Nicola Burgess had travelled the Moscow to London route a thousand times as a senior steward for British Airways. She had served politicians, actors, models and numerous celebrities. Sasha Makarov was not the first ballet star to be bumped up to first class. He had been so pale and drawn this morning, even so he had thanked them all profusely for their kindness and the wonderful generosity of the Airline. He had sat down belted up and promptly fallen straight asleep and had not stirred as breakfast and refreshments were served. She had read the gossip page in yesterday's Moscow News and its reporting that the man's stomach flu had actually been hospitalisation after an alleged suicide attempt. Months of articles about the former star of the Novosibirsk Ballet after he had suddenly left the company mid season, last October; when he'd broke off his engagement with the diva Titania Bogdanovskaya. That bitch had been mauled by the Russian tabloids for two timing Sasha with that oil magnet, her current fiancee. The flight attendant had crossed paths with the prima ballerina two years ago and could clearly recall the nightmare passenger when she'd travelled to London. The gossip columnist yesterday had also reported on Makarov's heavy drinking after the death of his former love, Manfred Schnagel, when he had returned home to New York to his supposed father, Vladimir Stravenkov. Though there had been doubts printed about the validity of that conjecture, but the gossip about that émigré general had also died down. Facts the ballet dancer himself had neither confirmed nor denied. Whenever asked Sasha smiled and stated he was the adopted son of Maria Makarova and his birth parents were irrelevant. Natalie loved Russian gossip, reporting on opera and ballet stars was always more classy than soap or reality tv stars back home. The video posted on Facebook of an argument at the Bolshoi had given only the barest of details. Asking her Russian friends had confirmed that most of them now regarded Sasha Makarov as the bastard son of General Sarov, but no one printed that knowledge as fact. Mr. Makarov had a very interesting past and she could not wait to read his biography, if and when one was written.
Alex woke with a start and noted his throat was dry and sore, made worse by the air conditioning. He was draped in a blanket, which had been placed over him by the kind and thoughtful attendant. He pressed the call button and hoped he had time for a hot drink as he was hitting the ground running with publicity and press for the Royal Ballet as soon as he landed.
He automatically started to speak in Russian and then back tracked "Sorry, completely hard wired for Russian and I must start thinking in English again. Can I please have a hot water and lemon or chamomile tea? I still feel a bit nauseous, so much for the doctors promising I'd be right as rain after two days bed rest."
Nicola smiled and then answered in her excellent Russian "Can I suggest a ginger ale and some crackers? I can promise they really helped when I had chronic morning sickness."
Alex shifted around and fully appraised the woman "Nice accent, very cultured, I wish mine was as good. Vladimir laughs himself silly every time I talk to him as I've developed a god awful Siberian accent. He thinks it's terrible. Calls me gulag boy. I wish I spoke like you. Maybe I should take elocution lessons to stop sounding like a factory worker." He relaxed and closed his eyes, even after all this time he automatically changed his accent, mannerisms and personality to fit in, to act like a native. "I'll go with the ginger ale and crackers. I had a couple of spoons of cold borsch at three o'clock this morning, but it tasted really bad. Then again that could have been Kolya's cooking."
As she made up the tray she wondered on just how completely Russian, the American was. Then again his adoptive mother was Russian. He had probably immersed himself in the culture during his three years there. It was strange. She had spent three years at Moscow University and had could not remotely pass for a Russian, but this man could.
With sunglasses on, the ballet dancer was met and escorted by airport staff for a quick exit, documented by the airport photographer. A car with driver was waiting for transfer straight to central London. The Royal Ballet had pulled out all the stops for him to arrive for the press conference and interviews arranged to publicise their guest artiste. He was teaching a series of masterclasses as well as performing. In the car he turned his phone on for the first time in three days to trawl through the hundreds of messages. Most were simple get well soon missives from friends and co-workers. There was a long series from both Luci and Vladimir. He looked at his watch and called home.
After three rings he left a message stating he would be free to talk this evening. It was four AM in New York, everyone would be in bed.
The commute took just over an hour until he stepped out of the car at the Dorchester, the chosen location for the press conference and three scheduled interviews. In the mess of the past three days, Alex had not read who his interviews were for or with. He had only briefly noted his agent in New York had been dealing with Boris, Vladimir and Natalie the Press Officer at the Royal Ballet. Ludmilla Schimdt had handled all Sasha Makarov's bookings and contracts since his first appearance at the Bolshoi, three years ago. She was wonderful and charming, but Grennady Titov called the woman "Stalina".
Natalie Stroma was waiting for the arrival of the new guest principal, because of the stories in the Russian Press, today's event was well attended by both broadsheets, magazines and tabloids, proving there was no such thing as bad publicity when hiring the bad boy ballet star.
The man was tall, slim and casually dressed. She noted dressed in Italian designer cashmere high necked sweater, scarf and jeans matched with blue canvas espadrilles. Hiding behind sunglasses, he looked washed out and tired, but he smiled wanly and greeted the press officer with a brief "Hi, Natalie. Good to see you again."
"Good morning, Sasha. Welcome to the Dorchester. We're all set up on the second floor. Please follow me."
In the elevator, "How are you really? Boris was quite insistent that we not over tax you."
"Right, you're on first name terms with his excellency, the former president of the Russian federation. Should I be worried? Are all my actions going to be reported to him?" Alex smiled. "Don't let his old grandfather demeanor fool you, he's a wily old fox. He's been a fantastic friend over the last few days, so I really should cut him some slack."
The Director of Ballet, Graeme Rawlings, watched as Sasha Makarov pulled out a packet of nicotine gum and got his substitute fix. He would have been tempted to cancel the contract except for the intervention of Boris Kiriyenko. He could have weathered the shit storm from Ms. Schmidt and Valdimir Stravenkov, but the former Russian president had spoken in excellent English about Aleksandr's lover creating trouble by denying their relationship. That darling Sasha had fully cooperated with the security services and complete rest was needed. That was the real grain of truth. Sasha Makarov had spent two days in hospital to get over what the secret police had done to him to get him to betray his lover.
"Esteemed Director, I am so sorry about being late. Boris assured me you were very understanding about the unexpected delay. Firstly, the article printed in the Moscow News was lies, but I'm quite used to that. I'm just glad I was actually allowed to leave this morning, considering the events at the Kremlin three days ago. It's all hotting up to be an international incident over that dead Italian banker. I did not even meet the guy and I was questioned twice. The whole situation was not helped by the fact my now very ex-lover denied that we left to spent the night together and that our last six months as lovers never happened. The Asshole lied to the FSB. Shit! I thought they were hard and heavy on me, but they've come down on Maxim like a tonne of bricks. Boris told me his apartment was searched, boxes of stuff confiscated and they are going through his financial records. The man was no saint but WTF." He closed his eyes and shivered as he thought about the threats and the very professional interrogation. "They threatened that my American Passport meant nothing. Fuck, even I'm not stupid enough to out right lie to the federal agents. I tried to protect him. They knew precisely who left with who. We left in the same limo. Hell, we had sex in the back of the limo. I know too much information." Alex paused "I'll be straight with you. I'm not coping with all this. I promise to see my shrink and work through this. I always thought Vladimir was exaggerating about the KGB… now, I've see it up front. Its fucking terrifying. I was going into a panic attack. The doctor asked if I agreed to medication and next thing I know I'm telling them everything. The medic wrote on my admission papers to the hospital that I needed transferring to a clinic for personality modification for my perversion." Alex put his hand up to his face to cover the sob, then brushing his tears away. "You must forgive me. I'm still so raw." Alex took a deep breath. "OK, to business, I have the medical release documents from the clinic. Do you require a urine sample… it was a stipulation of the contract. I wish to prove I have not used… I'm clean and sober."
Graeme was impressed to see the young man had a lid on his emotions even after such an ordeal and was eager to get to business. "Other contractual requirements can wait until you feel better. Today, we have a short press conference. Then three interviews… Natalie, please tell Sasha our order of business."
The woman reviewed her list "Ballet Magazine, The Sunday Telegraph and the Guardian have requested interviews today with follow on photo shoots next week. I have also received requests from Vogue and Vanity Fair. Those have yet to be agreed."
Alex decided to be brutally bad. "There might need to be a delay on the photos if they want torso shots. Its better if I show you." He knew the injuries were already yellowing and would likely have be gone by next week, but it was fun to let these people think his interrogation had been brutal. He pulled off the scarf and his grey jumper to display the full extent of the beating.
Natalie gasped, almost dropped her clipboard and ran to the ladies room. Graeme did not know where to look. Alex re-dressed and excused himself to urinate and let his colleagues regain their composure.
He exited the bathroom to see Graeme on his iPhone and overhead 'Animals… Its inhuman.. Sorry, I will tell you all later." Alex loved gossip, it was so different when you were controlling the lies with misdirection.
When Natalie reappeared, make-up perfect and fully composed, he still had a sinking feeling and had to ask, "Who's here from the Guardian?"
"A freelance…. Edward Pleasure".
Alex laughed bitterly "And I thought this week could not get any worse!"
"Sorry, is this a problem?" Graeme had also been surprised when a famous investigative journalist requested a private interview. These meet and greet press junkets were normally the reserved of arts correspondents alone.
"Depends if we can both be professional about our shared past history. He was, for a very brief period, my foster father. Our relationship crashed and burned when I was 15. I can't imagine he's here to talk about ballet, dancing or the arts in general. Last piece I read of his was on Dieter Sprintz. It was a bit of a hatchet job." The billionaire financier was not a man Alex would cross.
"Don't worry, Sasha. We have editorial control."
"My past is a horror story, the again most stories of child abuse are. One thing I have kept a lid on by flashing lurid tales of teenage misadventures. Last thing I need is for all the things I avoid and deny to be laid bare for those vultures to pick over. Remember the mantra… survivor not victim. Let's get this over with. Then again, I still have to talk to Vladimir and that is going to be such a fun filled conversation comparing notes on Lubiyanka hospitality."
Time to face the music, the awaiting press were from a mix of British and Russian newspapers and magazines. He looked at his watch, not designer, not bling, just a rather battered and scratched Swatch. A Christmas Present from Luci in 2004, his first Christmas Present in three years; three years since the strange, lonely Christmas with Jack in Chelsea, a first and last for both of them. She normally spent two weeks in Baltimore every year for the holidays. That year, she had gone back to the States just for New Years to visit her family. The American had inadvertently kind of ruined it by talking of the perfection of her childhood and all her family traditions at home. Ian and Alex had ways gone on holiday, either somewhere tropical or skiing. Always active with no carols, no turkey, no mince pies, no egg nog and no christmas cake. A single practical present, as big presents were reserved for Alex's birthday. In 2001, the holidays had crept up, as Alex spent days trying to catch up on school work and Jack worked long hours as a temp. Suddenly, it had been Christmas Eve and there was no tree to decorate, but what was the point, there wasn't any decorations to put on it. Jack gave Alex her usual £40 and Alex gave her a gift token for Monsoon. Envelopes exchanged on Christmas day at lunch time, then an afternoon watching a couple of movies, then sandwiches and crisps. Both of then had been thoroughly miserable. At seven, Jack had phoned home and Alex had gone to his room and listened to her laughter and happiness. That Christmas he had toasted the birth of the Son of God, by drinking the half drunk bottle of vodka that had been in the bathroom cabinet in Ian's room. That Christmas, Alex had discovered self medication was a poor substitute for happiness, but a substitute none the less.
Alex closed his eyes and he could visualise the neat, modern but homely apartment in New Yorks Upper West Side. In mid-December, Vladimir had bought a tree. Cookies had been baked, decorations made by Piotr, Gregori had spent his time trying to pull the tree over, as the toddler used the branches as a tool to stand up or just grabbed the nearest bauble to play with. For the first time Alex was part of a proper family Christmas. He had tried to go it alone two days before Christmas Eve, but the cops had caught him sleeping rough and brought him home. He had mumbled a half hearted apology and been sent to have a shower. It was passed midnight and was technically Christmas day when Luci had handed him a small package.
With a resigned and tired effort at inclusion the thirty year old, ex-ballerina had briefly smiled and turned to go to bed with a parting "Happy Christmas, Cuckoo."
He had opened it, looked at the watch and had burst into tears. Having a full on meltdown had opened Alex's mouth and he talked about his grim past. Telling Luci and Mira the fact this was his first family Christmas, ever. Maria kept to Russian traditions, not the commercialised mess expected by those raised in Britain and America. As a child, Alex had observed but never participated in festivities all across Europe. Ian Rider had really fucked up raising his brother's only child.
Alex took a deep breath and ignored the worried looks from the two Royal Ballet employees. He plastered a smile on his face and entered the arena.