Previously on Dance Academy: Christian struggles with his moves for his main role in The Company's next performance, a new Ballet created by Wes and co-choreographed by a tall and lanky Brit, Wayne, who is making his life hell. Christian found solace in dancing some of his own choreography, with Abigail's reluctant participation, but real life is back, and The Company's obligation is calling.

Shades of Mud

This is it. First stage rehearsals. And I'm not ready. Not in the slightest, and yet it's only when I push the artists' entrance door to the Sydney Opera House that I notice the bounce in my step.

That just won't do. So I force some steel into my heels but the memory of last night makes me light all over again. Which is pathetic. Since when has going out for a meal and rom-com movie made me feel so happy? It's crazy. Especially that for Tara we're just two friends hanging out before my life is taken over by daily performances here and then on tour.

I've got to get my head in the game. I have morning class to warm up and gather up whatever made Rebecca pick me for this role, because by the look of this last week, nobody understand why and the soloists are circling around my role like vultures.

Right. Steel in my heels, rod in my spine, lead in my head. Come on, Cheds, you need to nail this.

I stride through the corridors. The rest of the Company greet me with their usual 'Hi!' and 'Morning!' but their eyes suddenly grow wide, their smiles shrink back and their steps falter, as if I am scaring them. By the looks of it I've gone too far with the rigidity.

Too much. Too little. The story of my life: no happy middle.

I stomp down the many corridors that make the base of the Opera House, but Wes cuts my path. Holding my shoulders he directs me in the opposite direction from the dressing rooms.

'Costume and make-up for you, mate.'

I hunch under his touch. I don't like being handled at the best of time, but the idea of dressing up makes it even worst. I remember all too well when they first showed me the sketch of my costume. The first fitting was even worst. It's ballet, so of course it's tights, coupled with a jacket that doesn't move right.

I wonder if they've managed to come up with something better by now. I bet it's still that disgusting muddy shade of green, and I doubt they decided to get rid of the lanky bits that hang everywhere, making me look as if I've been dipped into a pond and fished right back out dripping with moss and weeds. Not my best look. They had mentioned make-up back then too, I must have committed that to oblivion to spare me the nightmares.

Wes doesn't let go of me till we reach the deepest pits at the back of beyond where make-up artists and costume designers seem to lurk.

A woman is waiting for me there, her dark blond hair piled up messily at the top of her head. She evaluates me from head to toe with greedy grey eyes, as if she's been waiting for her canvas a long time and she's finally got her hands on it.

'Here he is, Maggie,' Wes says. 'All yours.'

'Better get this on, then,' Maggie says, pointing at the tights hanging against the wall, dangly bits and all. I scan the room. There isn't even a partition. Prudishness is clearly overrated.

It takes for me to kick off my shoes for Wes to rattle his throat. 'I'll leave you to it,' he says as he leaves.

I pretend Maggie isn't there, get undressed and pull on my disguise as pond scum. I search for the top, but it's nowhere to be seen.

'We are going for body paint now,' Maggie says with great relish. 'Or try it out at least.'

I cannot pretend she is not here anymore. She's staring at my chest with such intensity I have to fight the urge to cross my arms over it like a teenage girl.

Without any warning she's grabbed me and pushed me down onto a narrow stool.

'It's lucky you're not that hairy,' she says casually.

I'm too slow. Before her words register she's already sticking more weed-like dangly bits all over my body. 'These should stay nicely on, and shouldn't be too bad to take off.' She smiles as if that's a positive.

That's when I notice the pots on the counter, large size, in all shades of mud.

I gasp as she spreads the cold gooey green, some stinky brown, then a mix of the two everywhere, till I am covered. From the top of the tights that have that weird pointy bit at the front that goes far too low for my liking to the top of my hair, there isn't an inch that isn't smothered. Behind my ears? Check. Inside my nostrils? Oh Hell check! Even my hair has been sprayed and gooed into both spikes and floppy strands.

After nearly an hour of sitting I finally stand. I have to stare hard at my eyes in the mirror to recognise myself.

Despite how opposite the effect this reminds me of the first time I had proper make-up done for my Prix de Fonteyn preliminaries, my Corsaire solo. The girls had shadowed my face so that my cheek bones popped out, narrowing my nose with highlighters, lining my eyes with black to make them sultrier. Then I was made more attractive than I normally am. Now, I am a monster.

'Smile,' Maggie suggests.

I throw her a dubious look. Has she actually done that much magic that she managed to give me fangs without my notice?

My curiosity is too strong. I stretch my lips.

I'm floored.

The transformation is beyond words. From a mess of brown when my face is at rest, it suddenly lights up when I smile. It's not just that my teeth shine so white against the dark background as if lit from an inner source. The markings on my face merge to make my cheeks rounder, softer. The ones in the corner of my eyes converge to dig deep laughter lines, giving me an air of raucous merriment. Monster and joker, I am both with just a switch of expression. Dual. Extremes. Rebecca had warned me, but nothing could have prepared me for this.

A scratchy type of sound emerges from behind Maggie's back. 'Ready?' asks Wes's voice in a rumble of static.

Maggie picks up a walkie-talkie from her belt. 'Oh yes. I think you'll be pleased. I'll send him up.' She releases the button and presses it straight away again. 'Over,' she adds with a giggle.

'Okay, straight up to the stage for you, Christian.' She scrutinises my chest once more, like a Pygmalion to her sculpture.

But I'm glued to my seat. I didn't want to come down but now I'd rather stay here, on this stool, because if they want me up there, it's to perform. And unless this make-up is really as magical as it seems I can't see how it will help with my actual dancing.

'Come on,' Maggie pulls the stool from under me. 'Go and show them how you look.'

I can't help but smile back at her, her pride is that contagious.

'Please tell me no one expects me to learn how to do this.'

Maggie shakes her head, her smile growing even more. 'No, I'll be here every night, and on tour. So exciting!'

I glance at the mirror. 'You know this is top sci-fi movie worth, right?'

'I'd hope so, that's what I trained for. I don't get to do much of this, though, it's all pretty fashion make up and the likes...'

I could kick myself for saying the wrong thing, once again. That look on her face, that pride and despair all mixed into one, it's so painful.

'You'll have to come and bow with me, at the end.'

The smile is back, with an added blush that frees my chest from its guilty crush. 'I'm sure that's not allowed.'

'Probably not.' But I will do my darn best to make sure she does, if only just the once.

I stride through the many corridors to the back of the stage. Wes is talking to someone or other on the side, Wayne is pacing at the front of the stage, his long legs covering the whole distance in half the time it would take a normal person, his arms swinging at his side, 'wooshing' he would call it. I glance over to find Rebecca, sitting halfway up the stalls, her eternal clipboard perched on her lap. Waiting. Waiting for me.

Everywhere else people with head phones and talkie-walkies are busying about, setting the stage, the sound, the lights, like an anthill of activity. The very thought of how much the audience have to pay to see Dance performances used to make me sick, but now that I am on the other side all I see is how many people it takes to make it happen. From the guys in smelly workshops sweating to make individually customised shoes for the girls, who use them at the rate of sometimes up to three pairs per performance, all the way to the people in hospitality, the performers, the support staff, to the millions of sequins that need to be sewn, the creatives, the cleaners, the executives, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it.

And sure, I'm glad for my salary too. There's no escaping that. As much of it as I can goes into savings, cause this ain't going to last, not for me.

My thoughts are interrupted, hidden as I am behind one of the screens, by Wayne abruptly ceasing his circling to exclaim: 'Mr Warner! Luke! Thank you so much for coming early.' He then crouches down at the edge of the stage and all I could see then is a pale hand shaking his from the orchestra pit.

'And now where is Christian?' Wayne asks, sliding his skinny frame back into an upright position in one clean move. That man is like a moving spaghetti. No surprise I struggle with the flow of his choreography.

Deep gust of sounds erupts from somewhere as I step into the light.

'I'm here.'

Apart from the continued booming noises, there is suddenly complete silence, and complete lack of movement. Everyone has stopped what they are doing and is staring at me.

I just stand there, like an idiot, just as I did for my last dance at The Academy end of year Gala, our Company auditions, before I launched into my little impromptu speech of thanks. But right now I have nothing to say, so I just stand and let them stare.

'Wow.' Wes comes up beside me, inspecting my transformation.

'Lights,' Wayne calls to the engineers.

A spot light comes on straight at my face, blinding me.

'To your entry spot,' Wayne commands.

I step back between the prompt side legs dividing the edge of the stage.

'Recording ready?' I hear him ask. 'Luke, ready?'

The answer must have been yes for the music starts.

I step back out on stage, hands on hips. Now I've found my voice and it's my turn to stare. 'I've been pinned down at make up for an hour,' I say with a bit too much venom, 'I missed morning class altogether.'

Wayne shrugs. 'Just don't push it then.' As if this is nothing, as if anyone could dance his steps on a cold hard un-warmed body, the bloody fool. As if he, of all people, will not be asking for perfection dripping with sweat and blood.