-•✦--✦--✦•-
Saturday, May 15th, 1999 — Vauxhall Spring Gardens
It wasn't easy to get out and about. Mostly because, unbeknownst to us, our parents and guardians had arranged a private lesson with my least favourite Frenchman. Then again, I only knew two French people, and only one of them was a man.
The whole rigmarole of getting there was all sorts of annoying. Criticism came flying from every direction. It felt as though everyone had agreed it was take-the-mick-out-of-Wilf day.
We sat around the telly with refreshments — milky tea that Nain made, biscuits for carbs to get the two of us ready for dancing. I must've looked thoroughly put out, because I'd much rather have spent the day making music than dancing to it.
"So, how was the tour of your friend's house?" Maria asked.
"Friend?" Thea shot me a sidelong glance. "Wilf's house is lovely. I adored the little room on the first floor," she said with faux nostalgia.
Nain whipped her head around so fast I nearly flinched — my acting classes came handy but her eyes promised consequences. Don't you dare mention the book collection, I was screaming inside.
"We saw—" I started, then stopped short when I noticed Grandad had gone stone still too. So many landmines to wade through, goodness gracious. "Erm, she must be confused. My rooms are on the second floor."
Thea's eyes crinkled. "Yes, it's terribly confusing, these English floor-numbering systems."
"You're English." I reminded her.
"I'm German." Thea smiled.
"Honey, Germans count it the same way we do," Maria said with her own, much sweeter smile. "What was all that music and singing just then?"
She was good at knowing when to change the subject. I relaxed slightly and focused very hard on my biscuits, ready to commit Thea's upcoming praises towards me into my memories forever. She had different ideas.
"Wilf played me some of the songs he wrote," Thea said, taking neat bites of her tea-dipped biscuit. German, my arse, I thought. She met my eyes. "We invented dunking, by the way."
I spluttered on a mouthful of soggy crumbs. "What?"
Thea blanked me completely. "He's very good at the piano." She dunked again, milking the moment. Is this where the expression hot tea comes from? If so it was scalding hot already. She continued smoothly, "Must've taken a lot of practice, but…"
But?
What was a but doing in my perfectly deserved stream of compliments? It should only be praise, jealousy, and more praise.
She took a slow sip of tea, washing down the biscuit. I wasn't nearly as relaxed anymore, my bickies were dissolving into the tea.
"I should start from the beginning." Oh, brilliant. "Wilf showed me his entire music collection. You should see it, Mum, it's mad." Somehow it didn't sound like the good kind of mad. "Then he told me he writes great songs because he listens to all these brilliant musicians, so I challenged him to sing something he'd written. His piano playing was excellent — genuinely! Not a fault there. But the songs…" She nibbled thoughtfully. "They're very busy. Too much going on. And Wilf kept making noises: humming, whistling, vocalising — sometimes in the same breath. All the while he's stamping on this poor piece of wood."
She was absolutely rinsing me. The piece of wood was called a stomp box — a perfectly respectable percussion instrument that Robbie had given me — sold me. Simple, effective, and brilliant for adding bass so my left hand could relax, letting me play higher up while still keeping rhythm. It added more dimensions to the piano,leaving one foot free for the sustain pedal — it was a perfect addition to my setup.
And she'd just reduced it to 'stamping on a piece of wood.'
"I was trying to make it sound like what I wrote," I grumbled, not quite meeting her eye.
"Oh, was that it?" Thea said, tilting her head. "All that bzz bzz, boom boom, wee-woo wee-woo business? You wrote that down with pen and paper?" She demonstrated my vocalisation with alarming enthusiasm, complete with the sound effects.
Maria laughed outright, Nain actually clapped with an gaping mouth, going "That's exactly what he does!"
I stared at them as they took the piss out of me, everyone except Maria. She was above such low activities.
"What? I've only got a piano to work with," I said, bristling. "Did you even notice the left hand? That's the rhythm section on one single hand. Stride piano technique — The Fats Waller special? Anyone? Bass and chords with one hand, melody with the other. It's not exactly a doddle, and certainly not busy."
Nain had a laugh at how I said the word 'busy'.
"It wasn't exactly doddle to listen to either. My ears are still ringing." Thea replied sweetly, giving her head a little shake.
I paused. A few seconds too long as I recalled that fateful night. Her dancing to mystery songs certainly looked like she had good musicality, but perhaps she was as tone deaf as one could be. Busy? My music?
The soggy end of my biscuit gave up entirely and dropped onto the saucer with a pathetic splat.
"I'll get that, cariad," Nain said, already reaching for a cloth. "Off you go. Get dressed. We'll be late if we wait for your mind to stop turning."
I frowned, replaying Thea's words in my head. For a moment, I even glanced down to check I hadn't somehow forgotten my trousers. I hadn't. Thea caught it and snorted. Maria gave her a light slap on the arm, though she was smiling as well.
Four people on the table, two were my grandparents and none had spoke up for my skills. Had I been wrong?
Truth be told, I hadn't let many people hear what I'd been working on. I barely wrote down the things I've played, and the ones I did were far and few in-between. Most of it didn't even have lyrics yet — just fragments, motifs, ideas that I followed wherever they led. The yellow brick road that leads me to the door. It was like setting off down a road without knowing the destination and trusting it might end somewhere worth seeing. That was half the fun with making music. Maybe one day it would be just as fun to come up with lyrics for the melody.
In not letting others hear much, I'd not had any feedback on my songs yet. Doubts crawled their way to take firm hold of me. Almost a week gone with no callback from my Billy Elliot audition. Maggie had called to inform me that the newspaper had announced another open audition for tomorrow. Had I overestimated myself? If I'd been wrong about dancing, could I be wrong about singing too?
Doom and gloom followed like a cloud over my head.
I went upstairs for my dance bag, slower than usual and filled it up haphazardly. By the time I came down the stairs, my steps were laden with sand. All my energy suddenly sapped, head hanging, pace glacial. Laughter drifted up from the sitting room, bright and easy — entirely at odds with the cloud hanging over me. They must've been making fun of me and my wrongfully placed obsessions.
"—a hymn," Thea was saying. "Something about a mother. German, I think. It was beautiful. Wilf's voice is… honestly, angelic."
I froze mid step, ears straining to hear.
"When he's not making those ridiculous noises," she went on, "he's incredible. I don't think I can even reach those notes. It was haunting and beautiful. Nearly made me tear up."
Just like that, the weight pressing down on my shoulders lifted clean off. Mate, I knew it. Music was my forte. I'd never even doubted it. Not for a second.
Relief hit so suddenly, and in moments I was floating with the confidence I had of my skills. Literally floating. My foot slipped due to gravity taking hold of me again. I came down hard on the step with a thump that echoed through the house. The chatter below cut off at once. Maybe, I'll be James Bond by the time I have developed better spying skills.
I hurried the rest of the way down, skipping the last few steps as usual.
"Wilf," Nain said, eyeing me, "one day you'll be too big for that and go straight through the stairs."
I glanced at them, suddenly uncertain. They did sound hollow… talk about giving me an irrational fear. Running down the stairs would never be so fun again.
"Thanks for that," I said. "I'll sleep well tonight. What were you all talking about?"
"Fishing for compliments again, are we?" Nain said. "You do have a rather large head already. We don't have to fill it up."
"We were talking about your singing," Maria said diplomatically. "This hymn. Thea says you sang it in German. She said you speak Spanish and Italian. How many languages do you speak?"
"Those are the only ones." Nain said cattily, Grandad rubbed at her shoulders.
They were guilt tripping me now too.
"It's Latin," I corrected. "Most of these hymns are. A Catholic thing, I reckon."
Grandad made a noncommittal noise into his tea. I wisely left that alone. His church believed in completely different things and trying to point out similarities was like sticking a foot into quicksand.
"Are you ready to film this tape, then?" Nain asked.
"Tape?" Thea perked up.
"His director wants to hear him properly, lovely man he is." Nain said. "And Wilf, as usual, wants to go the extra mile. We've found a church. Small donation, and they're happy to let him sing and film inside."
Thea hesitated. "Can I come and… watch?"
"You want to film it," I deduced.
She didn't even bother denying it. "Can I? Mum, can I?"
Maria smiled. "Of course you can, love."
"I expect you to do a proper job," I said, pointing at her. "Or I'll have you sacked."
She scoffed. "You wouldn't dare. And I'm the director, thank you very much. You're just the talent. I could replace you like that—" She tried to click her fingers. It didn't quite work.
I folded my arms. "You're hired if you tell me what you actually thought of my singing."
Her mouth flattened into a thin line. It visibly pained her.
"It was… alright." She admitted.
"YES!" I punched the air.
"Now you've done it." Nain sighed, "He'll need someone to shrink that big head of his."
"I know an excellent shrink," Maria added dryly. Thea bristled at that.
I grinned to myself.
Right, then. Settled.
I was good.
No — I was very good.
"Thea," Nain said, already reaching for her coat, "do make sure he comes back down to earth before we leave."
La Compagnie Lagarde, Vauxhall, London
The dance studio, which was tucked underneath the elevated railway, had changed.
Outside, the little smoking corner had been transformed. Where there'd once sat a cluster of shivering dance teachers and bored parents with their cancer sticks, there were now neat café tables, proper chairs, and even a touch of greenery softening the edges. The skip at the end of the road was gone too, along with the sour reek collected inside from the offices nearby. The backs of taller buildings that had once been tagged with paint cans had been painted over. It gave a feeling of an alcove, a quiet French café you'd accidentally stumble upon on your European trip.
Even the real graffiti wall had been done up. Two lion cub silhouettes stood side by side within the larger silhouette of the most egotistical man on earth. Gilles had clearly made deep connections with the theatre bigwigs he'd met at the Oval, and his studio must've been printing money. If that wasn't the case, he was making a fair impression of doing so. I'd been teased all morning and seeing Gilles get away with displaying the Lion King like a trophy on his belt made me infuriated. I shook my head. That's not how I really felt. I was proud of him. Happy even.
In a decade or so I could imagine this wall showing the silhouettes of every production he'd been part of. It was his CV. He'd earned the right to display it so more pupils would come in.
The interior was much the same as the last time. There were three double doors set into arches, but only one of them was the real entrance. I saw that none of the studios with the gallery windows had a class going on. A slight worry for Gilles crept in — this was way too quiet. A kind woman sat by a desk reading a book. Our movement caught her attention and she turned around. Her smile was as bright as the sun. By the time she'd stood up, I'd already barged through the door and jumped at her.
"Hello, my favourite French person," I said, wrapping myself around Aurélie's long legs unhappily.
She laughed and bent slightly to return the hug, somehow managing to look like a koala. Thea followed behind me without hesitation. She'd taken a shine to Aurélie, and her accent alone was enough to keep the girl entertained for hours.
My smile dropped the moment a slow, deliberate clap echoed across the reception hall.
"Oh, look. The cinema returns to us — the big film boy is back!" came the voice. "Bravo. Truly, a performance for ze ages."
Gilles. Of course. His entrance to the room drained the smile right off my face.
Aurélie joined in, clapping far too enthusiastically. I couldn't get mad at her — she was only happy for me. David, the ex-professional gymnast, clapped with polite reluctance. My entourage did not clap, but they wore friendly smiles. No one else seemed to clock the clapping for what it was — the mocking gesture of a sour Frenchman.
I noticed it. He should know that sour grape begets a dour boy.
"Why don't you introduce me," Gilles went on, stepping forward, "to zis charming young lady?"
He placed himself neatly between me and Thea, expecting me to do the introductions.
"That," I said coolly, slipping into my poshest accent, "is the esteemed Lady Estella Havisham. Do try to behave yourself, scallywag."
Thea blinked once in confusion, then caught on immediately.
She cleared her throat with an air of politeness. "My name is actually Dorothea Offermann," she said with a curtsy. "Nice to meet you."
Gilles performed a theatrical bow, as if before royalty, and took her hand with a flourish. "A pleasure, actually Dorothea Offermann. I am Gilles Alberr Lagarde — master of this humble academy." He gestured to our surroundings, displaying his domain. "Entirely at your service, mademoiselle."
It landed exactly as he'd intended. Thea had spent the entire time from where we'd parked to her first sight of the studio in bubbling excitement. After the Frenchman's charm — eww — she was giggling brightly. Aurélie beamed as if she'd always known her brother would be well received by Thea. David cracked a smile too. I rolled my eyes.
Gilles, emboldened, drifted straight towards Maria. Where other teachers demonstrated technique or touted their experience, Gilles preferred… other methods. Charm first, instruction later. His words sounded slimy, and made the hair on my arms stand on end. Maria, to my great irritation, seemed to enjoy the grimy flirtations. Thea, meanwhile, watched on with quiet amusement, cool as anything.
One day, a father of a student — or the husband of a mother, would give Gilles the right bollocking he rightly deserved, and Gill would watch his fishy mouth from then on. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be today. I'd pay a lot to be here when it happened, though.
"You never greet me like that," Nain said, half laughing, half slapping at the man.
Even my grandmother would fall to Gilles' sliminess. My disappointment was immense.
Grandad didn't even mind it. It wasn't to be him then. Shame. Perhaps I should look towards making friends with someone who had a hooligan for a father. Was there a pub down the street from here?
Gilles didn't miss a beat. "Ah, but you are an old client, madame — yesterday's news." He pressed a hand to his chest. "Académie Lagarde looks only forward. Loyalty is expected. Charm is reserved for new arrivals. A heart searches for new flowers."
I pictured it more as a quagmire that preyed on the innocent.
Ridiculous statement, and somehow, everyone liked him more for it.
"Now," he said, clapping once, "I am told zere is one talented dancer between ze two of you. I assume, naturally, it is you, Dorothea."
"You assume correctly," Thea said, flashing a grin.
"At last," Gilles sighed, "a proper student." He gestured grandly. I hated the pauses he made between every few words. "Dressing rooms are that way. Aurélie will show you."
Maria and Thea followed my favourite teacher, chatting easily as they went.
I stayed where I was.
"Ah," Gilles said, turning back to me, after leering at Maria's backside, "you do not look so pleased, Wilfe."
"I'm fine."
"Mm." He tilted his head. "It is a cruel truth, oui? Zere will always be someone better waiting just behind you to take your place. You stop being special. Ze teacher, he does not pay attention to you anymore, does he? It happens to every good dancer. It is not about if — it is about when. Ze key is to remain zere as long as you can."
He let his head drop in mock sadness, then raised it with a cheery attitude. "Of course, you never had to worry about zat. You, my wayward pupil, were never at ze top."
He laughed in that stupid French way, which was just a person laughing, really. It irked me all the same coming from him. My grandparents laughed too, taking it as part of the man's eccentric nature. A simple joke.
I knew it for the truth bomb it was, as did Gilles.
"I won't fall behind anyone," I declared.
He smiled — not unkindly, but his eyes betrayed his cruelty. "Ah, to be young. To be foolish. Ze need to prove everyone wrong." A small shrug. "Still — you have fire left in you. Zat is something."
Then, sharp as a whip, he snapped, "Now stop loitering and get changed. Mon dieu."
My body moved before my pride could argue.
"At least he remembers ze whippings," Gilles chuckled behind me. Traitor.
"Thank you for clearing your schedule," Nain was saying.
"No problem," Gilles replied airily. "Ze cubs have left ze pride rock. Zey are spreading their wings, and here I am… tragically alone."
I tried to stop my ears from hearing the next bullshit that would come out. I pushed through the corridor, passing studio after studio. Empty room, then a half-empty one. I saw new faces teaching new legs. There were new teachers — a man and a woman, one older, the other younger — Both were sharp-eyed, and sporting easy smiles. This place was expanding, growing.
Gilles wasn't just teaching any more, he was carving out a small kingdom for himself. He'd always been a good teacher, but now he was proving himself an acute businessman. I felt it then, that sharp, unwelcome twist in my chest.
Jealousy.
Because it was all going great for Gilles. I was happy for him, I really was but…
It was an unwelcome reminder of everything I'd tried to forget back to the fore. The auditions. The near-misses. The endless rejections — silence where there should have been callbacks. I'd thought I was used to it all by now, but it still hurt when I cared so much about the film.
—✦—
I found Gilles in the smallest studio. He had been relegated down to Studio Four. It brought a smile to my face that Gilles immediately clocked, and he grinned back with promise of pain.
"Glad you could join us, Wilfe." He jabbed, "Welcome, welcome my pupils. I am your Master, and my name precedes my reputation."
"It's the other way around," I mumbled.
"Do you have anything to say to la classe?" Gilles leaped at the noose I'd hung around my neck.
"Great to be back." I said with the appropriate respect, he merely stared at me. "Master." I added.
"Excelemente." He nodded, "We have a new pupil and as such we must see where the levels are at. Dorothea? Dorry." he said with his slimy accent, "Would you mind demonstrating for us?"
La classe, as it happened, was just me and Thea. My grandparents and Maria were having a cuppa in the courtyard. Their occasional waves through the gallery windows were embarrassing, but it seemed that Gilles wanted to make sure that everyone saw his brilliance.
"What would you like?" Thea asked, eager to impress a new teacher.
Great, she was a teacher's pet too. I should've suspected.
"I heard you are a good ballerine. We must see it, dance to this however you wish."
Gilles clicked a large grey button on the stereo that made a satisfying clunk. It started with a classical tune before transitioning into a pop song.
Thea started to spin, twirl, and impress. And, impress she did. She was a great improv dancer with an amazing musicality. Admitting that pissed me off for a whole host of different issues, namely that she couldn't just admit my songs were top. She'd had the ears to tell!
"Bueno bueno!" Gilles clapped happily, a stupid smile accompanying his stupid moustache.
"Thank you." Thea did a fancy curtsy usually seen at the end of révérence — a ritual of gratitude — that Gilles made sure to extract at the end of every class.
"Now that is a danseuse. Wilfe, you take notes, oui? She understands the music, has a great sense of body movements. These small embellishments to match the musical notes when she'd never heard the song before. True natural. Buonissimo!"
That's what you usually say after a delicious meal and the man's eyes were giving off the contentedness of a man who wanted a second serving. Eww, again.
"Are you winding me up?" I accused his bad usage of Italian.
"Whatever do you mean? Italian is the language of ballet. We improved it but we must look to our forefathers to show we have outgrown zem. Dorry speaks the language of the Franks. Ze truth!" Gilles belly laughed.
My irritation rose further when I saw Thea's eyes shine at the mention of 'truth'. Brilliant, now she was going to think that Gilles was a perfect teacher because of some coincidence.
"Now, you, my wayward pupil, must show that you have at least kept your poor standards or I might have to, how you say, boot you up ze arse? Oui?"
He played another song, — Paganini 24th Caprice — one that literally every person who'd ever heard a violin had heard. He played it because he knew it would annoy me, it wasn't to be a full improvisation — I knew the violin solo by heart. Except, it wasn't a solo, and the violin only played the pizzicato. Within a few seconds, I realised it was the famous Rachmaninoff Rhapsody, which you know famously starts with the original theme with a full orchestra accompaniment. If you're wondering what tune I was talking about, you only need to remember any advertisement that featured a violin.
It was too fast, too short, too jittery to dance to — we'd not even warmed up yet. Hardly something to display my musicality to, because unlike Thea, I was going to be mostly stuck only performing ballet moves, instead of being allowed to explore the music with other genres. I tried my best by employing tricks, changing the timings while retaining the same overall beat. Music was exact but also so pliable.
When things get difficult, I liked to go simple, from where I would try to improvise. I couldn't help but take a jab at Thea's révérence curtsy. What could be more basic than doing a full on révérence? I should explain that this so-called ritual was performed at the end of every practice session. It featured a few simple movements that most kids who've attended any ballet class would be able to do, ending with a curtsy. Rachmaninoff's rhapsody was an inversion of Paganini's 24th caprice, so I planned to invert the révérence, which meant that the dance would start with a curtsy. I modified Thea's bow with the version that a male dancer would do instead, bowing and throwing a leg to the side. I repeated it when the main theme started playing by moving forward on the interval and bowing down on the repeated pizzicato.
After three repetitions, I started to add some pizzazz. Pun not intended. Pirouette into an even deeper bow where my knee met the ground. Pizzacato into pizzazz over and over again. When the variations started, I went with the theme of one upping my own moves, pirouette changed into double pirouette. I added extra moves. Entrechat quatre. Battlements of all kinds. When the orchestra went crazy I moved onto tour en l'air which was just a 360-degree turn in the air. I ended with a sarcastic bow to my teacher of course.
"Cut, cut. You have shown enough, I will not stand for this terrible rendition. This is supposed to be an improv."
"That was an improv."
Gilles tutted in annoyance then sighed. "I have no energy for this, we move on. At least you 'ave not rotted out in the north."
"We were in the south. Just an hour from London."
"Hour from here would place you in France. Have you gone to see real civilisation, my dear pupil?"
"It's at least two hours… What is wrong with you today?" I accused, this wasn't the Gilles I knew. His drama knob had went to the elevens for some reason.
"Ah, I am happy with life and with people. Do you not see how I float? If you look closer, you'll see I'm floating a few millimetres off the floor. Love, passion, youth! Life is wonderful. If you're going to steal material, Wilf, you should at least do it better." Gilles said then clicked another button and he broke into a dance.
I'd never seen professional ballet aside from Nutcracker. Could you blame me? After Nutcracker, I decided that was the peak of ballet and never looked into the box again. Yet, Gilles accused me of stealing material. His dance was clearly different from mine… yet remarkably similar, more embellished and polished. What really separated my performance from his was the word he'd used, Gilles was quite literally floating. His jumps and turns had serious airtime, not to mention the mere heights he reached. He was like a rutting stag prancing around the place.
It was unbelievable what Gilles was doing, so I turned to give Thea the "can you believe this guy?" look only to find her making tiny gasping sounds as Gilles made one jump after another. Gilles hadn't been cut off by his sour teacher, so his increasingly more difficult moves became more and more grand. Thea was already falling in love with my newly transformed teacher, whereas I was disgusted by him. Gilles made sharp and strong moves to put a real exclamation mark to the end of his dance, with a triple tour en l'air and piqué turns that took him the entire length of the classroom.
"There, I am sorry my pupils. I have sinned. We must warm up now before we pull muscles, let us begin."
Gilles took us through a warm-up by actually jogging with us, doing all of the limbering up exercises without half-heartedly gesturing them as usual. Perhaps, he meant to dance some more and make me feel like a talentless hack. All throughout, he shouted encouraging words to Thea and annoyed shouts for me to do it right.
Afterwards, Gilles spent time next to us on the barre so he could assess Thea's ankles and back.
"Incredible, you have gone en pointe, yes?"
"Yes. Only an hour here or there. Mum says it's still too early."
"Good. Small but often is good. You have strong legs and stronger ankles. You have your pointe shoes?"
Thea nodded enthusiastically and went to put on her ballet shoes which featured a long shank that allowed ballerinas to stand on their 'toes'. A shoe that the French called en pointe, and the world had to follow. From what I knew, Nathalie – a Lion pup – had never trained to go en pointe yet, and Thea would be considered too young by most non-Russian ballet teachers. The process of putting on the shoe started with a banging on the floor as she tried to get a good fit, something I was used to from the theatre rehearsals. Most mornings started with me hearing women bang away at their shoes trying to soften the shank. To me it felt like a cult ritual.
"What are we doing?" I whispered to Gilles.
"We are going to have you practise en deux. It may be lost on you, but partnering should be her next step and she needs to start early. She could be dancing in Moscow — she could be a principal in New York aged seventeen. Aurélie is good, but she is only joining the Royal Ballet School now, and she's an adult. So when I say Dorry is good, I mean she is exceptional."
He didn't even look at me. His eyes stayed fixed on the girl who had looked so sad that morning.
"You saw that in half a minute of her dancing?" I asked. I had never known the egotistical man to praise anyone so freely.
Gilles scoffed. "I saw it in two moves. You think I'm blind? Mon dieu. Keep warm."
That was me dismissed.
He made it clearer by turning away and going straight to Thea, crouching beside her to give pointers on how to work with the shoe: how to soften it, how to let it respond instead of fighting it. His tone shifted completely. Where he had been sharp with me, he became gentle, almost careful, explaining rather than correcting. He even added that she could ignore everything he said if it did not suit her. She would wear the shoes, and she would understand her own feet better than anyone else.
The difference was impossible to miss.
Where I got clipped instructions and urgency, she got time and patience. Where I was pushed, she was guided. A harsh taskmaster to me, nurturing mother to Thea.
I stayed where I was, keeping warm like I'd been told by running through positions, but the space around me felt foreign.
Unneeded.
The same way I had been with Billy. I wouldn't be part of it. The sooner I accepted that, the sooner I could move on.
"Okay. Now we will do a simple exercise — going through the positions. Wilfe, come stand behind her. Dorry, show me a relevé. Come on. lose — closer. You are her partner, boy, not a coat rack. Mon deiu…"
Gilles stepped in behind me — too close as usual but I suppose that's par for dance teachers. His hands landed on my shoulders and pushed me forward towards Thea. There were only inches between us.
"Hands."
I raised them, and he guided them onto place, hovering around Thea's torso.
"Dorry, Wilf will be touching you on your hips and waist. Is that okay? If you are uncomfortable, you tell us. Same with you, Wilfe. Can't have you uncomfortable. This is partnering. First position!"
We both nodded, awkward and stiff. Gilles finally pushed one hand on Thea's floating rib and guided the other towards her outstretched hand.
"Pas de deux. The most intimate form of dance. You do not only bare your soul to the audience — you bare it to your partner. A duet means knowing your partner. Connecting with them. Supporting them. Now, where does support begin?" He tilted his chin towards me.
"The legs?" I ventured a guess.
"Always ze right words and ze wrong answer every time." Gilles shook his head. "Support begins with connection. And connection starts with touch. Here."
He tapped my waist and pressed slightly forward. Thea's weight shifted as my hand pushed on her as if to steer. Something in my chest shifted with it.
"Ze greatest partners can dance in the darkest of rooms. You do not need to see your partner to know where they are. Touch. You must remember touch. Connection begins with touch." He circled around us, switching my hand and pushing it the other way. "A full picture from a single point of contact. Dorry — show me a plié to relevé. Wilfe, try to change her centre of mass. In this position, you are her support. Show her where to go."
Thea rose en pointe, gaining even more height on me. I was ushered closer behind her because I'd shifted backwards yet again. Closeness wasn't my favourite. My hands settled, hesitant, against her floating ribs once more. When I applied a light pressure to one side, she responded instinctively, her body shifting the opposite way almost falling over. I had to take her weight.
We still ended up on the floor.
"You are ze support — not the observer!. First position. Arms apart, the width of her waist. Extend your leg, Wilfe. Anchor it — do not lock the knee. Be ready to catch her if she falls. If you do it right, she will never fall."
His voice snapped at me, then softened immediately as he turned to Thea.
"Relevé in sous-sus, please. Up. Vertical! You are light as a feather. Imagine a string pulling you up. Hands crossed in position… and… hold!
His tone was warm, almost gentle.
"Imagine you are a plank — straight as a board. Wilf will shift your weight, and you must hold your placement. Do not fight gravity. Let this feet go off the ground. You only need one feet to support, let it swing ze other way. It's physics, you see."
We attempted it again in the first position and I copied what I'd seen Gilles do to get Thea lean to one side. It went a bit better but Thea dropped out of my grasp and had to get hold of herself again.
My abominable teacher gave a sigh. I held up my hands.
"That wasn't me!"
"I have eyes, Wilfe!" Then he went soft again, "Partnering requires trust. Do you trust Wilfe?"
They both looked at me in the mirror. It was odd to look down at her on the ground after having to look up whenever she was en pointe. She simply nodded.
Thea trusted me!
That bid well for what I was about to do to her. I needed her to buy into it all. The glamour and fame interested her, it was obvious but I wanted her to have something deeper to anchor her.
Fortune would serve me well, but the fame part of the equation didn't excite me. It was almost contrary, the way I kept chasing a career in acting — it would only ever end in some level of fame. Ultimately, fame was a tool to achieve the things I wanted.
I was reminded of a very early revelation from my life, where I mused about existence and it spat out a concept at me.
Maslow's hierarchy of needs was a system to explain the needs of society at a universal level. Like all good things — like the football pyramid — it came in the shape of one. At the bottom were the physiological needs, the most basic of them all. You fulfilled them or you died.
Once those were met, you climbed — comfort, shelter, safety. Enough to live, not just survive.
Excluding procreation, that was all any good animal would ever need.
Here, we talk about humans though. We were the greediest of all animals. Humans always wanted something, and as soon as they had it, they wanted something better. Maslow understood that.
It didn't stop at comfort. You looked beyond yourself — people needed people. Warmth, contact, belonging. Then came esteem — to be respected, to matter, to be seen. Not just to exist among others, but to stand above, even if only a little.
And then the last one.
Because the highest order of all needs was the most selfish of them all.
Sustenance was for the body. Society was for the heart. But the very last one was indulgence — the fulfilment of your life's purpose. Potential reached, dreams made real. That need was for the soul.
I was very lucky to have started on that indulgence so early on in my life. The simple goal of being Harry Potter. All good then, right? Not quite — not for me. If a human being is greedy, I was the greediest among them all. Call me whatever you like — a fool or an eccentric. I'd merely consider myself more human than ordinary.
My pyramid of needs had another pyramid on top of it. Call it transcendental needs, as Maslow had in his later years. Over in that pyramid, being a wizard was merely the base — no different from breathing or eating. Conquering the entertainment industry sat somewhere in the middle.
How did the pyramid go? Self to society and back again?
Perhaps doing something for the masses sat above conquest. But what then was the final rung? True potential wasn't in starring in films written by another. Transcendence was having a story to tell — one that had nothing to do with whether it was liked by the masses. Everything I learned would go into making something I was satisfied with.
A potential beyond potential.
A need that could only be fulfilled with a rival — a partner in this game of needs. Someone who wouldn't be satisfied with the peak of the basic pyramid.
My partner stirred once more, a fire in her belly. Her serious face was something to behold.
Yes — she would do well.
As for me, I continued learning to partner. There were different taps and holds, each communicating different meanings. My head was heating up and only half of it had to do with the lessons. It was all Greek to me. Dancing was supposed to be a choreography. We didn't have to see each other because we knew where to step and we built it through weeks and weeks of careful direction. I hated it. Gilles had put me in control. I was the puppetmaster while we held this position and I had no idea where to go. He'd not even given me direction. There was no path for me to see. My eyes were blindfolded. That was Gilles' school of teaching. Set out a calf in the woods and if one survived, they'd learnt the lesson.
After mindless repetitions of failure, solution, and failure. I stood with an ornery expression.
"Wilfe, are you uncomfortable?"
"Yes."
"Relax, and line up here. How are your feet, Dorry?"
"Good, master." Thea's energy had not diminished.
"Ohh mignonne, that's sweet. You can call me Maître if you prefer." I rolled my eyes. "Can you keep going? Tell me if your ankle hurts okay? Wilfe is not good at this. If he does it wrong we'll 'ave to stop for your safety."
"I will do it right!" I insisted and let my voice get gobby, "It would help if you tell me what I'm supposed to do. You're the professeur right?"
Gilles listened to my whining without any reaction and let his mind wander. He nodded once, twice and then started to circle the two of us around. He liked doing it to make me uncomfortable and it was still working just as well as the day I met him.
"Per'aps I was lying to you, Wilfe. Pas de deux is not ze most intimate form of dance, it's quite far from it. Classical ballet has always been about strict things, strict choreography. Creativity only comes out with masterful musicality. Tiny movements, tiny emotional outbursts but still you are within the bounds of the director and the choreographer…" He stopped circling us.
"Aurélie told me an interesting story. The two of you have un duel, non— des duels. Dances in Jazz, contemporary and ballet. Academie Lagarde teaches all styles and I have taught you many. You have learned ze movements and internalised it. But I've made a mistake, I 'ave made you a mindless automaton." The word came out so interesting in his accent.
"You dance as you're told, you try to perfect your technique. Day by day, you are more consistent. Zat is not bad, in fact it is great for everyone… Almost everyone. The two of you – and this involves you too, Dorry, are both trained in ballet. Some better than others." Gilles said down his nose, he couldn't help but take a jab even within his longwinded monologue, "But ze two of you are actors, you are given scripts, you are told to repeat it. These are your boundaries and ballet compliments it. But! We know that every actor reads words differently. You English like to take everything in passive aggressive way. They think I'm being mean because I said 'quite good'. I mean what I say, it is quite good, it does not mean quite bad!"
He breathed in deep and circled us again, slowly. It was so annoying the way he jumped between one thing and another.
"Film and theatre, they are not so strict as ballet. We change lines, we change emotions and I understand now zat I've made a mistake with you Wilfred. You are not given an opportunity to improvise, I've made you blunt and dull. For that I am sorry…"
He was apologising to me? This day was getting wilder by the moment.
"I am sorry to my maitre for not seeing it." Course, he'd never apologise to me. "Classical ballet may not do it anymore, not in partnering anyway. So we will get weird! We will go from strict to complete freedom. 'Ave you heard of West Coast Swing?"
I had not. But I was made to learn of it.
—✦—
Adrian's agency had grown. The massive stacks of paper that had once lined up the walls like a fortress the last time were all gone. Peering at the door, I noticed it had changed too, solid and slightly more expensive, but dozen times more secure. But most importantly, I could see through it! There was glass!
For a moment, I thought that Adrian moved offices elsewhere, but I could clearly see his agency's name printed straight into the glass. It was a long way from a paper printout declaring that it belonged to one Adrian Baldini. I tried at the door and it opened satisfactorily, with a good seal and sound.
A bell jingled to accompany the lot of us walking in. And a woman rose behind us to welcome us in. So weird to place the desk on the wall that can't be seen from the outside.A jump scare as reception, get the blood flowing before meetings!
Where before the office had smelt like paper and ink, now it had a faint smell of cinnamon and citrus. Comfy feeling up by a thousand percent! The receptionist lady had a kind face that made me instantly sure it was her idea.She hadgentleness that rolled off her that promised baked goods every so often. She'd do it when there were no occasion too.
Shame scones couldn't cure baldness.
The agency was starting to go well enough that Adrian was able to hire help. Everywhere I went seemed to be growing. Success bred success but it made me wary, something bad would come along, that's how karma worked, surely. Looking around the office, I couldn't help but ponder on who among his clients had gotten big enough of a role that Adrian could splash out the funds on renovation and recruitment.
"Welcome to Baldini & Baldini Talent Management. Do you have an appointment?"
"An appointment?" I repeated, rather blankly — and who, exactly, was this other Baldini? Two Baldies – short for Baldini – in one office felt like it ought to violate some sort of natural law.
"That's when people ring ahead and arrange a meeting like civilised human beings," Thea said sweetly. Encouraging. The bite was coming back to her by the hour.
"Oh, do hush," Maria cut in. "We didn't call ahead. Wilf said he'd be in. He's a client of Mr Baldini.
"I'll let him know. Please take a seat," the receptionist said. Her nameplate read Ruby.
We settled along the wall, thoroughly pleased with ourselves, happy as pigs in mud. In fairness, we'd just eaten like royalty. A reward for hard work on our part, and an extension on enthusiastic loafing on our parents' parts. Thea, however, was less impressed with our surroundings. She shot me a sideways look.
"You said it was less of a business and more of an artistic endeavour."
"Haven't been here in ages, have I?" I said, "This place was fit to burst in reams of paper the last I was here. Maybe he's got more time to focus on his agent duties now."
"You're saying your agent wasn't attentive enough?" she murmured, narrowing her eyes.
There was simply no winning with her.
Ruby picked up the phone and spoke quietly, no doubt announcing us with great professionalism. An internal line, renovated office, and hired help. Adrian had clearly climbed a few rungs of his own little pyramid.
A moment later, the door swung open and Adrian appeared, his head catching the light better than a mirror could.
"Wilf! Just the boy I wanted. Why haven't you been answering your phone? I've been trying to reach you for the past hour."
He clocked the group behind me — particularly the unfamiliar faces.
"Ruby, did we have more meetings?"
"No, Mr Baldini. Just the play tonight for Eve."
I stood, still having to look up at him.
"She's with me. I left my mobile at home. We've been out."
"Ah," Adrian said, nodding slowly. "So this is an ambush."
He stepped back, gesturing us in.
"Well then — do come in. I do love a surprise."
He didn't look like he meant it.
The office was in much the same mess it had always been, but his old office was converted to a reception area, and this new one was larger. If I recalled it right, it was the previous meeting-slash-audition room. We only stayed a moment in his office as he opened a massive partition door, revealing a meeting room in much the same furnishing as the last.
"Used to be the pantry," Adrian said, nudging one of the doors with his foot. "Still is, in spirit. Doors are a nuisance, but I don't think I've got the funds — or the patience — to pound them out."
He flashed a charming smile, though there was a faint edge to it. He'd already clocked a potential new client, but something about the ambush still hadn't quite pleased him.
Nain stepped neatly into the gap.
"Adrian Baldini, meet Maria Offermann and her daughter, Dorothea. The girl's an actor."
Adrian let out an exaggerated gasp. "Are we quite certain the mother isn't as well? She's certainly got the look for it."
"She's married, mind," Nain said, swatting his elbow.
He grinned, entirely unrepentant. "Always good to meet new talent. What brings you in?"
Maria returned the smile, though hers had a steadier edge. "You're not wrong. I was an actor. Didn't quite make it, met a dashing German man through it, so can't really complain. Your Wilfred here has been doing his best to convince us to sign with you as my daughter's agent. I'm mostly here to humour him, and our hosts."
"A shame," Adrian said lightly. "We lose more good people than we ever get to keep."
Then he turned to me, expression sharpening.
"Just so we're clear, Wilfred, I don't take referrals. You wouldn't believe how many clients try to send their friends and family my way. Most aren't right for me, and I haven't the time to entertain every Tom, Dick and Harry."
"She's not just anyone," I said, matching his tone. "I wouldn't bring you a random person off the street. If anything, you should be chasing to sign her with you, not the other way round."
Thea flushed bright pink. Her mum gave a small, approving nod.
"My daughter's been working professionally for over two years," Maria added smoothly. "Longer, if you count local theatre. She's got quite the list of credits."
"Mum," Thea cut in, eyes widening in warning.
"Eighteen, as she likes to remind me," Maria continued. Thea hid behind her hands. "Nineteen now, actually — she's just finished filming with Wilfred here. She's ten. A few months older than him."
"Ah, '89," Adrian said, settling back with a knowing smile. "A wall baby, aren't you? Rare breed, that. Thanks for reminding me how ancient I am."
Thea threw her legs out and sunk into her chair.
"Why does everyone keep calling me a wall baby?"
I went still, waiting for Maria to react. She only chuckled, wearing that knowing smile, but offered no explanation. Thea remained in a sulk, which suggested this wasn't new — clearly something she heard often. Useful. I'd have that to wind her up with later. Made the day's suffering almost worth it. Almost.
Adrian made the same observations and understood his role in the conversation.
"Mum's keeping quiet, so I can't help you there," he said lightly. "Go on then — how good are you?"
"She's good!" I cut in, with meaning. "Almost as good as me." I added that last bit for the sake of my ego.
Thea shot me a look but didn't argue. Her confidence was nowhere near her Estella days.
"I was already interested when I heard the number of productions," Adrian said. "What have you done? Anything I heard about? Have you brought a CV?"
She hadn't. None of this had been planned, at least, not until my dastardly idea had been concocted.
So Adrian did what Adrian did best. He turned it into an audition on the spot.
Ten minutes later, after we'd all been roped into it in one way or another, he handed Maria a standard contract to look over. Then, with practised efficiency, he ushered everyone out.
Everyone except me.
He shut the door and cut out the noise. Adrian slow walked to his desk and gestured me to take a seat.
Ominous!
"I'll give you this, lad — you've got an eye for talent," Adrian said, tapping on his desk rhythmically. "She'll make waves if she keeps on like that. Shame they're all off to Bankfurt. Nothing there but commercials to film."
He said Bankfurt as though it had personally offended him, though the faint smile suggested he was already calculating the commission he could earn.
"But listen," he went on, pointing a finger at me, "don't start sending me more children unless they're at her level. I meant what I said, I get hundreds of referrals. It was fine at the start, I needed clients, but I can't go round signing half of London's drama school cohorts. I need quality. Her level — or no one. I've said it to the others a dozen times and they still don't listen. I'm hoping you're brighter than that lot."
Presumably from where he'd pointed, his wall of talent was still there on the board facing the wall.
"Alright," I said. "Sorry. Just thought you'd be a bit more thrilled about new talent instead of telling me off."
"You're forgiven," Adrian said, waving it off. "It just winds me up. You've no idea how many people want to be actors. They think we can make them one. They won't take no for an answer. Passion is good, but I can only serve so many talents."
He let out a long breath, rubbing his temple.
"I shouldn't be having a go at you. First offence an' all, and you've some credit in the bank. But take this as a lesson. You're stepping into a proper Hollywood project now. People will notice. Maybe not today, but when the film's out? They definitely will."
He leaned forward, like some mob boss.
"You had barely any extras on Great Expectations, but this Cameron Crowe film? School scenes, crowds — there'll be dozens upon dozens of them. Kids, adults, all sorts. And every single one of them will ask you the same thing. 'Who's your agent?' 'Can you refer me?' It never ends."
He scoffed.
"They think a better agent's the secret sauce. That you only got your role because of some mystical agent. As if their agent didn't even get the breakdown in the first place. How could they ever meet you, if they didn't? It does my head in."
He reached for a vacuum flask, unscrewed it, and took a long sip of black coffee. The smell was strong.
I tutted. "And you call yourself Italian."
"Time is money, young Wilfred," he replied without missing a beat. "And I'm rarely sat still long enough for anything else."
He set the flask down and fixed me with a look.
"You'll have to learn to turn people down properly. Nicely, but firmly. This is a professional relationship. If you flood me with referrals, I can't do my job. I'll start resenting you, and that's the beginning of the end."
He sunk into the chair. Finally stopping the looming.
"Remember Blane?"
I did. Blond hair, handsome face, always an easy smile on his face. His assistant.
"He's gone," Adrian said flatly. "Thought he could charm his way into every girl's good books by sending them to me."
Adrian stared off for a moment, as if reconsidering his past choices.
That was that, then. Blane had come to London chasing his dream, and gave it up for skirts. Now he was back to nothing.
I nodded slowly. "I won't send you anyone else."
I'd been wrong to characterise Adrian as someone who pursued artistry. Art always existed alongside business. You needed to find the balance for the best possible result.
"It's for your sake as much as mine," Adrian said. "You'll think I'm being harsh, but I'm not. Imagine it, someone asking for your contacts, and you've never even seen them act. It's quite awkward. In Hollywood, extras aren't even allowed to speak on camera without being paid more. If they do, they're sacked. Wasting everyone else's time, it's unacceptable."
His tone softened slightly.
"Remember that. Everyone's got a dream. Not everyone gets there. You'll feel bad saying no, but it's your reputation on the line, not theirs. Extend others the courtesy of saving them time. Refer if you really believe in them."
I took that in.
Mum had found Adrian on the back of a newspaper. Back then, I'd been no one. He'd been no one too. Now he had an office, a receptionist, and a growing client list. And I was… getting somewhere.
My coworkers would want that success for their own, they'd want the secrets to my success. I could easily see how transactional it could all be.
"I understand. No more referrals and I will shoot down actors who bother me about it. Cold-hearted and pragmatic. The Baldie way."
"Now, don't get cheeky with me, Wilfred. Like I said, if they're her calibre, I'll listen." Adrian nodded to the door.
"Fat chance," I muttered. "People like her don't grow on trees."
"She's got a good head start, same as you, but child actors don't always make it into adulthood and still retain success. Work hard to keep the steam train ahead of those who are building theirs or you'll be left behind."
That sounded eerily close to what Gilles had been saying earlier.
They didn't quite get it.
I didn't mind being overtaken. I welcomed the chase.
I just intended to overtake them right back.
Without contraries, no progression.
Competition breeds excellency and a one man race never made history.