Dancing Daze Read online

  The women in the audience whistle and cheer.

  “Easy, ladies,” Renee says with a smile. “We’ll be having a chat with the boys later, so stay tuned for that too.”

  As the band walk onto the set, wearing identical dark-blue suits, and start singing, I switch off a little, but Mills is swaying to the music, a goofy grin on her face. I look around the room, and my eyes rest on the mantelpiece. It’s decorated with framed family photographs, mostly of Mills and Claire together: toddler Mills and a mini version of Claire wearing Santa hats; Mills and Claire, at about four and eight, wearing matching pink skiing suits; Mills and Claire and Mickey Mouse — both sisters squinting in the sun — taken at Disney World; a larger professional-looking photograph taken when Claire was about our age of her looking stunning and elegant in a pale-blue-and-silver tutu, balancing on one pointe, with blue feathers in her scraped-back hair.

  When Coast have finished singing and soaking up their applause, they leave the set. I concentrate on the screen again.

  “Wasn’t that wonderful?” Renee says. “Now I’d like you to please give a very warm welcome to the Irish Ballerina, Claire Starr, and her Hungarian Romeo, Péter Bako.”

  Claire strides through an archway toward Renee in a stunning full-length, swishy silver evening dress. She is followed by Péter, who’s wearing tight black trousers and a snug-fitting white shirt unbuttoned almost to his belly button. Either Claire is no longer nervous or she’s a great actor. She looks poised and confident but incredibly thin. Her neck is all muscles and sinews, like a racehorse’s, and there is so little fat on her that you can see her ribs and hip bones through her dress. But then, maybe all dancers have ultratoned bodies. Péter is lean too.

  “Holy Moly, there she is,” Mills shrieks, jumping up and down on the sofa and clapping her hands together. “My sis, on the Late Late Show.”

  “We’re delighted to have you on the show, Péter and Claire,” Renee says. “Or should I call you Romeo and Juliet?”

  They both smile at her, but Claire’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Péter and Claire is just fine,” she says.

  “They look great together, don’t they?” I say, nudging Mills with my elbow. “Do you think they’re a couple? Did Claire say anything about it?”

  “Shush!” Mills hisses at me. She grabs the remote and turns up the volume again. “Stop talking, I’ll miss something.”

  “Sorry,” I say a little huffily. “I was just wondering.”

  “Now, Claire and Péter,” Renee says. “You’re dancing the lead roles in Romeo and Juliet, which opens in the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre on December twenty-first. Claire, tell us how your version of the ballet is different from previous ones.”

  Is it my imagination or did Claire just gulp? Her eyes are flitting around the studio and not focusing on Renee’s face. I think her nerves are starting to kick in!

  “Say something,” I will her.

  “Go on, Claire,” Mills adds, nibbling her lip.

  Péter is looking at Claire, also wondering if she’s going to answer Renee’s question. But Claire still hasn’t said a word. The question has clearly thrown her.

  “Let’s start with you, Péter,” Renee says, taking control. Clutching her hands to her chest, she puts on a weird-sounding warbling voice: “‘O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.’” Renee beams at him, clearly delighted with herself.

  As the audience claps politely, Péter looks at Claire and gives a tiny roll of his eyes. Claire smiles a little. Luckily Renee is staring straight into the camera and doesn’t notice. “My darling lady,” Péter says, turning to Renee. “I have never before heard that quotation spoken quite so beautifully.”

  Renee beams at him. “Why, thank you.”

  “What a lick,” I murmur, and Mills shushes me again.

  “I will answer your question,” Péter continues. “My Romeo is as Shakespeare intended: young, foolhardy, desperately in love.” He slides forward in his chair, and waves his arms around wildly. “Our version is all about love. Love, love, love. And passion. And desire. I dance with all my heart. I jump, I spin, I tumble, but it is here”— he runs a hand down his face —“here that matters. My expression. My face. I want the audience to feel what Romeo feels inside.” He hits his chest with a closed fist. “For two hours, I want them to live through what Romeo lives through. When his heart breaks, I want their hearts to break. And that is what makes my Romeo different.” He sits back and crosses his arms.

  Renee looks a little taken aback by his passionate response, but she recovers quickly. “And a lovely face it is too,” she says. “And can I come to you now, Claire? There are rumors that you and Péter are, in fact, an item. Are they true?”

  Mills gives a squeak and turns the telly up even louder.

  Péter is grinning from ear to ear, his eyes fixed on Claire’s face. Claire says nothing for a few seconds, her cheeks blushing again. Then, with what seems like an enormous effort, the edges of her mouth lift. “That would be . . . telling,” she says, faltering, before continuing with more confidence. “You’ll just have to see the show and decide for yourself, Renee.”

  Mills gasps. “Maybe they are in love.”

  I’m not convinced. Claire’s answer sounded too practiced, as if her PR woman had told her what to say.

  The show goes to an ad break then, so instead of disagreeing with Mills (after all, it’s not every night your sister is on the telly), I say, “Claire looks amazing. Is that slinky dress hers?”

  “Unfortunately, no. They found it for her in the RTÉ costume department. Claire thought she was dancing on the show, not talking, so she had nothing to wear.”

  My mobile beeps twice and I check my messages. One’s from Mum: HOME STRAIGHT AFTER CLAIRE’S SLOT — ISN’T SHE DOING WELL? MUM XXX

  The second’s from Seth: SORRY I WON’T GET TO SEE YOU THIS WEEKEND. YOU’RE AT YOUR DAD’S, RIGHT? AND I’M BEING THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S ASSISTANT AT A 60TH BIRTHDAY PARTY SATURDAY, AND A CHRISTENING ON SUNDAY, YAWN. SEE YOU IN SCHOOL. MISS YOU ALREADY, SETH X

  Seth’s my boyfriend, and he often helps his mum (he calls her Polly) on the weekends. She’s a photographer. There’s only the two of them, and they’re very close. Bailey, Mills’s boyfriend, is Seth’s best friend, but they’re very different. Seth is blond and easygoing. Bailey’s dark-haired and more complicated, but he’s utterly devoted to Mills.

  “Anything interesting?” Mills asks, twisting her neck to try to read my screen. “Oh, Seth. ‘Miss you already.’ Isn’t that sweet? I do adore Seth. He’s such a cutie.”

  She watches as I tap in a simple SEE YOU THEN. MISS YOU TOO. AMY. BIG X, and press “send.”

  “Is that it?” she asks. “That’s all you’re sending him? One x.”

  “A big x,” I protest. “Why? What would you suggest, O Love Text Guru?”

  “Bailey’s always sending me lines of corny old love songs.” Mills and Bailey have officially been together since October, but it feels like forever. And not always in a good way.

  “Sounds scintillating,” I say.

  “Don’t be so snarky, Ames. At least it’s inventive. And I send him poetry sometimes.”

  “Poetry? Seriously? What kind of poetry?” I put on a posh theatrical voice and throw an arm out in front of me. “‘My luuuurve is like a red, red rose.’ That kind of thing?”

  She scowls. “Are you making fun of me, Amy Green?”

  I pretend to look shocked. “Of course not, Amelia Starr. But I think Seth would split his sides laughing if I started spouting text poetry at him. We’re not gushy like that.” (I don’t tell her that Seth does, in fact, write me poetry from time to time. It’s personal, and he’d kill me if I ever told anyone, especially Mills. Some things should be kept private.)

  After a beat, she says, “OK, I get it,” rather too knowingly for my liking.

  “What does th
at mean?”

  “The spark has clearly gone out of your relationship, that’s all. You’re like an old married couple.”

  “We are not. That’s a criminal thing to say, Mills.”

  She puts a hand up like a traffic cop. “Shush. The show’s back.”

  Renee starts asking Claire about her background and training, and I tune out. I’m still fuming about Mills’s old-married-couple gibe. How dare she? Now that Mills has Bailey, she thinks she’s the world’s expert on relationships and boys. It’s most aggravating. I’ve been with Seth way longer than she’s been with Bailey. And it’s not as if they haven’t had their problems. Bailey even cheated on Mills a while back, and Seth would never do something like that. Bailey was going through a really rough time at home, but it was still a horrible thing to do. So Mills is hardly the right person to give me relationship advice.

  “Amy?” Mills says. “Did you hear that? Claire just thanked her family for supporting her over the years, and her old dance teacher, Miss Smitten. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Yes,” I say, tuning back in to the show. I’m supposed to be watching Claire’s performance for signs of stress, not obsessing about my own life. Concentrate, Amy!

  “How do you cope with being away from your family so much, Claire?” Renee asks. “You left home at fifteen to attend the Budapest Ballet Academy, is that right? It’s very young.”

  “It is young,” Claire agrees, her face serious. “Maybe a little too young, but it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. All I’ve ever wanted to do is dance. It was my dream.” She shrugs. “But I don’t think I realized how hard I would have to work to be accepted. And I was terribly homesick at first. I still miss my family, and especially my little sister, Mills. Hi, Mills, if you’re watching.” Claire smiles at the camera, her first genuine smile of the whole interview.

  “Hi, Claire,” Mills says excitedly, waving at the screen.

  I laugh. “Don’t think she can hear you.”

  “She said my name on the telly. I’m famous.” Mills falls back against the sofa and sighs dreamily.

  Renee leans forward in her chair. “And Claire, Péter, does either of you get nervous before a big show like Romeo and Juliet? They’re huge roles, and it’s a lot to take on.”

  Péter shrugs. “A little, but not much, and once I’ve stepped onto the stage, the nerves, they go away. For Claire, I think it is worse, yes?” He looks at Claire, his eyes soft, and she lifts her head — she’s been staring down at her hands — and nods.

  “I get terrible stage fright,” she admits. “My hands shake and I can’t keep anything down for hours before a performance. But, like Péter, once I’m onstage, I’m OK. It’s just thinking about everything beforehand that gets to me, you know? Worrying that I’ll make stupid mistakes and let myself and the company down. I’m the only Irish dancer in the Dublin show and I know people will be coming to see me — the ‘Irish Ballerina.’” She pauses, as if slightly overwhelmed by the thought, and then takes a deep breath. “It’s a huge responsibility. I want everyone to be proud of me, especially my family.”

  I try to imagine what it must be like to carry an entire megaballet production on your shoulders. Yikes! No wonder Claire feels under pressure.

  “It is a huge responsibility,” Renee agrees. “But I’m sure you’ll do both yourself and your company proud. Isn’t that right, Péter?”

  “Yes,” he says strongly, turning his whole body toward Claire. “You will be a wonderful, beautiful Juliet. I know this with my heart.” He takes her hand and kisses it softly. “And I will be right beside you on that stage, cheering you on with my whole being.”

  Claire’s eyes are sparkling in the lights. Is she crying? She blinks several times and mouths, “Thank you,” at him. It seems like a very sweet, private moment, and Mills and I both say, “Aaaahh,” and smile at each other.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, you both seem very mature for your ages,” Renee says. “Claire, you are seventeen, Péter, nineteen. Is that right?”

  They both nod.

  Renee tilts her head. “Do professional dancers ever go wild like normal teenagers, break out a little? Do you go clubbing with your Hungarian ballet friends, Claire? You guys must tear up the dance floor, am I right?”

  Claire looks upset and then, clearly aware that Renee is still looking at her, expecting an answer, says quietly, “I don’t have much time for that kind of thing.”

  Péter jumps in. “Maybe you will take me dancing in Dublin, Claire, yes?”

  Claire smiles and nods at him, but she still seems unhappy. As Renee is asking Péter about his training regime, inviting him to unbutton his shirt more and show the audience his abs — which he does slowly, with a cheeky grin, much to the delight and whoops of the audience — Claire sits right back in her seat, as if she’d like to sink into the leather and disappear. She’s scratching one of her thumbs with a fingernail, and her mouth is set in a rigid line.

  I’m sure most people are watching the animated conversation between the presenter and Péter, like Mills is, but I’m studying Claire. She’s blinking quickly and looks like she’s about to cry. Renee’s question about what she does for fun seems to have triggered something.

  By the end of the interview, Claire has recovered a little, and her hands are still. But when Renee thanks her and Péter for coming on the show and wishes them luck in Romeo and Juliet, she looks heartily relieved that the interview is over.

  As the show goes to another ad break, Mills claps her hands and grins. “Wasn’t that amazing?” she gushes. “Apart from that silence after the first question, which I’m sure was just nerves, Claire rocked that interview. She’s definitely back to her old self, which is a megarelief. She was smiling and joking around with Péter, who is a total babe, by the way. But, poor thing, I had no idea she gets such bad stage fright. Throwing up and everything must be horrible. No wonder she’s not eating. I wouldn’t either if I thought I was going to throw up all the time.”

  Mills seems oblivious of her sister’s distress toward the end of the interview, and before I get the chance to say anything, her mobile rings. “It’s Claire!” she says, answering it. “Hi, sis, you were fantastic, brilliant. . . . No, honest. . . . I’m not surprised you were nervous. She asked some pretty tough questions. . . . You met Coast in the greenroom? I’m so jealous. What’s Billy like in person? . . . They’re doing a concert really? When?” Mills chatters on excitedly.

  Claire’s reaction to Renee’s last question is still niggling at me. Something isn’t right. Why would Claire react so badly to being asked what she does for fun? It’s weird.

  “OK, talk to you later. Enjoy the rest of the show.” Mills clicks off her mobile and grins at me. “Claire says Billy is dreamy in real life, and at the end of the show, Coast will announce the dates for their new concert tour. They’ve just been uploaded onto their website, apparently. Let’s go on Claire’s laptop and have a look. It’s really fast to boot up. Not like Dad’s old thing. I think it’s in her room.”

  Still mulling over what could be up with Claire, I follow Mills upstairs.

  Claire’s room, the largest bedroom in the house, is like a time capsule. It’s exactly the way it was when she left for Budapest two years ago, right down to the posters on the wall and the pink-and-white-ballerina curtains that Sue made when Claire was little. Mills used to have cute brown-and-yellow-cowgirl curtains, but she asked Sue to change them years ago. Claire loved hers so much, though, that she kept them, even as a teenager.

  The whole room is a shrine to ballet, but it’s always looked a bit bare. The floor is covered in cork tiles, and, apart from the bed pressed up against the left-hand wall and the built-in wardrobe, there isn’t any other furniture, not even a desk. But there’s a reason for this: it used to double up as Claire’s own private dance studio. There’s a wooden barre along the right-hand wall in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, where Claire used to practice. Both were made from scratch and put in place b
y Allan Starr, who’s a real Handy Andy (unlike like my dad, who can barely change a lightbulb).

  Posters and photographs of famous ballerinas — Margot Fonteyn, Darcey Bussell, and Olga Varga, the most famous Hungarian ballerina ever — stare down from the other three walls. They are all wearing fluffy white tutus and balancing on their tippy-toes while doing impossible-looking bendy things with their legs. Claire admires them all, but Olga is her idol. Her voice goes all hushed whenever she says Olga’s name, as if she is some sort of saint or something.

  The room is as neat as Mills’s, apart from the bed, which is heaped with a muddle of tops and jeans, a hair dryer, a huge silver makeup bag the size of my schoolbag, two pairs of slightly grubby-looking pointe shoes, a black leotard, and a pair of balled-up off-pink ballet tights. Claire’s silver hard-shell suitcase is almost hidden under the mess. And on top of the chaotic mountain is her small ultrathin black laptop. It’s open, and the screen flickers brightly back to life as soon as Mills picks the laptop up.

  “Here we are,” she says. She clicks on Google and types in “Coast concert dates.” “Claire was right. They are playing in January. Will you go with me, Ames, pretty please? Maybe we could bully Clover into taking us. Mum would never let me go without an adult, and Clover just about counts.”

  “I’ll think about it.” To be honest, I’d prefer not to, but Mills is my best friend. And we have to suffer for our besties! I’m sure Clover wouldn’t mind. She’s mad about any kind of music.

  “Maybe Claire will come too,” Mills says. “Maybe she could take a weekend off or something.”

  I look at Mills in surprise. Hasn’t she been listening to a word her sister has been saying? Ballerinas don’t seem to get much time off. Claire practically admitted that she doesn’t have time for fun. But once again, Mills is lost in her own little world of unicorns and rainbows and totally oblivious of the people around her.