Page 58 of The Unraveling

“So,” he says then, “what are you working on at the ballet now?”

“Are we pretending we don’t know each other still?” I ask.

“We are in public.” He drops his voice.

“Ha, right, well, uh…we’re performing Swan Lake right now. Rehearsals are about to start for Manon. Which is a completely new ballet for me. I’ve watched it a thousand times, but never performed it, so I’m really excited. It’s such a gorgeous ballet,” I say.

“Yes, I think I’ve heard of this one. It’s about the prostitute?”

“Well, almost, but not quite.” I laugh, nervous. “It’s more complex and beautiful than that. It’s about a young girl who was supposed to go to a convent, falls in love with a handsome student, then gets persuaded by her brother to become the companion of this older guy.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah. So instead of being with her true love, she goes with the older guy who has promised to take care of her and her brother.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Well, he’ll support her, but…in return for her companionship.”

“Ah. I see. I assume that’s not the happy ending.”

“Well. No. She tries to leave the older guy, to go be with the one she loves. When she does, the older man kills her brother and has her arrested as a prostitute.”

“Not very good manners.”

“No. So she’s sent to perish in an American jail, but her true love goes with her and kills the jailer when he forces himself on Manon.”

“There’s the happy ending.”

“Well, no, then Manon dies in her love’s arms in the swamps of Louisiana. It’s all very tragic.”

“That’s a much more romantic way of laying out the story,” he says.

“I hope you make it to a show.” I blush at my own words.

He notices.

“What can I do for you, Jocelyn?”

“Do for me? I don’t…I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re my dancer now. You’re my Renoir, and I need to give you the right climate. Wrap you in the right materials. Preserve you. So I want you to tell me how to do it. I’m supposed to help you be the best dancer and in return I guess you give me bragging rights. And backstage access.”

My insides swirl. “Well, these drinks are a good start.”

I meant it to deflate the double-entendre vibe of the conversation, but after saying it, it was obvious I’d made it worse.

I see the slightest, almost invisible flick of his left eyebrow.

“I’m happy to buy you some champagne, but we should talk soon about this sort of behavior. If you’re my dancer, I’ll want you to stay in peak physical condition. I’m not a dictator, but I don’t want you running around London getting trashed like Arabella does.”

I feel embarrassed. Too embarrassed to revert to what my normal reaction to something like this would be, where I’d buck at his implication that he can or should control me.

The truth is…he can.

Why does that actually feel like such a relief right now?

“I’m not telling you I’ll suck all the fun out of life. If you want biweekly massages—from a qualified professional, of course—we can do that. Or cryotherapy. Or normal therapy. Or orchids flown in from Hawaii every four days. Whatever you need.”

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