Once parked, she walked back to Powis Square and into the Tabernacle’s bustling front garden. Outdoor tables were filled with people eating or just enjoying the sun. Children played, safe within the gated space, and several dogs tethered to tables watched the activity with interest.
The round center part of the building reminded her of the oast houses she’d seen in Kent, but with a taller square tower tacked on either side. The building should have been awkward, but it somehow managed charm instead. The orangey-red brick glowed in the bright sun, the color a pleasing contrast to the leafy green of the garden’s trees.
Gemma was tempted to find a spot to sit in the sun. Thirst won, however, and she went in, eyes adjusting to the dimness of the interior. After a moment’s deliberation, she bought a fresh-squeezed lemonade from the café counter at the back. Sipping her drink with a sigh of pleasure, she climbed slowly up the right-hand staircase, taking in the photos of Notting Hill celebrities that adorned the walls.
The ballet studio was at the back on the first floor, behind the theater. Parents were not allowed inside during classes, but she thought she might peek through the glass insets in the doors that separated the studio from the upper vestibule. She hadn’t become accustomed to seeing Toby in his white T-shirt and black leggings, his small face set in concentration, and it made her heart contract a bit with wonder. How could her unruly child seem suddenly so serious and focused? Not that she was complaining, she thought, smiling as she pushed through the doors into the vestibule.
When she’d come to previous classes she’d seen a few other parents waiting, but today the space was empty except for a boy. He was, she guessed, nine or ten. He wore the requisite white T-shirt and black leggings, but his calves were covered with ratty, unraveling leg warmers, and his white ballet shoes were dirty and scuffed. His ash brown hair brushed his collar and there was a dusting of freckles across his slightly snub nose.
In the silence that followed the click of the closing door, Gemma heard him counting under his breath. He was practicing positions, steadying himself with outstretched fingertips touching the top of a wooden chair—an impromptu barre. She recognized some of the basic positions Toby was learning, but this boy did them with a grace and precision that spoke of years of practice.
Stepping away from the chair, he muttered, “One, two, three, turn,” then pushed up with one foot and began a series of pirouettes that made Gemma’s eyes widen in admiration. He stopped, facing Gemma, but began to spin again without acknowledging her.
He reached ten before he lost his balance, put his extended foot down, and said distinctly, “Shit.” Now he did look at her, warily.
“Oh, too bad,” said Gemma, ignoring the swearing. “I must have distracted you. Have another go.”
After a moment, he nodded, then lifted into another series of pirouettes. This time he reached twelve. His breathing, Gemma noticed, was even and relaxed.
“Don’t you get dizzy?” she asked, as he moved effortlessly into a stretch.
He shook his head, then pushed his light brown hair off his forehead. “Not since I was little. You find something to look at. I use the sticker on the door.”
Gemma glanced at the blue oval fire door sticker behind her, then looked back at the boy. “You’ve been dancing a long time, then.”
“Since I was three.”
Toby was getting a late start, she thought. The muffled thump of piano music came from the studio, and through the glass door panel she caught a glimpse of Toby’s blond head bobbing. “My son’s just starting. He’s seven.”
“He might still be okay,” said the boy, with the careless condescension of the professional for the amateur.
“Are you waiting for a class?” Gemma asked.
He nodded. “Not the next one, but the one after—the advanced class. But I do lessons during the week in Finsbury Park.”
“You dance six days a week?” Gemma had slightly horrified visions of what it would mean for their family if Toby ever became that serious. “I should think you’d want your Saturdays to do things with your mates.”
Shrugging, he said, “Mr. Charles is brilliant at choreography. And I can come by myself.”
“You don’t go to Finsbury Park on your own?”
His friendly expression disappeared in a scowl. “My mum doesn’t think I’m old enough.”
“Well, mums can be like that,” Gemma suggested gingerly. “How old are you? Eleven?” she added, guessing at the upper end of the scale.
“Almost.” His wide mouth relaxed again. “My mum wants me to try out for the Royal Ballet School when I’m eleven. That’s why I have to practice.” As if reminded, he stepped back to the chair. Touching it with one hand again for balance, he raised the opposite leg to his ear in a position Gemma would have thought anatomically impossible.
Mr. Charles’s voice came clearly from the studio. “Good, good. Now, again.” The piano thumped a little more vigorously.
“I should let you get on with it, then,” Gemma said. She suspected she’d exhausted the boy’s conversational patience, and it was too small a space for two people to ignore each other. “I’ll just go downstairs. Good luck with your audition. I’ll bet you’ll be terrific.”
A quick smile lit his freckled face. “Thanks.”
She gave him a small wave as she turned to the door and let herself out. Perhaps she’d sit in the garden, after all, and finish her lemonade while she waited for Toby’s class to finish.
Gemma opened the doors leading to the garden and cannoned into someone coming the other way. In the instant of shocked apologies, she realized she’d just bumped into MacKenzie Williams. “MacKenzie, are you okay?” she asked, patting her friend’s arm.
Then she felt a stab of alarm. “MacKenzie, what are you doing here?” she said sharply. “Where’s Charlotte? Is she all right?”
“Gemma. I forgot you were here.” MacKenzie frowned at her. “No, no, the kids are fine. I’ve left them with Bill. But—” She shook her head, words deserting her.
“What is it?” Gemma put an arm round MacKenzie’s shoulders and gently steered her out of the traffic path. Her friend was trembling. “Here. Sit,” she added, guiding MacKenzie to an empty table in the shade. Realizing she still held her half-drunk lemonade, she handed MacKenzie the cup. “Drink this.” When MacKenzie had taken a few obedient sips, Gemma sat beside her and said firmly, “Now. Tell me what’s happened.”
“It’s— It’s the most dreadful thing. It’s Reagan,” MacKenzie said on a gulp. Her skin looked parchment pale against the mass of her dark curly hair. “You won’t have met her. She models for us,” she went on, “and minds Oliver sometimes.” MacKenzie and her husband, Bill, ran a very successful online and catalog clothing company called Ollie. “But she”—MacKenzie took a breath—“Reagan lives with a family in Cornwall Gardens. She’s nanny to their son.”
“Okay.” Gemma nodded encouragingly.