Probably my Last Post of 2013... 'The Prize' Part One

You didn't get your Monday Fiction yesterday - my apologies.  Slightly sidetracked by an elderly relative going into hospital, necessitating rushing around by my husband and some concern on my part.  Still, at least you got your Ballet Boyz inspired poem. Hope you liked it.  I'd say hope the Boyz liked it, but...

So here is the opening of the short story I had been going to work on yesterday but couldn't.

I hope you like it.


The Prize

Part One

There were ten of them, taking their bows to screaming applause.  Lucy’s eyes slid from one to another in post-menopausal admiration.  I completely understood why; they were like a box of expensive chocolates, each one different, each one finished to perfection, a visual feast, an enticing promise, and any choice between them would have to be made purely on the grounds of personal taste.

The audience continued to scream and applaud and whoop; it was only the interval, some of these people were going to have no skin left on their palms by the end of the show. I wondered idly whether any of the stunningly masculine young men on the stage bore any resemblance to my individual preference – a bit soft-centred with the possibility of nuts.

Lucy nudged me for attention.  ‘Which one, Kate?’ she yelled over the raucous, adoring crowd.

‘What, first, you mean?’ I answered, making her giggle.

We were still giggling and choosing and weighing up the various merits of each of the young dancers long after the curtain had dropped and the lights had come up. Martin interrupted us long enough to announce he was going to the bar, and we trailed after him, still arguing the merits of the one with the Movember mustache and the one with the tats, the local boy or the really hot one… of course, then we had to establish exactly who we meant by the really hot one, and that led to a decision that there were at least three really hot ones…

‘You’re disgraceful!’ Martin told us; I ignored him – well, he was Lucy’s friend, not mine, so I didn’t care what he thought of me.

‘Thank you!’ she said, and turned away to order drinks.

I’d won the tickets to the show in a phone-in - a box for three for the last night of the troupe’s tour of the north of England.  Lucy had suggested Martin  for the third ticket because he had a car and didn’t drink and was trying to impress her by showing how cultured he was.  We’d have done better to fork out for taxis, though.

‘You do know neither of you’d have a chance, don’t you?’ Martin went on plaintively. I drew a huge breath to protest this, but Lucy got in first.

‘What are you on about?’ she demanded.  ‘We know we’re both old enough to be their… older sisters… but that’s not what it’s about!’

‘And we’re not that bad, you know!’ I put in.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he muttered. 

‘If I were you I’d stop talking now,’ I suggested.  ‘Or we’re both likely to thump you.’

‘You can always walk home,’ he said.

‘Do you know,’ Lucy said, ‘I think that’s a good idea.  We can share a cab, can’t we?’

‘Course we can,’ I said, backing her up stalwartly.  ‘And anyway, it said in the programme that the one you like drives a London taxi. We can ask him for a lift!’

Martin huffed off.  Lucy didn’t really seem too bothered. 

‘To be honest,’ she said, ‘his days have been numbered ever since I found out he thought a plié was half a set of pliers and I realised he was neither cultured nor handy round the house!’

There was a surprise waiting for us when we got back to our box; a serious-looking young woman with a clipboard and a smile that changed her face.

‘Oh, Ms Turner? Kate Turner?’

‘Yes?’

‘Pauline Dennis, publicity and PR… we were wondering if you’d mind posing for a few photos after the show, giving us a bit of an interview about why you entered the contest and what it is about the guys that made you want to see them?’

I glanced at Lucy, who nodded encouragement.

‘If my friend can join us, why not? Except we’re going to struggle to get home…’

‘Oh, we can organise a car for you, no problem. Enjoy the second act.’

The rest of the show passed by in a very fast-paced, fluid, beautiful blur as we watched the liquid movements and raw power of the young men on the stage as they flew and turned and brought life to the music backing them, telling its story with elegant strength and pulling us to bits with their sheer beauty.  Okay, we were maybe old enough to be their mum, but if we had been, we would have been so proud…

Trying to keep my body language properly reserved during the photocall and interview was difficult.  Lucy and I sat on a sofa in one of the green rooms with several of the guys behind us and at our sides. At least I didn’t have to resort to sitting on my hands like Lucy did, and I answered the rather pedestrian questions with as much decorum as possible; no, I wasn’t really a typical ballet enthusiast, but I’d been doing some research which had led me to look at an unusual production of one of the classical Tchaikovsky ballets and this in turn had led me to discover the troupe and I’d been fascinated… of course I had to enter the competition and was thrilled to win…  Why? Well, really, a chance to do more research… What for? Well, I’m an author and my latest work is about angels and if anyone ever made it look like humans could fly, it was these guys…  

Wrap-up, then. Contact details for copies of the photos and handshakes all round… even their fingers were powerful, potent.  The one I liked most seemed to give my hand a special squeeze, but I could have been imagining it.

We got as far as the street before our decorum slipped and we did that thing women do everywhere, however old, however respectable, when the moment calls for it and communication by words fails.  We looked into each other’s faces and screeched and waved our hands and did that little dance that goes with it, and then laughed.

The car we were waiting for arrived and we shut up very quickly as the window rolled down and we saw our driver and prepared to fight for the honour of sitting in the front passenger seat.

‘Ladies,’ he said. It was the one with the glorious tats…

To Be Continued…

(I would like to add that this isn't going to be *that* kind of a story. I've got two romance novels at third and first draft stage, and I can't be doing with all that in a short story, especially not one with ten leading men... someone would be bound to feel missed out... or anxious... so don't worry... and Part Two should be cooked for Monday)