Match Pointe. Indigo Bloome
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at bay to freeze like crystals on her face.
Even as she maintained her outward composure, she could feel herself shattering further on the inside as each moment passed. She defensively wrapped her faux fur jacket around her body and hailed the first cab she saw, directing the driver to Russell Square to her empty, lonely apartment – desperate to distance herself as quickly as possible from the complete betrayal by those she had once trusted so completely.
The steaming hot shower did nothing to diminish the chill in her bones. What was she to do now? She was used to a life of travel, going to the most beautiful cities the world had to offer, dancing in theatres steeped in history. Admittedly, the busy, nomadic lifestyle sounded more luxurious than it was in reality, but it suited her perfectly. It provided her with her only opportunity to feel truly alive – when she was dancing centre stage.
Her life as a ballet dancer had given her a reason to wake up each morning and ensured she went to bed exhausted each night. It had protected, cherished and disciplined her. Now, she felt the enormity of how alone she truly was in the world. She had no one and belonged nowhere. She was left with nothing but a crushed heart and the vast nothingness of the wasted dreams of her youth.
In the depths of despair, she felt herself slip away from the world in the days that followed. Time was of no consequence, as she lay bereft in her minuscule apartment. There was no food in her fridge, nothing of substance in her barely used kitchen cupboard – not that she cared to eat anything. She could starve to death and not a single person in the world would be any the wiser about her now insignificant existence. She felt more alone than she had in her entire life.
The only thing that eventually managed to distract her from her desolation was the incessant ringing of the phone somewhere in the background of her clouded mind. When she finally went to answer it, she noticed a shiny pale gold envelope almost lost amidst the pile of scattered mail near the front door.
Both the envelope and the phone call had the potential to signify the end of her old life, and catapult her into an entirely unfathomable new world.
Tate
‘Caesar King requests the pleasure of your company for lunch at the Tate Modern,’ his personal assistant explained rather pompously to Eloise over the phone. When she opened the gold envelope, it contained a formal invitation along with the personal flurry of his distinctive signature.
Eloise had no idea what to expect when she dressed that morning. Her entire wardrobe consisted of the baggy trousers and sweat shirts she wore over her ballet clothes, some jeans and T-shirts for Sundays – her only day off each week – a denim jacket, her faux fur coat and a few evening dresses for when she changed after performances to meet visiting dignitaries.
Given she had no idea what the dress code would be, she was forced out of the house to quickly purchase a formal knee-length skirt and neat floral blouse from Zara, as well as a small attaché case. She loosely pulled her unruly hair into a braid, grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door, then set out for her mysterious meeting with the renowned billionaire.
After a short Tube ride Eloise arrived at the Tate Modern more than an hour before her scheduled meeting, hoping that wandering around the magnificent works of art would provide the necessary distraction to calm her rising apprehension. She would have given anything to have had something else on today, anything rather than meeting Caesar King at this famous art gallery on the Thames … But she didn’t have an excuse not to go, and what was worse was that he knew she didn’t.
Even beyond his connection with the Royal Ballet, she knew of the illustrious Caesar King. And everyone knew that when Caesar called, you answered. The only problem was that neither the phone call nor the gold-embossed invitation she had received had provided any clue as to why he would want to meet with her. Although it did manage to pique her interest enough to temporarily suspend her state of misery.
Deep down she secretly hoped Sir Lloyd had asked him to check up on her, maybe even offer her her position back, but she knew she was hoping against hope and that Natalia would be Principal for the foreseeable future. Unless she was prepared to play second fiddle – which she most certainly was not – her future with the Royal Ballet seemed doomed.
As the time of the meeting approached she was sorely tempted to run in the opposite direction. She hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone since her demise and was still in a precarious emotional state. But just as she was considering retreating back home, the great man himself appeared, saying farewell to his guests from his previous meeting. He cheerfully greeted a nervous Eloise, whose palms had suddenly broken into a warm sweat.
As far as she could remember, she had only briefly made Caesar’s acquaintance at one of the Royal Ballet’s gala performances where the senior dancers were required to socialise with benefactors and the Board of Trustees. His well-known Italian–American heritage contrasted with his upper-crust English accent, and he was better looking, fitter and more polished in real life than the way he was portrayed in the tabloids (which was usually with a drink in his hand). But more than anything it was his charisma that was evident from the moment he walked into the entrance hall. It took her by storm.
‘Thank you so much for meeting me, Eloise. After you.’ He gestured for her to precede him into the lift. ‘We’ll go up to the restaurant on the seventh floor.’
Although she had visited the gallery, Eloise had never dined on the seventh floor. The views of London over the Millennium Bridge were breathtaking as she settled into her plush seat in the private room. She was pleased she had worn a formal skirt and blouse rather than more casual attire, given that Caesar was dressed in a navy suit with his trademark cravat and handkerchief; today’s colour was cerise.
‘I hope you don’t mind, I’ve ordered lunch for us. Would you like a cocktail to start, or perhaps some champagne?’ He raised his eyebrows, awaiting her answer.
If Eloise had been nervous before, she was practically speechless now. Apparently a cup of tea wasn’t on the agenda, she thought anxiously, still unable to believe she was meeting with Caesar alone and still hadn’t so much as uttered a word.
‘I, ah, I’m not sure …’
‘We’ll start with two bellinis, I think, Max, and take it from there.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ The waiter silently disappeared, closing the door behind him.
‘Now, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here,’ he began, his smile broadening.
‘The thought has crossed my mind, Mr King.’ Eloise was relieved when her first words came out more smoothly in reality than she’d imagined them in her mind.
‘Please, call me Caesar. I’ve no doubt it has. But before I get to that matter, let me just say how sorry I am that you’re not currently dancing with the Royal Ballet. You are such an extraordinary ballerina; it is definitely our loss.’
Eloise had been dreading discussing this, but had known it would be unavoidable given Caesar’s active involvement in the company.
‘Thank you,’ was all she said in reply.
‘So tell me, do you have any plans for your immediate future?’
It took Eloise a moment or two to answer. ‘To be honest, I haven’t given anything much thought since walking out. I realise I’ll need to soon …’
‘I know this is out of left field, but your future is the very subject I’d like to discuss over the course of this lunch. I have a proposal I want you to consider. But let’s get to know each other a little better first, shall we?’
Eloise agreed, still unsure where any of this was headed.
‘How about I start with a little bit about me?’
‘Sure, sounds good.’ Eloise was grateful he was taking charge, given her level of discomfort with the whole setting.
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