скачать книгу бесплатно
Caesar looked thoughtful. ‘Are you saying you believe watching her dance before you play would improve your motivation?’
‘How could it not? Look at her! I’m sure I’m not the only one who would feel this way. There’s something captivating about the way she moves, like she brings the essence of the music to life … Well, if I could just bottle up a bit of ballet for my own personal use, that would be perfect.’ Ivan laughed, then added with a wink, ‘I know you are a resourceful man who is capable of many things, Mr King, but I doubt this is a problem you can solve. If you do come up with the answer, let me know; I’d love to hear about it.’ He chuckled at the path their conversation had taken, amiably patting Caesar on the back.
‘A fascinating challenge, just fascinating. In the meantime, my friend, come backstage with me, and I’ll see if I can introduce you to Eloise and the rest of the corps de ballet.’
‘Thank you but unfortunately I must be on my way, yet another plane to catch. Thanks for the chat. I shall look forward to seeing you again at another one of her performances.’
As the two men bid each other farewell, Caesar’s intrigued mind was clicking into gear, working on a variety of scenarios based on Ivan’s sketchy idea.
If Ivan could not manage to consolidate his position as the world’s Number One, men’s tennis would enter one of its most unpredictable eras. The Edge currently managed the top six male players in the world, which provided Caesar with tremendous insights into what was happening on the circuit – leading to substantial business opportunities.
The more inside information Caesar had, the more money he stood to make. And once an idea had seeded in his mind, it was rarely dislodged – particularly if it was coupled with a fire in his belly. There was no doubt this conversation had ignited the flame of an idea for Caesar and it was usually only ever a matter of time before it came to full fruition.
(#ulink_6b4f37de-9535-536b-a366-3cc17d8270b1)
The Offer (#ulink_6b4f37de-9535-536b-a366-3cc17d8270b1)
Manon
All the dancers of the Royal Ballet had eagerly gathered in the narrow corridor, anxiously awaiting the announcement of their roles in Sir Kenneth MacMillan’s Manon, widely acclaimed as one of the company’s signature ballets. For most ballerinas, dancing the coveted role of Manon was deemed to be one of the highlights of their career. The ballet told the story of a young woman torn between the man she loves and a wealthy older suitor who promises her the luxury she craves. The character must exhibit various states of emotion – ranging from shy to flirtatious, from desperate love to the agonies of an eventual wretched death – all captured within the realms of dance. The demands on the ballet dancer were extreme, requiring almost exhaustive physical and emotional stamina.
Eloise was returning from the ballet’s physiotherapist, having been dismissed by Madame Alana from the morning class when she landed badly on her ankle during her sissonne jumps, and was immediately drawn to the buzz of activity surrounding the notice board. When she approached the other dancers, the bustle around her immediately faded to silence as the weight of her reaction hung heavily in the air.
As she registered the black names listed on the white paper, she stared uncomprehendingly at the notice board, her eyes anchored to it as though she were paralysed in the worst nightmare of her life.
Not a sound could be heard other than Eloise’s breath slowly inhaling and exhaling through her nostrils … until a muffled, strangled scream passed through her pursed lips.
The dancers scattered in panic as though a large stone had been thrown amidst a flock of flamingos, their scarves and tutus fluttering and floating to the floor like feathers post-flight. They dispersed as quickly as they had assembled in an attempt to avoid what they all knew would be the eye of the foreboding storm.
In what should have been the triumph of her career, Eloise had been usurped by a Russian impostor.
Principal: Natalia Karsavina
Soloist: Eloise Lawrance
Eloise noticed her hands trembling, before she actually felt them lightly touch the bold print where she had expected to see her name. Her entire body went numb, not allowing her to feel the emotion she knew was brewing beneath her skin. Life swirled on around her, but it didn’t seem to touch her. She was present, but in her mind she was not really there. This had to be false – a prank perhaps? But no one could be that cruel; ballet dancers were finely honed creatures, physically strong yet their self-esteem so very fragile.
How could it be? Her life’s work – had it honestly come to this? How could she face her peers in light of this demotion? How could she face the world? She was the Principal of the Royal Ballet, not Natalia! They might as well have broken her legs, such was the pain in her heart.
The force that had driven her for years to study, to practise, to hone her skills hour after hour, day after day, all ultimately heading to the role of top ballerina at one of the greatest ballet companies the world had known, all had come to nothing, because the role she had aspired to had been cruelly snatched from beneath her wings. Although she had always loved Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty and The Nutcracker, she had done them all to death, the movements so deeply entrenched in her muscles that she barely needed to engage her brain as they toured around the world doing one performance after another. Manon had been her opportunity to challenge, interpret and ultimately shine – to firmly establish herself in the history of the Royal Ballet as Number One for this day and age.
Eloise fell in a crumpled heap onto the cold concrete floor, as the pain of disappointment crashed over her limbs. They had finally broken her spirit, snapped it in half.
Though she was so often complimented on her demure presence, controlled emotions and grace, both on and offstage, suddenly uncontainable anger ripped through her veins and she got up and tore the menacing announcement from the notice board then charged along the corridor and up the stairs.
The futility of her years of silence, acquiescence and unswerving commitment suddenly seemed to burst the synapses of her brain. How dare some young Russian upstart from the Bolshoi Ballet replace her! Just because the company had recently appointed a new renegade choreographer, Xavier, who preferred the Russian dancer’s style and chutzpah! It was she who was the lead ballerina of this company, she who had been classically trained at this very school for more than a decade, she who had only just been promoted to the iconic position of Principal. Unfortunately, it was also she who had nothing else to live for now the role of her career had been snatched away …
Unaccustomed to not being in control of her emotions, Eloise was seething as she threw open the door of the company director’s office unannounced. Her slight frame trembled as she stared daggers at Sir Lloyd Barclay.
He could barely make eye contact as he shifted hastily from behind his desk to close the door discreetly behind her.
‘Ah, Eloise, I’m assuming you have seen the cast sheet.’
As he uttered the words she saw her life shatter into tiny pieces before her eyes.
‘That was my role, Lloyd! It was promised to me!’
With uncharacteristic vengefulness she pinned the piece of paper to his chest with her finger, though it merely floated to the floor as he stepped back behind his desk, which provided him with a physical barrier of authority and immediately diluted the emotive force between them.
Lloyd still avoided looking at her. ‘That’s nonsense, my dear. You know as well as I that nothing is guaranteed in this business, and that disappointment is part and parcel of being a dancer. Someone with your experience knows that anything can change at a moment’s notice. Naturally, this is hard news for you to take in, but you will still be Natalia’s understudy, of course, and –’
His words permeated her thoughts. But the Royal Ballet isn’t business; it is art, culture and beauty. It’s my entire life!
For the first time ever, she wasted not a moment in interrupting him.
‘I will not tolerate being the understudy or a soloist. You know I don’t deserve such a demotion. The role of Manon was mine, anything less is insulting!’
She furiously spat the words towards him, astounding herself with her aggressive behaviour. She had never spoken an angry word to anyone in her life, having always kept a tight lid on her emotions until they could be expressed onstage via another character.
Lloyd seemed to change tack. ‘Under normal circumstances I would agree with you, Eloise. But you know as well as I that this role is demanding – both emotionally and physically. It will put your ankle under too much strain. We can’t take the risk, and, well, decisions have to be made and, ah, well, have been, I’m afraid – as you have seen.’ His facial expression tensed then softened in an attempt to placate her fury.
‘My ankle has nothing to do with this!’
‘You need to be patient, my dear – give Xavier some time to understand your true talent and your body time to heal.’
‘Then why isn’t he giving me the chance to prove that the role should be mine? You know I can dance through pain. It has never affected my performance.’
Even though they weren’t particularly close, Eloise had always considered Sir Lloyd her ally, her dancing guardian, almost like the grandfather she had never known. Now the person before her seemed nothing more than a condescending old man determined to destroy her career.
Eloise took a deep breath to ensure her voice was measured. She could barely whisper her next words, her anger – or was it fear? – barely contained beneath the surface of her skin.
‘I know my ankle isn’t the real reason, Lloyd. You owe me the truth.’
‘Well … you have to understand that this is Xavier’s first ballet with us. He is looking for more depth and emotion, I suppose, for a role like this. He believes Natalia has your technical ability … but also dances with more passion and verve. It’s in her genes. She has more life experience to draw upon for the complex role of Manon.’
He rose from behind his desk and placed his hand on her shoulder, which she deftly shrugged off. He shook his head, not sure what to do next. He, like everyone else, had never encountered this side of Eloise. Up until now she had always addressed him with deference.
The more Lloyd tried to convince her of the wisdom of Xavier’s decision, the more blurred his words became to Eloise as his voice faded into the background of her mind.
‘Natalia has more grit … edge … emotional depth …
‘We know you are technically brilliant but your desire for perfection and control is inhibiting your performance …
‘Ballet has been your entire life for more than a decade … Perhaps you should take a break if you’re not content with being a soloist … explore something new for a while … get some perspective … At twenty-two there’s still time to find yourself, discover who you really are, what you truly want in life … I’d be more than happy to approve a leave of absence given how upset you are …’
I am a ballerina.
It’s who I am.
It’s all I ever want to be.
I am a ballerina.
This mantra was on replay in her head like an old-fashioned broken record as his monologue continued chipping away at her depleted ego.
‘There are so many bright, talented dancers currently rising through the ranks, and oh, the Russians, their skill, their grace, their exquisite beauty …’
Eloise imploded emotionally. Her deeply rooted feelings of never having truly belonged were allowed free rein to retranslate his words in her brain.
I am ugly!
I am imperfect!
I lack grace!
Ballet was all Eloise knew. Since before she could remember she had devoted every waking moment to becoming the perfect ballerina. Prima Ballerina! she screamed in her mind. Not Number Two, not Number Three. Number One! The Principal Ballerina of the Royal Ballet and she made it, only to have it abruptly snatched away because one man – Xavier Gemmel – preferred Russian dancers over her.
Her peers sometimes thought her myopic mindset was a little naive and unrealistic and they encouraged her to socialise more with them, live a little. She became determined to prove to them that dedication such as hers was what enabled success, and anything less would result in failure – and she had proved exactly that. Until now!
How could she face them now? What would they think? Would they agree with Sir Lloyd’s and Xavier’s decision to demote her, sniggering behind her back, thankful that they hadn’t been as invested as she? Of course they would! Long ago she had removed herself from the pettiness of their discussions to focus on perfecting her craft so she could turn it into majestic art. She was a child when she arrived and now it was as though the only family she had ever known were rejecting her – spitting her out of the only place she had ever belonged.
Her mind closed down, blocking out the last of Sir Lloyd’s words, and her body took over.
She was unaware of her own movements as she held her head high, refusing to cast her eyes back on the life she was heartbreakingly leaving behind. She gathered her few belongings as if on autopilot, not noticing any of the commotion around her as she reached the corridor. The voices pleading with her to stay, to calm down and talk to them might as well have been thousands of miles away, they were so muffled in her mind.
She gingerly placed her beloved music box in her bag, not daring to capture a glimpse of herself in the mirror, lest she embed the image of the broken failure she had become.
The doors slammed behind her as the London chill slapped her face, colouring her cheeks. It was cold enough for the tears her heart had been trying to keep at bay to freeze like crystals on her face.
Even as she maintained her outward composure, she could feel herself shattering further on the inside as each moment passed. She defensively wrapped her faux fur jacket around her body and hailed the first cab she saw, directing the driver to Russell Square to her empty, lonely apartment – desperate to distance herself as quickly as possible from the complete betrayal by those she had once trusted so completely.
The steaming hot shower did nothing to diminish the chill in her bones. What was she to do now? She was used to a life of travel, going to the most beautiful cities the world had to offer, dancing in theatres steeped in history. Admittedly, the busy, nomadic lifestyle sounded more luxurious than it was in reality, but it suited her perfectly. It provided her with her only opportunity to feel truly alive – when she was dancing centre stage.
Her life as a ballet dancer had given her a reason to wake up each morning and ensured she went to bed exhausted each night. It had protected, cherished and disciplined her. Now, she felt the enormity of how alone she truly was in the world. She had no one and belonged nowhere. She was left with nothing but a crushed heart and the vast nothingness of the wasted dreams of her youth.
In the depths of despair, she felt herself slip away from the world in the days that followed. Time was of no consequence, as she lay bereft in her minuscule apartment. There was no food in her fridge, nothing of substance in her barely used kitchen cupboard – not that she cared to eat anything. She could starve to death and not a single person in the world would be any the wiser about her now insignificant existence. She felt more alone than she had in her entire life.
The only thing that eventually managed to distract her from her desolation was the incessant ringing of the phone somewhere in the background of her clouded mind. When she finally went to answer it, she noticed a shiny pale gold envelope almost lost amidst the pile of scattered mail near the front door.
Both the envelope and the phone call had the potential to signify the end of her old life, and catapult her into an entirely unfathomable new world.
Tate
‘Caesar King requests the pleasure of your company for lunch at the Tate Modern,’ his personal assistant explained rather pompously to Eloise over the phone. When she opened the gold envelope, it contained a formal invitation along with the personal flurry of his distinctive signature.
Eloise had no idea what to expect when she dressed that morning. Her entire wardrobe consisted of the baggy trousers and sweat shirts she wore over her ballet clothes, some jeans and T-shirts for Sundays – her only day off each week – a denim jacket, her faux fur coat and a few evening dresses for when she changed after performances to meet visiting dignitaries.
Given she had no idea what the dress code would be, she was forced out of the house to quickly purchase a formal knee-length skirt and neat floral blouse from Zara, as well as a small attaché case. She loosely pulled her unruly hair into a braid, grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door, then set out for her mysterious meeting with the renowned billionaire.
After a short Tube ride Eloise arrived at the Tate Modern more than an hour before her scheduled meeting, hoping that wandering around the magnificent works of art would provide the necessary distraction to calm her rising apprehension. She would have given anything to have had something else on today, anything rather than meeting Caesar King at this famous art gallery on the Thames … But she didn’t have an excuse not to go, and what was worse was that he knew she didn’t.
Even beyond his connection with the Royal Ballet, she knew of the illustrious Caesar King. And everyone knew that when Caesar called, you answered. The only problem was that neither the phone call nor the gold-embossed invitation she had received had provided any clue as to why he would want to meet with her. Although it did manage to pique her interest enough to temporarily suspend her state of misery.
Deep down she secretly hoped Sir Lloyd had asked him to check up on her, maybe even offer her her position back, but she knew she was hoping against hope and that Natalia would be Principal for the foreseeable future. Unless she was prepared to play second fiddle – which she most certainly was not – her future with the Royal Ballet seemed doomed.
As the time of the meeting approached she was sorely tempted to run in the opposite direction. She hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone since her demise and was still in a precarious emotional state. But just as she was considering retreating back home, the great man himself appeared, saying farewell to his guests from his previous meeting. He cheerfully greeted a nervous Eloise, whose palms had suddenly broken into a warm sweat.
As far as she could remember, she had only briefly made Caesar’s acquaintance at one of the Royal Ballet’s gala performances where the senior dancers were required to socialise with benefactors and the Board of Trustees. His well-known Italian–American heritage contrasted with his upper-crust English accent, and he was better looking, fitter and more polished in real life than the way he was portrayed in the tabloids (which was usually with a drink in his hand). But more than anything it was his charisma that was evident from the moment he walked into the entrance hall. It took her by storm.
‘Thank you so much for meeting me, Eloise. After you.’ He gestured for her to precede him into the lift. ‘We’ll go up to the restaurant on the seventh floor.’
Although she had visited the gallery, Eloise had never dined on the seventh floor. The views of London over the Millennium Bridge were breathtaking as she settled into her plush seat in the private room. She was pleased she had worn a formal skirt and blouse rather than more casual attire, given that Caesar was dressed in a navy suit with his trademark cravat and handkerchief; today’s colour was cerise.
‘I hope you don’t mind, I’ve ordered lunch for us. Would you like a cocktail to start, or perhaps some champagne?’ He raised his eyebrows, awaiting her answer.
If Eloise had been nervous before, she was practically speechless now. Apparently a cup of tea wasn’t on the agenda, she thought anxiously, still unable to believe she was meeting with Caesar alone and still hadn’t so much as uttered a word.
‘I, ah, I’m not sure …’
‘We’ll start with two bellinis, I think, Max, and take it from there.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ The waiter silently disappeared, closing the door behind him.
‘Now, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here,’ he began, his smile broadening.
‘The thought has crossed my mind, Mr King.’ Eloise was relieved when her first words came out more smoothly in reality than she’d imagined them in her mind.
‘Please, call me Caesar. I’ve no doubt it has. But before I get to that matter, let me just say how sorry I am that you’re not currently dancing with the Royal Ballet. You are such an extraordinary ballerina; it is definitely our loss.’
Eloise had been dreading discussing this, but had known it would be unavoidable given Caesar’s active involvement in the company.
‘Thank you,’ was all she said in reply.
‘So tell me, do you have any plans for your immediate future?’
It took Eloise a moment or two to answer. ‘To be honest, I haven’t given anything much thought since walking out. I realise I’ll need to soon …’
‘I know this is out of left field, but your future is the very subject I’d like to discuss over the course of this lunch. I have a proposal I want you to consider. But let’s get to know each other a little better first, shall we?’
Eloise agreed, still unsure where any of this was headed.
‘How about I start with a little bit about me?’
‘Sure, sounds good.’ Eloise was grateful he was taking charge, given her level of discomfort with the whole setting.
If there was one thing Caesar was great at – and loved – it was talking about himself until other people relaxed around him, and he didn’t mind how long it took. He was a patient man when it served him to be.
Eloise listened attentively, politely at first and then with fascination at the twists and turns his life had taken. Caesar’s passion for tennis and ballet was obvious, as his eyes lit up and his gestures became more animated whenever he mentioned these topics. Before long, Eloise was completely engaged, laughing at his stories and hanging on his every word. Looking down at her plate, she was surprised to see that she had already finished her lunch. Caesar filled up her glass for the second time with a crisp Pouilly-Fuissé, which she found delicious even though she rarely drank. It didn’t take her long to realise that it was far simpler to go with the flow of all things Caesar, and he was never slow in taking the lead in the conversation – which suited her no end.
