Page 4 of The Virgin's Dance
“You little asshole,” she said, then smiled as he curled up on the pillow next to her and immediately stretched his leg over her face. She removed it gently and kissed his tiny paw. “You’re the only man for me, Beez,” she whispered, then closed her eyes and slept until her alarm sounded at seven a.m. the next morning.
Chapter Three
“I can’t remember—have you been inside this building before?” Nelly asked Pilot as he arrived with his Polaroid camera—he was old school when it came to initial scouting—two weeks after their lunch in the city. He’d moved things around, avoiding calls from Grady Mallory until he could no longer put it off. He’d had to make something up on the fly to tell Grady. “It’s a study of the human body in movement,” he said. “I’m visiting with the New York State and Metro Ballet to see their ballerinas at work.
He didn’t blame Grady for sounding less than enthusiastic. Ballet dancers in movement had been done before, many, many times, but Grady, being the nice guy that he was, nevertheless thanked Pilot for his ideas.
Pilot felt bad about his lack of direction. “Look, Gray, I promise I’ll come up with something spectacular.”
“I have faith,” Grady had told him. Pilot hoped he could repay that faith.
Following Nelly into the ballet company’s building, he shook his head. “No, not this one, but the old one down on Bleecker.”
“Ha, yeah, that’s a story. That building was just condemned … asbestos. We dodged a bullet there, selling it before it was discovered. Anyway, where do you want to start? Do you want to meet the dancers or just look in on a class?”
“Just look in, if that’s all right. I just need to see who I’m going to be shooting.”
“In that case,” Nelly directed him into the elevator, “there’s a mixed class you should see. Principals down to apprentices. Celine likes to hold a two-hour long class on Monday mornings which is more about fine-tuning than it is rehearsing for anything specific. Very good for building comradery in the company. Everyone loves it, as you can imagine, although they’re all terrified of Celine.”
Pilot grinned. His own mother was a strident, effusive, strong woman, and he’d inherited a love of powerful women—powerful, not manipulative. “How is the comradery?”
Nelly laughed. “What you would expect. For the most part, they’re a friendly bunch, but there’s always one or two assholes.”
“Who should I look out for?”
Nelly chuckled. “I shouldn’t say.”
“Go on, gossip a little.”
She sighed. “Serena. A Grade 1 uber-bitch. Fantastic dancer, of course, but a harridan. Jeremy can be a diva.”
“You play favorites?”
“Idon’t teach them so I can.” She gave him a mischievous look. “Boh. You’ll love Boh. Lexie, Grace, Vlad, Elliott, Fernanda … look, most of them. Just look out for Serena, Jeremy, and maybe even Alex.”
“Good info, thanks.”
They stepped out of the elevator and Nelly pointed him towards the studio. “I told Celine to expect you.”
Pilot chuckled. “You know me so well.”
He opened the door to the studio a crack and caught the eyes of the fierce-looking woman inside. She nodded, unsmiling, and nodded her head to the front of the class.
Pilot slipped inside, his eyes sweeping over the dancers inside. A couple looked at him curiously, but most were focused on their practice. A young man, around Pilot’s age, was playing the piano. He looked up and smiled at Pilot.
“And up, good. Arms lifted … Lexie, extend, please … beautiful. Alex, turn out … good. Lovely stretch, Boh, well done. Double pirouette, no, Elliot, double. Thank you.”
Pilot listened to her guiding her pupils through the class. He had to admit, the way they used their bodies to form shapes was beautiful and impressive. He squatted at the front and took some shots. A dancer with pale, red-gold hair in a tight bun on the top of her head caught his eye and smiled seductively, posing for him.
“Serena, pay attention to me and not Mr. Scamo, please, no matter how pretty he is.”
Pilot gave a snort of laughter and Celine glared at him, winking to show she was kidding. He liked her immediately.
“Okay, and rest. Thank you. Well, as Serena has noticed, we have a visitor. For those of you who live under a rock, this is Pilot Scamo, photographer extraordinaire.” Celine came over to shake Pilot’s hand as the assembled group gave him a small round of applause. He felt his face flame—he never got used to being the center of attention.
“Hey everyone, listen, I’m just here to capture the action, so please, don’t let me interrupt …” Pilot’s voice faltered as he saw her. The tall, athletic woman standing a little way behind a male dancer. She was looking at him shyly, her dark brown eyes large, her body all curves and yet athletic and toned. She was luminous. Pilot realized he was staring and quickly looked away. “Sorry, um, don’t let me interrupt you.”
Celine hid a smile. “You heard the man. Right, next combination. In fourth, then plié, relevé, plié …”
