professional dancers go through a hundred pairs of pointe shoes or more in a season.
After the shopping, I pick up a bouquet of pink roses because I'm not convinced I can believably lie to him when he demands to know if I followed all his instructions. And it's not worth the possible cost.
When I get home, I take off tags and throw everything in the laundry to wash and put the roses in water. I sew my elastics into all my new shoes and try them on again. And then I'm a basket case for the next several hours waiting for my fate to unfold.
At seven p.m., I have dinner. I know it's morbid, but it's leftover lasagna from the other night. I didn't poison the whole pan, just what was on Conall's plate. I wasn't going to waste an entire pan of lasagna on that piece of shit. I just don't have the mental energy right now to cook something else. My mind is too full of what might happen tonight.
After dinner, I put the dishes in the dishwasher, as if this bit of housework is going to slow down the clock. I draw a bath in the oversized garden tub in the master bathroom and pour in the warm vanilla bath oil. I sprinkle the petals from a couple of roses on top of the water and light beeswax candles. I push play on a swan lake CD and slip into the hot soothing water.
For just a moment I let myself forget about tonight and why I'm taking this ritual bath. I lean back against the edge of the tub and close my eyes. My fingers trail through the water, chasing rose petals around the tub.
When the water turns cool, I hop in the shower to wash my hair. By the time my hair is in a bun, and I'm dressed according to his dress code, it's already eight-thirty.
4
It's a few minutes after nine when I arrive at the opera house. I fumble with the key to get in the side door and rush into the theater. I don't have time to be afraid about what I'm doing or to think too hard on it because I'm late.
“You're late, Ms. Lane,” the voice says over the sound system, filling the theater with its demands.
“I'm sorry. There was traffic.”
“There's always traffic. I expect you here at nine. You are stealing time from me. You know how to be on time, Ms. Lane. I know you do. Are you late to rehearsals? Classes?”
He's not yelling at me but his voice is so hard right now, and part of me wants to run out of here before this starts—before he hurts me.
“No, Sir,” I say. I can already feel the tears sliding down my face. I don't know what exactly I'm crying about, but he makes me feel like I'm the worst person in the world for being five minutes late to the appointment of being his slave for three hours.
“You will remain five extra minutes to make up for it. Go to the barre and warm up.”
When I get on the stage, I peel off my outer layer of clothing and run my hand over my hair to make sure no stray strands have fallen out. I put on my soft ballet shoes, hip warmers, and leg warmers, and I go to the barre. I see that the blindfold is draped over the edge, and my breath hitches in my throat.
Music begins to play over the sound system. Swan Lake. Does he get a perverse thrill out of reminding me he knows everything about my life, my world, my schedule? He knows when I'm in class. He knows which ballet we're working on. He knows everything. And he doesn't seem to miss an opportunity to remind me of it.
I still don't understand this. I mean sure, if he just wanted to fuck me it would make some kind of sense. If he wanted money, that would make sense, too. But what is he getting out of watching me warm up at the barre? I roll my eyes at myself, realizing I've answered my own question.
Maybe he does get off on it. Maybe he's turned on by watching dancers. That isn't a rare fetish after all. For all I know, he's jerking off right now. Who is this guy?
I spend about fifteen minutes running through my full warm-up routine, surprised when he doesn't interrupt me. Then I do some stretches at