A French Pirouette. Jennifer Bohnet
the music!” Malik shouted as he rushed to her side. “Get the doctor.”
“No,” Suzette said. “I don’t need the doctor. I’ll be fine. Just give me ten minutes and a cold compress. Help me up, please?” She held out a hand to Malik.
Even as Malik gently pulled her onto her feet before placing an arm around her shoulders to steady her before helping her off stage, Suzette knew she was in trouble. Real trouble. Experience told her that this injury was not going to heal overnight.
After the cold compress had been applied, Malik insisted she take a cab back to the hotel. “You know it is impossible for you to dance again today, Suzette. Maybe with twenty-four hours rest and ice.” He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
Suzette could tell he was already mentally assessing the options he had.
Once alone back in her hotel room, Suzette gave way to the tears that had been threatening from the second she’d fallen. She knew that final jump had been perfect. How could she have been so stupid as to mess up the landing? And ruin everything? Thank heavens it hadn’t happened on opening night in front of Prince Albert and Princess Charlene. Her shame would have been absolute.
Malik arrived back early evening and insisted she ordered some food from room service before opening the bottle of champagne he’d brought with him.
“I’m hardly celebrating,” Suzette snapped at him.
“This is medicinal—to make you feel better,” Malik answered, handing her a glass. “Suzette, ma chérie, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to give the role to Donna,” he said quietly.
“Every understudy’s dream,” Suzette said. “The show must go on.” She took a long swig of champagne from her glass. “Maybe I should have retired like you after Manon at Covent Garden. That was a truly magical production, wasn’t it? Des Grieux was a perfect last role for you.”
Malik smiled and nodded as she continued.
“Whereas my acclaimed performance of one of the greatest female ballet roles ever is being overshadowed and all but forgotten by all the injuries since then.” Suzette wiped an escaping tear off her cheek with her free hand. “All I’m going to be remembered for is being forced to retire due to injuries.” She smiled wanly at him as she held out her empty glass for a refill.
“Not true,” Malik said carefully pouring the champagne. “People still talk about it, us, and your wonderful interpretation of the role. You’ll always be remembered as one of the best.”
He turned at the sound of a discrete knock and opened the door to room service.
Watching in silence as the waiter placed the food on the small table, Suzette sensed the stress coming from Malik. Even as he urged her to sit and eat she knew what he was preparing himself to say.
“I can’t stay long, Suzette,” Malik said, looking at his watch. “Donna’s rehearsing right now with Zac. I have to get back down there.”
“I could be back before the show ends. A couple of days and my ankle could be strong enough to dance.” Even as she said it, she knew she was lying to herself as well as Malik.
This injury would take weeks rather than days to heal, which meant yet more RICE time before battling her body back into dancing fitness. There was no point either in telling Malik about her bruised and sore arm, which in its own way was as bad as her ankle and would make any port de bras movements difficult for weeks to come.
Malik shook his head. “I can’t take the risk.”
“No I suppose not.” Suzette sighed, facing up to the inevitable. “Wish Donna luck from me. You’d better get back down to the Forum.”
“You’ve got everything you need?” Malik said, clearly relieved she’d taken the news so well.
Suzette nodded. Of course she had everything she needed—except a functioning ankle and an unbruised arm. No doubt the side of her body would be a mass of interesting colours by the morning.
As Malik closed the door behind him, Suzette pushed her salmon salade away untouched before downing her glass of champagne and immediately pouring herself another one. It was one way to drown both the physical and the mental pain. Besides, Malik had said it was medicinal.
Collapsing onto the bed, she switched on the TV and began to flick through the channels. Football, quiz games, reality shows, talk… Hang on that was the show she’d recorded weeks ago. She recognised the woman crime writer.
The camera moved around the various guests and Suzette saw herself on screen, watched herself uttering those words, “Sometimes I wish I could just be me.”
Thoughtfully Suzette muted the TV sound. Had this latest accident just granted her unacknowledged wish? She looked down at her injured leg. Her knee was showing signs of a big colourful bruise while her ankle was already two or three times its normal size. Suzette sighed. She’d been here so many times in the last few years.
But with the understudy now dancing in her place she didn’t have to try and rush getting fit. This Monaco show had been her only engagement of the year until Malik’s Paris show in the autumn. Malik.
Would he still want her to dance in view of this recent catastrophe? Would he take the risk with her again? He’d already agreed with her that Swan Lake in Paris would probably be her own swansong from the world of ballet. She couldn’t bear it if he cancelled her contract saying she wasn’t fit enough to dance, thus denying her a final performance and all the accolades usually given to a retiring dancer.
Suzette straightened her shoulders. There was a whole summer before then—more than enough time to recuperate from these injuries and get completely fit again. Banish the ‘face it your dancing days are finished’ demons. One more chance to show them what she could do and then—obscurity.
Carefully she stood up and reached for the walking stick that someone in the theatre had handed her as she left. Leaning heavily on it she made her way across the room and, after picking up the phone, asked for room service.
“I will need some help tomorrow morning, please,” she said. “About ten o’clock? Thank you.”
Thoughtfully replacing the receiver, Suzette began to make plans for the following day. Malik would be busy giving Donna extra coaching and then there was the dress rehearsal in the afternoon so she doubted she’d see him before dinner tomorrow evening. A fact which suited her well in view of the decision she’d just come to.
She sat down at the small desk, found a pen and took a piece of the hotel stationery.
“Darling Malik, I felt it best if I left. Hope the show is a huge success. See you in Paris. Love Suzette.”
She’d ask reception to give it to him tomorrow evening when he returned. She knew if she stayed and told him personally he would try to persuade her otherwise. It was best if she just left Monaco without telling him.
Libby
Discovering the photos of their last holiday as she searched for something in the ‘miscellaneous drawer’ of the kitchen dresser brought the memories flooding back for Libby Duncan. For years she and Dan had holidayed in France, staying at The Auberge du Canal in Brittany. Thoughtfully she laid the photos on the table one by one. That holiday three years ago had been one of their best. Dan had been so full of plans for their future.
They’d talked so often about moving to France. Dreamed about running a B & B, a gîte, enjoying the Good Life. But somehow something had always stopped them from taking the plunge. First it was Chloe’s schooling—it was never a convenient time for her to change schools. Then it was Dan’s job. A promotion meant more money but less time. Then it was Harriet, Libby’s mum, needing help after a hip replacement.
But on that last holiday Dan had insisted they started