Running in Heels by Anna Maxted Page B

is an exquisite clash of pleasure and pain, reminding me of the time Tony explained, age fourteen, how he was able to afford a stereo with woofers like slabs from Stonehenge. (He’d spent his holidays chasing ambulances, fire engines, and police cars with a camera and selling the pictures to our local paper.)
    â€œIt must be so wonderful, dear,” says my mother eventually, “dancing in a pretty dress in front of all those people, all adoring you.”
    Mel gives her a pitying smile. Her gaze keeps flickering toward Tony. “Oh, it is,” she replies. “It’s addictive. Although an audience will go wild at any cheap flashy dancing with an odd spin thrown in. The best thing is when you dance for someone whose opinion matters.”
    My mother’s smile is twenty-watt. “You’re such a delicate slip of a thing,” she says, “you’re almost translucent. Do you eat?”
    If I dared, I’d kick my mother under the table (not just her ankle, I mean I’d kick her right under it—what does she think she’s doing?). Mel flutters as if this is an almighty compliment and says, “My body is my tool of work. I have to be light enough to be lifted. I have to be disciplined.”
    â€œI think you look crackin’,” exclaims Tony, interrupting my mother, who is muttering something about skin and bone.
    â€œI think we’d better go now, Mel,” I say. “We don’t want to be late.”
    I kiss my mother and Tony good-bye and—to her surprise and his amusement—Mel does the same, flinging her pipe-cleanerarms tight around them and singing, “Lovely to meet you, I hope to see you again, you must come and see me dance!”
    My mother dabs her mouth with her napkin and says quietly, “That’s a very kind offer.”
    Tony adds, “You say when, darlin’, I’ll be there,” and arranges his hand into an imaginary gun shape, which he fires at Mel.
    â€œThat was a friendly gesture,” I explain as we walk to my car.
    Mel beams. “I know that, I’ve seen chat show hosts do it on television, I can’t believe he’s your brother, he’s so cute! I wonder what he’d be like to kiss—oh, Natalie, I can’t believe I just said that! I’m outrageous! What does he do for a job?”
    I tell her and her reaction is such that I wonder if I accidentally said he was chief exec of the Royal Ballet. “You must bring him to see me dance,” she says in a tone that is an order not a suggestion, “and we could all go out afterward.” I look at Mel to see if she’s joking. “Although probably your mummy would get bored,” she adds, checking her reflection in the car mirror.
    â€œNow,” I say as I floor it, “we’re going to the gym first for the stamina tests—the personal trainer will test your resting heart rate, flexibility, and all that, compare it to the rugby bloke’s, it shouldn’t take too long, and the journalist will be watching and taking notes and the snapper—the photographer will take pictures. You remembered your kit, didn’t you? Remember I rang twice to remind you? Then we go to the studio, where all you’ve got to do is put on the gear—I’ve got a swan tutu, tights, and shoes in the boot—and they’ll do your makeup and hair. I think it’ll be great fun.” I glance at Mel, who is nodding vigorously.
    I take a deep breath and add casually, “Now, you can chat to the makeup lady, that’s fine, but if she or the journalist asks you any leading questions about food, you just tell them that you eat cereal and fruit for breakfast, a sandwich and a banana for lunch, snacks when you can fit them in, like yogurt, and fish orpasta or a baked potato and cheese for dinner, chocolate, and, er, lots of water. The reason you’re slim is that you do five or six hours of dance exercise daily and