imperfect Albrecht, however. His tours en l’air were almost faultless but his performance was undermined by his inelegant port de bras …
There was more in this vein.
Though naturally indignant on Alex’s behalf, I was thrilled by Didelot’s praise of my own performance. When I looked up, having committed every plaudit to memory, Lizzie was smiling at me. I thought, as so often before, what a good – what an exceptional – friend she was to delight in my success. All the same, so she should not think me conceited, I tried to conceal my elation. ‘One’s only as good as one’s last performance in this game.’
‘Yes, but this might persuade Sebastian to give you an increase in salary to stop you signing up with Mr Lubikoff. Of course it’s incredibly selfish of me but I dread you going. We’d hardly see each other.’ She patted my hand. ‘But naturally you must make the best decision for your career. I shall completely understand if you opt for the EB.’
For a moment I was tempted to tell her about Sebastian’s offer of marriage. But since he had not mentioned it again and continued to behave with the same offhand un-loverlike impatience, without a single word of tenderness, I was beginning to think I must have hallucinated the whole thing. Or else that Sebastian had never for a moment dreamed I would take him seriously. He probably assumed that I would understand he was playing some sort of game with Miko. In which case I would look an awful fool if I mentioned it to anyone. Lizzie was a darling and absolutely my best friend but discretion was not her strong suit.
‘I don’t even know if he’ll want me now I’m injured. It’s easy to get a reputation for unreliability.’
‘You’ve never had to pull out before. Nobody could be so mean as to hold one injury against you.’
‘No.’ I attempted to put on a bright face. ‘I’m just feeling a little bleak. But it’s unfair when you’ve struggled all the way over here and brought me these heavenly chips. Sorry. I promise not to be glum any more. I’m so grateful – and you’ve got to flog all the way back to Brockley—’
‘Well, actually, no. I left my suitcase in the hall – oh God, I’m so sorry, I feel as though I’m letting you down … The thing is –’ Lizzie looked apologetic – ‘I’m on my way to Heathrow. One of the corps in the touring company has pulled a ligament and Sebastian insists on me replacing her. I tried to tell him that you’ll need someone to bring you food and things but he just walked off … you know what a beast he is. I’m catching a plane in three hours’ time.’
I tried to prevent my dismay from showing on my face. ‘How long will you be away?’
‘The tour ends in three weeks.’
‘What about your grandmother?’
‘She’s going into a residential home for the time I’m away. I’ve brought you the entire contents of our larder. I’m afraid it’s mostly brawn which is Granny’s favourite.’
‘How delicious! Thank you.’
‘Do you think so?’ Lizzie looked surprised, which proved I was a better actress than I’d thought. ‘I never eat it for fear of finding bristly hairs. There are some tins of frankfurters as well. Oh, Marigold, I feel awful about leaving you.’
‘You can’t help it. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. At the dentist’s the other day I read this article in a magazine – hang on, I’ve got it somewhere,’ I opened the drawer in the table beside my bed, ‘I sneakily tore it out: here it is. The Art of Making Conversation. “Do you ever feel at a loss for something to say at parties?” Well, I always feel a complete dunderhead unless I’m with someone to do with ballet. “Ever embarrassed by an inability to make witty incisive remarks?” I should say so! I’ve never made a witty incisive remark in my life. “Do you find yourself resorting to banal topics like the weather and your children’s schools?” Well, not the latter obviously. Apparently, good conversationalists talk about ideas, the second rate talk about things and the third rate talk about people.’
‘Okay, so I’m third rate,’ said Lizzie. ‘There’s nothing I like better than gossip.’
‘The article says in order to be an interesting dinner-party guest you have to have a cultivated mind. It gives a list of the hundred most essential books one ought to have read. I’ve bought copies of the first five books on the list and now’s my opportunity to read them. I shall begin with Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.’
Lizzie’s eyes widened. ‘Jolly good luck.’
‘So you see I’ll be as merry as a grig – whatever that is.’
We smiled bravely at each other.
The winter of 1982 was the coldest on record. I read in the newspaper Lizzie had brought the fish and chips in that they were restoring the hothouses at Kew and one of the rarest plants, a Chilean palm, had been wrapped in a polythene tower through which warm air was pumped to keep it alive. I envied it. Shortly after Lizzie left, the boiler that provided hot water for the bathroom and heated the tiny radiator in my bedroom broke down. In the morning there were frost patterns all over the window and my breath curled up like a whale spout into the crimson canopy.
The hours went by at the pace of an old woman crawling on arthritic hands and knees. My spirits drooped but I told myself not to be so self-indulgent, hopped over to the bookcase and found the first volume of Gibbon. I managed to read for ten minutes before sleep overwhelmed me. I awoke with a dry throat and a feeling of loneliness so acute that even Siggy in all his transcendent beauty could not console me. I read more Gibbon. Gibbon-lovers I had met always held forth in a lofty way about the elegant simplicity of his prose. Probably you have to be in a cheerful mood for it to do you any good. After three-quarters of an hour I was ready to throw myself out of the window.
I had a jolly good cry for about five minutes which made me feel marginally better. I mopped my swollen lids with a hanky soaked in cold water and stared through the grimy window at the darkening sky bisected by pigeons and starlings. If I could not show more strength of mind than this I deserved to fail. Emotional resilience is not the least of the requirements for a dancer. From the moment training starts at the age of ten or eleven, there is a high possibility of failure. At the end of each summer term, weeping girls are driven away, never to return. If you are one of the lucky ones chosen to go up to the next level, your elation is moderated by the knowledge that the following summer it could easily be you packing your suitcase in tears because you are too tall, too fat, too heavy-footed or not strong enough. Or you might lack the right temperament, be unable to take instruction fast enough, have a muted personality, be unmusical or simply not please the eye. After six years of gruelling work, if you meet the requirements of the selection board, you graduate into the upper school and become a student. But this is not a guarantee that you will get a place in a company. Even those who attend ballet schools that feed specific companies have only a small chance of a contract. Perhaps half a dozen a year are taken into the corps.
When I showed an aptitude for ballet my parents sent me to Brackenbury House in Manchester. The teaching was excellent but we girls always felt ourselves to be provincials. At the age of sixteen, five of us, considered the best dancers in the school, were determined to come to London to audition for the Lenoir Ballet Company. We chose the LBC because it had no feeder school of its own. Bella, Lizzie and I got in. The other two, good though
