The Vintage Summer Wedding. Jenny Oliver
Ben or the fact there had to be more than two people in a London Eye pod in case you had sex in there, and he’d said, ‘You’re full of shit, Anna Whitehall.’ And she had turned, ready with a quick retort but had seen the twinkling in his eyes and realised that he was laughing at her. No one had dared laugh at her before and she had loved it.
But this was a different type of laughter. One that excluded her and made her feel foolish, out of the joke.
Jackie sat back in her chair, took a sip of her espresso, and said, ‘Don’t worry about it. You probably don’t have the skill set to do it anyway, Anna. Teaching kids, it’s hard, it’d make working in PR at the Opera House seem like a walk in the park.’
I was at the English Ballet Company School, Anna thought, bristling. I was going to be a star. She closed her eyes and saw sequins and feathers and Swarovski crystals. Powder on a white puff, flicks of eyeliner and the sparkle of shadow. Tights with a hint of shimmer, pointes worn down to the box, ribbons frayed around her calf, the hoops of sweat on her leotard, the vomit in her mouth the split-second before the curtain went up, the thrum of the orchestra, the darkness of her eyelids as she waited, one deep breath after another until she could feel the warm, engulfing heat of the lights. The steely determination, the poise, the in-built stubbornness that fired like the strike of a match as soon as anyone questioned whether she could do it, whether she wanted to or not.
‘Tell me what time they rehearse,’ she said, pulling on her sunglasses, deliberately not looking at Seb. ‘I’ll be there.’
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