She shrugged. “Elaine told me you were auditioning.”
I was worried. I’d spent a lot of money on my flight here—no one had said anything about an audition.
I dropped my suitcase on the spare bed and dug out a pair of Latin shoes and dance pants. Trixie watched the whole time while I dropped my jeans and changed. She didn’t even bother to look away. I’m not shy about my body, it was just off-putting.
I took one last look at the room, then followed Trixie as the door closed behind me with a soft click.
She led me to the wings of a large stage and I could smell sweat and greasepaint, hear the sounds of rehearsals as we drew closer.
“Not too shabby, eh?” said Trixie proudly.
I had to agree. It would be the largest stage that I’d ever danced on. I could tell that it was professionally designed and had a sprung floor that looked new.
This was what I’d come for.
“Ash!”
A woman in towering heels and a clinging leotard strode toward me, her breasts bouncing, and an enormous set of ostrich feathers fixed to her hair.
“Yveta?”
I smiled as she kissed me on both cheeks.
Trixie interrupted, frowning, and shooed Yveta back to the stage.
“Friend of yours?”
I shrugged. “We’ve met.”
“And?”
“We arrived at the same time.”
Trixie pressed her lips together but I wasn’t sure what was bothering her.
“Hmm. Come and meet Elaine—she’s the Artistic Director. She’ll be pleased to see you. She’s one man down since Erik left . . .”
I glanced at her, but Trixie didn’t finish her sentence.
“Elaine! I’ve got your new boy at last!”
The Artistic Director was a tall, thin woman with the hard body of a dancer and a face that could chisel granite.
Her eyes were raking up and down the rest of my body, professionally assessing me.
“What’s your experience?”
“Two time finalist in Slovenian All-Stars International Ten Dance,” I spoke clearly, proud of my achievements.
“Anything else?”
I blinked, nonplussed by her lack of interest—I’d already given her my best result in a prestigious national competition.
“I can dance anything—whatever you need. I’ve been dancing since I was five.”
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-three.”
Elaine sighed. “Right, let’s see what you can do.”
I wanted to laugh. I was jetlagged, I’d hardly eaten for 12 hours, hadn’t slept for 24, and I was stiff from sitting for the best part of a day. I had nothing prepared and had no idea what sort of routine she wanted to see. And from the look on her face, I was already pissing her off. I’d never been less ready for an audition.
Elaine shouted to a technician standing by the mixing board.
“Joe, set him up with something.” Then she looked at me impatiently. “What are you waiting for? Go do your warm up.”
I knew she wasn’t going to give me a second chance. I had to nail this audition or I was out of chances, and I didn’t know what that would mean. Would they just put me on the first flight back?
I talked to the technician quickly, Elaine’s impatience filling the room while I jogged on the spot, then did some arm swings, sways, trunk rotation, rumba walks and spot turns, stretching my muscles then finishing with some balance exercises. A full warm-up took 15 minutes minimum: Elaine gave me less than ten.
I should be far more prepared than this to dance—Elaine knew it. Which probably meant she didn’t want me in her troupe.
I rubbed my throbbing temples—I had to nail this audition.
I nodded at the technician, then pulled off my t-shirt, holding it out like a matador’s cape, and strode onto the stage with the sultry, dragging steps of the Paso Doble.
Florence and the Machine poured from the speakers, filling the empty cavern of the theater.
And I became the dance. I was a matador, facing a pitiless enemy.
‘But I’m not giving up . . .
I stepped forward with my heels, strong and proud, arms sweeping up from my sides, the t-shirt whirling around my head and tossed away.
‘I can’t count on anyone but myself . . .
Apel: the Flamenco stamp.
The movements were quick and sharp, staccato, chest and head held high, feet directly underneath my body.
I felt it. I felt it all. Anger and frustration, the drama of the music: sur place, separation, attack, the open promenade, the Spanish line—the formal steps flowed through me, but it was emotion, owning the music, feeling the music, living it. I danced and the world stopped. All the pain, all the bitterness, lost in the music.