Page 37 of The Unraveling

The black book is a binder full of headshots of dancers who need sponsoring. Below the headshot is a brief bio on the dancer’s career. The book is given to a potential donor or a preexisting donor that the company feels will be willing to raise their donation level. Usually, they are encouraged to pick two or three dancers they like and are invited to a rehearsal to watch them and have a brief introduction after. From there, a donor decides whom to sponsor.

I knew of part of this process, having been sponsored before, but I didn’t know about the book. I didn’t realize we were all being shopped for and chosen like that.

The part of the process I knew before was when the donors came to watch. We would get alerted that a potential donor was coming to rehearsal, as it is always company policy for any guests to be announced.

But since talking to Arabella, I’ve learned that donors are usually pushed and guided on which dancer to sponsor. If the company wants the dancer sponsored as soon as possible, they won’t give the potential donor the book, but rather Mary Simon will email a picture and rave about the wonderful up-and-coming ballerina that the sponsor is being given an opportunity to support.

Without a donor, you just cannot rise through the ranks. It’s a system I don’t agree with, but if I want to dance and succeed again, I have to deal.

I do feel sort of like a product being sold. Like a horse being auctioned off to the richest fat cat with the most illegal cigars and the nicest sports car.

I push the thought out of my mind. The point of all this is that I want—I need—to dance again. And this is how it works. After all, Botticelli was sponsored by the Medici family. Penny Chenery had sponsors for Secretariat. People invested in Apple.

Why shouldn’t I accept a little support?

When Arabella and Mary go off on a tangent about the last Fashion Week in Paris where they crossed paths, I look desperately for a corner of the conversation where I can edge in and prove that I, too, am interesting and charming. It’s hard to do as over and over, my mind wanders to memories of the night before with Max.

We left without exchanging information. Just crossing through the lobby, both of us a little more rumpled than we were a few hours before. We went our separate ways, never to see each other again.

I take the last sip of my wine and replace it with the new one in front of me. I look around the bar, which is floor-to-ceiling chestnut wood. There are glowing golden lights and the tables are small, which leads to a lot of cozy conversations. Everyone has bowls of nuts or olives and cocktails or wine or beer, and there’s a roaring fire in a fireplace in the center of it all. It’s January in London, which means that the winds are wicked and wet, and it’s been so long since we all saw the sun that we might not recognize it next time it shows up.

When the conversation finally turns to toxic men, I perk up.

“Do you know Sebastian Alvarez?” I ask Mary.

Her eyes widen. “Oh my god, you were dancing with the NAB when that scandal happened, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” I say. “Sylvie Carter is my best friend.”

“Oh, give me the scoop,” she says, leaning in.

Arabella mouths something behind her. I figure out that she’s saying She loves gossip and giving me an approving thumbs-up.

“Well,” I say, smiling, “it all started when Sylvie and I went over to his town house after a boozy brunch at the Waverly Inn.”

I tell her the whole tale of last year’s biggest ballet scandal, leaving out the parts that make me look like an idiot and the parts that Sylvie wouldn’t want thrown around. But I’m honest about what a dick he is. I have the fleeting thought that talking shit about someone in the ballet world might not be smart, but if you’re not allowed to discredit a misogynist’s lies, then what are you allowed to do?

By the end, Mary is practically on the floor with the shock of it all.

“I knew I didn’t like him,” she says. “I saw him once at the Ivy and I just didn’t like the way he leered at my daughter. He’s got eyes like a shark.”

“Yeah, people never seem to notice that second row of teeth he’s got,” I say with a cheeky grin.

Now I’m the one making Mary laugh.

The night is clearly winding down a few minutes later as the popcorn bowl runs down to the unpopped kernels and our drinks empty. Arabella looks delighted with how the night has gone, but we’re both tense—are we going to get some sort of signal that Mary is willing to move my name up the waitlist?

“Well.” Mary rounds on me while texting something on her phone. “I need to get going, but let’s quickly chat about you.” Her tone has changed.

“I like you. I can tell you’ve got a spark to you. I haven’t seen you dance lately, though I did see you perform in Vienna a couple of years ago. You’re good. And you seem to have a good head on your shoulders. I can tell you’re not a wild card, which makes you a good investment and easier sell. And after the whole Alvarez fiasco, I’m certain you won’t find yourself with another man abusing his power.”

“Absolutely not,” I say. My heart is lifting me into an even straighter posture.

“I’ll tell you what,” she starts. “Are you familiar with the Cavendishes? Clementine and Alistair Cavendish?”

“Um…”

Arabella nearly chokes on her last drop of wine. “The Cavendishes?” she bursts out. She has a look of shock on her face but quickly regains composure and says, “Of course Jocelyn is. Everyone knows them. Are you sure the Cavendishes are right for Jocelyn?”

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