Page 18 of A Class Act

‘Right.’ I held my breath. Don’t get too excited, Robyn.

‘You’re up for the part of Arabella Plumpton-Jones.’

‘InDance On? At The Mercury?’ I closed my eyes, my fingernails stabbing into the closed fist of my hand not holdingmy phone. ‘I only went to see a performance of it a couple of weeks ago. I absolutely adored it.’

‘That’s right. Anyway, auditions at the end of the week.’

‘Can you be more specific?’ It wasn’t easy trying to remain calm when, if Dorcas had actually been in front of me, I feared I’d have her up against the wall by the scruff of her neck to get the information from her more speedily.

‘Right, OK, today’s Monday – erm, Friday, 9.30a.m. at The Mercury on East Street. It’s a dance group audition with both the director and choreographer. The girl who’s had the part of Arabella P-J is pregnant apparently. Didn’t tell anyone she was up the duff and is now throwing up at every turn and they need someone PDQ. Lots of girls up for it, of course, so…’

‘Don’t get my hopes up. I know, I know.’ If there’d been a chandelier in the kitchen of the Soho flat, I’d have been swinging from it.

‘But do give it your best, Robyn. Dance audition, so turn up in your gear ready to go on. Oh, and they want two songs.’

‘From the show?’

‘Not necessarily. Two songs of your choice, so choose two that you know well and which showcase your voice to its best advantage. Text me later when you’ve decided and I’ll see if I agree with you and then let them know.’

I already knew the songs I’d be singing: ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ fromFunny Girl, a notoriously difficult number to carry off, and ‘He’s My Boy’ fromEverybody’s Talking About Jamie, which was enough to have me in genuine floods of tears, no acting required.

I looked at my watch. I was working the eleven-to-five lunchtime shift at Graphitebut, scanning the studio timetable at Xander’s gym, saw I could squeeze in three quarters of an hour between Bums and Tums with Tony and a hatha yoga class, with the gym’s rather good sound system. I needed the acousticsof the large studio to belt out my audition pieces, taping and playing back the singing until I’d got it just right.

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday passed in a flurry of practising, and performing dance routines, teaching two Zumba classes, as well as the repeated recording and playing back of my audition songs, interspersed with a couple more shifts at Graphite. All this meant I had no time whatsoever (I think the lady doth protest too much, Your Honour) to let my mind wander anywhere near the enticing but dangerous subject of Fabian Mansfield Carrington. I tried hard not to glance hopefully at the restaurant door every time it swung open, and left my phone safely in my locker. Apart from Tuesday evening, when I was working the late shift at Graphite once more, I managed a couple of early nights, despite suffering the hyperbolic cries of ecstasy (if she was putting it on then she was a better actor than I’d ever given her credit for) coming through the thin walls of Tanya’s room as she gave some new man a good seeing-to.

By 9p.m. on the Thursday, I felt I couldn’t do one more thing to ensure the best possible performance the following morning and, after a shower and light meal, decided on another early night. Then I remembered: I’d left my music at Xander’s. How could I have been so stupid? I quickly dressed in the gym gear I’d just pulled off, grabbed my trainers and ran through the still light and busy Soho streets to Xander’s. The last session of the evening – a Pilates class – was coming to an end and once the participants had been taken through their final cool downs, I made my way in.

‘Yours?’ the instructor, a middle-aged woman with a long greying plait and sporting a pair of garish lemon tights, held up my USB stick.

‘Gosh, yes, thank you,’ I breathed, utterly relieved.

‘Xander said you’d an important audition in the morning.’ She picked up her things and went to follow the last people out of the studio. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thank you.’ I suddenly knew I justhadto go through the dance routine once more and, plugging the stick back in, gestured to Xander – who was at the studio door indicating with his watch – that I’d lock up once I’d finished. He was obviously off on some hot date because, showered and dressed to kill, he didn’t demur as he normally would at my offer.

The routine had just one trickytour jeté– a jump in which one foot steps out to the side, and the other foot kicks around in a leap to meet the other, the dancer then landing on the kicking foot. I shucked off my trainers, steadied myself, took a deep breath and took off, arms outstretched over my head during the leap, before bringing them down once more. Perfect. Pleased, I went for it again and then again and again. Jennifer Beals, eat your heart out.

Heart racing with the effort, it suddenly went into overdrive as I realised I was no longer alone in the studio. Oh God, that was all I needed – some weirdo who’d come in off the street and was now standing in the doorway, arms folded, watching my every move. (If he hadn’t been caught, it could have been the Soho Slasher, for heaven’s sake.)

‘You’re good,’ Fabian said.

‘Jesus, do you make a habit of creeping up on women when they’re practising?’ My heart didn’t calm down once I’d realised just who that man was.

‘I wasn’tcreeping upon you. The guy – the owner? – was on his way out and let me in when I asked if you were here.’

‘You were lucky – he doesn’t usually let anyone in who’s not a member. And he’s very protective of me…’ I broke off, staring. ‘How on earth did you know I’d be here? Are you stalking me again?’

‘You told me you were always here when you weren’t at the restaurant.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ I frowned. ‘I’m notalwayshere. Very often on a Sunday, yes, but apart from that I have to grab the time when I possibly can, usually early mornings or late in the evening.’

‘You said.’

‘Right.’

‘You’re good,’ Fabian said again. ‘Very good.’

‘Thank you.’ I didn’t know what else to say. I picked up my trainers and unplugged the precious USB stick from the sound system. ‘I need to go,’ I said, walking towards the door where Fabian still stood. Dressed in a beautifully cut black suit, crisp white shirt and maroon silk tie, he’d obviously come straight from chambers. He pulled a hand through his hair, looking across at me with those deep brown eyes of his until I had to look away.

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