Page 14 of The Muse
Christ.
I’m up and leaving again before I’ve even got around to opening my laptop, a hassled hand hailing a black cab the moment I reach the road where all the taxis are lined up. The guy talks the entire journey. Something about a football club playing like shit lately and the fact that he might not bother buying his season ticket next year. I couldn’t care less. And the moment we’ve arrived, I tap my card to pay and leave at speed to get up the flights of steps to my flat.
Four forty-five.
Fuck.
Shower, shaved and dressed by five fifteen and I’m back out onto the road running to get to the performance at the Lyceum on time. Women gawp at me as I weave between them in my tux to cross Waterloo Bridge, some of them batting their eyelashes and giggling. I’d like to think I’m interested. I most definitely would be on most occasions, especially that one with the auburn hair, but for once, I’m not. I’m interested in one thing alone. It's blonde, and it’s one thing I probably shouldn’t be interested in at all.
I eventually calm my stride about two streets from the Lyceum and start tying my bow tie, eyes looking in a window as I pass it to check it’s straight. Quick fingers rough my hair into place, and then I’m heading for the entrance to the theatre. It’s quieter than the last time I saw her perform, and this time the guests are all recognisable as London’s elite. Wealthy businessmen with their wives draped from the arms. Several women, who I can only assume were dancers themselves in their youth, given their stature.
Sliding through them one by one, I finally get up the stairs and to my seat. It’s much more intimate this time. Fewer frills and frivolities, fewer people in general, and a lot of them, from what I can gather around me, in her field.
I lean back and wait, not bothering with my pad and pencil or my glasses from this distance. I’m not here to review her—I’m here to watch, to be inspired again and revel in what that does to me. I can already feel anticipation idling in my stomach, making me excited and stimulated for something out of my norm. Ridiculously, I can feel the same sentiment in my cock, as it thinks about batting around down there.
A snort breaks out of me, a smile filling my face, as I cover it with the brochure and keep waiting. I haven’t even looked at that—don’t care. Whatever she’s dancing, it will probably be exquisite. I should have given her that credit when she stormed into my place. Made her aware that regardless of her age, and regardless of the fact that a few more years will improve what is already exceptional, she is fascinating to watch. I didn’t. I hauled her over the stones and criticised her for giving up instead, perhaps haranguing myself somehow in the same breath.
The lights finally dim to a single spotlight illuminating the stage. A low drumming starts filling the air around me. Not classical. More contemporary than the usual pieces ballet is performed to. And then there she is, straight up on pointe, perfectly still and all that tight and taut on display for me. Her arms stretch wide, balancing her as she goes to one foot, and pirouettes so precisely I can hear the murmurs around me whispering compliments and astonished gasps.
Beautiful. Serene. Delicate.
My tongue licks over my lips, hand pressing down on the brochure to ease the ache building under it.
So still. So enchanting as she moves slowly and caresses the air with graceful hands and gentle moves. I’m completely entranced, to the point where I even forget about the ache that was building and the painting I came here for. I just sit and watch, letting myself drift off into whatever emotion she’s portraying until I can feel it with her in each step she takes.
I don’t know what the time is or even where I am for half of it. No breaks. No intermission. Just her and her stage and the effort she must be under to hold every position to, in my eyes, damn near perfection. Spin after spin, leap after leap. Position after position. On and on it goes, as if it’s part of her very soul. None of it contrived, and all of it new and fresh, and so far from normal ballet she’s bloody right to leave if they won’t let her be what she is.
It isn’t until I hear the roar of clapping and suddenly notice the bodies standing next to me that I realise she must have finished. I join them slowly, both my hands coming together to congratulate her in the only way I can from up here. There wasn’t a damn thing juvenile about any of it. It was mature, fully developed and beautifully choreographed from beginning to end.
She bows and gathers a few flowers that have been thrown onto the stage, her fingers wiping over her brow occasionally until she’s gone, and the hushed sounds of commentary out here start taking over rather than the applause.
I’m almost swept out and down the stairs in the hustle of people trying to get out and into the room where the reception is. Drinks are served, tables set up to the side of the room I find myself lingering in, but the most interesting part is a timeline of black and white photographs portraying Ms Castlewood’s career on the stage. Many of the shots are candid and depict the real nature of what ballet is like. For her, at least.
Studying the portraits, each one of them showing me a different side to the woman who's caught my interest, I continue to wander my way around them. I’m not even sure why I’m still here now. I should have left the moment it was over, taken the buoyancy out of the dance and gone straight back to my piece so I can finish it, or perhaps start a new one. Instead, I’m captivated by her again, and now waiting, hoping to get a glimpse of her when she eventually comes into the room.
She does after a while, her smile bright and hair down as she lets the horde envelop her. Everyone clamours for a slice of her, as a tall lady drags her off to the side towards a microphone setup. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention?” she announces.
Seffi’s small features look as if she’s desperate for an escape route. I know that feeling well. Exhaustion, self-deprecation, modesty or just plain old-fashioned shyness. It’s sweet to watch, a change of attitude indeed from the little firecracker who stormed into my flat with all her defiance on display.
She glugs her champagne, as if she might escape into the bubbles, and the woman starts talking about Seffi Castlewood’s very bright but very short career. The whole room can hear the disapproval in her tone. She drones on, bringing down the whole event, and I watch as Seffi snakes away from her side, distancing herself as the woman casts a shadow over everything she's ever achieved.
I’m cutting through the throngs without any real thought before I know it, a few nods at the faces I know until I eventually get through to my target. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do until I catch her hand in mine and start pulling her out of the crowds of people ready to pounce on her.
The slightly more clear space I eventually lead her to, and then her actually realising who's been towing her, causes a startled expression.
"How about I get you out of here?" I ask, smiling a little. Her mouth stays in shocked mode, eyes looking up at me. “Dinner. Now. You and me. I might owe you an apology. Of sorts.”
Whether that’s for the review, the fact that I’m still dealing with my cock, or the conversation about rough foreplay, I’m not sure yet. “I’ll behave a little more pleasantly this time, and it’ll certainly be easier than dealing with them,” I urge, nodding behind her.
“But it’s you,” she flusters. “I didn’t recognise you.”
I chuckle and keep waiting for an answer, half an eye on the crowd beginning to move in, including the woman who couldn’t seem to find a gracious word. She suddenly realises she’s still holding my hand and pulls it away gently, shoulders turning as if to leave. She’s stalled, though, and not ten seconds go by as she looks back into the room before she turns to look at me again. “Dinner? With you?”
“I am dressed for it. As are you.”
“But you’re … you don’t like … and you shouldn’t be here anyway.”
My back turns into the crowd, body pushing her backwards towards the door without touching her. “I know. I went rogue and forced my way in. I’m good at it when something intrigues me.”
