LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2) (10 page)

It was one of those moments that I’d remember when I was old and gray and no longer performing.

Kathryn smiled at our stares.

“It’s really something, isn’t it? It’s one of the newer theaters in London, not quite a hundred years old yet, but she’s a beauty. Everyone has played here from Charlie Chaplin to Judy Garland. We didn’t even close during the war.”

She spoke as if she’d been there personally, although she’d have to be 90, not 40.

“There’s a lot of history and now you’re part of it . . . don’t let me down! I’ll teach you three, maybe four numbers today. There are 17 in total; 14 with backup dancers. So by the end of the week, you should be good to go.”

Alice threw me a worried look.

Kathryn took us through a pretty good warmup, so that reassured me that she knew what she was doing. Stretching thoroughly before and after a show is the best way of avoiding injury—quite a lot of dancers do yoga, too, although I’m not one of them. There’s always ice on hand, as well. You get injured, get the ice on.

I needed it today.

I thought I’d gotten lucky with Alice for a partner: beautiful, so supple it made me imagine all the positions that we could do in bed. I’m a guy—I can’t help thinking like that. But after she’d trodden on my toes five times and kneed me in the balls twice, I was feeling a lot less enthusiastic.

“Sorry!” she whispered, for the hundredth time.

“You’re ballet trained, aren’t you?”

I grunted as she elbowed me in the ribs by accident. Again.

“Is it that obvious?”

To me, yeah, it was blindingly obvious. Ballet teaches turn-out—feet turned out and hips open. Ballroom is feet and knees facing front and we move more naturally. Which was why every other step she was crashing into me.

After a full morning of rehearsing, I was so over it, and Kathryn wasn’t happy either, spitting into her cellphone at someone—probably whoever sent her Alice.

“Do you hate me?” Alice asked, biting her lip as I sat on the stage to cool down with a bag of ice over my shin where she’d kicked me repeatedly during the first number Kathryn was teaching us.

“Nope, but my balls have gone into hiding,” I griped. “And I’m slightly worried about my ability to father children.”

She gave a cute little giggle and sat next to me, hot and sweaty, as she leaned her head on my shoulder.

“I’m really sorry. I’ll be better tomorrow. Maybe you should, um, you know, wear a dance belt. Under your costume.”

Did she think I was a fucking amateur?

“I am, Alice,” I said impatiently, “But by tomorrow, I’ll be wearing full body armor.”

“Ugh, was it that awful?”

She looked so guilty I felt bad for making her feel that way.

“I’ll survive,” I said, winking at her as I climbed to my tired, bruised feet.

The afternoon was spent working on two more routines. I could have done the show for those numbers that night, but it was obvious that Alice wasn’t ready, and I wasn’t sure that rehearsing for the rest of the week would be enough for her.

“Kathryn hates me,” she whispered.

“No, she doesn’t,” I lied.

“Well, I do. I hate being so terrible,” she mumbled, tears starting in her eyes. “I’m used to being good at everything.”

I sighed and gave her a pained smile.

“It’s only the first day. You’ll get the hang of things tomorrow.”

She threw her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek.

“Thank you, Luka!”

And she skipped off to the changing rooms looking much happier.

“You should get a medal,” Kathryn scowled. “If I had time to find someone who could take her place, I’d do it, I’d fire her arse. But I need her. Bloody hell, she’s supposed to be learning all the female roles—how the hell will she do that when she can’t even learn one all the way through?”

It was standard practice for the backup swing dancers, chorus singers and musicians to have four or five deps, deputies, who could stand in for them at short notice.

On the long-running shows, the musicians would have at least three guys covering each chair, so if you were sick or even if you just wanted to have a night off, there was an approved list of people that the fixer, the producers’ main contractor, could call.

Being a dep isn’t as bad as it sounds, and a lot of the musicians do session work during the day, so they make pretty decent money.

And also, we’re creative people, so doing long shows can get boring and you get stale. Being a dep gives you variety. Musicians don’t generally stick around much more than a year or so. The ones who do tend to lose their edge.

A few get fired. I knew one drummer who was cutting lines of coke on his drum kit during a show. He got canned when he didn’t turn up one day.

I’ve also known people hook-up during the show, just to see if they can get away with it. It’s a stupid risk. If you’re that bored, move the fuck on. Because if you get a bad rep, you won’t get work again when the word goes out.

For actors in a long-running show, the producers try to avoid the boredom factor by making it standard to change the cast every six months. A few get asked to stay on, but not many.

It’s different for dancers—we’re not going to be getting work much past the age of 30, not like musicians who can go on forever. We cover in-house as much as possible with the swing team, but there’s still a roving team outside the production, and you might even be down as a dep for more than one show. I’d done it once, and it was fucking hard keeping several roles in your head in different shows—and you might have last danced them a couple of months ago. But the backup swing dancers are the lowest rung in the theater—we’re pretty much just fodder for the stage world. If you act, your career is longer, but if not . . . hell, sometimes I wondered why any of us did it.

I preferred tours—a short blast, and on to the next thing.

“Alice will be fine,” I said stoically.

Kathryn looked at me critically.

“You’d make a good Dance Captain—maybe a teacher one day. You were very patient with her. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting that.”

I shrugged, not knowing what to say.

“And I think she has a little crush on you,” Kathryn continued.

“I have a boyfriend,” I blurted out.

I don’t know why I said that. Maybe so she’d tell Alice and I wouldn’t have another problem.

Kathryn laughed gently. “Oh dear. Poor little Alice will be very disappointed.”

I grinned at her and winked.

“Right, shower and then Gretchen wants you for a costume fitting. Don’t get on her wrong side or you’ll end up with something that is likely to castrate you. I’ve got you and Alice tickets for the show tonight: watch and learn. Then go home, get a good night’s sleep . . . I intend to work you like a serf tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am. Uh, I was just wondering, does Arlene usually hire ballroom dancers?”

“If she can, yes. She prefers dancers who’ve been through the system. She avoids kids who’ve only been to dance school,” and she gave a delicate shudder. “God, no! I can’t take all the complaining. Everything is always wrong. The stage isn’t sprung enough, the dressing room is too small. There’s always something. But the dancers who’ve done the ballroom competition circuit, they’re hardcore.”

I wasn’t sure I completely agreed, but I knew what she meant.

Ballroom competitions are brutal. They’re knockout competitions, so everyone has to show up at 8.30AM for the first round. Full makeup and costume, which means you have to get there around 7AM. You’re there all day until you’re eliminated. Which means the competitors who get to the quarter finals will have been dancing on and off all day. The live band, if there is one, gets in for the evening rounds, and they’re on until midnight when the winners are announced. By then, every muscle in your body is screaming for rest, and your feet are just about ready to fall off. But you’re still smiling—because that’s what it takes to win.

My ranking had gotten pretty high when I was doing the circuit—which was where I’d met Ash. And I gotta say, being in the top five in the country felt fantastic—almost better than a blow job. But it depended who was doing it.

Although I’ve often thought that only another man knows how to give a really good blow job—we just know what’s good, what feels right. Some women have come close, but ultimately, they can never know
exactly
what we like. I’m just saying. I’m not complaining. Any blow job is better than none.

I wondered again how Alice had gotten the gig, but to be fair, she hadn’t complained once. She was crap at remembering what she was supposed to be doing, but I liked her.

When I’d showered, I found Gretchen waiting for me.

She was as short as she was round and probably in her late seventies, but moved at an astonishing pace as she measured my neck, chest, waist, hips, inseam and length of my arms with expert speed.

I had five costume changes during the show. The first one was a pair of tight black pants with a kind of harness around the chest that looked as if it came right out of a Berlin nightclub dungeon. The pants were designed to look like leather, but were actually made from leatherette lycra.

It was trashy, but I already knew how dramatic it would look on stage, with bare skin glistening under the lights, as real flames danced in the handheld torches.

There was a section where I had to wear a three-piece suit, followed by a real quick change. Worst timing. Whatever—I’d get used to it.

The other costumes were generic pop video stuff—stretch jeans, white tank tops or vests with no shirt, cut-off leather jacket. At one point, I had to wear a pork-pie hat. I hated wearing hats on stage—they always fall off or get knocked off, and then someone treads on them or trips on them. Basically, they’re a giant pain in the ass.

Gretchen laughed at my expression, and said that the lead singer, Beverly, who had the Whitney Houston role, had 26 costume changes so what was I worried about.

Fair enough.

She muttered to herself in German the whole time, almost spitting pins when I answered her with a few words that I’d learned when I was on tour there last year. I hoped that her smile meant I wouldn’t be getting any crotch-crippling pants.

“You young people, you think you invented the world. I was a dancer, 57 years ago,” and she let out a loud cackle. “At the famous
Windmill
theater. Britain was so much fun—everything was so alive. I fell in love with the costumes: so sheer, that the audience came hoping for a breast to drop out. And the fan dancer was nude, oh yes! And there were nudes on pedestals, but they were so supposed to appear like statues. All the girls hated that job. Imagine having to sit without moving for 15 minutes, trying not even to breathe. One girl fainted. She made a terrible thump as she landed.”

She sighed and smiled.

“We weren’t allowed to be friends with the boys—dirty brutes! But I always stopped for a kiss and cuddle on the stairs. For luck.” And she eyed me carefully. “You have much luck, I think.”

I laughed but didn’t answer, and we finished the fitting on good terms.

I just had time for a quick sandwich with Alice before we headed to see the show with an excited audience.

And as soon as the houselights dimmed, my pulse sped up. I might be sitting in a seat, but my body believed I was in the wings, ready to dance onto the stage and into the light.

Alice leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the performers. I could see anticipation, the thrill on her face, the rush of adrenaline—I knew, because I was feeling it, too.

The show was slick and well thought out, but the cast didn’t seem jaded or bored. Everyone out there was giving it 100%. You didn’t always get that on a long-running show. But the ones who don’t have the stamina for it drop out sooner rather than later.

It was fun being in the audience for a change. I bought Alice ice cream during the intermission and we listened to all the audience’s comments about the songs and the costumes, the whole production—and the ridiculous length of lines for the ladies’ bathroom—always a popular topic.

“I’m so excited,” Alice said, clinging to my arm, as the show ended and the audience stood to applaud. “To think I’m going to be out there next week, dancing in front of all these people! Oh God, I hope I don’t throw up.”

“You’ll be fine. Once the music starts, you’ll be flying.”

“I hope I don’t fall. That would be so embarrassing.”

“If you do, pick yourself up and keep going. Golden rule of showbiz, honey, don’t let them know when it hurts.”

She laughed nervously. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try. Thank you for being so nice to me—I really appreciate it. Can I buy you a drink to thank you properly?”

“Thanks, but I need to get home.”

“Oh sure, no problem.” She let go of my arm and twisted her fingers together. “I suppose you’ve got someone waiting for you.”

I smiled at the way she was fishing for information.

“Yeah, my boyfriend.”

Her lips popped open and she blinked rapidly. A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, and then relief.

I knew what she was thinking: if I was straight and rejected her, it bruised her ego; if I was gay, it wasn’t the same.

I let her carry on thinking that, but just to clarify . . .

“And even if there wasn’t someone waiting for me,” I added, “I never date people I work with. A good friend of mine says that all the drama should be on the stage.”

She laughed. “Well, that’s definitely true!”

We arranged to meet up for coffee the next day, and then I walked her to the bus stop, standing with her until her bus arrived.