She could see nothing at all except for what was in her extreme periphery. The music penetrated her entire body which responded with a pre-rehearsed automacy. Her spirit soared, blending into the atmosphere of the moment, with muscles that stretched with the kind of ease only an eight year old could carry. Pirouette, demi-plié, bow and curtsy, the curtain threw itself down in front of her heralding the finality of the moment, and as she stood up straight, a flash of light and a loud applause greeted her serenely smiling face, while her eyes adjusted themselves painfully to the sudden brightness.
“Didn’t you feel any nerves at all?”
Her mother asked as she scooped her up into her arms and gave her a lipstick kiss on her cheek.
“No.” came the confident reply, as her hand went up as it always did to wipe the imagined smear.
She meant it. She had quite forgotten everything while she was out there, except the notes floating out from the piano which she had become one with. Even the duet with her friend, the piece where she was proudly wearing a tailored costume made by her own mother a fashion designer and boutique owner, had not tempted her to care if anyone was watching.
She had mild autism which meant that she had already got a head start in that department, by readily retreating into a world of her own, whenever she found the outside too stressful, which was pretty much most of the time. Ballet and her were the best of friends, Siamese twins almost. How she looked up to the older girls and longed so much to wear the pointes and get right up on the tip of her toes, to feel grown up, that she had been allowed to hold a pair in her hands after pleading mercilessly with Aureole, the friendlier of the very aloof girls whom one day she wanted to emanate. By caressing the pink satin contrasting with the hard toe-piece, she could imagine herself and hear the choreographed steps that she would make in her mind delicately clop and clunk across the wooden floor while she lowered herself to prepare for a leap through the air.
“Arabella, I am talking to you....” a voice, familiar yet distant, insistently urging her to pay attention. How many times had she heard those words before? So many, she had lost count by now.
“She never listens...” it continued, “Sometimes, I really worry. The doctor said that there is nothing wrong with her hearing, but I don’t know, there is something the matter with that child.” She took in a wind of smoke from her imported Russian consulate cigarette. So elegant she looked, with the rainbow rows of tobacco paper covering the magic dragon weed .
And so on it went, that she retreated back again into her head, not that she had ventured out very far, or even had felt particularly enticed to stay. Then she felt her feet landing back on the floor, toes first, then heels. It was the only thing she knew, or wanted to know.
Then the rush, the crush, the gushing of people, patting her on the head, touching her hair, how beautiful it was, what a pretty little thing, what a great job she’d done. They all blended one into the other.
“Darlings! Do come for drinks. Why are you standing in the lobby? Celebration time. Come along now, follow me in.”
It was Miss Beechtree, her beloved mentor. Her saviour, the shining light of her young life. She beamed involuntarily and held her arms up for a hug.
“Ah, there’s my little star! You floated like an angel, my cherub.”
Miss Beechtree took her hand and led her swiftly through the pulsating throng towards the inner sanctum of the theatre’s refreshment area, otherwise known as the bar....
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