Dance: The Collected Series Read online

  Before I know it, the last note of the song has sounded, and I’ve landed my final move.

  I dare a quick glance up at the panel, but their faces give absolutely nothing away.

  And as I’m getting back to my feet, it’s Maurice Ryman who finally says something, his tanned face breaking into the tiniest of smiles. “Very good, Miss Tate. You have good technique and a great figure. You’ve obviously worked extremely hard for this.”

  “Thank you,” I say, still catching my breath.

  I can’t believe he’s just complimented me. I mean, he’s danced all over the world, for some of the best companies. If he thinks I’m good, then surely I must be in with a chance, right?

  “We’ll be in touch,” he says with a final enigmatic smile, his eyes catching mine, as if he’s tying to tell me something.

  §

  I’m woken up the next morning not by my usual alarm, but by my cell phone chirping loudly on the little table next to my single bed. It’s a local number, but not one I recognize.

  “Hello?” I answer, trying not to give away the fact that I was fast asleep just a moment ago.

  “Julia, this is Maurice Ryman calling.”

  Holy crap. This is it.

  “I was wondering if you were free to come into the school today?”

  “Of course!” I blurt out.

  “Great,” he says. “My office is on the upper floor, room 201. How does 2pm sound?”

  “It sounds great!” I reply, too excited to play it cool.

  I’m waiting for him to say more, to tell me I’ve got the place, but instead he just says, “Fantastic. I’ll see you then,” and hangs up the phone, leaving me sitting there in bed, my hair all crazy angles from sleep, suddenly wide awake and buzzing with excitement but still so unsure what this means.

  Have I got the scholarship or what?!

  Why the hell didn’t I just outright ask him?

  I guess I’ll find out this afternoon.

  As I get out of bed and head towards the bathroom, I tell myself it’s gotta be good news. It has to be, right? I mean, why would he ask me to come in if I hadn’t got the scholarship ...

  §

  I walk down the long, wood-paneled corridor passing what seems like hundreds of office doors until I reach the one I’m after, double-checking the name panel: Maurice Ryman. I can hear music coming from inside, it’s classical, I’m not sure what, and when I knock there’s a pause and then the music stops.

  A moment later the door opens, and there he is, dressed in a cream linen shirt, a few buttons undone, his tanned chest visible beneath. For an older guy, he’s in great shape. He no longer dances professionally but he still teaches a lot of classes here.

  “Julia!” he says warmly when he sees me. “Come in ...”

  I follow him into the small office, which is crammed with books and papers. The walls are covered with framed posters from some of the many productions he’s danced in over the years – Paris, Rome, Tokyo; he must have been everywhere.

  As I excitedly scan the pictures, I think: Maybe that could be me one day, really seeing the world ...

  I take a seat as he closes the door, and then he heads back around behind his desk and sits down, staring straight at me, resting his clasped hands on the desk in front of him. His face grows serious, and I feel like he’s gonna tell me that I didn’t get the place after all.

  But then why did he bring me all this way? Couldn’t he just have told me that over the phone?

  As if he can read my mind, he says, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to keep you hanging on any longer, Julia. You want to know whether or not you got the scholarship place, right?”

  I nod. I’m so nervous I can even feel my hands getting clammy. Gross.

  “Well, I’ll just tell it to you straight,” he continues. “After much discussion amongst the panel, and while we all thought your performance was excellent, I’m sorry to tell you that you didn’t get the scholarship. You’ve really got something, Julia, you’re very talented, but at the same time, you’re not quite there yet.”

  That’s it. Game over.

  He leans forward in his chair. “It just felt like you were holding something back,” he continues, “like there was something missing from your performance.”

  I feel my face fall, and the hot sting of tears in the corners of my eyes.

  Don’t cry in front of him.

  And I feel a stab of anger, too.

  Why the fuck did you invite me all this way just to tell me that? Why the hell couldn’t you have just told me over the phone, or an email, or a text even? Did you want me to cry in front of you – is that it? What is it with guys lately?! Is it Fuck With Julia’s Head Week or something?

  “But don’t worry,” he continues, his face softening. “It’s not all bad news ...”

  “I don’t understand,” I say, desperately fighting back the tears. I mean, this is bad news. This is like the worst news possible.

  “Like I said, your performance was good. And what’s missing? I hope we can work on that, together. Although we can’t offer you a scholarship, we would be very happy to offer you a place here at Eldridge ...”

  At this, he takes out a manila envelope from a drawer in his desk and hands it to me.

  “Now, this would be a paid place, meaning you would need to find the funding to cover your tuition fees and other expenses, but we would all like you to consider it, Julia. You’re a very talented dancer, and we’d love to have you here at the school if you could find the funding. I’m sure with savings, maybe an evening job and some help from your parents, a reduction in your clothes budget even, you could cover it? Most of our students find some way to manage ...”

  “Thanks,” I say, kind of stunned and confused, clutching the envelope awkwardly.

  Most people find some way to manage, do they? That easy, huh?

  “That package contains all the information about our Contemporary Dance course, including how much you’d be expected to pay in course fees. Please, think it over. But I’m afraid you haven’t got long to decide, a day or two at most. So you’ll need to let me know your decision as soon as possible. As I’m sure you will understand, these places are like gold dust.”

  And then I say it, the words just leaping from my mouth as if they have a life of their own:

  “I’m in! Sign me up.”

  “Julia, that’s fantastic!” he says. “It’s great to have you aboard ...”

  He offers me his hand, and when I stand to shake it, my legs feel all wobbly and my head’s reeling.

  What have I done?

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “I’ll let the admin department know. They’ll be in touch with you for payment soon. Classes start in two weeks.”

  §

  I walk out through the main doors to the school, stepping into dazzling sunlight, then stumble through the campus, still trying to take it all in.

  What the hell did you just do?

  I take a seat on the lawn and slip the course brochure from the envelope, flipping through it, looking at all the photos of happy students and reading the descriptions of the classes I could be taking. Of course, it all sounds amazing, just what I’ve always dreamed of. But then I turn to the back page, where the course fees are outlined, and my stomach lurches.

  Each semester costs over fifteen thousand dollars in tuition fees alone. And it’s a three-year course. That’s over thirty grand per year, and that’s before I factor in my living costs.

  How the hell am I going to afford that?! I think as I squint at the brochure. I can’t even afford a pair of sunglasses this year, let alone thirty thousand dollars in course fees.

  I look around me, at all the students coming and going, laughing and smiling to each other like they don’t have a care in the world, and I wonder how they can afford to come here.

  I think back to Maurice’s word: some help from your parents.

  Of course. All these people have moms and dads who have been pay
ing into college funds since before they were born.

  I think about my dad – there’s no way in the world he’d be able to help me. I mean, the last time I even saw him, three years ago, he was the one who asked to borrow money off me. And thinking of Dad always makes me think of Mom too, and I feel a sharp pang of sadness. She died when I was only nine years old. I was crazy about dancing, even back then. And if she knew that I’d actually been offered a place somewhere like this, I just know she’d be so proud, and she’d do anything she could to help me realize my dream.

  I stuff the brochure back in the envelope, feeling my spirits sink.

  You’ll just have to tell Maurice you made a mistake ...

  But then I hear another voice inside me, a stronger, more decisive voice – louder than the first.

  Oh no you don’t. Don’t give up now. You’ve fought to get this far. You’ll find a way to do this somehow. You’ve got to do everything you can to get the money together to get on this course.

  And come to think of it, I know the perfect place to start ...

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I’ve changed my mind,” I say.

  “I’ve been waiting for your call,” he replies, his voice just as deep and resonant as I remember it from last Friday night at the bar.

  I’m standing in the middle of my apartment, phone pressed to my ear, heart racing, staring down at my laptop screen, open on the website for Campbell Finance – complete with a photo of him. Dylan Campbell, smiling out at the camera, his teeth Hollywood white, his hair jet black and cut a little shorter and neater than I remember it, his tailored suit showing off the broadness of his shoulders, and that same entitled I can get whatever I want glint in his eye.

  “How did you know I was gonna call?” I hiss.

  “They always do. I know girls like you. You might play hard to get, but deep down you want it. I could see that in your eyes. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  My mind works its way back to the other night in the shower – my fingers stroking my clit as I let my head fill with him.

  God damn it. He is right.

  “So?” I snap, unable to give him the satisfaction of answering his question. “How do we do this?”

  “All in good time,” he says, a strange playfulness entering his voice now, as if he’s really fucking enjoying this little exchange, as if he’s enjoying just how nervous and out-of-my-depth he’s making me feel. Of course he is. He knows exactly the effect he has on people. “I’ve got a few questions first,” he continues.

  “Okay,” I say, swallowing back my nerves.

  “First of all, what’s your name?”

  Why the fuck does he need to know my name? I thought he just wanted to buy my panties for Chrissakes.

  “Julia,” I find myself saying. “Julia Tate.”

  “And how old are you, Julia Tate?”

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  This is like some fucked up job interview.

  “And how did you even get past my secretary, Julia?”

  “I told her I was Gigi Hadid, and you met me at a fundraiser last night.”

  “Very good,” he replies. He sounds begrudgingly impressed.

  There’s a pause, and I glance down at his picture again, imagining his dark eyes on me, owning me, just like they were that night in the bar.

  “Come to my apartment,” he says. “Nine o’ clock tonight. The Ingram Building. If you can Google my phone number, you can easily find the address to that, too.”

  I don’t even get a chance to answer before he hangs up the phone, leaving me standing there in the middle of my apartment, wondering just what the hell I’m getting myself into.

  §

  I pull on the tiny black Victoria’s Secret panties that I bought just a few hours ago, calculating again that I’m about to make a $985 profit for this little exchange. Then I smooth down my dress and give myself a final look over in the mirror.

  This red mini-dress is so tight, it leaves little to the imagination. But that’s how I like to dress. I’ve got toned abs and a great ass from all the dancing, so my figure’s in awesome shape. Why not flaunt it? My breasts might be a little on the small side, but they’re pert and my push-up bra is doing its best to give me some cleavage.

  I’ve put on more makeup than usual; smoky eye shadow and vampish red lip-liner and lipstick to match my dress. Heavy makeup’s not my usual style, but tonight I feel like I’m playing a character. Like it’s not really me who’s about to go out and sell her underwear to a stranger.

  Just as I’m about to grab my purse and leave the apartment, I think: If he’s willing to pay a thousand dollars for a single pair of panties, what else might he want from you, too? Come on, Julia. Don’t be stupid ...

  And for a moment, I find myself wondering just how far I might go ...

  §

  I stare up at the imposing Ingram Building, a menacing black silhouette against the darkening sky. It’s exactly the kind of place someone like Dylan Campbell would live in. It’s taller than everything else on the block, like it’s trying to intimidate the rest of the street. I walk into the lobby, feeling the eyes of the desk clerk watch me as I make my way towards the elevators, my heels clicking loudly on the marble floor, ringing out around the huge cold room, the air-conditioning causing my skin to come out in a prickle of goose bumps.

  I half think the guy at the desk is going to ask me just what I think I’m doing in here. I feel like such an outsider. But I make it safely to the elevators, push the button, then quickly step inside, feeling a small rush of relief as the doors swish closed behind me.

  I punch the button for his floor, and then the elevator lurches into life, rushing me upwards. I try to make the most of the final few seconds before I have to knock on his door.

  The doors open onto a plushly carpeted gray corridor, and I step out, looking around me to see which way to go. But there’s only one door, so there’s only one way to go. I pause for a moment and look back at the elevator.

  You could just leave now. You don’t have to do this.

  But instead I continue, until I’m standing right in front of the door. I reach out and knock, as loudly and confidently as I can, then wait, forcing myself to keep my hands straight down by my sides and not fold my arms to cover my breasts. I’m trying to summon all my inner strength. I don’t want Dylan Campbell to think that he can intimidate me.

  The door finally opens and there he is, dressed in a white shirt and navy chinos. His eyes lock onto mine and a smile flickers on his lips.

  “Julia Tate,” he says, looking me up and down with a deliberate slowness, like I’m some piece of meat, before eventually standing back to let me into his apartment.

  It suits him – it’s cold and grey and masculine, all hard edges, chrome and glass and shiny black leather. When I turn around, he’s right behind me, close enough that I can smell his cologne: a woody, musky scent that I find myself drinking in with pleasure, despite myself.

  I look again around the apartment, then catch his eye, and say, “Nice place. It’s kind of ... lacking in personality though.”

  The smile drops from his full lips, instead replaced by a look of pure disdain.

  “You don’t think I actually live here, do you?” he says with a dismissive shrug.

  “Well, it is your apartment isn’t it?” I reply unsteadily.

  “It’s my apartment in the sense that I own it,” he says, strolling confidently towards a built in cabinet on the farthest wall, “but no, I don’t live here.”

  Okay Mr Bigshot. I get it. You’ve got more than one apartment. Who cares. God, he’s such a prick.

  He turns his back to me to pull open the cabinet, revealing a number of expensive bottles of spirits – imported Scotch and Vodka – the kind of things we charge insane amounts of money for at the bar.

  “Drink?” he says.

  I shake my head, and he shrugs again, then pours himself a generous measure of neat Ketel One vodka into a large cut-glass tumbl
er, swirling the clear liquid around the glass for a moment before raising it to his lips.

  As I watch him, I feel the anger rise up in me again.

  That fucking douchebag. He thinks he can do whatever he wants, talking to me like some idiot servant, just because he has money, making me feel stupid just because I don’t know he owns more than one apartment ...

  I want to just get the hell out of here as soon as possible, so I bend forwards, reach beneath my dress and step out of my panties, then stand up straight again, holding them out to him.

  “Here,” I say, fixing him square in the eye, willing my outstretched hand not to tremble. “A thousand dollars, right? That was the deal.”

  “Oh dear,” he says so slowly and confidently, his gaze moving to the wisp of black fabric clutched in my fist, then back to my eyes again. “I’m afraid that offer is no longer valid.”

  I feel a sharp stab of embarrassment, quickly pulling back my hand and stuffing the panties into my purse.

  “In that case,” I spit back, “I guess I’ll be going. Thanks so much for wasting my time.”

  I turn and stomp towards the door, almost losing my balance on the stupidly tall heels I’m wearing. I’m red-faced with embarrassment. But then another emotion overwhelms me. It’s white-hot seething anger; anger at this asshole’s behavior.

  I turn back and scream, “Why the fuck did you give me your business card if you were just going to change your fucking mind? Do you think that just because I make less than you, just because I served you a fucking drink, you can treat me however you like?”

  Pause.

  “One thing I learned in business?” he says calmly, appearing in the doorway to the hall, the drink still clutched in his hand, the look on his face giving nothing away. “Never accept the first offer.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I hiss, still trembling with a mixture of rage and embarrassment.

  “Please,” says Dylan, “come and sit down. I might just have a better proposition for you.”