Page 2 of The Muse
The taxi moves like the rest of London does on a Saturday night—slowly. Knocking the Perspex between us, I pay the driver for the journey so far and get out to run the rest of the way. By the time I get to the Royal Albert Hall, there’s barely any room in the lobby to squeeze past the crowds trying to get in. I grumble through the masses of ludicrous outfits and garish colours, and flash my press pass at the security who’s holding up the rooms for VIP’s.
He opens the barrier to let me through after scrutinising the damn thing, and I’m eventually shown to the one remaining seat squeezed into the arena. Knees knock against me as I weave into place, most of the other press apologising for being in my way as I apologise for getting in theirs. Ludicrous British protocol. Half the time we’re apologising for something that’s not our fault, and the rest of the time we’re getting arsey about people not apologising for things that probably aren’t their fault anyway.
I finally sit and get my notepad out, ready to offload some of this irritation that’s done nothing but build all day. Paris was better. The Parisians don’t give one fuck about apologies unless they’re earnt. They don’t suffer this sort of shit either. Just like I shouldn’t be doing. I might fuck Lissa again just so she remembers the type of man I am rather than try this crap with me. Help her out? Last time I helped her out it was outside my fucking door, with her bag thrown after her.
My glasses get pulled out and slipped on, pen balanced in my fingers, ready to do some serious damage.
“Scott Foxton? What are you doing here?”
The overly jolly sound of Andrew Biston pisses me off instantly, as does the feel of his hand on my shoulder. I turn and look at the principal theatre critic for Broderick Media and try not to glare. It clearly doesn’t work because his hand slips off quietly, eyes blinking rapidly. “Sorry, mate. I was just wondering where Lissa was.” Maybe she’s fucking him now as well.
“She’s sick. I’m filling in.”
“Righto. How’s life?”
Shit, thanks. How's yours, you pompous dick?
Thank God for the hushed sound of the orchestra’s practise coming to an end and the lights dropping around us. It gives me a chance to turn away before having to actually engage in conversation with the wanker. Anything associated with the Broderick name, in general, is a pain in the arse, but throw in Andrew Biston’s holier-than-thou fucking attitude, and my patience for this whole night would have been obliterated. It also gives me a few minutes to scan through the information about whoever this ballerina is. Apparently, it’s her last crack at Giselle tonight as she’s chosen a new path in life. Seems odd to me, given she’s so young, but who cares.
Actually, I do, considering it’s me reviewing this thing and my by-line. The thought makes me pick up the brochure, my gaze focusing on the reasonably fine form of her poised position for the marketing. Christ knows what stance it is, but she sure is tight in it. Stretched. Taut. She's probably flexible. Lithe. Useful in bed, I should think. Can't see her face in any clarity because of the positioning and shadow, but it seems pretty enough. The half I can see anyway.
I throw the brochure to the floor, disgusted by the art world's need for apparent perfection in bodily form. The ugly ones are never picked for the headline acts, regardless of talent. Same in vocals. Same in acting. Pretty face, pretty limbs. That's all they need. And she's probably screwed her way to the job, too. Another norm these days. Most women do.
Having annoyed myself further with the thought of talentless crap, I dig a little more thoroughly through the diatribe of information on my phone as the lights dim further. There's not much to her detriment, to be fair; most still sing her praises until I finally find some answers worth acknowledging behind the sycophantic drivel. Looks like she’s probably been dropped. See? Talentless. Either that or the director's moved onto screwing someone else.
Both things I can work with.
Chapter Two
PERSEPHONE
“Good evening. This is your half-hour call. Your half-hour call,” the tinny voice over the loudspeaker announces.
Like I didn’t know the time.
I stare into the mirror and see past my reflection, searching for the focus I need for the performance in front of me. I know the choreography, the artistry and every inch of movement I’ll need to conquer tonight. That’s not the problem anymore. My skill as a dancer is never questioned.
I’ve been training for this my whole life—or for as long as I can remember, anyway. And somewhere along the line, that Broderick competitive nature took over and drove me to succeed. Drove me to be the best. Did I care that the other dancers thought I was a bitch and a diva? No. And why? Because their opinion didn’t help me reach my goal. Besides, my brother and my father hold far too many judgements of me themselves for me to worry about others.
Tonight will be Seffi Castlewood’s final performance with The Royal Ballet. At least no one has ever been able to accuse me of nepotism—my mother saw to that. To everyone in the ballet world, I'm Seffi Castlewood: Royal Ballet School and Aub Jebsen Young Dancer graduate, and youngest Principal dancer for over a decade. I've also held that title for the shortest time in the history of ballet.
My routine is all but complete. I’ve warmed up, stretched, chalked and wrapped my toes and feet to minimise the damage, and tied the silk ribbons securely. These pointe shoes are already broken—a quite vicious job given such fine craftsmanship, but a must to ensure they are performance ready. It doesn’t stop me from double-checking the stitching, though. The last thing I want on my final night is for a loose thread to mark my exit as a Principal with a slip or fall. The routine has been worn into my mind and muscle memory—hours of practice, rehearsals and diligence has ensured it. But despite feeling well warmed up, prepared and confident, there’s a lead weight in the pit of my stomach I just can’t shake.
Funny that it wasn’t so long ago that this was all I could imagine doing with my life. Yet, after reaching the top, it's taken no time at all for the shine to dull. No amount of flowing costumes, headdresses or applause will bring that back to life. Giselle is the perfect ballet to end my short career on, but will I finally be free at the end of tonight?
The buzz and frantic movement of people backstage takes over, everyone darting to their positions for the first act. And although it was my decision to leave, melancholy creeps over me. It's completely at odds with the mood I need to portray in just a few short minutes. I need happy, carefree and light-hearted.
Taking a deep breath, I hold my nerve and brace a smile. I didn’t get here without being able to put on a show. My spine stiffens as the warm-up notes of the orchestra die down. The buzz flattens, and there’s a moment where everyone takes a breath, ready to start dancing. I spy my Albrecht in the wings, and it reminds me of the similarities between my own life and Albrecht. My family will always dictate who’s in my life, and the worst thing? Nobody even knows the real me because here I’m Seffi Castlewood to them. Not Persephone Broderick.
My cue arrives, and I forget everything in my head of irrelevance. The only thing that counts is my performance tonight. I can dwell later.
~
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Interviews after the performance would give me an opportunity to tell my side of the story and ensure my reputation. After all, I don’t know what I want to do next. I just know this isn’t what I want for the rest of my life. Since the Company released the statement about the change of roles for next season, the press interest is rife. Just another thing that Adrian Alterro, the Director of the Royal Ballet, and I don’t agree on.
‘Following discussions, Seffi Castlewood has chosen to leave The Royal Ballet,’ is the official line. It isn’t my official line, but I’ve played along. Alterro doesn’t want me as a Principal dancer. I’d been promoted under his predecessor, and it's been made extremely clear he doesn’t have the same view. My forte isn’t classical ballet, more the contemporary dances in their repertoire, but for Alterro, proving I'm an inferior choice as Principal seems to have been more important than ensuring his dancers represent the Company in their best-suited roles.
Well, screw him.
