“For music, we use a mix of classic ballroom numbers, rock and pop. The audience will know some of them, but not all. We get a group who can do covers . . .”
“Woah! Woah! Not recorded music?”
I shook my head.
“No, we want the ‘wow’ factor. It’s got to be 100% live. I want people to feel the music, feel the dance. I want them to know what it’s like.”
Gary’s face hardened. “You really want to put all our dirty linen out in public?”
“No, but I need to. This isn’t just about Sergei or even Volkov. This is about dozens, maybe hundreds of girls like Galina, like Marta; thousands of people like the Unknown Girl. They had no voice, but we have a chance to speak for them—to tell their stories. If we do this, it means the Bratva haven’t won.”
Gary was silent, glancing at Yveta. But her eyes were fixed on the pitted and scarred kitchen table.
Laney nodded, her eyes glowing, giving me her silent approval.
Gary frowned. “You really think you can pull this off?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I have to try.”
Gary took a deep breath.
“I’m in. Yvie?”
She didn’t look up. “I’m in.”
Laney
I WAS SO proud of him. So damn proud. After everything he’d been through, his heart was so big, so full of love.
He was taking on a huge challenge, but I’d do everything I could to help him.
Yveta, Gary, Ash . . . me. Could all these broken people make something whole?
Phil loved the idea. He met us at our favorite coffee shop to listen to Ash’s pitch.
“It’s a great story,” he said, twirling his pen between his fingers. “I’ll get something in next week. I can mention that you’re looking for backers, and I’ll speak to Chris Jones, our theater reviewer. He might know some people. What do you need?”
Ash shrugged.
“Everything: a theater to take the show—maybe one outside the city, as well; dancers, singers and musicians, rehearsal space, costume and makeup, marketing, ticket sales, publicity, graphics, ads, backstage, front of house, lighting, audio, a producer . . .”
He sighed and glanced across at me, discouraged by the long list of things it would take to get this show on the road.
Phil was upbeat and took some photographs of Ash that were suitably dramatic, standing in the snow, his hands resting on his hips in a defiant stance, his bandaged hand stark against his dark coat.
When we made it back to the cozy warmth of the apartment, his energy levels were high, whereas I felt like wrapping myself in a quilt and eating pizza until I passed out.
I watched him pacing up and down, deep in thought. Then he pulled out the smart phone that I’d bought him for Christmas, and plugged in his earbuds. Lost in music, an intense frown of concentration on his face, I could tell that he was thinking about the new show. Every now and then, he’d make a dramatic sweeping gesture with his arms or suddenly slide into a lunge. Then he’d frown and nod, or frown and shake his head. It was fascinating to see him work, and soon I gave up any pretense of reading, preferring to watch him, so graceful, a dynamic presence.
Sometimes I could tell the style of the dance because of the very specific moves; other times it was looser, less pure ballroom and more pure Ash.
The afternoon passed and the sky darkened, the street lamps washing the world in a deceptive glow that promised warmth. But winter days were short and the nights long.
I must have fallen asleep eventually, because I woke when Ash sat down next to me, passing me a chamomile tea.
“Luka is in,” he said excitedly.
“Who?”
“My friend Luka—he texted me. He’s been on tour in Germany, but he finishes soon, so he’s going to fly out here. Is it okay if he stays with us?”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Ash, did you offer him a job?”
“He’s a great dancer,” he said, defensively deflecting my question.
“I don’t doubt that. But he doesn’t have a work visa, we have no way of paying him, and we don’t even know when or if the show will happen.”
Anger flashed in his eyes and he leapt off the couch.
“You are always saying that we work and try and don’t give up. And now you want to give up before we start.”
“That’s not what I said! I’m just pointing out . . .”
“What? That it’s hard? That there are mountains to climb? My friends were raped, two girls were murdered, but this is too hard for you!”
“You’re not being fair!”
“Life isn’t fair!” he shouted.
“Stop yelling at me! I’m on your side!”
He stood in front of me, his fists clenched, his nostrils flaring.
“Ash,” I said more calmly, “I’m just saying there’s a lot of work to do before we’re anywhere near offering Luka a job. I’m not an expert in this—I don’t know if I can pull off helping you produce this show. And I don’t want to let you down.”
He sat heavily, his head thudding against the back of the couch.