Silhouette (3 page)

Ahead of us is a building with a massive ‘6’ at the top. A figure with the unmistakable poise of a dancer stands beside a wide door, smoking. We’re close enough for Paige to grimace at the smell. I know what she’s thinking.
How can any dancer do that when her body is her whole life?

It’s not just that she’s smoking but the relaxed way she holds it. Hiding it from teachers or parents is the last thing on her mind.

Of course it is. We’re all adults here.

Inside we follow a ‘Registration’ sign down the hall to a wide carpeted space. Paige tugs my arm and I follow her to a guy wearing a headset and sitting behind a table. With a hand on either side of her registration form, she holds it out like a sacred offering. I squash my lips together as the guy scans down, flips a page. I brace myself for … I’m not sure what.
Something
that will give us away. Somehow he’ll see that we’re not meant to be here.

But we’re given numbers just like everyone else. Paige is sixty-one and I’m sixty-two. The audition had been a stunt. But now, it’s real.

We find a space, slip off our street shoes and begin warming up. It feels good to stretch out the tension, move my body through the nerves. Beside us, a woman in black raises her leg to the side and I immediately register details about her turnout, flexibility, extension. A simple backwards arch from someone else shows solid core strength and good expression. In only a few minutes I have a snapshot of all the talent in my sightline.

When I next glance at Paige, she raises her eyebrows and mouths,
They’re good
. She’s been doing the same as me.

I mouth back,
Fuuuuuck!
just to make her laugh. She does, and I’m glad to see her shoulders relax, her eyes crinkle. I’m only half-joking, though. I hope we’re not about to make monumental fools of ourselves.

Soon we’re told to put on dancing heels and form a line in number order. The first twenty disappear into another room. Almost straightaway, a dark-haired woman with a number ‘1’ sticker on her chest comes back out, packs up and leaves. Soon someone else comes out, and another. I count the trickle: ten, eleven, twelve. There hasn’t been time for dancing, surely, so what’s going on in there? I check each face that passes, watching for clues. One woman is holding her breath and another looks like she’s about to throw up.

I feel a tickle of hair on my arm. ‘What’s going on?’ whispers Paige.

As I shrug, the woman in front of Paige smiles at us. She’s turned side-on and isn’t looking at us directly, but I get the feeling she’s been watching us.

My eye catches hers. ‘Let me guess,’ she says. ‘First time?’

I detect the condescension in her tone.

‘How can you tell?’ asks Paige.

‘No reason!’ the woman laughs. ‘It’s just the look in your eyes, your …’ She moves her arms out, searching for the right words. ‘Your energy. Don’t worry, it’s a good thing.’

Paige takes a breath and shifts her weight. She never looks comfortable in dancing heels. ‘When do we do our audition pieces?’

‘Oh, you don’t need audition pieces, sweetheart.’ The woman’s head tilts in sympathy. ‘You’ve been primed for dance companies, have you?’

I look down, embarrassed, trying not to show it. I’m glad when the woman disappears with the group before us – numbers forty-one to sixty.

Our group is next, and Paige is first in line. I concentrate on my breathing
in … then out …
but no matter how slow I make it go, my heart still wants to bolt. My mouth is dry and I have a sudden urge to pee.

‘Numbers sixty-one to eighty,’ calls the headset guy, and I see a kind of regal calmness come over Paige. She seems to grow even taller as she walks into the room ahead of me. I take it all in – bright lights on a green backdrop with three huge cameras trained on a white cross in the centre. I count four other figures in the shadows, behind the cameras.

‘Sixty-one,’ yells the guy.

Paige steps forwards. She’s tall, majestic and clearly terrified.

To one side, the guy lifts a hand to his headset. ‘Yeah?’ he looks down, listening to whatever is being said. ‘A’
right
.’ Then he turns to Paige. ‘Sorry, too tall. Number sixty-two!’

Paige’s mouth opens slightly and I feel her pain. She steps out of the light and our eyes meet.

It’s hot under the lights, glary and exposed. My heart is thudding but I enjoy the rush, holding my chin down, one hand on a hip.

‘Yeah?’ The headset guy is just beyond the edge of the lit area so it’s difficult to make out any expression. His voice comes hurried and careless. ‘Thanks for that. You can go.’

I can’t help feeling gutted. We risked so much just being here, too much to be kicked out this soon.

As I turn to go, the headset guy calls out, ‘Hold on,’ and puts a hand to one ear. ‘Yeah?’ He looks down, listening, and then glances at me.

Still holding myself for the cameras, on show, I fight the urge to grab one of those earpieces and listen to what’s being said.

‘So what should …’ The guy stops, listening to something that makes him raise his eyebrows.

The next thing I know, he’s walking my way. ‘Lucky you.’ He’s smiling as if we’re both in on the same private joke. ‘Through that door,’ he says, pointing to the opposite side of the room from where we came in. ‘Second studio on the left. Angelo will take you from there.’

Slowly I move off, trying to maintain my poise. What just happened?

‘Sixty-three!’ calls the guy.

Paige is standing just beside the door we came in. When she sees me peering across the room, she lifts a hand to her ear, thumb and pinkie extended.
Call me.
I match her signal, nodding, before she pushes through the door.

I head through the door on the opposite side of the room. It’s like stepping over an invisible line.

The atmosphere in the next studio is thick with focus, a whole new level of pressure. Everyone pauses when I slip through the door, then immediately returns to work. The woman who spoke to me and Paige in line is there, but barely manages to return my smile before looking away.

It’s okay. I get it. Until I made it through that first part, we weren’t even competitors. The audition hadn’t begun. Until now.

Angelo’s is the only friendly face in here. ‘Try pick up,’ he says and I smile at his strong accent. ‘Then I show from start.’

‘Thanks.’ I keep my shoulders square and move across the front of the room. I find my place and copy Angelo’s moves.

The steps come naturally. It’s all ebb and flow, sucking in and pulling back. The style is different from any I’ve known, but my training helps me pick it up.

More dancers come in. I keep count: fourteen … fifteen … Some of them pick it up straightaway. Others have trouble.

Soon the studio feels crowded and Angelo amps up the sound. Moss Young’s voice fills the air. It’s strong, and sexy as hell. My moves respond to the music; slower here, a breath there. Only now does each step make sense.

As we dance, the whole room seems to breathe in time.

Is it possible to fall in love with a voice?

I think I just did.

Lunch is only fifteen minutes. I’m starving, but my brown rice tastes drier each time I swallow and I stop after a few mouthfuls. I just want to fill up on water. Can’t risk a bloated stomach. When a group of camera guys head out, I follow them to a cafe and buy myself a coffee. I don’t usually drink it but I need something to get me through.

After lunch, we’re called into the main studio, working in groups of four and performing for the cameras. It’s hot work, with little rest. The headset guy continues his routine of listening and relaying instructions, placing us in different combinations and positions. A blonde dancer who keeps messing up the timing is asked to leave. Others are told they can go. Soon a hot, crowded studio just feels hot.

There are eight of us left.

‘Okay, hold on,’ says the headset guy. He nods at Angelo and hands the headset to him.

A dancer with awesome afro hair flops to the floor just beyond the heat of the lights, so I do too. I just want to shut my eyes.

‘You no like?’ asks Angelo into the mouthpiece, looking down and rubbing the side of his face. ‘Okaaay,’ he says before handing it back. ‘He come down,’ he says to the headset guy.

Who come down?
With a collective inhale we stand up again. I feel a fresh rush of energy.

From the back of the room comes the click and thud of a door. The voice reaches us before the person does. ‘It’s that bit where they’re all in the middle.’

It’s Moss Young, in the lights already. Brown-blond hair, sexy sideburns, black jeans stopping at bare feet. He breaks into the lyrics. ‘She’s everywhere, ooh … a taste, a cry, a touch, a sigh …’ His voice is amazing. ‘And then the chords begin to build and you go like this,’ he says, making a dodgy attempt at the move, ‘and it doesn’t look right.’

‘You no like?’ says Angelo again.

Everyone stares at Moss. ‘No, I don’t,’ he says, and Angelo looks like he’s been kicked in the guts. Moss doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Natasha!’ he cries, sparking more muffled instructions from headset guy.

Again the door at the back of the room opens and a figure emerges from the darkness. Even from a distance it’s clear that she’s a dancer. It’s as if royalty has arrived.

‘The timing works perfectly, Moss,’ says Natasha with the air of someone who’s used to being right.

‘No, but this part,’ says Moss, doing his awkward version of the move. I hold back a laugh.

There’s silence as Natasha scans the room and stops on me. ‘You,’ she says, pointing. ‘Show us. From the start.’

The command hits me like a shot of adrenaline. Moss glances at me. It’s just a moment. But it pulls me. I want him to look at me again.

Heart racing, I step forwards and begin to dance. This is my moment, my chance to impress.

‘There!’ cries Moss so suddenly that I jolt mid-step. ‘That bit’s too fast. Too
busy
.’

And to be honest, I agree with him. It’s not the timing, like he’s saying, but still something …

Natasha sighs. She takes her time answering. ‘This piece has been developed from your music, Moss. If you’re not happy with the timing, then you need to go back to the
music
.’ There’s no attempt to hide her disdain.

‘The music? It’s not the
fucking
music!’ says Moss and suddenly there’s movement everywhere. People in suits appear from new doorways. Peacekeeping troops, I guess.

A woman in an expensive-looking business suit says something to Moss and he replies without looking at her.

This could be a mistake, I know. But I can’t help it. ‘What about this?’ I blurt.

Everyone stops and looks at me.

My mind races its way back into the piece. ‘Instead of the knee to chest, why don’t we try something like …’

Delicately, deliberately, I improvise steps to match the building chords, sexing them up with a hip roll and lifting my leg around like a curling cat’s tail. Everyone’s watching.

When I’m finished, I put a hand on one hip and look over at Moss.

‘Yes, that’s it!’ Moss steps forwards, arms out and palms up. His smile is so sharply directed at me that it cuts through the nerves. I can’t help smiling back. ‘Do that again, will you?’

I nod.

Again, the moves come. They’re smoother this time, even more sure. I add an extra head-pop for effect.

‘Yeah, baby!’ He’s caught the mood. Moss turns to the others. ‘See? Number sixty-two. She gets it.’ He looks at Natasha. ‘That’s it. Make it happen.’ Moss winks my way, and walks out.

Natasha’s glare is for me only. ‘You make a habit of taking such liberties?’ Her tone drips with anger.

‘No, I just thought …’ Careful, Scarlett. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’ My mind races in tight circles but I manage to hold my ground, keep meeting her gaze.

‘I should hope not.’ Natasha turns as if I no longer exist. ‘All right, everyone. Make the change.’ She scans the room. ‘Angelo?’

Headset guy turns to the rest of us. ‘Okaaaay, take a break!’ He bounds up the stairs, calling behind him, ‘But don’t go too far. We want you back soon.’

For a while, the mood relaxes. When the headset guy returns, the tension comes with him. Nervously, we stand around the rim of the lit area.

‘Step forwards when I call ya name,’ he yells. ‘Number fifteen, number fifty-nine, number eighty-seven …’

My shoulders sag. It’s not me. Of course it wouldn’t be. The woman who spoke to me and Paige at the start takes her place in the line-up. She looks over at me sympathetically.

‘And one hundred and three,’ finishes the headset guy. When the dancers are all in line, he clears his throat. ‘You can go now, ladies. Thanks for your time.’

It takes a while for us to react. Those standing in line turn to each other, while the four of us left standing behind do the same. Next to me, the woman with afro hair lets her head drop back as she breathes in. Two blonde dancers who look like sisters nod and hug each other.

Laughter bubbles up inside me. I’m not even sure how I did it, but I did.

I’m in.

FOUR

‘Don’t cut your hair. Don’t dye your hair. Don’t put on weight …’

I stand with my hands behind my back, trying to contain the explosion of excitement within. The woman in the grey business suit has just taken us through the schedule. Now she’s listing all the things we can’t do between now and the shoot in two weeks.

I can’t help grinning at the other dancers as we listen. One of the blonde dancers smiles uncomfortably then glances away as if she’s not sure what to make of me.

‘… and don’t get a tattoo,’ finishes the woman in the business suit. ‘It’s all in the contract. Here …’ She hands a pile of pages to each of us. It looks so official.

I hold it to my chest. My first ever contract.

The woman in the suit is still taking us through it all. ‘Your agents can contact me with any questions,’ she says in finishing.

Agent? My hand goes up before I pull it back down. Too late. She’s looking at me. ‘I … ah … don’t actually have an agent.’

‘Well, get someone to look at it for you.’ For a moment she peers over her glasses at me. ‘What about equity membership?’