Read Online LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2) by Jane Harvey-Berrick - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane Harvey-Berrick
Tags: Luka
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several minutes, and I felt the energy level in the room ramp up. They all hated her, but they wanted to impress her, too.
MJ stepped back respectfully, and we all listened carefully as Arlene spewed out a list of instructions for the run—a long and complicated series of steps that got us moving across the whole studio. This was the kind of thing you did in auditions—usually classes weren’t so intense. But I liked this, it suited my style.
Only two of us got everything right on the first run, and Arlene’s eyes narrowed in fury.
“That was terrible! Two out of 15! That is not acceptable. You have to pick this up more quickly. Meredith, you’re throwing away your free arm! Rose, that’s a syncopated head snap at the end. Adam, you’re dancing with your mouth open—you’re not a fish! Focus! Come on! Give me some energy! You’re tired after forty minutes? You think your feet hurt now? This is easy! Attitude! Again! Again!”
At the end of a really fucking intense 20 minutes of Arlene drilling us, we were all panting like we’d just run the Kentucky Derby, sweat pouring from us, but it felt good. The endorphin high was amazing—only performance beat it.
MJ took us through the cool-down, and I lay on the hard floor, stretching out slowly, letting my heartrate return to normal. My body knew this, understood it, craved it.
“New boy!”
I turned my head to look. Arlene was pointing at me.
The ballet girl muttered under her breath, “The beast awakes . . .”
I had to hide a smile as I replied.
“Ma’am?”
“My office.”
And she turned and stalked out.
Was Arlene pissed that I hadn’t filled out the forms? MJ gave me a look that I couldn’t interpret.
“Her office is behind reception. Good luck.”
“Do I need it?”
“You have met Arlene?” she chuckled, shaking her head.
Pulling my sweatshirt over my soaked body so I didn’t cool down too quickly, I headed for Arlene’s office.
I’d enjoyed her workout—she reminded me of a Russian coach I’d had once, drilled in the Soviet style. Nothing was scary after that.
Arlene glanced up from her desk as I walked in, and pointed her pen at a chair opposite. I slid into it and waited as she signed a piece of paper with a flourish.
“I haven’t seen you before.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t been in London very long. I just got off a long tour and . . .”
“What tour?”
“Did you see Slave ?”
Her eyes brightened. “Yes! Very inspiring. Which role were you?”
“Volkov, the wolf.”
“Ah! The boy-on-boy Argentine tango—very nice work.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“It explains why you’re in performance shape. Any injuries?”
I shook my head, wondering where all this was leading.
“And what are your plans now?” she asked, tapping her pen against the desk.
“We tour again in the winter. I’m in London for three months. No plans.”
“Where are you from?”
“Slovenia.”
“Good—no visa necessary. Hmm, well, here’s the pitch. I’m the choreographer for the West End show The Bodyguard —have you seen it?”
“I’ve seen the movie,” I admitted.
“Completely different,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m looking for a swing dancer. One of my boys fractured his metatarsal and he’ll be off for eight to ten weeks; another is getting married,” and she rolled her eyes, “and, well, I won’t go on, but I need a replacement. I saw how you handled the runs I gave you today—you could slot in straightaway, dancing three or four times a week, plus understudy rehearsals. Pay is Equity rates plus. You’d take home £1,500 a month—more if you do more shows.”
It wasn’t great money for a West End show that made its backers a good profit, but it would be three or four grand I didn’t have now.
Being a swing dancer was a bit shit, but it might be fun for a while, and nothing I hadn’t done before. It doesn’t mean dancing swing-style either: it’s being an
MJ stepped back respectfully, and we all listened carefully as Arlene spewed out a list of instructions for the run—a long and complicated series of steps that got us moving across the whole studio. This was the kind of thing you did in auditions—usually classes weren’t so intense. But I liked this, it suited my style.
Only two of us got everything right on the first run, and Arlene’s eyes narrowed in fury.
“That was terrible! Two out of 15! That is not acceptable. You have to pick this up more quickly. Meredith, you’re throwing away your free arm! Rose, that’s a syncopated head snap at the end. Adam, you’re dancing with your mouth open—you’re not a fish! Focus! Come on! Give me some energy! You’re tired after forty minutes? You think your feet hurt now? This is easy! Attitude! Again! Again!”
At the end of a really fucking intense 20 minutes of Arlene drilling us, we were all panting like we’d just run the Kentucky Derby, sweat pouring from us, but it felt good. The endorphin high was amazing—only performance beat it.
MJ took us through the cool-down, and I lay on the hard floor, stretching out slowly, letting my heartrate return to normal. My body knew this, understood it, craved it.
“New boy!”
I turned my head to look. Arlene was pointing at me.
The ballet girl muttered under her breath, “The beast awakes . . .”
I had to hide a smile as I replied.
“Ma’am?”
“My office.”
And she turned and stalked out.
Was Arlene pissed that I hadn’t filled out the forms? MJ gave me a look that I couldn’t interpret.
“Her office is behind reception. Good luck.”
“Do I need it?”
“You have met Arlene?” she chuckled, shaking her head.
Pulling my sweatshirt over my soaked body so I didn’t cool down too quickly, I headed for Arlene’s office.
I’d enjoyed her workout—she reminded me of a Russian coach I’d had once, drilled in the Soviet style. Nothing was scary after that.
Arlene glanced up from her desk as I walked in, and pointed her pen at a chair opposite. I slid into it and waited as she signed a piece of paper with a flourish.
“I haven’t seen you before.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t been in London very long. I just got off a long tour and . . .”
“What tour?”
“Did you see Slave ?”
Her eyes brightened. “Yes! Very inspiring. Which role were you?”
“Volkov, the wolf.”
“Ah! The boy-on-boy Argentine tango—very nice work.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“It explains why you’re in performance shape. Any injuries?”
I shook my head, wondering where all this was leading.
“And what are your plans now?” she asked, tapping her pen against the desk.
“We tour again in the winter. I’m in London for three months. No plans.”
“Where are you from?”
“Slovenia.”
“Good—no visa necessary. Hmm, well, here’s the pitch. I’m the choreographer for the West End show The Bodyguard —have you seen it?”
“I’ve seen the movie,” I admitted.
“Completely different,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m looking for a swing dancer. One of my boys fractured his metatarsal and he’ll be off for eight to ten weeks; another is getting married,” and she rolled her eyes, “and, well, I won’t go on, but I need a replacement. I saw how you handled the runs I gave you today—you could slot in straightaway, dancing three or four times a week, plus understudy rehearsals. Pay is Equity rates plus. You’d take home £1,500 a month—more if you do more shows.”
It wasn’t great money for a West End show that made its backers a good profit, but it would be three or four grand I didn’t have now.
Being a swing dancer was a bit shit, but it might be fun for a while, and nothing I hadn’t done before. It doesn’t mean dancing swing-style either: it’s being an
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