3: Chocolate Box Girls: Summer's Dream Read online

  I like to stick to the rules – I don’t want those rules to be bent for me. That might seem childish, unprofessional. What if Sylvie Rochelle thought I wasn’t committed enough, that I was too scared to dance without my mum there?

  I dredge up a smile. ‘Mum, it’s not a problem,’ I insist. ‘There’ll be time to look around if I actually get a place. Miss Elise can take me, and Jodie and Sushila will be there.’

  Mum sighs. ‘I know, I know. But … are you sure you’ll be OK on your own?’

  She doesn’t say it out loud, but I know what she’s thinking . . .thinking After last time?

  Well, yeah. Last time, when Dad was in charge and I arrived late and flustered and let the chance of a place at the Royal Ballet School slip through my fingers.

  It was my own fault, of course. I should have known Dad would be too preoccupied with his own life to put me first, but back then I still thought I could fix everything, glue our broken family back together. I wanted Dad to see me dance, to be proud of me, to love me so much he’d change his mind about the divorce.

  It didn’t quite work out that way. I fell to pieces right in front of him, and I saw the look in his eyes, although he tried to hide it. I saw his disappointment, his pity, his irritation. I wasn’t good enough, not for the Royal Ballet School and not for Dad.

  Maybe if I can prove myself this time, I’ll finally achieve my dream – and my dad’s respect, his pride, his love.

  Mum puts an arm round my shoulders, pulling me close.

  ‘You can do it, Summer,’ she tells me. ‘And whether I’m there to watch you or not, I promise I’ll be rooting for you every inch of the way.’

  7

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ Aaron says when I tell him about the audition. ‘Boarding school? Seriously?’

  His arm round my shoulder feels heavy, oppressive, and I shake him off like an unwanted jacket on a warm evening. We are walking along the beach at Kitnor, watching the sun sink slowly into the slate-blue ocean. It should be romantic, but it isn’t – I just feel irritated now. I didn’t expect Aaron to understand, not really – but I thought he might at least be pleased for me.

  ‘Don’t you get it?’ I ask. ‘This is important. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day! Just once or twice in a lifetime, maybe …’

  Aaron shakes his head. ‘No, I really don’t get it,’ he says. ‘So you’re into dancing. So what? Why can’t you wait until you’re older and do a dance course at uni or something?’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ I sigh. ‘Not if you want to get to the very top. You have to start young, get the best teachers, really push yourself. To be picked out is a big deal, Aaron. If I get through the audition, I’m going. I have to!’

  He rakes a hand through his hair, exasperated. ‘You spend all your spare time on ballet as it is. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘There’s only so far I can go at a local dance school, and I want more. At Rochelle Academy I’d be doing regular lessons in the morning and then dancing all afternoon, with teachers who’ve been professional dancers in some of the best companies in the world. It’d be way more intense …’

  ‘More stressful too,’ he persists. ‘You’re already obsessed with ballet. You’re thirteen, Summer, you’re supposed to have a life!’

  Ballet is my life, I want to say, but the words stick in my throat. I know that’s not what Aaron wants to hear.

  ‘What about us?’ he asks at last, his face closed and sulky. What about us? I want to snap right back, but I don’t, of course.

  ‘We’ll be OK,’ I tell him. ‘We can write, and text, and email. And we’ll see each other in the holidays.’

  ‘It won’t be the same,’ he argues, and I realize that if I go away, there probably won’t be letters or texts or emails. Aaron is the kind of boy who likes to have a girlfriend he can hang out with, a girl to take to parties, to walk with, hand in hand, along the beach. A girl who lives a hundred miles away is not a lot of use to him.

  With a boy like Aaron, there will always be other girls – girls like Marisa McKenna – waiting in the wings. If I pass the audition, I will lose my boyfriend. The thought doesn’t upset me as much as it should.

  ‘I guess we’d better make the most of this summer,’ Aaron says, and his arm slides round my waist, pulling me close again. I don’t wriggle away this time, and after a while, the sun drops lower, painting the sky with washes of crimson and mauve. It’s chilly now.

  Aaron kisses me, and I try to lose myself in the kiss the way I lose myself in dancing sometimes, but it doesn’t work. I find myself thinking about the way my boyfriend’s arms, wrapped tight around me, feel like a prison.

  When I get to dance class next day, Jodie is there wearing a new pair of pointe shoes and one of the burgundy leotards reserved for the senior class. ‘Miss Elise thinks I’m ready,’ she says, her eyes shining. ‘She says if I work hard, I can try just a little pointe work in the audition. It won’t matter that I’m inexperienced, she says. They’re looking for potential, not the finished product.’

  ‘You’re going for it then?’ I ask.

  ‘We have to, don’t we?’ Jodie shrugs. ‘We’d be crazy not to try.’

  ‘Do you think we have a chance?’

  Jodie grins. ‘As good a chance as anyone,’ she says.

  In class, I watch Jodie take her first few halting steps en pointe, and I can see that although she looks a little awkward and uncomfortable now, there is a grace there, a vibrancy. This audition is a second chance for Jodie too – will Sylvie Rochelle judge her body or her dancing? Will it matter that she is ‘the wrong shape’ for ballet?

  Miss Elise is taking no chances. She asks Jodie, Sushila and I to sign up for a series of private lessons to prepare for the auditions. ‘No charge,’ she says, glancing at me. ‘If you like, you can help out in the summer sessions in return.’

  ‘I’ll help, definitely,’ I promise. ‘That’d be fun.’

  ‘I might too,’ Jodie agrees. ‘Cool.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Miss Elise says. ‘The thing is, I want you to be prepared for this, all three of you. They’ll want to see some barre exercises, a set piece – I can help you prepare that – and they’re asking for an expressive dance too. You’ll each need to choose a piece of music that really inspires you and choreograph a dance to fit it …’

  I bite my lip, nodding. Already I am scanning through the ballets I know, shortlisting music. I like a challenge.

  ‘Give it your best shot,’ Miss Elise says. ‘It would be a credit to us here if one of you got a scholarship place with Sylvie.’

  One of us. There are three places up for grabs, but of course dozens of girls will be trying out for those places. Miss Elise thinks I am good, but am I good enough? Anxiety flutters inside my belly like birds’ wings beating against glass. Not to be chosen … that would feel like the end of the world. But who says I am any better than Jodie, with her grace, her energy? Or Sushila, who has been in the senior class a whole eighteen months longer than me and took the lead role of Cinderella in the Christmas dance show?

  ‘Time for a smoothie?’ Jodie asks me after class, as we push through the double doors and out into the June sunshine. ‘Before you catch your bus?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Why not?’

  We go to a cafe down on the seafront, order smoothies and slices of cake and sit in a window seat.

  ‘I am so excited about this audition,’ Jodie says. ‘I never thought I’d get a second chance at full-time ballet school. Mum thinks I shouldn’t build my hopes up, especially after last time, but I can’t help it, Summer. I want this so much!’

  ‘Me too,’ I sigh, spearing a forkful of carrot cake. ‘At least we’ve experienced a big audition. We know what to expect.’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ Jodie says. ‘Last time – well, it seemed to go so well. They liked my dancing, I know they did. And then … all that stuff about body types and dancers. It was horrible. I felt so useles
s. But you have to develop a thick skin in this business, Summer. You have to keep trying. You can’t give up!’

  ‘Not ever,’ I agree, but I am not sure if I have a thick skin, not at all. The tiniest criticism or put-down soaks into me and lies in my heart like a stone. Sometimes that spurs me on to work harder, but sometimes it just fills me up with sadness.

  ‘We can learn from last time,’ I muse. ‘I did everything wrong … it was just after Dad left and we were late, and … well, I wasn’t really prepared. This time, I will be. This time, it’ll be different.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Jodie says. ‘Mum said I had a bit of puppy fat back then, but that I’ve grown into my figure now. She says hourglass shapes are back in vogue these days!’

  ‘Right,’ I say, but I’m not too sure if hourglass figures will ever be in vogue when it comes to ballet. All the famous dancers I have ever seen have been small, slender, strong. They have slim, willowy figures. Doesn’t Jodie know that?

  I watch her bite into a slice of chocolate cake with thick buttercream icing, and I decide that she really doesn’t. You wouldn’t eat chocolate cake if you were worried about your shape, would you?

  Or carrot cake, the voice inside my head points out.

  My cheeks flood with heat. Jodie is not the only one with curves these days. The cake turns to sawdust in my mouth. Carrot cake sounds healthy, but I bet it’s still full of fat and sugar, and that’s the last thing I need right now. Jodie may not be picking up the clues about dancers needing a long, lean shape, but I am. I won’t allow my own curves to get in the way of a chance to shine. I push my plate away with a twinge of regret, the cake half eaten.

  8

  Skye barges into our bedroom right in the middle of my ballet practice, her face lit up.

  ‘They’re here!’ she announces, straw hat askew, blue eyes flashing. ‘The film crew is here! Come on, Summer, let’s go see!’

  ‘I’m practising!’ I argue.

  ‘So what?’ Skye huffs. ‘You can do that any time … but it’s not every day a film crew comes to the village! Aren’t you interested? Don’t you care? Come on!’

  I am not interested, not really … I have enough on my plate right now and the film is one crazy complication I could do without. Skye feels differently, though, and reluctantly I allow myself to be dragged away, across the garden and down to JJ’s dad’s field where a convoy of trailers and makeshift studios have suddenly appeared.

  It looks like a circus has come to town. There is a canteen and kitchen trailer, a make-up truck and a whole bunch of caravans and marquees. A couple of gypsy caravans, like the one in our garden, are parked up on the grass. Filming isn’t due to start for another week so only a skeleton crew is here, yet already the place is buzzing with life. A woman is ironing old-fashioned dresses in the costume tent, and two teenage boys are painting scenery that looks like vintage fairground signs. Electricity and water have been laid on and there are Portaloos and showers too. Music drifts through the hazy afternoon sunshine and an aroma of curry is wafting from the kitchen trailer.

  ‘It’s like a festival,’ Skye breathes. ‘We’ll get to see it all – and some of the production team will actually be staying with us!’

  The leading actors will be dotted about the village in holiday cottages, but the producer, director and a bunch of others who need reliable Internet and phone lines will be based at Tanglewood all summer, in the rooms we usually rent out to B&B guests. It’s yet another thing I could do without.

  ‘It’s going to be weird,’ I frown. ‘Mum and Paddy away and a big-shot TV producer staying …’

  ‘Nikki, she’s called,’ Skye reminds me. ‘The producer. The one who came to stay in the spring, when she was sussing out locations …’

  ‘That’s right … the one with the good-looking son,’ I remember. ‘What was his name again?’

  ‘Jamie Finch,’ Skye says, her cheeks flooding with pink. ‘His friends call him Finch apparently …’

  I look at Skye, picking up on her blush, her eager tone. I remember her questions a few days back about what it feels like to fall in love, and the penny finally drops. My twin is crushing on a boy called Jamie Finch, a boy who will be spending the summer at Tanglewood. The clues were there when Jamie and his mum were here, back in the spring … I guess I just didn’t take the time to notice them. Back then I was worried that my twin and I were drifting apart, and although we’re working on that now, I can see there’s still lots we don’t know about each other. I promise myself we’ll stay close this summer, be there for each other.

  ‘So … you think he’s good-looking then?’ Skye is asking. ‘Jamie?’

  ‘Well, you obviously do,’ I grin. ‘Honestly, Skye, I don’t know why I didn’t pick up on it sooner. You couldn’t take your eyes off him when he was here. And I bet he likes you too – face it, he’d be crazy not to!’

  Skye laughs. ‘I don’t suppose he even noticed me, not that way, but … well, I noticed him. D’you think he might like me, Summer? Honestly? I mean, you know these things. You’ve got Aaron …’

  My smile slips a little and I haul it back into place before Skye can notice. Yes, I have Aaron, but I sometimes wish I didn’t. Dating one of the popular boys from school used to feel cool, but lately, it is starting to feel slightly oppressive. Dates with Aaron are a tangle of anxiety about saying the right thing, or finding anything to say at all. I have to remember to look interested when he tells me about his latest Xbox game or the footy match he watched at the weekend. I have to pretend to look interested when he leans in to kiss me.

  I am not quite as expert as Skye thinks when it comes to boys.

  ‘Jamie Finch likes you,’ I tell Skye, hoping I’m right.

  ‘Maybe,’ Skye sighs. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll even see him, most of the time …’

  ‘Of course you’ll see him!’ I tell her. ‘He’ll be living in the house with us, won’t he? With the production crew. Your eyes will meet over the breakfast table across a plate of Grandma Kate’s French toast, and violins will start playing in the background …’

  ‘If this is a fantasy, can we leave Coco and her music practice out of it?’ my twin protests. ‘Please. No cats-being-strangled!’ She elbows me in the ribs and I slide off the wall, dragging her with me. We fall into each other, laughing, and the set painters stop their work to peer at us, slightly perplexed.

  ‘Shhh!’ I whisper. ‘They’ll think we’re mad!’

  ‘So what? We are,’ Skye giggles, and the set painters wave and abandon their brushes, walking over to talk to us. Their names are Chris and Marty and it turns out that they are theatre design students helping on the film for the summer. We tell them we’re from Tanglewood House and they seem to know all about us … the B&B where the production bosses will be staying and the chocolate workshop and the five stepsisters.

  ‘We’re filming your gypsy caravan too,’ Marty grins. ‘Bringing it down to the woods along with the two we have here. Great location. This must be an awesome place to live.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I shrug.

  And then I think of the beach and the ocean and the woods with their little twisty trees; I think of the moss-green fields, the hills, the moors, the village with its jigsaw of thatched cottages and old-fashioned shops crowded together. I would miss all of that if – when – I go away to dance school.

  Chris and Marty give us a guided tour of the camp. We get to see the props tent and the hair and make-up truck with its mirrors and swivel chairs, its palettes of colour and pots of lipstick, its hairdryers, straighteners and curling tongs. The minute we step into the wardrobe tent Skye is lost, transfixed by the racks of embroidered dresses and faded tweed jackets.

  ‘It’s like the best and biggest vintage shop ever,’ she breathes, and Jess the wardrobe manager laughs and stops her ironing to show us the clothes. A few minutes later we are twirling around in fringy shawls, feet clomping in pairs of ancient buttoned boots. When the dresses are safely back on their hangers, Chr
is breaks open a couple of cans of Coke. I take one without thinking, letting the sweet, dark fizz explode on my tongue.

  ‘I’ll have an assistant from next week,’ Jess is telling us. ‘But I can always use an extra pair of hands, if either of you are interested? Wardrobe can get crazy with period dramas like this one. We’ve a couple of big crowd scenes with extras in, and they’re always total madness. It wouldn’t be glamorous, just ironing, mending, helping the actors and actresses …’

  ‘I’m interested,’ Skye answers, her eyes shining. ‘I’ve never been more interested in anything in my whole, entire life! I’d love to help!’

  ‘OK,’ Jess grins. ‘Brilliant! You too, Summer, if you like?’

  I say nothing. A few weeks of hanging out with the film crew, helping with the costumes while a film is shot practically in our own backyard … it sounds too good to be true, and of course it is.

  I know that my August will not be spent here, helping out in the costume tent, watching the filming unfold. It will be spent in the studios of the Exmoor School of Dance, practising, pushing, striving for perfection, preparing for my audition. I have a dream to pin down, and that dream has nothing at all to do with films or fun or summer jobs.

  You have to make sacrifices, Miss Elise says, to get to the top in ballet, and if that means missing out on some of the fun this summer, well, fine. The dream means more to me.

  ‘Maybe,’ I shrug, but there is no maybe about it. I won’t be helping out. I can’t afford the time, the distraction, not even for something like this. Suddenly, the Coke tastes sickly – nothing but sugar and bubbles and empty calories.

  Skye chats on, telling Jess about her collection of 1920s velvet dresses and cloche hats. Me, I put the can down and step back, on to the edge of things, into the background.

  9

  I am standing at the salad bar in the school canteen, trying to decide whether I can face yet another plate of lettuce, tomatoes and sweetcorn or whether I could cut loose a bit and have tuna pasta. My stomach is growling with hunger.