surprise, accomplished the pose without too much difficulty. I was congratulating myself when I felt Madame Baroux’s stick tapping into the small of my back. ‘Keep your spine straight. You are a dancer not a contortionist. All your movements must flow gracefully from your vertical axis.’
Although they were chorus girls and not ballerinas, most of the girls were experienced in classical dance. I was lost among them. What was I doing here? What was my vertical axis?
‘Yes, Madame,’ I said, correcting myself as best as I could. But when I glanced up, Madame Baroux had already moved on.
‘Not much grace required in her act,’ I heard someone in the front row mutter. I peered through the mass of headbands, tights and slips to see who it was. Claire? Paulette? Ginette? I may have saved the show, but thatdidn’t mean that there wasn’t resentment at someone from wardrobe being given a featured role.
‘To the barre, ladies!’ cried Madame Baroux. I looked up and saw that the rest of the class were waiting in position by a wooden railing along one of the walls. I trotted after them and took a place in the row. Madame Baroux sent me a grimace, barely passing it off as a smile.
‘Arabesque,’ she said.
I glanced at the girl next to me and extended my leg backwards in imitation. Madame Baroux moved along the line, pushing back shoulders and lifting hips. I gripped the splintery bar and imagined the vertebrae from my neck to my tailbone lined up like marbles. I held my leg steady, ignoring the burn in the back of my thighs. But Madame Baroux walked past without a glance in my direction. It wasn’t that I was perfect; it was that I wasn’t worth correcting.
‘She looks like a baby in that get up,’ Ginette whispered to Madeleine loud enough for me to hear. I compared their sleek jersey leotards to my calico tunic, pieced together from some cloth I’d brought with me from the farm. ‘Well, she has been put in the show to make people laugh,’ Madeleine giggled.
I bit my lip and fought back tears. Wasn’t this what I had wanted—to be in the theatre? Yet I’d never felt more awkward, ugly or alone.
The tension between me and the chorus girls came to a head some time later. We were crammed in the dressing room, getting ready for a performance. I had been allocated a spot in the back corner, squeezed between a painted-over window and a withered palm. It had been hot during the day, and although all the unbroken windows had been flung open there was still no breeze. Our costumes were due for laundering but Madame Tarasova was overrun and someone, possibly Marion, hadn’twashed her feet since rehearsal. The air was loaded with a stomach-turning concoction of cologne, clammy skin and dank shoes. Only three of the ten bulbs on my mirror worked. It is just as well, I thought, shaking my head at the smears of colour above my eyes. I hadn’t got the hang of make-up, although Madame Tarasova had done her best to teach me. I was trying to blend in the greasepaint at my jawline when Claudine pulled up a stool beside me.
‘The show is going well because of you, Simone. I heard Monsieur Dargent say that he has just broken even,’ she said.
I picked up my eyebrow pencil and nodded. I liked Claudine but I was wary of Claire, who sat behind me. She had taken Anne’s place in the line and made no secret of the fact that she thought I was one person too many in the dressing room. No matter how careful I was, each time I pulled out my stool I seemed to knock the back of hers. ‘Watch it!’ she’d snap. ‘If you tear my tights, you can pay the fine.’
Sure enough, she spun around now and growled at Claudine. ‘The first act is terrible. It needs to be scrapped immediately!’
‘Why?’ asked Claudine, shifting her stool to face Claire. ‘A new act would mean weeks of unpaid rehearsals.’
Marie glanced up from her mirror. ‘It’s unnecessary now anyway,’ she said. ‘Simone has saved the show. The audience
Although they were chorus girls and not ballerinas, most of the girls were experienced in classical dance. I was lost among them. What was I doing here? What was my vertical axis?
‘Yes, Madame,’ I said, correcting myself as best as I could. But when I glanced up, Madame Baroux had already moved on.
‘Not much grace required in her act,’ I heard someone in the front row mutter. I peered through the mass of headbands, tights and slips to see who it was. Claire? Paulette? Ginette? I may have saved the show, but thatdidn’t mean that there wasn’t resentment at someone from wardrobe being given a featured role.
‘To the barre, ladies!’ cried Madame Baroux. I looked up and saw that the rest of the class were waiting in position by a wooden railing along one of the walls. I trotted after them and took a place in the row. Madame Baroux sent me a grimace, barely passing it off as a smile.
‘Arabesque,’ she said.
I glanced at the girl next to me and extended my leg backwards in imitation. Madame Baroux moved along the line, pushing back shoulders and lifting hips. I gripped the splintery bar and imagined the vertebrae from my neck to my tailbone lined up like marbles. I held my leg steady, ignoring the burn in the back of my thighs. But Madame Baroux walked past without a glance in my direction. It wasn’t that I was perfect; it was that I wasn’t worth correcting.
‘She looks like a baby in that get up,’ Ginette whispered to Madeleine loud enough for me to hear. I compared their sleek jersey leotards to my calico tunic, pieced together from some cloth I’d brought with me from the farm. ‘Well, she has been put in the show to make people laugh,’ Madeleine giggled.
I bit my lip and fought back tears. Wasn’t this what I had wanted—to be in the theatre? Yet I’d never felt more awkward, ugly or alone.
The tension between me and the chorus girls came to a head some time later. We were crammed in the dressing room, getting ready for a performance. I had been allocated a spot in the back corner, squeezed between a painted-over window and a withered palm. It had been hot during the day, and although all the unbroken windows had been flung open there was still no breeze. Our costumes were due for laundering but Madame Tarasova was overrun and someone, possibly Marion, hadn’twashed her feet since rehearsal. The air was loaded with a stomach-turning concoction of cologne, clammy skin and dank shoes. Only three of the ten bulbs on my mirror worked. It is just as well, I thought, shaking my head at the smears of colour above my eyes. I hadn’t got the hang of make-up, although Madame Tarasova had done her best to teach me. I was trying to blend in the greasepaint at my jawline when Claudine pulled up a stool beside me.
‘The show is going well because of you, Simone. I heard Monsieur Dargent say that he has just broken even,’ she said.
I picked up my eyebrow pencil and nodded. I liked Claudine but I was wary of Claire, who sat behind me. She had taken Anne’s place in the line and made no secret of the fact that she thought I was one person too many in the dressing room. No matter how careful I was, each time I pulled out my stool I seemed to knock the back of hers. ‘Watch it!’ she’d snap. ‘If you tear my tights, you can pay the fine.’
Sure enough, she spun around now and growled at Claudine. ‘The first act is terrible. It needs to be scrapped immediately!’
‘Why?’ asked Claudine, shifting her stool to face Claire. ‘A new act would mean weeks of unpaid rehearsals.’
Marie glanced up from her mirror. ‘It’s unnecessary now anyway,’ she said. ‘Simone has saved the show. The audience
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