A French Pirouette Read online

  “OK, guys. Let’s take a short break. Back in fifteen,” Malik said. Suzette, along with the rest of the dancers, breathed a sigh of gratitude.

  The company had arrived in Monaco three days ago—days that had been filled with rehearsals and little else. Today was the final one before the dress rehearsal tomorrow. Opening night would be Friday with Prince Albert and Princess Charlene in the audience.

  Back in her dressing room in the Grimaldi Forum, Suzette poured herself some water and did a few stretching exercises to keep herself limbered up. Although initially she’d found Malik’s choreography challenging she was enjoying dancing this modern ballet now she’d finally broken through and mastered its intricacies.

  Her partner, Zac, a young and up-and-coming Russian, was good and Suzette had rapidly felt confident in their onstage chemistry.

  A gentle knock on the door before Malik entered. He’d always been considerate—never assuming he could just barge in on her.

  “You ready for the last scene in Act Three?”

  Suzette nodded. It was a long complicated piece with her doing several grand jetés in mid-air, before an emotional dance with Zac, which involved her jumping into his arms.

  “Think so. Bit worried about doing the splits in mid-air actually,” she said. “My dancing repertoire hasn’t featured them much recently.”

  “Relax. You mastered them fine yesterday,” Malik assured her.

  Back down in the theatre, Suzette went through her pre-dancing stretching exercises while Malik put the corps de ballet through their routine.

  Standing in the wings waiting for her introductory music to play, Suzette felt the shiver of nervous stage fright she always experienced before she danced on stage. This is what she lived for. How would she survive without a regular dose of ballet-filled adrenalin anticipation?

  Zac, in the opposite wing, smiled across at her, before striding onto the stage ready for the first of their pas de deux. Five seconds later Suzette joined him and their bodies synchronised together in the flowing ballet movements and everything else faded away as they lost themselves in the evocative music.

  Suzette executed a final perfect allegro when disaster struck. Landing badly she end up in a crumpled heap on the wooden stage.

  “Stop 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 som
eone 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.

  Chapter Two

  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 visiting the local immobiliers, looking for their dream home. “We’ve got to do it soon, Libby, otherwise we’ll be stuck in a rut for ever.”

  Their dreams had been cruelly shattered just two months later when Dan died. Dead from a heart attack at forty-six. Stress, the doctor had said.

  Libby and Chloe had clung together and got through the awful time. Now here she was preparing to face ‘empty nest’ syndrome as Chloe looked forward to college.

  Libby knew that, unlike some widows, she was lucky being financially secure—Dan had been well insured—but with Chloe growing up and becoming independent she was beginning to feel it was time to get her own life back on a course she was happy with. Maybe it was time to sell the house? A new start in a new place. The only problem being she didn’t have a clue as to which direction she wanted the rest of her life to go.

  She picked up a photo of the auberge showing Dan sitting under the jasmine-covered loggia, raising a cool glass of rosé, a happy smile on his face. Libby could almost smell the sweet night air, hear the last of the daytime bees buzzing in the honeysuckle and see the swallows swooping around as Dan savoured the tranquility of the summer evening.

  Outside the reality of January rain hammered at the windows. Snow had been forecast for the end of the week. Summer seemed a long way off. Deep in thought Libby put the photo down on the table. Maybe she’d book a holiday for later in the year. It would be something to look forward to. A week at the Auberge du Canal with Brigitte and Bruno would be a wonderful antidote to winter—and maybe get her in the right frame of mind to kick-start her life in a new direction.

  She and Dan had become friendly with Brigitte and Bruno the very first time they’d stayed with them at the auberge. It was a friendship that had flourished over the generation gap from the moment they’d met, and with two or three visits a year, Brigitte and Bruno were more like elderly family relatives now. They’d even crossed the channel and stayed with Libby and Dan here in Bath.

  Brigitte had written her a lovely letter when she’d heard about Dan. Telling her any time she felt the need to get away she knew she was more than welcome to stay with them. It was an offer Libby had so far failed to take up. Maybe now was the time?

  There was a group photo of the four of them taken on a day out exploring the gardens of a restored chateau. Libby felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t spoken to Brigitte since Christmas. Tonight she’d put that right and ring. Wish her happy new year. It wasn’t too late to do that the second week in January. French people wished each other bonne année all through the month.

  At the same time she’d ask Brigitte about going to stay with them later in the year. Book the gîte next to the auberge for a fortnight’s holiday for her and Chloe. When should they go? Oh, June. June was always a lovely month in Brittany. It would be something to finally look forward to.

  Libby crossed to the phone. Why wait until this evening? Having made the decision she wanted to get it organised. She’d phone now.

  The phone rang and rang. Libby pictured the noise ringing around the large old-fashioned auberge kitchen where Brigitte spent most of her day preparing delicious meals. In the off season even though there were few guests staying the locals continued to use the restaurant, especially at weekends.

  Libby was about to hang up thinking Brigitte was too busy to answer when a quiet voice in her ear said. “Bonjour. Qui?”

  “Brigitte. It’s Libby here. A bit late I know, but bonne année. Comment allez vous?”

  A slight pause. “Ça va, merci, Libby. Bonne année a vous aussi.”

  Libby, sensing something wasn’t right said, “Brigitte, what is wrong?”

  “Bruno. He has broken the arm.”

  “The arm? Oh you mean his arm! Oh poor Bruno. Which one? Not his right one?”

  “No, the wrong one.”

  Libby struggled not to laugh at Brigitte’s misunderstanding. “His left arm then? Gauche?”

  “Oui. And he drives me mad with his demands. All day he is wanting me to help him. I have people to dinner this evening and he wants me to help him in the garden.”

  “How did he break it?”

  “He fell off the ladder helping me decorate one of the chambres. So naturellement he blames me!” Brigitte said sighing. “And you? How are you?”

  “Chloe and I are fine, thank you. Thinking of coming for a holiday this year if you have room for us?”

  “Always, Libby, but there is un petit problem,” Brigitte said. “The Auberge du Canal will be up for sale soon. Bruno’s accident made him cross so now he decides to sell. We go to live in his mother’s old house in the village.”

  Libby remembered visiting the imposing maison de maître in the middle of the village with Brigitte. With its wrought-iron railings and large double gates separating it from the main village street, the tall detached house had clearly been built by someone of importance in an earlier age.

  “You are welcome to stay with us there, Libby, if we have moved. It has enough rooms. When is it you wish to come?”

  “June?”

  “A good month. Let me know the dates later. Now, I have to go. Bruno is yelling for me.”

  “OK. I’ll phone you again. Bye.”

  Libby replaced the receiver and moved across to the table. It would be strange going to Brittany without Dan. She picked up the photograph of a smiling Dan sitting under the loggia again. Tomorrow she’d buy a frame for this one and place it on her bedside table. It would remind her of happier times and help her believe she would have a future again.

  When Chloe got back home later she’d talk to her too about an idea that had jumped into her mind as she talked with Brigitte. A crazy idea. An impossible idea. Wasn’t it?

  After supper that evening Chloe picked up the photographs Libby had left on the table and flicked through them. “Dad was so happy on that holiday,” she said.

  “He was,” Libby agreed. “He adored the process of visiting immobiliers and looking at property. I know he felt his dream seemed to be finally coming within his grasp.”

  They were both silent for several seconds before Libby sp
oke. “I rang Brigitte earlier. I wondered if we might go for a holiday in June—before you go off to college.”

  “That would be great, Mum.”

  “You’d like to go again? Sure to bring up lots of memories,” Libby said.

  “But they’d be good ones,” Chloe said quietly. “Sad but good.”

  “Probably our last chance as Brigitte told me they’re selling the auberge.”

  Libby held out her hand for the photographs and took a deep breath.

  “Chloe?”

  “Mmm?”

  “When Brigitte told me they were selling, I had this crazy idea that I might buy the Auberge du Canal,” Libby said. “Of course I won’t,” she added quickly. “It’s a stupid idea really. Not worth thinking about.” She put the photos back down on the table and turned away.

  “No it’s not. I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

  Libby stopped and looked at Chloe. “You do? It would mean selling this house for a start.”

  “It’ll be a bit big for you anyway when I leave,” Chloe said practically. “You’ll need to downsize.”

  “The auberge is bigger! And there’s a gîte.”

  “Yes, but it would be a business. You love having people to stay, fussing after them and cooking.”

  “I so don’t fuss!”

  “You do but in the nicest possible way,” Chloe said. “I definitely think you should think about it seriously.”

  “Really? You don’t think it’s too big a risk at my age—on my own?”

  “Mum. You’re not exactly on the scrapheap yet. OK I know you’ve got the big four-oh coming up this year but you’re still in reasonable shape for an oldie.”

  “Oldie?” Libby said. “I’m not old. Besides forty is the new thirty.”

  “You will be old if you don’t start living again. I know you miss Dad,” Chloe said. “I do too. But you need to do something with your life. Besides, you might meet a sexy Frenchman. Get married again.”

  Libby shook her head. She doubted that would happen. She did need to do something with her life though; Chloe was right about that. She was definitely too young to vegetate the rest of her life away.