Callie and Jools 5
"Assolutamente."
The pale blue light above the dressing-room mirror flashed. Twenty minutes. The next one would be pink: ten minutes. Then red: five minutes.
Thursday’s dress rehearsal had gone badly, she’d wrapped her ankle just enough that it didn’t show beneath her costumes, but that wasn’t enough to properly support it and a couple of times she’d faltered. Yesterday’s rehearsal was a little better, Anna had provided her with a syringe and a couple of swabs, and she’d drawn off a cupful of bruised, bloody liquid, and so she had been able to wrap it a little better but the blood had leaked through the dressing. The leak had dried today, but she wasn’t confident. She could dance, oh yes, she could always dance, but if her ankle gave way and she fell… she glanced at her reflection: curls, make-up, outfit, all perfect. She could hear the orchestra tuning up.
The pink light flashed. Ten minutes. Where had the last ten minutes gone. Don’t overthink it, she told herself, switch off; just dance. She could dance, she could always dance, but what if her ankle gave way?
Her phone buzzed and she glanced at it. It should have been switched off; she’d forgotten. She saw the name. Jools. Julien. A video call. What was he doing calling her now? She didn’t have time to answer a video call from some urchin, no matter how entertaining his stories were, no matter how soft his lips… she sighed, picked up the phone and pressed the green button.
‘Hey!’ he shouted, and his voice was almost drowned by the wind. Behind him she could see only darkness and fleeting clouds.
‘What?’ she raised her voice, saw him plug in an ear bud.
‘What time do you go on?’ he asked, his voice loud.
‘I need to leave the dressing room in about four minutes. What do you want? Where are you?’
‘I thought I’d show you this?’ he said, and the image from his phone became a kaleidoscope of colour as he turned it to show her something. She was about to ask again, when the image settled and she saw London, looking down from above. From high above.
The image made her giddy. ‘Where are you?’
‘Guess.’
‘I don’t know London!’
‘Look there.’ He turned the phone again.
She saw London Bridge. Tower Bridge she remembered was its proper name. It was far below. ‘Julien!’ she said.
The camera came back to his face. He was grinning. ‘Hey,’ he said again. ‘I promised I’d show you something. This is it. I climbed it.’
‘Climbed what?’
‘Thirty Saint Mary’s Axe. The Gherkin.’
She’d heard the name, knew it was some brand new super-high glass-and-steel tower, but she couldn’t quite picture it. ‘How high up are you?’
‘Five hundred and ninety…’ he paused, stood up from his squat, and the picture became dizzying as the camera shifted in his hand, ‘About five hundred and ninety-seven feet.’
She gave a quiet shriek of terror. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘I wanted to wish you good luck,’ he said, holding the phone close to his face now so as to cut down on the wind noise, ‘but I think it’s bad luck to say that to a performer, and I can’t say break a leg, obviously, so I thought I’d show you how high I can climb, which show you how high you can dance. Both of us can do the thing we love.’ He smiled again, broad and happy, and in his smile she saw the quiet, the contentment; she saw that high up there it all made sense for him, just like out there on stage, in only a few minutes, it would make sense for her. His being up there made her hunger to be on stage just so that afterwards she could say to him ‘I know, right?’
‘How did you climb up?’ she asked.
‘It was really easy.’ The wind gusted, tugging at his clothing but it didn’t seem to move him. He was solid. He was complete.
‘How will you get down?’ she asked.
‘There’s a hatch.’
‘Oh, good.’
The third light flashed. Red.
‘I have to go,’ she said.
‘Go and dance, Calista,’ he said. ‘Do what you do. You’ve paid the price, I was there, I saw you pay it. Now go and enjoy it.’ His smile was warm and wide. She remembered the taste of his lips.
‘Thankyou Julien.’
He said something that sounded like “Prima Assoluta Ballerina,” but then, from somewhere, she heard voices. Adult male voices, and they didn’t sound happy. Julien looked into the camera and grinned, the breeze blowing his hair across his face. He said, ‘It’s the cops. I’ve been nicked. Got to go.’
‘Bye,’ she said, but the screen had already gone blank. She sat for a moment staring at it and slowly a smile began to spread across her lips. She thought of how he described the book he was reading. The price we pay for getting what we want. And then she thought about what he’d called her just before he’d ended the call - Prima Assoluta Ballerina.
The dressing-room door opened. It was Darius. He looked splendid, it was such a shame he was gay, but then he danced like a man so maybe it didn’t really matter. ‘Ready?’ he asked.
In the theatre below she could her the opening chords of Tchaikovsky’s Miniature Overture. She stood, still smiling. ‘Ready,’ she said, and as he stood aside to let her exit the dressing room she added, quietly ‘Assolutamente.’
***
Further episodes in The Covent Garden Tales are coming soon.
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