They walked mostly in silence to Café Matisse, not quite a five minute walk from her flat. It was a warm, cozy little place with amber colored walls and candles dripping wax down the sides of empty blue Riesling bottles. It was a student hang-out, which virtually guaranteed that no one from the RBT would be there.
She had eschewed his offers of coffee, tea, soda, or an aperitif in favor of mineral water.
She waited for him to ask the questions, and asked very few of her own. She seemed suspicious, almost skittish around him. He blamed it on nerves and lack of nutrition. Dancers had a tendency to be high-strung.
"So how do you know Sloane," she asked at last, not bothering to use his proper title. The hierarchical world of the company had apparently not taken her over yet.
"Actually, it is my mother who is acquainted with his wife, Emily," he explained, "My mother was once a dancer in the corps and they became friends when Sloane was promoted to artistic director."
"Huh," she replied, taking a sip of the fizzing water. "So you've been around dancers your whole life then."
"Relatively speaking, yes," he agreed, sipping his red wine. "It was apparent from an early age that my mother's talents on the stage were not passed on to me."
"What do you do, then?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
"I work for a bank," he said, smoothly. It was the kind of work that did not invite many questions.
"Interesting," she said, and he knew she didn't mean it. "Listen," she said, her tone abruptly changing, "It's nice of you to want to show me around, but I don't need anyone to baby-sit me. How old are you, anyway? I'm engaged to someone back in the States."
He stared at her, surprised at her lack of social grace and her forwardness. But then, she was American. They weren't the type to beat around the bush. Much like the Dutch.
"Forgive me," he began, "I didn't mean to impose, I merely thought it might be nice to have someone here relatively your own age who wasn't involved with the company—I realize the insular nature of the ballet can be… trying at times."
"You mean it's a clusterfuck," she said, her mouth unsmiling but her eyes glittering with the humor of the term.
"Um, I suppose one might call it that," his mouth twisted into a slow smile despite his initial shock at her language. "And I'm 27, how old are you?"
She gave a short, braying laugh, "Too old for you."
"And how old would that be, exactly," he leaned forward, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. "
"I'm 32," she replied, stage-whispering as though someone might overhear her. She pursed her lips against a smile and a dimple formed in one cheek. "Any day some 20-year-old snippet will replace me, and then I'll be a 'former prima donna'," she waved her hands dramatically, as though the term were in marquee lights, "Which means… 'a nothing'."
"You're not nothing to the people you've touched with your dancing," he said, thinking of his own mother. "You live in their memories as a great dancer."
"I should get going," she ignored his comment, "It's past my bedtime. We old ladies need our sleep."
"Fine," he agreed, and drained his glass.