Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

      She needed the comfort of the familiar very badly right now.

      The double doors to the Sydney Dance Company’s rehearsal studio A came up on her left. She pushed through them and the scent of warm bodies, clean sweat and a dozen different deodorants and perfumes and aftershaves wrapped itself around her.

      Home. She was home.

      “Maddy! How did your doctor’s appointment go?” Kendra asked the moment she spotted Maddy.

      The other dancers turned toward her, faces expectant. Maddy forced herself to smile and shrug casually.

      “It’s all good,” she said. “No problems.”

      She couldn’t bring herself to say the other thing. Saying it out loud would make it real. And for just a few more minutes, she wanted to lose herself in the world that had held her enthralled since, at the age of four, she first saw a picture of a ballerina.

      Kendra flew across the room to give her a hug, her slender arms strong around Maddy’s back.

      “Fantastic. Great news. The best,” she said.

      The other woman’s gauzy rehearsal skirt flared around her legs as she returned to her place in the center of the room. Kendra was only twenty-two. She had her whole career ahead of her. She was a beautiful dancer—powerful, delicate, emotional, intense. She would soar.

      Maddy felt someone watching her and lifted her gaze to find Stephen Jones, the choreographer, eyeing her closely.

      She turned her shoulder, breaking the contact. Stephen had been watching her a lot lately, checking her range of movement, testing the capabilities of her injured knee. Had he known, or guessed, what she’d been told today? Had everyone known except her that she was over? That she would never dance again?

      Her heart pounded against her ribs and again she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

      She threw her bag into the corner and slid off her street shoes, bending to tug on a pair of slippers with shaking hands. The ribbons whispered through her fingers as she wrapped them around her ankles and tied them neatly. She shed her skirt to reveal tights and leotard and took a place at the barre to begin warming up.

      Pliés first, then some rond de jambes, keeping her head high and her arms relaxed. Every time she rose up en pointe, she felt the seamless, fluid glide of her body responding to her will, saw her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, posture perfect, form ideal.

      Her heartbeat slowed. She was a dancer. Always had been, always would be.

      “Maddy.”

      She tore her eyes from her own reflection to find Andrew McIntyre, the company director, standing behind her. He, too, had been studying her perfect form in the mirror.

      “Why don’t you come to my office?” he said. His voice was gentle, as was the light in his eyes.

      He knew.

      He’d spoken to Dr. Hanson. Of course he had. Hanson was the company’s doctor, after all. When she’d come on board four years ago she’d signed a contract agreeing that the company could access all health matters pertaining to her career.

      “After rehearsal,” she said. “I’m warm now. And the rest of them are waiting for me.”

      “I think we should do this now, don’t you?” he said.

      He was frowning, as though what she’d said pained him in some way. He moved closer, reached out a hand to touch her.

      She took a step backward. Rising en pointe on her bad leg, she lifted her right leg in grand battement to the side then up, up, up, until her toe was pointing toward the ceiling, her thigh straight beside her ear.

      She held the position in a blatant display of skill and strength, her eyes daring Andrew in the mirror.

      He held her gaze, never once looking away. And when her muscles began to scream and shake from the pain of holding such a demanding, strenuous position, he stepped forward and rested his hand on her shoulder.

      “Enough, Maddy. Come to my office.”

      She let her leg drop and relaxed onto her flat feet. Her knee throbbed, as it always did these days when she demanded too much of it. She hung her head and stared blindly at the polished floorboards.

      She felt Andrew slide his arm around her shoulders. Then he led her toward the door. The other dancers stopped mid-rehearsal to watch her. She could feel their silent stares as she and Andrew stepped into the corridor. Andrew didn’t let her go until they were in his office.

      “Sit,” he said.

      He crossed to the wooden built-ins that spanned one wall of his office and opened a door. She heard the clink of glass on glass as he poured something.

      “Drink this.”

      Brandy fumes caught her nose as he lifted a glass to her lips.

      “No,” she said, turning her head away.

      Andrew held the glass there, waiting. Finally she took a token mouthful.

      “And again,” he said.

      She took a bigger mouthful this time. The brandy burned all the way down her throat to her belly. She shook her head firmly when he offered a third time.

      He took her at her word and placed the glass on the coffee table in front of her. Then he sat in the armchair opposite her.

      In his late fifties, he was a former dancer, his body slim and whippet-strong even after years away from the stage. His tanned skin was stretched tightly across high cheekbones, and thin lines surrounded his mouth from smoking. His eyes were kind as he studied her, a rarity from a man who was known throughout the dance world as a perfectionist first and a human being second.

      “We will look after you, Maddy. Please know that. Retirement pay, any teaching work you want—you name it, you can have it. You’ve been one of our greatest dancers, and we won’t forget you.”

      Maddy could feel the sweat cooling on her body in the air-conditioned chill.

      “I want to keep dancing,” she said. “That’s what I want.”

      Andrew shook his head decisively. “You can’t. Not for us. Not professionally. Your spirit might be willing, but your body is not. Dr. Hanson was very clear about that. We always knew that complete recovery from such a significant tear to your cruciate ligament was going to be a long shot. It’s time to hang up your slippers, Maddy.”

      She stared at him, a storm of words closing her throat. Anger, grief, resentment, denial—she didn’t know what to say, how to react.

      “I want to keep dancing,” she said again. “Give me more time. I’ll show you I can do it. I’ll do more rehab work, more Pilates. Whatever it takes.”

      Andrew’s face went slack for a moment, and he leaned back and closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his hand. He looked defeated, sad.

      “Maddy. I know how hard it is to give it up. Believe me. It nearly killed me. But I made a second chance for myself.” He paused a moment to let his words sink in. “You’re a beautiful, smart, resourceful woman. There’s another life out there waiting for you. You just have to find it.”

       I don’t want to find it.

      She almost said it out loud, but some of the numbness and shock were leaving her as the brandy burned its way into her system.

      The doctor had handed down his decision, and Andrew had made his, too. She was broken, old. They had no use for her anymore.

      “We’ll throw you a party. A real send-off. And we’ll help you any way we can. Retraining, or, as I said earlier, if you want to teach…?”

      The thought of a party, of standing in front of her peers while people made toasts to her former talent made bile rise