of feet as I sank back into my grave was terrific.
‘You look terrible!’ said Bella, Queen of the Wilis, who was waiting with me in the wings while the corps de ballet took their curtain call. ‘That foot’s playing up, isn’t it? Bad luck!’ Bella’s words were sympathetic but I saw excitement in her eyes. The first night was only five days away and Bella was my understudy.
‘I’m all right.’ I grabbed a towel to mop the sweat from my neck and shoulders. ‘You were wonderful.’
Bruce, as Hilarion, scampered on to the stage and received measured applause. It is not much of a part.
‘Thanks.’ Bella ran gracefully into the spotlight and curtsied to a lively reception. She was considered an exceptional dancer with tremendous precision and serenity, but unfortunately one critic had labelled her cold and the epithet had stuck. The part of Myrtha suited her admirably, but I knew she longed for the chance to refute this and show a greater emotional breadth as Giselle. I didn’t blame her one bit.
Smiling beatifically, Bella took her place among the line of soloists in front of the corps. Alex a.k.a. Albrecht came on to an enthusiastic response which he received with elegant bows. When the audience began to tire, he flung out one arm towards the wing where I was standing and I tripped across as lightly as I could, considering my foot was on fire, to take his hand.
I was startled by the roar of appreciation. Alex stepped back to let me take the call alone. I smiled and tried to look as though I was gratified without actually purring. Some dancers make a great play of kissing hands and gesturing from the heart to the audience, which I think is irritating as it smacks of spurious humility. I stepped back into the line as a bouquet of flowers – oh dear, chrysanthemums again, well, the LBC was hard up – was brought on by the conductor, darling old Henry Haskell. More clapping. The curtain came down. As I was looking directly at it and no one could see, I allowed myself to pull a face of hideous suffering. The curtain rose again. Henry led me forward for further congratulation. I gave them a serene, Buddha-like smile, though my whole leg felt as though it was being flambéed on a spit. Another curtain. I was on the point of weeping.
‘One more! One more!’ cried the stage manager.
‘Come on! We’ll take it!’ said Alex, his eyes shining.
‘They’re still clapping like crazy!’ Annie, who had been watching my terrific reception from the wings, took the chrysanthemums from me. ‘Go on. Just one last curtain, dear.’
‘Not if it’s my last one ever,’ I said, lifting my foot and only just managing not to howl like a wounded dog.
I reached my dressing room, pressed my face against my dressing gown which was hanging on the back of the door and screamed into its folds. Then I hopped over to the mirror and sank into the chair before it. I knew it would not be long before the room was crowded with a mingling of friend and foe and I had to get myself in a state to receive them. I took two painkillers with a glass of Lucozade and then, as an afterthought, swilled down two more. I examined my foot. The flesh was protruding either side of the ribbons. Hang the expense, I would order a taxi. While I was framing excuses to avoid going to Dulwich there was a tap on the door and Mr Lubikoff came in.
‘Let me be the first to congratulate you.’ He closed the door firmly behind him.
Miko Lubikoff had been born plain Mike Lubbock and at the age of fourteen had been selling cabbages from a barrow; he was an example to us all of how hard work and perseverance in the teeth of all odds will pay dividends. He had put the money he earned from the cabbages into ballet classes and, though it was late to begin, talent and diligence had earned him a place in the corps of a fourth-rate company. From this modest beginning he rose rapidly. Though without an extraordinary technique, his strong personality and musicality, particularly in the caractère roles, brought him to the notice of the cognoscenti. Here luck played a part for, whereas Sebastian had an appetite only for young girls, Miko’s taste was for sodomy – preferably with angelic little boys, but he was not fussy. Sebastian’s nymphets rarely had enough money for the bus home, whereas Miko rolled happily about in bed with any balletomane with a large bank balance. Pillow talk bought him partnerships, investments, even a theatre, and currently he was one of the biggest cheeses in English ballet.
He was now past the age of dancing and had grown corpulent with rich living at other people’s expense. His face was round and his nose was fat. His head was a naked dome above two stiff triangular wedges of hair, dyed bright gold so that he looked like a cherub whose wings had mysteriously risen from his shoulder blades to above his ears.
‘My dear Marigold!’ He bowed as low as his stomach allowed. ‘Permit me to say how awed I feel at finding myself in the presence of the outstanding artist. My fingers and toes still tingle from the stimulation of your performance. What attack! You snap from the ground in the first act and in the second you float. Superb! Exquisite!’ He kissed his fingertips.
Rumour said Miko had been born in Stoke Newington, but now he spoke with an interesting mixture of dramatic inflections, trilled consonants and stilted constructions that could have passed for Slavonic. I did not despise him for this. Illusion and invention are the lifeblood of ballet.
‘Thank you so much for the flowers. They’re beautiful.’ A wave of pain from my foot made me feel sick.
He shook his head, smiling. ‘A paltry tribute to one who will go down in the history books with Pavlova, Karsavina, Kchessinskaya, Ulanova and Fonteyn.’
For a moment I wondered if it could be true. In which case ‘Savage’ would sound rather discordant in this catalogue of greats. Then common sense asserted itself. There were plenty of dancers as technically competent as me. Some were better. It would take a piece of extraordinary good fortune to persuade people that I had something special that merited a place in the exosphere of stardom. So far critics had been content to call my performance ‘fiery’, probably because of an unconscious association with the colour of my hair.
‘You have received my letter?’ Miko continued. ‘You understand that I would like you to come to work for me? I can offer you the great classic roles and besides them the exciting new ones, which you can make your own.’ He smirked a little. ‘But there are some sweets that, alas, I cannot promise.’ He pretended to look sorrowful while keeping his merry little eyes fixed on mine. ‘I am told on the good authority of the ladies who have been favoured – and there are so, so many of them – that Sebastian is inimitable in the bedroom.’ He need not have stooped to be catty. For me Miko’s sexual orientation was not the least of his attractions.
‘Naturally I’m terrifically honoured to be asked to join the English Ballet,’ I began, ‘but my contract with—’
Miko held up a stubby finger. ‘Let us leave the business details for now. It has been an evening of the consummate delight. We do not want to spoil it with the … how you say, nitty-gritty? Come and see me in my office at six o’clock on Monday evening.’
I hesitated. If I kept that appointment it would be the end of my career with the LBC. News of my visit to enemy headquarters would fly back to Sebastian as fast as Miko could send it. My goose would not only be cooked but eaten and digested. This left me with almost no bargaining power. How could I be certain that Miko would offer me a principal and not a soloist contract? Miko smiled winningly. My thoughts flew about en gargouillade, that is, a double rond de jambe en l’air, en dedans with the first leg, en dehors with the second, all in the course of one leap and really tricky.
‘It’s a little awkward.’ I pulled a face to express the delicacy of the situation, and also to relieve the emotion caused by a
