A Girl’s Guide to Kissing Frogs

There was a crescendo of muttering and whispering outside and the door creaked open a fraction wider. Despite my agony I felt a surge of joy. Sebastian, intentionally or unintentionally, had forced Miko to show his hand.

‘Yes. I admit she would be a fool, if no other consideration came into it. But you see –’ Sebastian also hesitated for a moment, then walked over to the door and closed it – ‘it’s not just a question of her career.’ He shot a glance in my direction. Never had those Atlantic grey eyes looked colder. ‘You’re the first to be let in on the secret, Miko. I’ve asked Marigold to marry me.’

Miko was clearly taken aback, in fact he practically rocked on his heels, but his astonishment was as nothing compared with mine. No word of marriage, love or even mild affection had ever crossed Sebastian’s rather thin lips. I realized that my mouth was hanging unattractively open. He came over and put a proprietorial hand on my shoulder.

‘I know Marigold too well to believe that she would put ambition before my – our happiness.’

The idea was preposterous. This must be a trick, invented on the spot, to put a spoke in Miko’s wheel. Miko’s little eyes were still twinkling but a frown puckered the cushions of fat above them.

I felt Sebastian’s hand tighten on my collarbone. ‘Marigold?’ he said softly.

I stared up at him, trying to fathom his mind. Could it be … that he really wanted to marry me? If there was even the smallest possibility that he was sincere I could not decline his offer abruptly and callously in front of Miko. It would be discourteous, even cruel. Even as I thought this I chided myself for a fool. Sebastian had never given me a moment’s thought except as a potential money-maker and – how had Bruce described me? – a spunk-bucket. God! What ought I to do? My whole future might depend on my present answer and my entire leg was pounding, bursting with pain. For a moment I thought I was going to be sick. Perhaps that would be the best thing. Though it would be embarrassing it would save me from having to make a decision. In the event I did something less messy and more serviceable. I fainted.

3

‘This is so kind of you,’ I said to Sebastian the following day. ‘I’ve never had so much luxury.’

Things had taken such a dramatic turn for the better that I had to pinch myself several times for reassurance. On my way to class that morning, getting downstairs and crossing Maxwell Street had hurt so much that I had groaned aloud. I had fainted in the bus queue and been rushed by ambulance, with flashing light and wailing siren, to hospital. Once there all sense of urgency seemed to evaporate and I had sat in A&E in great pain, ignored by everyone for at least a couple of hours until it occurred to me that I ought to find a telephone and let the LBC know I probably wouldn’t be coming in that day. Sebastian’s sudden appearance among the bored staff and grumbling, impotent patients was as galvanizing as a lion’s among grazing wildebeest. I had been taken by wheelchair to a waiting taxi and driven to the Wyngarde Private Clinic.

Now I had a room all to myself which looked like a set in a Doris Day film. The bed had a pink velvet quilted headboard, there were curtains with roses on and two pink wing chairs for visitors. An enormous television stood at the foot of the bed. I had my own pink bathroom complete with bathrobe and the end sheet of the lav paper folded into a point.

‘Proudlock-Jones is the best man in the business for feet.’ Sebastian wandered about the room, inspecting the view of Wimpole Street from the window, the telephone, which he unplugged, the arrangement of artificial roses – pink, of course – on the bedside table and finally my cotton nightgown which the pretty nurse had brought me. ‘Unfortunately he doesn’t work on the NHS.’ Sebastian put one knee experimentally on the bed.

‘Ow-how!’ I yelled.

‘All right, no need to make a fuss,’ he said rather grumpily.

The pretty nurse came back just then, wreathed in smiles and bearing the ubiquitous kidney-shaped dish. It seems a peculiar fetish of the medical profession. After all, it must be comparatively rarely that they actually have a kidney to put in it. I saw to my dismay that it contained a syringe with a needle as thick as a pencil. ‘Here we are, Miss Savage. I’m just going to pop in your premed. If you’ll wait in the corridor, sir, for one minute …’ The nurse dimpled in response to Sebastian’s dramatic good looks as she held up the syringe and squirted out some liquid.

‘I don’t see why I should leave,’ Sebastian protested. ‘I’m not squeamish.’

‘Ah, but I’m going to put it in her derrière.’ She gave him an arch look. ‘And you can take away that champagne. She’s on nil by mouth until after her op.’

‘All right, I’ll come back later. Don’t do anything stupid, Marigold,’ he added by way of valediction.

‘Your boyfriend’s awfully handsome,’ said the pretty nurse. ‘Just a teeny prick.’ I bit back the obvious retort. It was actually quite a large prick but as nothing compared with the agony of my foot. ‘Well done!’ The nurse patted my arm sympathetically. ‘You’ll start to feel woozy very soon. Nothing to worry about, dear. Mr Proudlock-Jones is a wonderful surgeon. You couldn’t be in better hands.’ She tapped my cheek with her finger, then went away. I felt comforted by so much kindness. My mind began to unravel as whatever had been in the syringe swirled in my bloodstream. It was a glorious feeling.

‘Hello, darling,’ said Lizzie’s voice what seemed like five minutes later.

‘Oh, Lizzie,’ I said sleepily. ‘Thanks … coming … see me. Going … have operation … soon.’

‘You’ve had it,’ said the pretty nurse, beaming over Lizzie’s shoulder. ‘It’s all over, dear, and it went very well. Mr Proudlock-Jones is very pleased with you.’

‘Oh, good,’ I said, though I couldn’t think why he would be. I hadn’t actually done anything, as far as I was aware.

‘Would you like to sit with your friend for a while?’ said the nurse to Lizzie. ‘I’ll pop back later. Press the bell if you want anything.’

‘I say,’ said Lizzie. ‘This place is utter bliss, isn’t it? Fancy a chocolate finger biscuit?’

‘Not … just now.’

I must have dozed again, for when I came to Lizzie was deep in the copy of Tatler that came courtesy of the Wyngarde Clinic. ‘How are you feeling?’ Lizzie leaned forward sympathetically. She had quite a lot of chocolate at the corners of her mouth.

‘Okay. No pain. Thirsty.’

‘Nurse Thingummy’s been back and she said to give you little sips of water if you wanted it.’ The water was iced and deliciously refreshing. ‘Marigold, do you think I could possibly have a bath in your wonderful bathroom? Ours is heated by the range and Granny always lets it go out during the day to save coal. I haven’t had a hot bath in years.’

‘Go right ahead.’ I waved my hand in a lordly way.

I woke up again a little later to hear the sound of splashing and lots of oohs and aahs.

‘Crikey!’ said Lizzie through the open door. ‘I didn’t know water could be this hot.’

‘You’d better not faint,’ I said, ‘because I’m in no state to fish you out – oh, hello!’

‘I’m Anthony Proudlock-Jones.’ A middle-aged man with a pinstriped suit stretched over his corpulent form strode into the room and seized my hand in his plump smooth one. ‘We’ve met before but you were unconscious.’ He chuckled throatily in a way that suggested whole humidors of cigars. ‘I’m sure they’ve done a good job of plastering you up.’ He lifted the bedclothes to look at my leg. ‘Yes, very nice. You had a nasty comminuted fracture of the metatarsals. I oughtn’t to blow my own trumpet, but I think it’s true to say that in any hands other than mine you’d be waving goodbye to your career.’ He rubbed sausage-like fingers together. ‘But I’m reasonably confident it’ll heal all right. Take it easy for the next six weeks, then we’ll take the cast off and have another dekko.’

Reasonably confident? I felt perspiration spring out on my forehead at the suggestion of a doubt.

‘Remember, no gymnastics! You can wriggle your toes but that’s all. Patience is a virtue, virtue is a grace and Grace was a little girl who wouldn’t wash her face, ha ha!’ He breezed out to dispense healing and wisdom to the next patient.

‘Help!’ called Lizzie as soon as he’d gone. ‘I didn’t dare move. I’ve probably given myself third-degree burns. I had to suck the flannel to suppress bloodcurdling screams. I’ll just put in some cold.’

Mr Proudlock-Jones had put paid to sleepiness for the time being. While torrents of water flowed into the bath, I asked myself what I would do if his confidence proved for once to be unjustified. No course of action occurred to me. If I could not dance I could not live. Of course it would be all right. It had to be.

‘This is the most sensual experience I’ve had in years.’ Lizzie’s voice, floating through the open door, had gone down several tones and was gravelly with relaxation. ‘Much better than sex. And no evil consequences.’

Six months ago, Lizzie had fallen insanely in love with a Russian guest artist who, when wearing a wig and full make-up, looked slightly like Rudolf Nureyev. Certainly from behind the resemblance was remarkable. He had stayed only three weeks before being recalled to Leningrad and, two months after that, the company had a whip-round to pay for Lizzie to have a termination at the handy little nursing home in Southwark where all the female dancers in the company went when self-control or rubber failed. Since then, Lizzie had been much less keen on sex.

‘And generally much less worrying,’ I said, sitting up and helping myself to a biscuit to begin the process of repair. It was the first thing I had eaten for thirty-six hours and it tasted extraordinarily delicious. ‘No fretful evenings waiting for the bath to ring. No need to agonize over whether the bath thinks you were insufficiently enthusiastic and imaginative. One good thing about making love with Sebastian is that he’s so self-absorbed one might as well be an inflatable – Hello, Sebastian,’ I said loudly as he walked into the room. A violent splash came from the bathroom followed by silence.

‘Well! You’re looking quite a lot better already.’ Sebastian picked up the bottle of champagne, untwisted the wires and popped the cork. He picked up my glass and chucked the iced water over the artificial roses. ‘We’ll have to share this.’

‘I probably oughtn’t have alcohol so soon …’

‘Oh, rubbish! It won’t hurt your foot. Drink up.’ He held the beaker-full of foaming liquid under my nose. ‘It’ll relax you.’

Actually I was feeling quite relaxed already, but Sebastian was forking out zillions for my operation and my room so I could refuse him nothing.

‘Go on,’ he said, ‘finish it.’

The chocolate biscuit was powerless to counteract the effect of the champagne when it hit my otherwise empty stomach. When it combined with the remainder of the anaesthetic that was still in my bloodstream, I felt as though I had been shot into outer space in a large pink rocket. The world grew distant and all the consequences thereof.

He stroked my bare arm. ‘Mm. You’ve lost a couple of pounds.’ Sebastian was as obsessed with body shapes as the rest of us. ‘Don’t overdo it. You’ll start losing muscle.’ I wanted to say that it was nice of him to care but whatever part of my brain was in control of my tongue seemed to be paralysed. ‘It’s not unattractive, though.’

I set off on an orbit of the earth and very colourful it was, too, just like those photographs in the National Geographic magazine.

‘Marigold.’ Sebastian was bending over me. ‘You’re giggling like a schoolgirl. Just be serious for a moment. Shall I tell Miko to get lost?’

I bared my teeth in a grin as in the intervals between him talking to me I found I was flying over snow-sprinkled mountains and deep dark lakes.

‘Stop giggling.’ Sebastian sounded annoyed but I didn’t give a damn. ‘Move over. I want to fuck you.’

I thought I heard another splash from the bathroom and what might have been a stifled cry.

‘Now?’ It sounded a strange thing to want to do when one could soar like a bird over oceans and continents. ‘… nurses? … Lizzie?’

‘I’ve locked the door. Lizzie can wait outside.’

I wanted to explain that Lizzie was already inside but his hands were pulling up my gown. Too late his body was on mine, in mine.

‘I don’t know what’s so funny,’ he said afterwards in a slightly offended tone.

‘Neither do I.’ My voice boomed and in the distance someone cackled like a hen. Could it possibly have been me?

I spent two more enjoyable days in the clinic, warm, fed and practically killed with kindness, before Sebastian visited me again and said I must go home as it was costing a hundred pounds a day which the company could not afford.

‘As much as that?’ I flung back the covers and threw my good leg over the side, almost crushed by a terrible weight of guilt. ‘I had no idea. Of course I’ll leave at once. Oh, thank you, Sebastian, for paying for me.’ I seized his hand. My gratitude was so tremendous I felt I quite loved him.

Sebastian’s eye fell on several inches of naked thigh below my crumpled nightdress. ‘Mm. There’s no immediate hurry. I’ll just lock the door.’

‘Oh, yes, do!’

‘Your enthusiasm makes an agreeable change,’ he said after a while. ‘Of course I’m perfectly aware that the motive is mercenary.’

An increase of guilt encouraged me to submit willingly to a predilection of Sebastian’s I hated, the details of which I’d rather not go into.

‘You needn’t feel overburdened by indebtedness,’ said Sebastian as he rolled away from me, elegantly pale with effort and, one hoped, thoroughly sated. ‘I shall deduct the four hundred pounds from your salary in instalments over the next year.’

As I lay mute with indignation he laughed long and low.

4

‘Marigold! It’s me,’ called Lizzie, coming in through the front door of the flat accompanied by the most delicious smell of vinegar. ‘How are you, darling? Have you been horribly bored?’

I had been taken by ambulance back to 44 Maxwell Street that morning. The flat was up four flights of stairs and our miserly landlord had set the timer switch so that you had to run like mad, taking three steps at a time, to get from one landing to the next before the light went out. The ambulance men, manoeuvring the stretcher with difficulty round the narrow bends, had complained volubly about being plunged into absolute darkness every eight seconds while comparing the stink unfavourably with a ferret’s cage. I explained that the pungent smell was due to the third-floor lodger treating the stairwell as his own private pissoir. After that they advised me to throw myself on the mercy of Social Services and plainly disbelieved my protests that I was actually quite fond of the place. Because Nancy and Sorel were in America with the touring part of the company, I could only afford to heat my bedroom, and the temperature of the rest of the flat struck cold as a tomb. The men looked at my extravagant interior decorations with expressions of wonderment not unmixed with derision, but they had been sympathetic and friendly and I was sorry to see them go.

I had spent the intervening hours between their departure and Lizzie’s arrival shivering and dozing. ‘A bit. What’s in those parcels?’

‘Fish and chips! Isn’t it utter bliss?’

I agreed that it was but habitual caution could not be entirely suppressed. ‘Should you be eating a zillion calories, dear girl? For that matter should I?’

‘Oh, who gives a damn! You need nourishment and I need cheering up. Let’s for once just forget about our waistlines. Want a plate?’

‘Certainly not.’ I opened the newspaper on my knee. ‘Oh, the smell of ancient reheated fat! So sinful yet so delicious! Why do you need cheering up?’

Lizzie tucked her springing blond hair behind her ears and looked at me regretfully. ‘Oh, you know … I cocked up in the rehearsal today … So what’s the verdict on the leg, then? I asked Sebastian but he wouldn’t tell me.’

‘Cast off in six weeks. No dancing for two months.’

‘Darling, don’t worry. The six weeks will go in a flash and then after a few weeks of class you’ll be dancing as well – in fact better – than ever. Does your leg hurt very much?’

‘It’s okay when no one’s crashing it against banisters. I’m going to be pretty much marooned up here until the cast comes off.’

‘Oh dear.’ Lizzie looked anxious. ‘Six whole weeks! It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well … it’s so cold … and Nancy and Sorel are away … I know! I’ve got something that’s going to cheer you up.’ She took a newspaper from her bag. ‘Take a look at this!’ She turned to a page on which she had outlined a paragraph in red. ‘It’s by Didelot!’

I screamed and grabbed the paper. ‘I’d no idea he was there. I’d have been a hundred times more nervous if I’d known. Does he say terribly cutting things? I hardly dare look.’

Didelot was the nom de plume of a ballet critic with a formidable reputation, an unforgiving eye and a pitiless pen. Tales of careers ruined by his caustic criticisms abounded. It was enough for him to point out that a dancer had dropped an elbow or had landed one fraction of a second behind the beat or had ‘spoon’ hands for that dancer to feel that they might as well pack their bags. In his favour he would not allow himself to be courted, refusing all invitations to fraternize with directors, dancers and choreographers. Apparently, when approached by an interested party, he would give them a blank stare and turn on his heel, disdaining even to notice their greeting. Sebastian had once pointed Didelot out to me as he sat in the audience taking notes, an insignificant figure with a bald patch, a fringe of grey curls and a large black moustache. It was widely acknowledged that his judgement was as much to be respected as it was feared.

I read the review carefully. Marigold Savage gave us a refreshingly different Giselle. In Act I the shyness, the sensitivity, the innocence were there as the role requires, but there was a waywardness in the extension of the arms, a suggestion of abandon in the épaulement which satisfactorily prefigured the descent into madness. When Albrecht’s treachery was revealed, Savage’s dancing expressed anger as well as pathos. When she lifted the sword it was a matter for debate whether it was intended for Albrecht or herself. She was triumphant as well as tragic. This brought into sharper contrast the ethereal, intangible spirit of Act II who is permanently either en l’air or sur les pointes. Here Savage’s unusual colouring, her startlingly red hair and alabaster skin served her particularly well. Her dancing was unearthly, as transparent as a skeleton leaf. Alex Bird was an imperfect Albrecht, however. His tours en l’air were almost faultless but his performance was undermined by his inelegant port de bras …

There was more in this vein.

Though naturally indignant on Alex’s behalf, I was thrilled by Didelot’s praise of my own performance. When I looked up, having committed every plaudit to memory, Lizzie was smiling at me. I thought, as so often before, what a good – what an exceptional – friend she was to delight in my success. All the same, so she should not think me conceited, I tried to conceal my elation. ‘One’s only as good as one’s last performance in this game.’

‘Yes, but this might persuade Sebastian to give you an increase in salary to stop you signing up with Mr Lubikoff. Of course it’s incredibly selfish of me but I dread you going. We’d hardly see each other.’ She patted my hand. ‘But naturally you must make the best decision for your career. I shall completely understand if you opt for the EB.’

For a moment I was tempted to tell her about Sebastian’s offer of marriage. But since he had not mentioned it again and continued to behave with the same offhand un-loverlike impatience, without a single word of tenderness, I was beginning to think I must have hallucinated the whole thing. Or else that Sebastian had never for a moment dreamed I would take him seriously. He probably assumed that I would understand he was playing some sort of game with Miko. In which case I would look an awful fool if I mentioned it to anyone. Lizzie was a darling and absolutely my best friend but discretion was not her strong suit.

‘I don’t even know if he’ll want me now I’m injured. It’s easy to get a reputation for unreliability.’

‘You’ve never had to pull out before. Nobody could be so mean as to hold one injury against you.’

‘No.’ I attempted to put on a bright face. ‘I’m just feeling a little bleak. But it’s unfair when you’ve struggled all the way over here and brought me these heavenly chips. Sorry. I promise not to be glum any more. I’m so grateful – and you’ve got to flog all the way back to Brockley—’

‘Well, actually, no. I left my suitcase in the hall – oh God, I’m so sorry, I feel as though I’m letting you down … The thing is –’ Lizzie looked apologetic – ‘I’m on my way to Heathrow. One of the corps in the touring company has pulled a ligament and Sebastian insists on me replacing her. I tried to tell him that you’ll need someone to bring you food and things but he just walked off … you know what a beast he is. I’m catching a plane in three hours’ time.’

I tried to prevent my dismay from showing on my face. ‘How long will you be away?’

‘The tour ends in three weeks.’

‘What about your grandmother?’

‘She’s going into a residential home for the time I’m away. I’ve brought you the entire contents of our larder. I’m afraid it’s mostly brawn which is Granny’s favourite.’

‘How delicious! Thank you.’

‘Do you think so?’ Lizzie looked surprised, which proved I was a better actress than I’d thought. ‘I never eat it for fear of finding bristly hairs. There are some tins of frankfurters as well. Oh, Marigold, I feel awful about leaving you.’

‘You can’t help it. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. At the dentist’s the other day I read this article in a magazine – hang on, I’ve got it somewhere,’ I opened the drawer in the table beside my bed, ‘I sneakily tore it out: here it is. The Art of Making Conversation. “Do you ever feel at a loss for something to say at parties?” Well, I always feel a complete dunderhead unless I’m with someone to do with ballet. “Ever embarrassed by an inability to make witty incisive remarks?” I should say so! I’ve never made a witty incisive remark in my life. “Do you find yourself resorting to banal topics like the weather and your children’s schools?” Well, not the latter obviously. Apparently, good conversationalists talk about ideas, the second rate talk about things and the third rate talk about people.’

‘Okay, so I’m third rate,’ said Lizzie. ‘There’s nothing I like better than gossip.’

‘The article says in order to be an interesting dinner-party guest you have to have a cultivated mind. It gives a list of the hundred most essential books one ought to have read. I’ve bought copies of the first five books on the list and now’s my opportunity to read them. I shall begin with Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.’

Lizzie’s eyes widened. ‘Jolly good luck.’

‘So you see I’ll be as merry as a grig – whatever that is.’

We smiled bravely at each other.