Page 1 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

One

Francine

I’m limberingup at the edge of one of the big rehearsal spaces at the Gotham Metropolitan Ballet complex when legendary choreographer Dusty Sevigny comes storming up.

He stops in front of me, bushy brows drawn so low they nearly blot out his eyes.

“You’re to report to Rosemary’s office,” he says in his thick Russian accent, tipping his head toward the area where the company support staff toils away.

Sevigny is difficult to read, what with his brows, his Einstein hairdo, and his stormyartistevibe, but it’s safe to say he’s upset.

“Right this moment?” I ask uncertainly. It’s a strange request, considering we need every second of practice on “Plamya,” his big comeback piece. Let’s just say the breakneck time signatures trip up a lot of dancers. There are thirty arabesques at one point.

“Immediately,” he says

I plaster on a bright expression “On it!”

He crosses the expanse of hardwood and disappears out the door.

My fellow dancers are scattered all over, stuffing their pointe shoes and rubbing their muscles in preparation for our five-hour rehearsal, but now all eyes are on me.

I stand. Heart pounding, I walk toward the door, passing a horrified cluster of colleagues who clearly think I’m in trouble.

They’re not the only ones.

I put my hand to the side of my mouth and do a quick stage whisper. “Sevigny so loves her performance, he can’teven!”

People give me sympathetic smiles.

As pep talks go, telling a ridiculous story about the bad thing that’s happening is probably not that effective, but it’s what I do. I pass them but I’m not done. I turn and walk backwards, adding, “He’s sending her to the back office to pick up a huge bonus and a brilliant bouquet of flowers!”

Somebody snorts.

I turn and go out the door and rush down to the stairwell.

The admin section of the massive refurbished building has a highly polished tile hallway that leads past old-world doors with wavy waterglass windows. Words like “administration” and “tickets” are painted on them. It’s all very film noir.

What could be the matter? Why not wait until rehearsal is over?

This feels bad. Like dream-crumbling-before-my-eyes bad.

Being chosen as second soloist for this piece was the hugest honor of my life. Only the first soloist and principal dancer have larger parts. We’re embarking on a European tour after our in-town premier, including three nights dancing at my dream theater: Mérida’s Roman Theatre in Spain, a magical space surrounded by ancient marble columns and statues.

Rosemary’s desk, like her office door, has that film noir feel, but Rosemary herself is very contemporary, one of the many hip and worldly fifty-somethings who work behind the scenes in the New York dance world. She was a dancer herself in the ’80s. If I didn’t know it from talking to her, I’d know it from looking at her—I can always tell an ex-dancer by the way they move.

“Mr. Sevigny said to come back and see you?” I say.

Her face turns grim and she sighs. “Right. Take a seat. We’ve got an issue. It’s…” She shakes her head, tapping away on her keyboard. “It’s…not good. Visa stuff.”

“Visa stuff?” I ask, wracking my brains for what it could be. My passport is valid for another year almost, so it couldn’t be that. “What visa stuff?”

She holds up a finger. I’m to wait while she hits more keys.

I look down at the black screen of my phone, not bothering to tap it to life. Not like I’d be able to comprehend anything with my pulse whooshing in my ears. What’s going on? It has to be serious if I was asked to duck out of rehearsal. Every hour of practice is critical and precious right now.

“Here we go.” Rosemary peers at me above stern reading glasses. “Your visa applications have been rejected by three out of the fifteen countries we’ll be touring in.”

“Rejected?” My heart pounds. “Why?”

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