SING (Like No One's Listening) Read online

  The sounds of people and traffic on Goswell Road are comforting. They remind me of falling asleep in my old room in Crystal Palace: cars starting and stopping; people spilling out of restaurants and bars after an evening at the Barbican; drunk old men guffawing outside the pub on the corner.

  My only living relative despises me. I’m exhausted and completely alone. But I made it. I’m here.

  CHAPTER 3

  I’m awake at 4 a.m. After trying to get back to sleep for an hour, I eventually get up, shower, dress myself and pack every possible thing I might need for my first day. I can barely lift my bag and it makes negotiating the escalators at the tube station tricky, but I arrive at Duke’s on time.

  This is it. This is the start of the rest of my life.

  No sooner have I stepped over the threshold than a tall, leggy white girl comes tearing past me, dressed in a pair of tiny hot pants and a strategically placed scarf doubling up as a crop top, with a huge mass of blonde hair and more make-up than the cast of La Cage. She trips over my bag, which I’ve just let drop to my side, and falls flat on her face. A few people laugh.

  ‘I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean—’

  The girl stands up. She snaps her head back razor-sharp, her hair whipping her face, and looks me up and down like Baroness Schraeder eyeing Maria von Trapp’s homemade curtain-clothes. Then she tosses her mane, glares at the rest of the surrounding people as if daring them to laugh again, and disappears into one of the studios. I stare after her.

  ‘You’ve made your first college enemy, then,’ drawls a silky male voice beside me. ‘Must be a record. Congratulations.’

  I turn and find myself face-to-face with (and I’m not exaggerating when I say this) the most beautiful creature I’ve seen, like, ever.

  Tall and muscular, tick.

  Eyes like sapphires, tick.

  Hollywood nose, tick.

  Mouth like . . . OK, you get it.

  As my eyes swoop over his athletic, tanned physique, I notice his incredibly expensive taste in clothes. I clock his shoes.

  ‘Prada, darling. You like?’

  I nod.

  He puts his hand out.

  ‘Alec Van Damm. Gorgeous boy dancer and all-round mangenue about to take Duke’s Academy and the rest of the world by storm. Thrilled and delighted.’

  He pulls me in for a couple of mwah-mwah air kisses. There’s a pause while he looks at me expectantly.

  ‘Streisand’s alive, child.’ He’s already exasperated with me. ‘What’s your freaking name?’

  ‘Oh, er – Nettie,’ I say.

  ‘A one-word name. I like it.’ He adjusts his hair in the reflection of the window. ‘Like Cher.’

  ‘No, er – sorry. I mean, it’s Nettie Delaney-Richardson,’ I say. Right now I could heat the whole college with my outrageously hot cheeks.

  Alec’s hand stops mid-preen. His eyes flicker over my black hair and pale skin.

  ‘Fuck me. You’re not—’ he begins.

  ‘You reckon we’ll have registration soon?’ I say it quickly, before he can wander any further down that particular path. ‘Maybe I should be stretching. Everyone looks so . . .’

  ‘Loose?’

  ‘I was going to say comfortable. You know, in their surroundings. Are we meant to be doing that?’ I glance around at all the ballerinas rolling around on the floor with their legs wrapped around their necks.

  ‘Who cares? It’s our first day. Cheer up. You must have some talent to be here. Who knows – maybe it’s in your blood . . .’ He throws me a sideways glance but says nothing else. Hopefully it was just a throwaway comment.

  ‘Seriously, darling,’ he says. ‘They wouldn’t have let you in if you were total crap. Old Duke’s got a reputation to maintain. Come here. I want to get this moment up on my Instagram story.’ He pulls me in for possibly the most awkward selfie of my life.

  At that moment, the college secretary comes out of the office. She’s got a mushroom of white curly hair and full stage make-up, reminding me of Madame Morrible from Wicked, only way less fabulous in a plain tweed skirt and blouse. An ex-dancer, for sure. I’d recognize one anywhere.

  ‘Everyone into the studio theatre, please,’ she barks in clipped tones.

  Alec winks and pats me on the arse in the direction of the door.

  Inside is rammed. Students everywhere, some dressed in leotards and pointe shoes, others fully clothed and clutching folders or musical instruments. There’s so much to take in. But what I notice first is the noise. It’s overwhelming.

  A group in the corner is singing a song from Rent in full four-part harmony at the top of their voices. Someone else is tinkering on the piano at the far end, oblivious to the singers. A boy nearby improvises a lyrical dance solo – to which music, I can’t be sure (maybe to something playing in his head?). Students chat animatedly, fighting to break out over the cacophony.

  Alec’s been separated from me by the crowd. He’s studying himself in the mirror at the far end of the studio while a couple of boys and a girl stare at him with their mouths open, whispering among themselves. I know what they’re speculating about. Not that any of them stand a chance.

  I squeeze onto the end of a bench against the wall and try to quell my anxiety. Everyone finds first days horrendous, right?

  But looking around, no one else seems that bothered. Are any of them first-years, like me? I’m blatantly the only person not talking or singing or stretching ostentatiously. I watch a group of girls laughing hysterically as four boys do an unrehearsed cod version of the pas de quatre from Swan Lake.

  And then, something strange happens.

  A sharp intake of breath. A scrabbling sound as people hastily get off the floor. The air in the studio changes; a cold breeze seems to rush in, and a hush falls over the crowd. A hundred girls breathe in and get thinner, while all the boys simultaneously grow taller. Glossy smiles appear on faces, hands are rearranged neatly in laps, bags hidden behind legs. A couple of boys sprint to get a chair; another jetés over to hold the door. I can’t see what’s going on through the crowd of students, but I can sense something.

  Slowly the crowd parts, and I see her.

  She’s tall, with once jet-black hair now silver at the front, its high hairline betraying years of being scraped into a bun. Her patent heels echo across the studio floor in an elegant ten-totwo position, legs barely bending. She’s dressed expensively but conservatively in trousers and a crisp white shirt with the collar turned up, a string of pearls adorning her slim neck, a pair of spectacles hanging from a chain below them. How old is she? Sixty?

  I stand up hurriedly with everyone else as she walks slowly to the centre of the studio. She studies each student she passes, returning their desperate smiles with cold scrutiny, instinctively knowing their worst fears and their darkest secrets.

  She waves away the chair that has been so delicately set for her. It’s removed immediately, a boy snatching it and melting into the crowd like part of a well-rehearsed scene change. Cecile Duke’s dark eyes pierce the crowd, a violent shock against her pale skin and red lips, which twitch as she waits for quiet, even though the silence is palpable.

  ‘Good morning, students,’ she says. Her vowels are clear, her consonants clipped, and her voice, though perfectly audible, gives the impression of never having to be raised. I feel chilly, but I don’t know why because it’s a warm September day and I’m still wearing my coat.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Duke,’ chants the crowd, not quite in unison.

  ‘I trust you are all ready to begin your classes,’ she says. It sounds like a warning. ‘Assessments will take place before we break for Christmas. However, it will be worth noting that you are being watched each and every day from the moment you step through the doors until you leave at night, so do not think that if you rest upon your laurels for a second it will not be noted. We see everything.’

  Her last words resonate around the room, devoured by three hundred pairs of avid ears.

&nb
sp; ‘You have the best teachers here. The best facilities. So I fully expect the best from you at all times . . .’ Her eyes scan the room and fall on something that makes them narrow. ‘Lauren Rose, come here.’

  The crowd’s attention turns to a girl three rows back, who looks shocked to be singled out. Trembling, she shuffles to the front of the studio, her fellow students moving aside, grateful not to be her.

  ‘Y-yes, Miss Duke?’ she whispers.

  ‘Go home,’ says Cecile Duke quietly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Duke?’

  ‘I said, go home.’

  ‘I-I don’t understand, Miss Duke,’ Lauren Rose stammers.

  Even I, a complete novice at all this, can see she’d be better off scramming and asking questions later.

  ‘Every day you spend at this centre of excellence is a privilege.’ She’s speaking in a soft voice, but there’s danger behind it. ‘Every class you attend, every correction you are given, every opportunity you receive to follow your dream of performing is an honour. I have never tolerated complacency from my students, and I do not intend to start now.’

  I can feel my heart pounding and she’s not even talking to me.

  ‘When I wake up in the morning, I ask myself, “What is expected of me today?” And the answer is always this: I am expected to inspire my students; to set a good example; to dress in a way befitting my position at the college; to welcome important guests from the industry who may visit us here – and let me tell you, there are many – and to be a figurehead worthy of the reputation the institution has earned.

  ‘And what is expected of you, Lauren? You are expected to work hard; to attend all your classes; to be polite and respectful; and to look your best at all times. I ask you now, are you looking your best?’

  There’s a small rustling of clothes as necks are craned to scrutinize Lauren Rose. Jeez, guys, give her a break.

  But they won’t. I know it already and I’ve only spent five minutes here. They’re like a pack of jackals, ready to tear apart anyone who shows even the slightest weakness. One less to compete against.

  Admittedly, she’s dressed rather scruffily – I guess for a contemporary class: grey joggers with holes in, one dirty once-white legwarmer – and her hair is tied up in the sort of folded-in scraggy ponytail you might have for a bath. She’s not wearing any make-up. Personally I don’t really see the point of wearing loads of make-up for class, not when you’re going to get all sweaty, but right now I’m so grateful I applied a full face this morning to hide the lack of sleep.

  Lauren Rose hangs her head miserably, cutting a pathetic shape as tears roll off her nose on to her faded burgundy leotard. I wish I could do something. Run over to her and hug her, or take her hand and fly her far away. But I won’t, will I? I’ll stand here helpless, paralyzed with cowardice like the rest of them, silently hating myself for it.

  Miss Duke’s eyes bore into Lauren Rose’s miserable face, unrelenting. ‘You have no idea what it’s like out there after you graduate.’ She lets the sentence hang, turning to the rest of us before fixing her gaze back on her victim.

  ‘Here you are protected, cocooned. In a year’s time, you will be out there on your own, working two jobs a day to try and make ends meet and spending every spare penny you have to get to class. You’re on the dancers course, aren’t you?’ Lauren nods. ‘Tomorrow we have an important choreographer visiting the college. Do you think he’d employ you, looking like that? One day, no doubt, you’ll find yourself fighting to be picked out from a roomful of girls by that very same choreographer. When he throws you out at the first cut, regardless of how well or badly you may think you have danced, you’ll ask yourself why. The answer is simple: he already knew you couldn’t be bothered. If you can’t make the effort, Lauren, then neither can I. Go home and think about whether you really want a career in the arts.’

  Cecile Duke casts her dark eyes briefly around the room before sweeping towards the studio exit. Two boys fall over each other trying to open the door for her. Another second and she’s gone.

  Students brush past Lauren Rose without seeing her – or they pretend they haven’t. She’s soiled goods now. She stands there, head bowed, shoulders shaking, crying silently over the newly sprung floor.

  I’m one of the last to leave the studio. As I pass her – I don’t know what makes me do this – I stop and reach for her hand. God knows I’ve felt alone the last fourteen months. Maybe I want her to know she has an ally, albeit a pointless one who didn’t have the guts to stand up for her when Miss Duke was present.

  She pauses for a second, not exactly looking up, but there’s a stillness that wasn’t there before. Out of awkwardness, I fidget my gaze, and that’s when I see Miss Duke.

  She’s looking at me through the window from the foyer. Staring at me like I’m a ghost or something.

  She turns and disappears. A second later I hear her beige heels click-clicking up the stairs.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Lauren Rose.

  I jump. I’d forgotten what I was doing for a second.

  ‘Don’t worry about her,’ I say, as if I’m some sort of authority on all things Duke. ‘She’ll have forgotten about it by tomorrow.’

  ‘Cecile Duke doesn’t forget,’ she says.

  It sounds like a prophecy of doom. I squeeze her hand and leave her to it, wondering what Miss Duke could have possibly found so interesting about me.

  CHAPTER 4

  Back in the foyer, it’s show business as usual, students swerving round each other, and studio doors slamming, as everyone tries to get to class on time. Lauren Rose has been forgotten but Miss Duke’s message is loud and clear: play her game or suffer the consequences. I need to get my head in the game. Like in High School Musical. If I’d ever seen that (like, a hundred times, which I definitely won’t admit to while I’m in this place).

  Someone crashes into me, knocking me clean over. I quickly un-sprawl myself off the floor, feeling ridiculous (and winded).

  ‘Oh no! I’m sorry. Are you all right? Here.’

  The voice belongs to a tall, good-looking white guy with light brown wavy hair. He’s carrying a battered leather satchel and a guitar. He holds out his hand to help me up. As I take it, I notice how rough it is. His nails are bitten, and his fingers are square and hard at the ends.

  ‘Thanks.’ I smooth my dress down at the back to make sure it hasn’t got hitched up somewhere. ‘I should have been looking where I was going.’

  ‘No, it’s all me. I’ve got my first lecture over in the other building and I was rushing to get there on time. I missed registration today, but I heard the “speech” was a long one, first day of term and all that. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine, really. Er . . .’ I look down at my hand, which he’s still holding.

  ‘Oh God. First I charge you down, then I cling on to you like a limpet. I’m basically horrible.’

  I laugh as he lets go, and my face feels strange. I haven’t laughed for weeks. As he walks towards the front doors, he turns around again, grinning.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Nettie.’

  ‘I’m Fletch. See you around, Nettie.’ He disappears into the crowd.

  I watch him go, the last embers of a smile still on my face.

  Right. Get to class.

  I run up the stairs to the top of the building where my changing room is, find a spot on a bench, and start to get dressed for jazz.

  The tall blonde girl who who tripped over my bag in the foyer is there. She catches my eye in the mirror and strides over.

  ‘Just so you know, you shouldn’t be talking to second-year boys,’ she says loudly.

  The chatter subsides as everyone stops to listen.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You were talking to Fletch. He’s a second-year. You’re a first-year. It’s an unwritten rule.’

  Fletch? The guy with the guitar?

  ‘I’m not really sure what you’re—’

  ‘Just leave him alone, a
ll right?’

  The bell rings and she storms out of the changing room. The other girls scatter to their lessons, whispering to each other while I try to get my head around what just happened.

  ‘Don’t worry about her,’ says a girl who’s still hanging in the doorway. She’s taller than me, mixed race, with auburn hair and hazel eyes. And so, so beautiful.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to smile.

  ‘She’s just a second-year diva. Plenty of those around, I’m sure . . .’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  ‘First days are so scary,’ she says. ‘I had the shits and everything this morning. Still, I might lose a couple of pounds. See you in a bit.’ She slips out of the door.

  I like her.

  Glancing at my timetable, I see I’m in Studio Five with someone called Darren Walker. I scramble out of the changing room and down the stairs, two at a time.

  The girl who had the shits this morning is already in the class. She smiles and gestures for me to join her in the back corner.

  Darren Walker enters the room, bag slung over his shoulder and coffee in hand. It’s not long before a loud beat starts playing and he begins doing what I can only describe as the most complicated warm-up ever. The students in the front couple of rows (presumably second- and third-years) copy him immediately. The girl next to me catches my eye and we follow suit (the only difference being that I’m two counts behind everyone else).

  After sit-ups, press-ups, planks and splits in all directions, he beckons to us to go to the back corner. I ignore my shaking legs and arms – I can’t be soft on my first day. He demonstrates a complicated pirouette exercise and the students do it across the room, one by one.

  I’m the last one to do it. I start well enough, I think, getting through one side without any major problems. As I begin the second side, however, I clock Miss Duke through the window to the corridor outside, staring at me intently again.

  I lose my footing and fall out of my double turn, the bridge of my nose hitting the barre at the side of the studio. It must be bad because no one laughs. In my confusion, I look back at the studio window, but there’s no one there.