Page 3 of The Muse
As the billowing sound of the crowd dies behind the curtain, my feet and body begin to throb. Sitting, parading in front of the press is now the last thing on my mind. A bucket of ice water to bring my feet back to life and a glass of champagne is more what I crave. Giselle has been a demanding performance, and whilst I’ve been in the best shape of my life in order to do the role justice, I'm in need of rest—my feet scream for it.
The curtain rises again, and the cast, all hand-in-hand, take our final bow. Peter, my Albrecht, kisses my hand and watches me intently. While we might have the connection needed to pull off a tragic love story, there's no spark between us. There has never been a spark between any of my male dancers and me, but I always see the glint in his eyes that his feelings for me aren’t purely professional.
As soon as the curtain falls for the final time, I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I made it. And if I were watching, it would have been the best show to see. My feet hurry me as quickly as they can manage back to my dressing room, where I set about peeling off my slippers. The bowl of ice water that's always ready for me is so inviting, but I know it will have to wait. I strip out of my costume with little care taken to the condition I’ll leave it in.
“Come on, Seffi. Your press awaits.”
From outside my room, Suzie, the press officer for the Royal Albert Hall, calls and I roll my eyes skyward. For someone working for such an establishment as the Royal Ballet, you’d think she’d have some grace and decorum. She doesn’t. She's a bitch. My guess? Jealousy ate at her cruel soul.
“I’ll be there in just a minute. I’ve just gotten off stage,” I call.
“Well, you better hurry. They aren’t going to wait for you. You’re not a star anymore. Or did you forget that?”
I pull the black sequined top over my head and wrap the long, flowing skirt around my waist. My feet are crying for relief, but they’ll wait. I slip into my softest ballet slippers and add the leg warmers to keep my muscles from seizing. They’re mostly hidden under the skirt.
Opening the door, I snag my jacket from the stand. Suzie is nowhere to be found, so I make my way from backstage to the small room we'll be using for the interviews.
That’s where Suzie already is, sleezing up to a journalist in the corner. I walk, as elegantly as possible, to my vacant seat towards the front of the room and feel all the eyes of the waiting press turn to me.
Suzie was meant to be facilitating this—it is her job. I've done mine. I’ve just danced a gruelling ballet for two hours.
“Good evening,” I start, speaking clearly into the microphone set up to the side of my seat. As I begin, Suzie realises that she isn’t where she needs to be for the attention to be on her and comes trotting through the aisle of reporters.
“Yes, thank you, Seffi. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for being here. I’m sure you all enjoyed the ballet.” She turns to look at me. “The final performance from Seffi Castlewood. Do any of you have any questions?” She cranes her neck and looks around at the people in the room. “Yes.” She points to a gentleman in a smart dark suit.
“Congratulations, Seffi. Andrew Biston from Broderick Media. What are your plans after the Royal Ballet?”
“Thank you, Andrew. It was a hard decision for me to leave my family here at the Royal Ballet. It’s been an integral part of my life since I can remember. However, I’ve achieved what I wanted to—to become Principal Dancer. And when you’ve already reached your goal, when differences arise, it’s harder to put up with some of the treatment you’re subjected to.” I don’t answer the question, but the truth is, I don’t have any plans. And I want to leave just enough room for interpretation to bring more questions from that response.
“So, you were dropped? Or did Alterro stop sleeping with you?”
A few gasps add to the rustle of paper and shifting seats filling the room. The questions come from a dishevelled older man sitting a seat over from Andrew. His face is bored and tired, as if he doesn’t want to be here. If he smiled, he could be considered handsome under the worn-out features. Dark hair, slightly tousled as if he's barely bothered getting ready for this, and dark eyes stare out over his black-rimmed glasses.
“And who, may I ask, are you?” I narrow my eyes at him wanting nothing more than to tear strips off the man.
“Scott Foxton, The Foxton Herald. Are you going to answer my questions, Ms Castlewood?”
My family hates the Foxtons. It’s a long-standing feud, which I'm not entirely sure of the origin of, but I do know that The Herald is a second-rate paper. I’ve never come across any of the Foxtons personally, but now that I have, I wonder how he'd act if he knew I was a Broderick. “I’m not sure your questions deem a response. You’re clearly here to cause a sensation rather than report on the facts. And you show no respect.”
“I’m not here to respect you. You’re a story, and it’s not up to you to dictate the narrative. At least you could have the guts to tackle the first question, given you were so fast to state there were problems with your relationship with Alterro. You didn’t even give Andrew here a real answer.” He sits back, crossing his legs, and begins tapping his pen on his pad of paper.
He's baiting me. And I was assured by Suzie that there would be none of these scandal-hungry journalists here. Art critics and theatre reporters only, that was the brief. People who would be interested in my craft and my story as a ballerina.
My eyes flash to Suzie. She should be handling this. Managing this… but she just looks like she’s enjoying the show.
“Well, Mr Foxton. You may know there are several principal dancers in a company. Each dancer has their own attributes—strengths and fortes. I simply disagreed on what Alterro saw mine as. That puts an enormous amount of pressure on a dancer, and I felt that I had earned—as a Principal Dancer—some respect. If I choose to take my talent elsewhere, that’s my business and my choice and doesn’t mean the company dropped me.” I force my arms to stay resting gently in my lap rather than forcibly cross them in a show of defiance.
“And do you deny sleeping with your current or past creative director?” Foxton asks again.
At least this time, Suzie steps in. “Mr Foxton, that is an entirely inappropriate question. Please refrain from asking any more.” She casts her eye towards an older lady in one of the front seats. “Yes, Mary?”
“Yes, Ms Castlewood.” She pushes the half-moon spectacles up the bridge of her nose and scrutinizes me. “Mary Yule, The Times. You are undoubtedly a talented dancer. And for such a young dancer to reach your heights is a rarity, especially in today’s competitive world. Don’t you feel you owe it to the dancers around you to honour that hard work rather than simply, say, throw it away?” She smiles at me after delivering her question, and I see the bitter, failed dancer behind the smile.
“On the contrary, I see my leaving as making a stand.”
“It’s rather a diva move, don’t you think? First sign that you don’t get what you want and you throw a temper tantrum. Artists have creative differences all the time. They work through those to progress their craft. You seem to have simply ... given up.” She pops the p at the end.
This is turning into a disaster. It was meant to be about my career, telling my story. Instead, my humiliation is growing. How can this happen? After my performance, after all the critical acclaim of the show, this is all the press wants to hear about?
