Chapter One

After a rainy winter day, a sudden drop in temperature had covered the pavement with crystals of ice. The reflections of headlights shimmered like stage spots. Carefully steering through the London evening traffic, Jessica pictured how dazzling it would be to dance all on her own. She turned into Duke's Road and let the car skid to a halt in front of The Caesar. She was glad she had brought a pair of overshoes, which she put on meticulously before she stepped out. She closed the door firmly, as if to convince herself that she was doing the right thing. With no rehearsal scheduled today, she had had no excuse to drive to the theatre; not on Roger's fiftieth birthday, when he expected her to act out the role of loving wife for his guests.

In the yellow light of a street lamp, she glanced at her watch. Ten past five already. She should have come earlier instead of helping Roger decorate the living room with garlands, where she had created a mess when a packet of drawing pins slipped from her hands and spilled its contents over the Chinese silk carpet.

Alan's call had been the last straw. He couldn't come to the party because he was developing a cold and didn't want to pass on his virus to his principal dancers so shortly before the première. Tonight, Roger's cronies would pollute the air with cigarette smoke, they would blather away about sinking interest rates and speculations on the stock market, and without a chance to escape for a chat with Alan, Jessica would feel left out of things. Roger had also invited David and Susan, but you can't discuss choreography for hours. Dancing is for practice not for prattle. Irritably, Jessica had grabbed her coat and shouted in the direction of the living room that she would drive to the theatre whether Roger liked it or not, and that she would be back before the guests arrived. He would be peeved with her, but he often was so it made little difference.

What did it matter now? She was where she belonged, and instantly her concerns faded. Cautiously placing her feet on the slippery ground, she walked to the entrance. The building lay dark except for the illuminated signboard over the door with "The Caesar" written in huge gaudy lettering on a black ground. Because of the exhaust fumes from nearby Euston Road, Alan had to repaint the sign every three or four years. Last autumn he had chosen fluorescent orange and green. Fourteen years ago, the same letters, painted pink and turquoise, had encouraged her to walk in and ask if they had tap dance classes for children.

A chilly wind began to blow. Jessica turned the key with stiff fingers. Inside, safe from the world that bothered her with its manifold demands, she switched on the light and raised her feet in turn to remove the overshoes.

On the wall opposite the box office hung the poster of their new production, Taming of the Shoe. With a few brushstrokes, Alan had portrayed her in mid-dance—her swirling bob of black hair, her dark eyes and ivory complexion, her slender body in a red mini dress.

Magically, he had also captured the thrill that suffused her when she danced. The poster was fantastic, perfect but for the names printed diagonally across the lower right edge, Jessica Warner & David Powell. The P under the W looked ugly and misplaced. Jessica Warner & Alan C. Widmark would read much better. Her name on top of his, the Ws in a perfect parallel.

Jessica let out a long-practiced sigh and went downstairs. Why did it have to be David?

At first, she had been impressed by David's inventiveness on the dance floor and his keenness to make the most of her talent. When he had wanted more, she had still been so naive as to think that he was just another penis-piloted adorer who was potty about her but would lose interest after a few passionate encounters. His persistence had surprised and scared her, and only a nasty shock had given her the determination to ditch him once and for all.

She opened the red door of her dressing room, placed her rucksack on the table and began to undress. The heating was turned low and she hurried to put on her tracksuit, then bent down and picked up the heavy-plated practice shoes Alan had given her for her eighteenth birthday. She went through the routine of checking if the screws that fixed the metal plates were tight. Pressing first the right then the left foot against the make-up table, she laced each shoe with a double bow. The thick black leather enclosed her feet like a second skin.

Jessica climbed the spiral staircase that led to the stage, pushed open the electrician's room door and switched on the footlights, leaving the auditorium in velvet blackness. In four days, at the première, spotlights would clip her out of the darkness, music would roar wildly and she would be intoxicated by a blend of concentration and consummation. She longed to share this experience with Alan.

She warmed up until the clacking of her shoe-plates sounded like drum-rolls, then began her dance session with fragments of David's choreography. Soon she was taken over by her passion for jazz elements. Her ankles moved like friction-free gearwheels, her jumps became higher, her turns wilder. The styles began to mix as if of their own will. She shifted into flamenco peppered with Irish jigs, swirled her feet like an overwound clockwork toy, galloped across the stage and leaped into a split. It felt better than having an orgasm; it was like being an orgasm.

Two exploding sneezes brought her to a sudden halt that almost tripped her. For a shameful second, she felt as if she had been caught in an auto-erotic act. The auditorium lights went on and she saw Alan shuffle down the aisle toward the stage, bleary-eyed, unkempt and dressed in blue flannel pajamas.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't want to make you jump. Or rather, I didn't want to stop your jumps so abruptly." He sneezed once more and pressed a crumpled handkerchief against his face.

"I'm the one who should be sorry, Alan. I woke you up, didn't I?"

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Your footwork may be nifty, but it's not loud enough to penetrate two stories of bricks and concrete. It was Roger who woke me. He called and wanted to know if you're still here."

Jessica made a cool-down stretch. "Just because he's old enough to be my father doesn't mean he can treat me like a child."

"He said he was worried because it was already twenty to seven and—"

"Twenty to seven! Are you sure? Shit. He'll be furious."

"I'll call him back and say that you're on your way."

"You're a darling. You know, instead of driving home to that silly party, I'd rather stay with you, make you some tea with lemon and cool your forehead. You look very unwell."

Alan inspected his handkerchief for a place to blow his nose. "Why are you here anyway? Just to spite Roger?"

She shrugged. "One of my whims, I suppose. I had better leave now."

"Take care. The streets are icy," Alan's voice croaked after her.

Five minutes later she was out again in the frosty, hostile winter.

David was so nervous he couldn't knot his tie properly. Working with Jessica was one thing; meeting her in her private surroundings quite another. There had been a time when every moment in her presence had been filled with hopeful yearning and feverish longing, to be replaced a few months later by the exuberance of fulfillment, which lasted only a year. Then, out of the blue, she had ended their affair. David had felt amputated and was wracked with all the symptoms of emotional phantom pain. The part of him that had been Jessica's lover was aching like a severed leg; it was throbbing with sadness, burning with desire and itching with rage.

David tugged at the ends of his tie until the knot came loose again.

"I'll do it for you," Susan said. She completed the knot and then embraced him from behind. He felt a stab of annoyance as Susan's fingers moved up and down his chest.

"You smell good." She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder blade.

He disentangled himself. "It's half past six and you haven't even started your make-up."

Susan sighed, reached for the hairbrush, and combed her blond curls with long, sweeping strokes. "I don't feel all that well, you know. Maybe we should stay at home. There's black ice on the roads."

"It's only a short drive and I've never had any problems with icy roads," he said testily. The evening was problematic enough without Susan's endless carping.

Susan tapped the back of the brush against her palm. "I don't think Roger really expects us to come. It was purely out of politeness that he invited us. Or maybe he didn't want Jessica to feel so terribly outnumbered by his clan and colleagues."

David unnecessarily straightened the knot of his tie and said with studied composure, "You're not getting one of your headaches or your monthly?"

"No, it's just that Roger makes me nervous. He has a short fuse." Susan put down the brush, poured a measure of liquid foundation on a small sponge and dabbed her skin with it. "I know better ways to spend a Saturday night. And Nurit's cooking is always so spicy. The smell alone makes my stomach revolt." She looked at David across the mirror. "Do we really have to go?"

"What's the matter with you?" David turned around. Leaning against the washbasin, he observed indifferently how beautiful she was, her slim body outlined in a white silk dress. He associated women with flowers. Years ago, he had called Susan his water-lily, had seen in her a creature of calm, remote beauty, afloat and vulnerable, shaped to painful perfection.

Copyright © 2004 Christine Spindler