the cheering crowd. They were on their feet, shouts of ‘bravo!’ reverberating around the auditorium as bouquet after ravishing bouquet were carried onto the stage to be laid reverentially at her fellow dancer’s feet.
What must it feel like to be Daria, Posy wondered as Daria kissed her hand to the ecstatic audience, to know that all this rapture was for you? How did it feel to star in a brand-new ballet, choreographed just for you, and to have London at your feet? She and Daria had started ballet school together years before, had once stood side by side, the only two girls from their year to make it into the Company—but now Daria shone right in centre stage while Posy remained firmly in the heart of the Corps de Ballet.
But there was still hope, the promotions were yet to be announced. Maybe this year she would finally make Artist and be given some of the smaller featured roles—and then First Artist to Soloist and on and on until she reached the exalted rank of Principal. Maybe...
But at twenty-four, five years after she’d graduated into the Company, it was getting harder and harder to keep hoping. Of course, she reminded herself as another bead of sweat trickled down her cheek, thousands of people would kill for the opportunity to be doing exactly what she was doing, would consider being able to dance in nearly every production of the most prestigious ballet company in the world enough in itself. But it wasn’t enough; she wanted more.
Posy stayed backstage longer than usual after the curtain finally fell, standing quietly to one side of the cavernous room as the rest of the dancers exited chattering excitedly and the stagehands began to move the scenery back into its designated space. There was always an extra buzz after a Saturday night’s performance, adrenaline mixing with the sweet knowledge there was no class on a Sunday so the dancers could flock to their favourite Covent Garden haunts, filling the tables vacated by the tourists as night drew in. But Posy couldn’t shake her flatness and so she waited until the backstage area had cleared before making her way out. When she finally reached the dressing room she shared with several other girls it was empty apart from the usual bottles of make-up and brushes scattered on the dressing tables, discarded tights and pointe shoes piled in the corner and costumes hanging on rails, waiting for the costume department to collect, clean and mend them before the next performance.
Posy sank into her chair with a sigh, avoiding her own gaze in the brightly lit mirror. She didn’t want to see the sweat-streaked stage make-up accenting her eyes, cheekbones and lips, the dark hair twisted into the bun she had worn every day for years, slim but muscled shoulders and arms, the clavicles at her neck clearly visible. Her make-up itched, felt too heavy, claggy on her skin, her shoulders ached and her ankles twinged. As for her feet, well, she knew all too well that it was her job to smile and look effortless while en pointe, that it took as much practice to smile through the pain as it did to perfect a pirouette, but tonight her shoes pinched more than usual, the ribbons too tight around her ankles. It took a few moments to undo the knots and slip them off, pulling off her toepads to reveal the bruised and blistered feet of a professional ballet dancer. She winced as she flexed her feet. Every twinge was worth it. Usually...
‘You look triste, chérie.’
Posy jumped as a voice floated over from the door; she’d assumed all her friends had left. She forced a smile and turned to greet her fellow Corps ballerina. ‘Hi, Elise. No, I’m fine. Just end-of-season blues, the usual.’ The principals and soloists were heading out on an Australian tour before stepping into a series of lucrative guest artist appearances but the summer always seemed longer and emptier for those without international reputations. She usually filled her break with stints teaching at summer schools, extra classes and courses and trying to find opportunities to perform wherever she could. She knew she was luckier than many ballet dancers—at least she was paid over the summer months—but she still felt lost at the thought of weeks without her usual routine of classes, rehearsals and performances.
The diminutive French girl sauntered into the room and dropped gracefully into the chair next to Posy’s. ‘Me, I’m looking forward to the break,’ she said. ‘I thought you were too. Don’t you have a holiday home to visit?’
Posy shrugged. She knew she should be more excited about the house her godmother had left her but her recent visit to the rambling pink villa on L’Isola dei Fiori for her sister Miranda’s rather sudden wedding had left her filled less with the thrill of home ownership than with panic. The villa was huge and had obviously once been beautiful but now it was dilapidated, the garden still overgrown despite her sister Immi’s best efforts, with walls literally crumbling down. It was going to cost a fortune to put right—and a fortune was something she most definitely didn’t have.
‘I am planning to go there at some point over the summer, but my sister’s there at the moment and I’m not sure how long she’s planning on staying.’ The villa did have an immediate use—it had been a bolt-hole for all three of her sisters; first Miranda, then Portia and now Imogen had all fled there to try and regroup in a year that seemed full of upheaval. Posy knew she was being silly,
