On the opening night, she came backstage to find a bouquet of flowers outside her dressing room, yellow roses and red gerbera daisies mixed together. Yellow. The color of friendship.
There was a note: Sydney—best of luck tonight. I'm away on business. Call you soon? J.S.
She hadn't really thought about him. She never thought about anything else, when she was on stage. Still, it was a nice gesture.
There was a knock at her door and when she opened it, Sloane stood outside, beaming. "Sydney, darling, you were brilliant. Margo herself couldn't have danced it better."
She blushed at the overly nice compliment—no way did her skill compare to Fonteyn's—but said "Thank you" anyway.
"Anyway, you must get changed, you have a great many admirers waiting to congratulate you," Sloane nodded, his palm to her sweaty cheek.
"I'll be out in a minute."
She undid the corset on the side, under her left arm, and drew a black turtleneck on over her head. The neck got stuck on her tiara for a second—she'd forgotten to remove it—but she wiggled her head around and it eventually poked through. She peered at her face in the mirror and blotted what she could of the pancake makeup off. Touched up her mascara and swathed on a new coat of lipgloss. She could tell that the heavy stage makeup accentuated the lines that were becoming more prominent between the edges of her nose and the corners of her mouth, the tiny beginnings of crows' feet under her eyes. It certainly didn't enhance her looks up close.
She drew off her tutu and tights, and replaced them with a long burgundy skirt. Burgundy and black were her staple non-work colors.