Читать книгу Clicking Her Heels - Lucy Hepburn - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

‘Well, what do you think so far?’ Sergei asked as he led her out of the auditorium during the interval. Americanised, his voice still carried the richness and depth of his beloved Russia. They hadn’t had time to talk properly since dashing in to catch the first act.

‘Oh, I can hardly speak!’ Amy breathed. ‘It’s so perfect! Those costumes! The music, it’s so full of joy, don’t you think? And isn’t Darcey Bussell just a genius? She makes it look as though she isn’t really trying; she just dances, doesn’t she?’ Then, catching herself, she glanced up at Sergei. ‘I mean, that’s what it looks like to me – I forgot I was talking to a mega-genius world-famous choreographer for a moment. What’s your verdict, Sergei? Thumbs up or down?’ Finally she stopped and bit her lip. For someone who could hardly speak, she seemed to have just had something of a breakthrough.

Sergei waved away the compliment, then thrust his arms out and planted both thumbs firmly up.

‘I think it is an extremely good production so far,’ he replied. ‘Excellent, in fact. I am so glad you think so too. Shall we have a drink?’

The bar was already crowded, noisy, hot and swimming with a potent mix of expensive perfumes, and a heady theatrical buzz. Beautiful, confident people mingled with even more beautiful, even more confident people, and Amy shrank back a little as she moved towards the bar, clutching Sergei’s arm. It felt firm and strong under her hand. When would she ever feel that she belonged at places like this, as these people obviously did? So sure of themselves – so ‘solid in their shoes’, as her mother used to say.

Sergei always seemed to cause a stir at the ballet, Amy mused, as all around them people nodded greetings in his direction and hustled out of their path. He was still very handsome, with his strong ex-dancer’s body, and his dark hair only lightly flecked with silver, and more than once Amy had to stifle an immature giggle as the words ‘Baron’, ‘Von’ and ‘Trapp’ swam in and out of her brain when she looked up at him. She reckoned he was about forty-four, and he had gorgeous, twinkly eyes and a special brand of transatlantic exuberance that was hard to describe but delicious to experience.

And his effect on women was nothing short of remarkable. Most of the females in the place seemed to greet him with such full-on, kissy-kissy enthusiasm that in a strange way Amy quite enjoyed the cold looks they bestowed upon her moments later.

‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the glass of cool white wine.

‘So,’ Sergei began, ‘how have you been? I have missed you.’

‘Great, thanks,’ Amy replied. ‘Bit of a nightmare getting out of the flat tonight …’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, it was nothing, really, just a bit of a disaster with the washing machine, nothing important.’ She could have kicked herself. Here she was, standing in the Royal Opera House with the most distinguished-looking man in the place, whom she hadn’t seen for ages, talking about her sodding washing machine! She shot a glance round the room. Honestly, why am I such a moron?

But Sergei, ever the gentleman, replied, ‘Oh dear, how inconvenient for you. But I am so glad you are here.’

Amy felt the beginnings of a blush creeping around her hairline. ‘So, how long are you in London for?’ she asked quickly.

‘Not so long, I am afraid,’ he replied as they ascended the stairs. ‘I go to China tomorrow. Just for a short while and then I return to the States in a few weeks.’

Amy nodded. ‘Well, it’s lovely of you to make time to see me,’ she said, giving his arm a squeeze.

He gave her a strange look. ‘How could I not?’ he asked, his eyes flashing, before covering the look with a smile of heart-melting warmth.

A pause followed, and Amy took a large gulp from her wine glass. She was grateful for the extra height afforded by her shoes, knowing from past experience that flat shoes in a noisy crowded room, for a small person, meant only two things: instant deafness, and a sore neck from craning upwards all the time. Plus, as ever, her beloved heels imparted an injection of confidence that just might get her through the evening without her making a complete idiot of herself.

‘I’m off to the Isle of Wight Festival at the weekend,’ she announced, suddenly inspired with the thought that she could ratchet up her self-esteem by nailing ‘music’ and ‘travel’ in a single sentence.

‘Really?’ Sergei replied. ‘With whom?’

Is that a slight edge to his voice? Amy wondered, before immediately dismissing the thought.

‘Oh, with my two best mates, Debbie and Jes – should be brilliant!’

‘Any chance that I might know any of the bands that will be there?’ he asked.

Amy bit her lip. ‘Um, well, I’m not sure – how about Foo Fighters?’

Sergei shook his head.

‘Coldplay?’

‘Is that a name, or are you asking me a question?’

‘The Kooks?’

‘Kooks? With a K? As in, David Bowie?’ He seemed chuffed to have made a connection.

Amy frowned. ‘David Bowie? Not sure, could be – I think they named themselves after some song from years and years ago.’

‘It has to be! David Bowie, Hunky Dory – “Kooks” is one of the best tracks on it! Nineteen seventy-one!’ He punched the air, looking as though he was about to launch into the song, only to elbow a passing waiter, narrowly avoiding knocking the wine tray from his hands while upending his own wine glass all down his front in the process. Amy gasped.

‘Oh, I am – what do you call it? – a klutz,’ he muttered, shaking wine droplets from his trouser leg.

‘Let me help,’ Amy flustered, grabbing a bunch of paper napkins from a nearby tray and dabbing furiously at Sergei. ‘Lucky it wasn’t red!’

‘Thank you, really, it’s fine, there’s no need …’

‘No, really, I’ll fix you in no time. Here, hold still.’

And he did. He stood stock-still, if a little embarrassedly, as she rubbed furiously at his sleeve, the front of his shirt, even his trouser leg, before the wine had a chance to sink in. She could feel his eyes on the top of her head, and given that she was in the process of rubbing his leg, she realised she had to find something else to say. Something normal.

Like, now.

‘Actually, that’s a Coldplay song title, did you know that?’ she chirped, from somewhere around his knee level.

‘What, “Hold Still”?’

‘No! “Fix You” – have you heard it?’

‘I’m afraid my pop music tastes date back to prehistoric times, Amy.’

‘Oh? For example?’ She straightened up and looked at him with interest.

‘Kraftwerk? OMD? Erasure?’

Amy raised an eyebrow. He was grinning sheepishly. ‘I’m not particularly proud of my electro-past,’ he whispered, ‘but that’s what we all listened to in Russia.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Sergei, but there must be organisations that can offer help …’

Sergei hooted with laughter. ‘That’s just the sort of comment your mother would make!’

Amy looked up sharply. This was it. This was what she had been waiting for. Sergei was her link to the past – and a side of her mother she was hungry to know about. Her mother – Hannah Powell – the most perfect Odette in Swan Lake that this country had ever produced, or so the reviews of the time had exuberantly claimed.

‘Do you know, once in my dancing days when I was about to go on stage, I spilled orange juice over my costume. Your mother did exactly as you have done tonight – she was always looking after me, like a mother hen.’

‘I can imagine,’ Amy said, clutching a clump of damp napkins in her hand, with nowhere to put them. ‘She mothered everyone.’ Glancing round the room, she couldn’t spot a single woman who looked like she’d allow herself to get into this sort of predicament. They probably all could have summoned up a member of staff to help out with a click of their perfectly manicured fingers.

‘I once dyed my hair orange to try and look like Bowie in his Aladdin Sane period, you know.’ Sergei was like that. He could put a coiled spring at ease.

‘Really?’ Amy laughed, relieved.

Sergei nodded. ‘I think that was just before I had it cut very short – it was just before my Yellow Magic Orchestra fixation. Oh, and there was the Sparks weekend …’

As Sergei launched into a somewhat baffling reverie about his seventies and eighties musical journey, Amy tried, she really, really tried, to keep up with his encyclopaedic knowledge of synthesiser pop, but within minutes she felt herself drifting off into another place – a fantasy world, or a reality check, she couldn’t decide which …

Sergei Mishkov. What on earth am I doing here yet again? And yet, how could I have stayed away?

It’s because of Mum, that’s why. This place, this is Mum’s world, and Sergei was Mum’s friend from another time – pre-me, pre-Dad, pre-retiring from ballet to bring me up … I owe Mum this, to live in her world now and again, to try and feel what she felt, with people she cared about. That way I guess she can live on in me as a whole person, rather than just as my mum …

‘Ah, Ultravox, now that was a conundrum. Did they truly fit the genre … ?’ Sergei was in full flow, waving his arms to emphasise the finer points of the Vienna album …

And they’re not half bad, really, these evenings, even though I feel like a kid in a crowd of adults. Sergei’s great, the dancing’s great, the music’s a bit iffy sometimes but I’m working on it. I just wish … oh, I wish I’d told Justin from the start. Why the heck didn’t I?

She knew the answer perfectly well. When Justin had first met Sergei – what, a year ago? – he’d made his feelings perfectly clear. He didn’t like him, didn’t trust him.

‘Amy? The bells?’ Sergei had stooped to look directly at her.

‘Pardon?’

‘I think I lost you somewhere between The Human League and Fad Gadget, did I not? I apologise.’

‘Oh! I’m sorry!’ The theatre bells rang again.

‘No need to be sorry!’ He waved his arms energetically. ‘But we must go back in: time for the second act!’