‘It’ll be a monumental cock-up if you’re late. Are you dressed? Do you have your face on? The cameras are ready to go. It’s a live feed. There’s no time to be African with.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ Clare started the car.
Silence at the other end.
‘Okay, five.’
‘I’m waiting with your punctual sister and your niecesat the bar.’ She could hear Beatrice wheedling for a packet of Whispers, Imogen for a glass of champagne, just this once. Julia saying that every time they went out it was just this once, so no.
‘Clare…’ Giles’s voice gentler. Intimate. ‘I…’
‘I’m on my way.’ Cutting him short.
Clare joined the flow of cars, speeding down the taxi lane towards the city centre, then parking outside thetheatre and slipping in through a side entrance. She stepped into the whirl of people finishing their champagne, moving towards their seats.
Her youngest niece, Beatrice, spotted her first.
‘You look beautiful, Auntie Clare,’ hooking sticky fingers into flame-coloured hair.
‘She can’t help it, darling,’ smiled her mother as she kissed her younger sister.
‘I know,’ said Beatrice.‘I was just telling her.’
‘Hi Julia, sorry I’m a bit rushed.’
Clare drew the little girl into the circle of her arms.
‘Here’s a flower for you.’ Beatrice handed her an arum lily, its white sheath furled around the deep yellow stamen. ‘I picked it.’
‘Come on, darling, save it for later.’ Giles Reid took charge. ‘You’re on in a few minutes.’
He swept her ahead of him, one handin the small of her back, greeting those who mattered and ignoring those who didn’t, until he had her at the stage entrance.
’Dr Hart,’ he announced to the relief of the production manager. ‘Mike her up.’
A technician threaded the wire up the inside of her dress and clipped the microphone to the neckline. The cameramen lounged next to their idle cameras, checked batteries, adjusted theirheadphones.
‘Good luck, darling.’ Giles Reid kissed her cheek. ‘We’ll do dinner afterwards.’
Clare stepped onto the stage, away from his hand that had slid uninvited to her bottom.
She stood without notes, or a lectern to shield her, the familiar whirr of the cameras a comfort. The audience, fingering programmes and sweet wrappers, settled. The rustle was like rain on leaves.
‘What does it feel like to come back from the dead?’
Clare let the question hang over her audience, invisible in the velvet darkness around her.
‘That is the question which Persephone, goddess of the spring, must surely have been asked when she returned to the world of the living. Persephone , the ballet you’ve come to see tonight, tells Persephone’s story, and also that of her mother, thegoddess Demeter, who avenges Persephone’s abduction by Hades, King of the Underworld. Demeter lays waste the earth, her wintry grief freezing the land until Hades agrees to let Persephone return, bringing the spring with her.’
The orchestra shifted in the pit, and was still again.
‘So, what does it feel like to return?’ Clare’s eyes were adjusting to the dark. She could make out the shapesof the seats, of heads in the darkness.
‘What does it feel like to return but to be unable to live, unable to love?’
Darkness, except for a single spot trained on her, its light bleaching her skin; the lily she held was stark against her black dress.
Clare clicked the remote in her hand. A series of faces appeared on the screen behind her, some culled from Christmas and holiday snaps.Many had the stilted innocence of school portraits. A single professional portrait of a redhead. Each one with her name, her date of birth, the date she disappeared and, if she’d been found, that date too. Only two did not have crosses next to their names. Two found alive. Just.
‘Ours is a nation of missing girls.’ In the wings the dancers checking their shoes, tucking away tendrils of hair.
‘But tonight we are
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ Clare started the car.
Silence at the other end.
‘Okay, five.’
‘I’m waiting with your punctual sister and your niecesat the bar.’ She could hear Beatrice wheedling for a packet of Whispers, Imogen for a glass of champagne, just this once. Julia saying that every time they went out it was just this once, so no.
‘Clare…’ Giles’s voice gentler. Intimate. ‘I…’
‘I’m on my way.’ Cutting him short.
Clare joined the flow of cars, speeding down the taxi lane towards the city centre, then parking outside thetheatre and slipping in through a side entrance. She stepped into the whirl of people finishing their champagne, moving towards their seats.
Her youngest niece, Beatrice, spotted her first.
‘You look beautiful, Auntie Clare,’ hooking sticky fingers into flame-coloured hair.
‘She can’t help it, darling,’ smiled her mother as she kissed her younger sister.
‘I know,’ said Beatrice.‘I was just telling her.’
‘Hi Julia, sorry I’m a bit rushed.’
Clare drew the little girl into the circle of her arms.
‘Here’s a flower for you.’ Beatrice handed her an arum lily, its white sheath furled around the deep yellow stamen. ‘I picked it.’
‘Come on, darling, save it for later.’ Giles Reid took charge. ‘You’re on in a few minutes.’
He swept her ahead of him, one handin the small of her back, greeting those who mattered and ignoring those who didn’t, until he had her at the stage entrance.
’Dr Hart,’ he announced to the relief of the production manager. ‘Mike her up.’
A technician threaded the wire up the inside of her dress and clipped the microphone to the neckline. The cameramen lounged next to their idle cameras, checked batteries, adjusted theirheadphones.
‘Good luck, darling.’ Giles Reid kissed her cheek. ‘We’ll do dinner afterwards.’
Clare stepped onto the stage, away from his hand that had slid uninvited to her bottom.
She stood without notes, or a lectern to shield her, the familiar whirr of the cameras a comfort. The audience, fingering programmes and sweet wrappers, settled. The rustle was like rain on leaves.
‘What does it feel like to come back from the dead?’
Clare let the question hang over her audience, invisible in the velvet darkness around her.
‘That is the question which Persephone, goddess of the spring, must surely have been asked when she returned to the world of the living. Persephone , the ballet you’ve come to see tonight, tells Persephone’s story, and also that of her mother, thegoddess Demeter, who avenges Persephone’s abduction by Hades, King of the Underworld. Demeter lays waste the earth, her wintry grief freezing the land until Hades agrees to let Persephone return, bringing the spring with her.’
The orchestra shifted in the pit, and was still again.
‘So, what does it feel like to return?’ Clare’s eyes were adjusting to the dark. She could make out the shapesof the seats, of heads in the darkness.
‘What does it feel like to return but to be unable to live, unable to love?’
Darkness, except for a single spot trained on her, its light bleaching her skin; the lily she held was stark against her black dress.
Clare clicked the remote in her hand. A series of faces appeared on the screen behind her, some culled from Christmas and holiday snaps.Many had the stilted innocence of school portraits. A single professional portrait of a redhead. Each one with her name, her date of birth, the date she disappeared and, if she’d been found, that date too. Only two did not have crosses next to their names. Two found alive. Just.
‘Ours is a nation of missing girls.’ In the wings the dancers checking their shoes, tucking away tendrils of hair.
‘But tonight we are
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