21 DEC 2003
Barbara was achey. In rehearsals after the Waltz of the Flowers she’d always had to rub feeling back into her cheeks after smiling for so long, but with her face made up, she didn’t have that option; she was still smiling broadly now, though she was starting to go numb below the waist. (It was one thing to wear tights onstage, when she was dancing, and another to wear them in the lobby; the skirt for the
trepak was a heavier fabric than the long chiffon tutus they wore as flowers, but she was still cold and her feet were still sore from pointe shoes.
She hadn’t invited her friends to the final show, because -- disappointingly -- she hadn’t been intended to do anything particularly impressive today. They’d only changed the cast of the
trepak at the last moment and she’d had to change shoes and costumes in two minutes -- which, she supposed,
had been rather impressive, if only anybody had seen it, but not even her parents had come to this show. Her mother would be around to pick her up backstage, but not for a while.
It was only the afternoon; Barbara had always felt sort of wrong leaving the Nutcracker while the sun was still shining (though, today, at least it was foggy.) There was a surreal quality to leaving it and then having the rest of the day left to go.
For a moment she let her gaze linger on the crowd around Soléy -- that was mostly her family, she thought with some amusement -- and adjusted her pointy headdress self-consciously. One of Soléy’s friends, the bookish one, was hovering awkwardly nearby, like he thought he was meant to wait his turn to talk to her. Barbara sidled up to him. “Hullo, thank you for coming,†she said. She hated asking if people had liked the show -- as if they’d ever say anything but yes, to her face -- so she said, curiously, “Have you ever seen the ballet before?â€
@Aldous Cresswell 
