Silhouette by Thalia Kalkipsakis Page B

cries out for more and I sip again. My whole mouth tingles.
    ‘Black Russians are my inspiration.’ He leans close, voice low. ‘One of many.’
    For a moment the day floods into my spinning brain: his stance, his voice, his sweat. I can hardly breathe. I clear my throat and somehow manage to speak: ‘So … ah … you’re happy with the shoot?’
    Moss takes his time to respond and I suddenly worry that I’ve stepped over a line. ‘Yeah,’ he finally says, nodding carefully. ‘But it’s not perfect …’
    ‘But if you’d kept working it would have stopped feeling fresh.’ Hope that doesn’t sound stupid.
    ‘Yeah. Good call.’ There’s a spark of recognition in those grey-blue eyes. ‘You get it, don’t you? The work that goes in.’
    ‘Sure, I get it. Takes a lot of effort to make it look effortless.’
    Someone calls out from around the coffee table, making Moss nod before turning back to me. ‘Well …’
    I don’t want him to go. ‘So that woman at the bar,’ I say quickly, ‘was that Kitty Hudson?’ Moss nods in response, so I add, ‘And you two are an item?’
    Can’t believe I just said that.
    A sly, sensual smile spreads across his lips and his eyes move over my face. ‘Why? Are you jealous?’
    That doesn’t answer the question. I push a shoulder forward, enjoying the feel of him looking at me. Two can play at this game. ‘Why should I be jealous?’
    He laughs slowly. ‘Hey, I like your style.’ Moss’s eyes flicker down to my chest, just for a moment, before he looks up and says, ‘Tell you what … we’re on residency at the Dixie Bar. You should come next Saturday. Bring your dancing friends.’
    There’s no way we’d get in. But right now my head is floating and my legs are tingling, so I just raise an eyebrow and say, ‘Sure. Sounds like fun.’

SEVEN
    The distant buzz of the doorbell pulls me out of sleep. Gradually I become aware of my pillow, the rise and fall of my breath. Slowly I roll over, trying to sink back into my dream … dancing with a shadow, just him and me.
    Soon the rising notes of a scale reach my room, and I accept that there’s no chance I’ll drift off again. I slide out of bed and my sore calves remind me what happened yesterday. For some reason my neck is stiff.
    The smell of stale smoke rises from my hair as I step into the shower, bringing back the flavour of the afterparty until I wash it away.
    Downstairs I boil an egg, aware that it won’t be enough. I find a banana. It’s gone in a few mouthfuls. All that dancing and so little food. Didn’t know I could take it that far. It makes me wonder how much harder I could push in terms of food and muscle tiredness. What could I cope with?
    Soon the egg’s gone and I’m still empty. Can’t let myself eat any more. So I flick the kettle and scoop brown coffee granules into a mug.
    After a coffee, the hunger’s gone, more or less, and the images of the shoot are immediately chased by a spark of panic about auditions on Friday for the grad performance. Everyone’s focused on the lead roles like lions on an antelope. I’ll need to get some studio time this week. Two nights, at least. Should have booked them already.
    At lunchtime I eat tuna and a yoghurt, but a wave of tiredness hits me, so I make a second coffee and end up chewing gum after that. I have heaps of reading for psychology, an essay due in English, and that’s not even thinking of French.
    I’m still working through it all when Paige calls for a Moss Young debrief. I don’t want to rub it in, so I gloss over the shoot and move straight to the afterparty. The house, the pool, the kinds of people. One person in particular.
    ‘Geez, Scarlett,’ says Paige once I’ve finished. ‘I can’t believe you went there on your own.’
    ‘Yeah, well … the other dancers were there too. And Moss Young was amazing. Really thoughtful, down-to-earth. He even invited me to a gig next weekend at the Dixie Bar. You should come,’ I