Since the moment she was beyond her mother’s grasp, Amelia had refused to dance. Her rigidity might have been acceptable, but that her hallmarked escape did not coincide with a complete evasion of the woman, as the girl’s earliest opportunity for independence arrived only when she became a pupil at the very place her mother still called home forty years after – Benenden School. A vivacious child of New York City, accustomed to spending nights with her forehead pressed against the cool pane of a penthouse window, watching the city glow with anonymity below, she had not expected to enjoy the green land of Kent. Her constitution, however, was not one inclined toward displeasure, and she soon found that the end of spring term brought a great deal of sadness with her return to the city.
Her mother had been maddened over Amelia’s dislike of ballet, and begged her daughter to take up the practice again, but the girl – purely indisposed to concede to her mother – pretended not to hear. After many months of vexation, her father intervened with the compromise that Amelia might not be pressed toward dance anymore if she committed more seriously to her riding, and the lady yielded to the agreement, as did Amelia.
At any rate, Amelia was not a good dancer, nor had she any desire to better her skills. The entire affair was unpleasant – the starved teachers whose carbohydrate-robbed diets made them ceaselessly hostile, the fatigue that kept one from having any energy to have fun when the opportunity could be squeezed between classes, never mind the senselessness of putting one’s own body through exquisite pain simply for aesthetic appeal. Amelia could not comprehend the culture of it all, and she vowed never to waste her time in a ballet studio again.
But now Amelia was a woman, and a very accomplished one at that, such that she might rarely have to worry about ballet except to be photographed at the inaugural performance of each new season, and it would seem an absence of dance training had no effect on her elegance. To the world, her countenance was one of a woman who was eternally unimpressed, though in truth she had never been languorous a moment of her existence. To her intimates she was an arch delight, smiling as she entertained even the wildest of notions, unable to resist the pursuit of amusement she found in anything done with gaiety. She kept her chin raised, elongating an already rather ballerina-like neck, which might have made the smile she was nearly always suppressing unnoticeable, but for the fact that to look at her was to be so struck by her beauty one had to look again, and only then to notice the all-but-imperceptible curve of her lips. She collected vintage hat boxes, Banksy and Cezanne, and her personal diamonds were on loan to no fewer than six international museums. She called her Dalmation Laszlo and her cat Diana and it was rumoured she had been gifted a Baiji dolphin, but no one could confirm such a thing. She wore an emerald ring on her right hand, valued at $15 million, but, notoriously private, had always declined to reveal its significance.
Life was a great event to Amelia – a round of gladdening sport that could always be mediated with a glass of champagne and a devilish smile – she was intent on playing its game well, and she guarded her tactics with such quiet eccentricities as these. The only one to whom she might lose was her mother.
“You’re doing it.”
“No, I am not.”
“Yes, you are.” her mother sniffed, and Amelia’s father shook his head, and she knew there would be no point in deploying any of her tricks. It was done.
And now Amelia was back in England, at School, alongside her old classmates dressed in a ridiculous costume allegedly representing a pirate, leather slippers on her feet as if she were eight years old again. From the wings, the hairdresser shot her a nasty look. Amelia paid no mind. She had lovely, glossy hair that was far too sumptuous to be pinned back in a low bun. Even her mother would surely approve of that particular rebellion.
“There’s a floorboard loose here.” Amelia said.
“Trip on it.” the hairdresser replied, and she disappeared into the dressing room.
Amelia was rather affronted for a moment, but quickly she began to laugh. She threw back her head, and snorted. Instinctively, she clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. From behind, she heard someone laughing with her.
She spun around, and there was Lily, dressed in a pirate ensemble of equal absurdity, holding a champagne glass which was obviously not her first.
Amelia had not seen Lily since the previous New Year, when they flew to her family’s island and spent three days paying the staff there to leave food and drink in odd places so they might find it as if they were shipwrecked and foraging for sustenance alone in the sea.
Amelia shrieked, so of course Lily shrieked, and then Lily spilled much of her champagne running to embrace her friend, who threw the glass behind them as they bounced across the stage, tightly squeezed together.
“Have you got a cigarette? I’m in desperate need. Or did you give it up?” Lily asked.
“I gave it up on Wednesdays.”
“Not Sundays?”
“During Lent.”
“Good for you! I only smoke the days I drink, now.”
“Oh! And that’s working?”
“Swimmingly.” Lily said smugly.
The rest of the pirates fell into place then, and Amelia moved to the back of the formation, where she was well-hidden from the eye of donors. The loose floorboard squeaked.
The curtain rose, and Amelia could not distinguish her mother from the rows of alumni, all of whom looked practically the same. She was not certain whether the show was meant to be comedic (as seemed most likely, why else would white-haired women wear black gowns to see recent graduates make fools of themselves onstage?) or genuine (also somewhat likely, as Amelia was not known for her ability to take serious matters seriously).
The ladies in the front moved, and it was a ripple effect, each row remembering the steps just after seeing them done, so that by the time it reached Amelia she was a count behind. She looked utterly absurd, she was making a satire of a sacred art just by being on that stage. She wiggled her eyebrows a bit, knowing no one could see, but unable to pretend to acquiesce to such silliness – not the sort of silliness of which she was fond.
Amelia might have tried to do something truly disruptive, but was never afforded the chance. In preparation for what was to be one of the most horrendous coupe turns this world has ever seen, her right foot was caught in the crack beneath the loose floorboard, and she went sprawling.
This might have been fine, but it was not. With her toes stuck, she felt a strong snap, and knew immediately she would never be made to dance again.
Amelia was rushed to the hospital with nothing more serious than a broken ankle. The doctors promised she was alright, but her mother insisted she stay overnight for observation.
It was a lucky thing that Amelia was much beloved, and indeed, that those in her circle were almost never alone. She had not been lying in bed for longer than a minute when every one of her acquaintances intruded on her solitude, armed with a tray of cocktails no one would tell her how they transported, a four-tiered wedding cake that seemed stolen, and a florist shop’s worth of fresh flowers.
“It really was a florist shop’s worth, you know,” Lily said the next morning, wiping the fallen mascara from under her eyes. “Benny bought the nice one on Carnaby.”
Amelia was released the next morning, carried on the shoulders of Benjamin and Clyde, while Lily and the rest of the posse played Bach trumpets down the halls. Amelia passed out petit fours and the used Tiffany crystal glasses. Unwilling to stay in England, loathe to return to America, and bored of France, the pack made their way to Austria for summer skiing.
For all I heard, Amelia broke a local record with her leg in a trash bag on which she’d written Hermes, and had been approached by an unnamed scout in regards to Olympic training. She walked for Chanel the next week.
Love,
Lettie Anne