A French Pirouette. Jennifer Bohnet

in recent months and was threatening to take over her life. It would have to happen soon she knew but what was she to do afterwards? She was lucky to have lasted at the top for so long. Many dancers were finished by their early thirties. Usually by then the injuries had mounted up and the RICE—rest, ice, compression, elevation—recovery times were lengthening.

      Towelling her feet dry Suzette grimaced. RICE. Such a funny expression for something that was as much a part of a dancer’s life as barre work, while rice the food, with all its carbohydrates, was forbidden in her low-carb diet. It was a constant battle to keep fit and strong enough to dance but stay fat free and trim.

      The last three weeks had been a mixture of low-key exercises and RICE after that last sprain in Covent Garden. But now it was time to get back on the treadmill again: hours of gruelling dance practice, long rehearsals and the need to network and help publicise the next show. The first of the publicity stints was starting with this afternoon’s recording of a chat show at the TV studio.

      Appearing on chat shows was not something that she did routinely but Malik had assured her that a) these days keeping her name in front of her audience was essential and b) she might even enjoy it. Could even lead to other things when she retired. There was that word again. Retired.

      She’d hoped that Malik would be back in Paris to escort her to the studios or at least meet her afterwards, but he was still down in Monaco. After tying things up there for the spring season he’d decided to stay on for a break. He’d asked her to join him but Suzette had said no, preferring to stay up here in town and get her ankle in tip-top condition before going down there to perform in a few weeks’ time.

      Malik had been her dance partner until three years ago when, after one injury too many, he retired and became a choreographer. His reputation these days was so good he could be selective and choose the ballet companies he wanted to work with. Suzette loved it when they worked together and was looking forward to their short season in Monaco.

      She missed dancing with Malik. They’d fitted together so well. Understood each other and picked up on each other’s vibes while on stage. Since he’d retired from dancing she hadn’t had a regular partner, dancing instead with one of the various top-flight male dancers contracted for the different ballets.

      Away from the theatre too she and Malik enjoyed a deep personal friendship. At one time everyone had expected their friendship to develop into something more but it had never gone beyond the special friendship stage. He was still her best friend in the dance world though. In all her worlds actually. Outside of dancing there were precious few people she could consider friends these days.

      Sighing, she stood up and hung the towel on the heated rail to dry. Time to get dressed. The car the studio was sending for her would be here soon. Time to put on her public face and smile for the cameras.

      The other guests were already enjoying wine and nibbles when Suzette was shown into the Green Room at the studios. She recognised a well-known actor and one of France’s ageing rock ’n’ roll stars.

      The other woman guest was a writer who immediately after they were introduced, asked brusquely, “Read my latest?”

      Suzette shook her head. “Desolé. Murder mysteries aren’t my scene. Prefer a romance. I’m sure it will do well though.” She smiled at the woman who tutted at her words and turned away.

      The show’s format meant that each guest was introduced individually until all five of them were sitting around a table laden with finger food the guest chef of the day had been coerced into providing. Bottles of wine were passed freely around in an effort to create an atmosphere of friends at lunch chatting intimately and enjoying themselves.

      Suzette had the actor on one side of her and a young wannabe star from a current talent show on the other. After initial hesitations, talk flowed between them as the experienced presenter drew them all in to the conversation. It was when the subject of hobbies came up that Suzette found herself in the spotlight.

      “Suzette, I know you are a keen photographer but you are also a very gifted needlewoman and accomplished embroiderer. Tell us how you got into that,” the presenter said.

      “Like all good things, I learnt it at my mother’s knee,” Suzette said. “I find it very relaxing and always have a piece in my dressing room to work on. It helps to pass the time when I’m not on stage.”

      “You were born and grew up here in Paris, didn’t you?”

      “Yes, I grew up in Paris,” Suzette said, ignoring the first part of the question. “I had a happy childhood here—although being at ballet school it was also a very disciplined life.” She went on to explain how her world had revolved around ballet since the age of nine. “The discipline I learnt there is ingrained in me now.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wish I could just be me.” Oh, maybe that was not the right thing to say on national TV.

      “Of course I love what I do and hope to continue for some time yet,” she added quickly. “I’m really looking forward to my season here in Paris in the autumn.” There. At least Malik would be pleased with her for getting their show mentioned. She was relieved when the presenter didn’t press her on the subject of what ‘being just me’ would entail and then, five minutes later, wound up ‘lunch’ and the show was over.

      On the way home, Suzette sank back into the seat of the limousine and remembered the way the words about just being herself had come out without her thinking about them. But when she retired and gave up her life of dance altogether that was exactly what she could be. Herself. Whoever she was. And what kind of life would she lead outside the world of dance? Could she even survive without dance in her life?

      Thank goodness Malik was due back tomorrow and she could talk to him. The one person left who knew her well—although even he, as close as they were, didn’t know everything about her.

      Her local kiosque presse on the corner of two streets just yards from her apartment was busy the following morning when Suzette went to pick up the current issue of La Monde. A large photograph of the countryside on the side of the kiosk caught her attention as she stood in the queue. ‘Venez en Bretagne pour vos vacances’.

      She and her mother had gone to Brittany once for a holiday when she was, oh, about nine or ten. A long-ago memory of walking alongside a river watching boats and men fishing flashed into her mind. The countryside had been beautiful and she’d longed to stay for longer but at the end of the holiday she’d been dragged crying to the train station and they’d returned to Paris. Ballet school had taken over her life and her mother’s finances and there had been no more holidays.

      Since then of course she’d travelled all over the world but had never been back to Brittany. Maybe when she retired she’d take a holiday there—see if it was as beautiful as her childhood memories had painted it.

      Back in the apartment Suzette went through to the small room she laughingly referred to as ‘Le Boudoir’. Originally intended to be a guest bedroom she’d had it converted years ago into a mini dance studio with a wooden floor, mirrored walls and an exercise barre running the length of the room. After pulling on her ballet shoes and tying the ribbons she crossed over to the small table holding a CD player and a pile of CDs. Taking a compilation of slow piano pieces she placed it into the player and pressed the button. Within seconds she was concentrating on the familiar plié exercise routine that had been a part of her daily life—injury time excepted—for as long as she could remember.

      Waiting for Malik later that day Suzette picked up the white velvet evening cape she was personalising with some delicate embroidery beadwork. To celebrate his first evening back from the south of France they were due to go to the theatre and have supper afterwards in one of their favourite bistros.

      She glanced at her watch. Malik was typically late. She’d so wanted to talk to him before they left for the theatre but that clearly wasn’t going to be an option.

      Half an hour later than she’d expected him, Malik let himself into the apartment. “Desolé,” he said. “I got held up in traffic. That’s looking good,” he said moving closer. “Stunning