A Girl’s Guide to Kissing Frogs

2

Daylight crept through the gap in the curtains that hung round my bed. Out of the confusion of sleep emerged one clear idea, a craving for a glass of water. My eyes and mouth were dry and my skin felt splittingly tight. I barely had time to register these discomforts before a flame of pain in my left foot banished all other sensations. I opened my eyes and lay still, concentrating on not tensing the muscles in my left leg, hoping to lull my foot to a tolerable ache. Siggy, the darling, stirred, stretched and rolled on to his back, snoring faintly.

After five minutes or so the searing seemed to cool a little. I stared at the canopy of gold sateen above my head. The sateen had cost less than a pound a metre and was meant for lining things, but when gathered into a sunburst of pleats with a lustrous crumpled fabric rose in the centre to hide the stitching, you really couldn’t tell how cheap it was.

When I was eight my mother had taken my sister and me to Newcastle to see The Sleeping Beauty. The moment the lord chamberlain in his full-bottomed wig had come mincing on to the stage in high-heeled red shoes, I had been ravished from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet by the beauty of that sparkling, starry, fairytale world. I had made a secret resolution, so thrilling I had hardly dared to acknowledge it even to myself, that I was going to be a famous ballerina.

A little later in the performance I had also resolved to have a red and gold bed like Princess Aurora’s. This was much easier to achieve. I had spent many enjoyable hours with a hammer, nails, scissors, glue and a needle and thread. The crimson velvet curtains that hung round my four-poster had once separated the stage of the Chancery Lane Playhouse from its audience before the theatre closed for good. The gilt cord, stitched into triple loops at each outside corner of the tester and ornamented with gold tassels, had trimmed the palanquin of King Shahryar in Scheherazade. However tired I was, however discouraged by a less than perfect performance, however tormented by Sebastian’s demands, my beautiful bed embraced me, soothed me and cheered me. Every night, unless the weather was really sweltering, I drew the curtains all the way round so that Siggy and I were warm and safe inside our little red room with the critical, competitive world shut out.

I stroked Siggy’s chin gently. He stirred and stuck out the tip of his tongue. He was incontestably my favourite bed companion. But why was I at home? Why was I not even now basking in the perquisites of director’s moll, lying on the hard little sofa in the unheated drawing room at Dulwich, my already shattered frame having been probed, impaled, bounced on and generally misused? Then I remembered the extraordinary events of the day before.

At first Fortune had seemed to be on my side. I had been spared the customary two hours of répétition after lunch. Madame had decided to devote the afternoon to rehearsing the corps since they had, she asserted, ‘ze elegance of a ’erd of cattle. You ’op about as zo you are being prodded in ze rump by ze cow’and. Togezer!’

A free afternoon was a rare luxury. I had gone back to the flat I shared with Sorel and Nancy, also dancers in the LBC, to wash my tights – frequent washing was the only way to get rid of wrinkles which were so obvious on the stage – and break in an extra pair of pointe shoes. A virgin pair clacks as loudly on the stage as the husks of coconuts imitating a trotting horse. The second act of Giselle calls for feather-light landings. I had already broken in three pairs for that evening’s performance but, with the state my foot was in after that unlucky sissone, I thought it might be wise to have a fourth. Once the box – the hard section your toes fit into – becomes soft through wear your foot isn’t supported properly. I was worried but not despairing about the injury sustained that morning. Dancers spend practically all their professional lives in pain. Often our feet are soaked in blood. They have to be wrapped in bandages and lashings of antibiotic ointment. The rest of our bodies are tortured by strained muscles and ligaments and the overuse of joints. Perhaps the undeniable romance of suffering for one’s art helps to make the agony bearable.

Each dancer has her own method for breaking in new pointe shoes. Some people smash them on the floor, some shut them in doors, but I always used a rubber mallet. A few judicious blows weaken the brittle layers of hessian and glue that the toe box is made from. Having moulded them to the shape of your foot so they fit like a second skin, you paint them with shellac which hardens to preserve the exact shape. Then the tips have to be darned to give a good grip and the ribbons sewn on. It was a process with which I was so familiar that it always acted as a tranquillizer for mounting nerves.

When I had prepared the shoes to my own satisfaction, I examined my body for hair. Dancers have to be perfectly smooth. Everything except eyebrows and eyelashes must be plucked away. This was no problem for me as my body hair was fine and easily discouraged, but girls with dark hair spent hours each week painfully engaged with tweezers and hot wax. Then I sat by the window and contemplated a fading photograph of a woman wearing a long tutu with a garland of flowers round her skirts and more flowers in her hair, en arabesque penchée. Dancers are a superstitious lot and before performances they resort to whatever sympathetic magic they’ve convinced themselves will help them to give of their best – invoking saints, lighting candles, hiding amulets in their underwear, or in my case attempting to commune with the spirit of Anna Pavlova. Pavlova had weak feet, poor turn-out, a scrawny physique and bad placement, yet she was one of the greatest ballerinas of the twentieth century. She was famous for the power and passion of her dancing which she combined with a delicate expressiveness. Technique alone does not make a good dancer. I always reminded myself of this before I went on stage.

Giselle was due to start at half-past seven. I arrived at the theatre at six. An enormous bouquet of dark pink lilies, pale yellow roses and green hellebores took up much of the valuable space in my dressing room. I looked at the card. With respect and admiration, Miko Lubikoff. I almost screamed aloud. Who else would have read it? Certainly Annie, my dresser, and Cyril, the stage-door keeper. Like everyone else they were gossips. The arrival of the flowers must be all round the theatre by now, which presumably was what Mr Lubikoff had intended. Sebastian was too lofty for mundane conversation, but Madame would lose no time in letting him know. I cut the card into tiny scraps with my nail scissors and threw them into the bin. I would have to tell a lie and it ought to be a good one.

‘Hello, darling.’ Lizzie was wearing a mauve quilted dressing gown full of holes. Her face was covered with Max Factor pancake. Her ringlets had been temporarily tamed by a hairnet and her round brown eyes had been extended with black lines almost to her temples. ‘Just came to wish you good – my God! When Annie said it was a enormous bunch she wasn’t exaggerating! Lubikoff’s serious then? You sneaky thing! I do think you might have told me.’

‘The flowers, you mean.’ I tried to look unconcerned. ‘They’re from my godmother, actually.’

Lizzie snorted. ‘You’re going to have to do better than that if you don’t want Sebastian to rend you limb from gorgeous limb. That bouquet can’t have cost less than twenty pounds. Everyone knows that godmothers are mean as hell.’

It was certainly true that mine was. For my last birthday she had sent me a card with a ‘reduced to half price’ label on the back and a cookery book which was clearly second-hand as half the pages were stuck together. As I cannot afford to be wasteful, I had hollowed out the middle, carving my way through splashes of bygone soups, kedgerees and charlottes to make a cache for valuables. It would come in very useful when I had any.

‘Oh, Lizzie! I’ve hated not telling you. But there isn’t actually anything to tell. I got a letter from Mr Lubikoff last week saying that he was coming to the workshop and was hoping to be able to talk to me alone afterwards. That’s all.’

This was not quite true. He had gone on to say that he considered me a fine classical dancer with extraordinary vitality and a magnificent line. He was anxious that because of my undoubted fitness for the ballets blancs – things like Swan Lake, Giselle and La Bayadère in which the girls wear white tutus – I might be denied the chance to interpret contemporary works. He thought the role of Alice in Through the Looking Glass, which the EB were putting on in a few months’ time would be perfectly suited to developing my range of dramatic expression. I knew this paragraph by heart. Everyone is hungry for praise but I believe dancers are more famished than any other group of artists. During classes we receive a continual flow of negative criticism which, although intended to be constructive, lowers morale. Even after a good performance there is always a painstaking analysis with emphasis on improvements that could be made to the curve of a wrist here, the turn of a head there.

However, modesty forbad taking Lizzie fully into my confidence. Besides, words cost nothing, and in the theatrical world are flung about like autumn leaves.

‘Mind you don’t accept less than twice what Sebastian pays you.’ Lizzie giggled. ‘Oh, my! Won’t he be hopping mad!’

I felt my stomach lurch at the idea of Sebastian’s rage.

‘Marigold! Darling!’ Bruce Gamble, who was dancing the caractère role of Hilarion, had stuck his head round the door. ‘Who’s a lucky girl then? I know for a fact that when Lubikoff wooed Skrivanova he only sent horrid pink carnations.’ He sucked in his cheeks and lowered his eyelids to express disgust. ‘Nasty vulgar things that never die, fit only for cemeteries.’

‘You mean these?’ I pointed to the lilies, roses and hellebores. ‘My uncle sent them. Wasn’t it kind of him?’

Bruce pursed lips blood-red with rouge. ‘I’m afraid you’ll never get on if you can’t lie better than that, my pet. Only people on the make send expensive flowers. Now the person to whom you represent money at the moment is Sebastian. But he’s already got you signed up professionally and he’s fucking you. We all know he’s too stingy to spend as much as a ha’penny on his spunk-buckets.’

I considered, then abandoned, the idea of taking issue with this graphic description of my status in Sebastian’s life. Scabrous language was Bruce’s only vice. Temperate in all his appetites, he ate only nuts, fruit and sprouting things, drank nothing but tisanes, eschewed sex of any kind and devoted himself, mind and body, to dancing.

‘But of course if Miko Lubikoff is thinking of you as his dear little honey-pot—’

‘Aie! It is true!’ Irina Yzgrouchka pushed past Bruce and went to bury her face in the flowers, breathing in their delicious scent with a moan of pleasure. She was dressed in a dark blue riding habit and a lavishly plumed hat for the non-dancing role of Bathilde, Count Albrecht’s fiancée. Irina’s age … forty-two … and an accumulation of injuries had put paid to her suppleness. ‘How I will miss you, my own sweet Marigold!’ Irina put her arm round my neck and shed a few tears. Emotions are always near the surface in any ballet company, and illusion and reality are inextricably mixed, but I paid us both the compliment of believing that some of the tears were genuine. I was no threat to her now.

‘They’re from an unknown admirer,’ I said, blushing a little beneath the gaze of Bruce and Lizzie.

Irina looked at me from beneath false lashes clotted with mascara. In accordance with the almost universal practice, she had put a red dot in the inner corner of each eye to make them appear more open, but it looked very odd close to. ‘Darlink, the poor little falsehood is stillborn, no pathetic infant cry, not even a gasp. Admirers send red roses or some such gaucherie. Only a queer sends flowers so beautiful as these. Besides, at least ten people read the card before you arrive.’

It was some comfort to know that Sebastian never came backstage before a performance. Afterwards he made a point of doing so, to give the company his opinion of our achievements, which ranged from mediocre (which meant very good) through pretty poor (good) to atrocious (some careless port de bras in the corps). I put on my peasant girl dress – white blouse, green laced bodice and scarlet knee-length skirt for the first act, wondering how I could manage to have a private conversation with Mr Lubikoff afterwards. Human traffic flowed continuously in and out of my dressing room. I could hardly lock myself in with him. That would be the same as hanging a sign on the door saying ‘Marigold Savage is negotiating a new contract with a rival company.’

Annie came in to plait my hair and tie it into coils with scarlet ribbons. Because my hair was such a distinctive colour, I rarely wore a wig. Dancers, particularly dressed in white with their hair fastened into chignons, look very much alike from the back of the auditorium. Though it was tiresome always to invoke the spirit of Moira Shearer in the minds of the critics, it was an advantage to have a physical characteristic that made one instantly recognizable.

‘Is he coming tonight?’ Annie mumbled through a mouthful of Kirby grips. She indicated the flowers with a jerk of her head.

There was no point in pretending not to understand. Many years ago Annie had danced in the corps herself so she knew what was at stake. I don’t know why I felt so guilty. Sebastian would not have hesitated for one solitary second to replace me with a better dancer. Or a more desirable lover.

‘He said he would. But you know …’ I shrugged.

‘I know all right. When my bones ache and I can’t afford a packet of fags, I thank my lucky stars my next month’s salary doesn’t depend on the fancy of some self-obsessed old faggot.’

The first act went as well as anyone could have hoped. When we danced together I forgot about Alex’s resemblance to a French bull terrier. As Loys, my mysterious suitor, he became handsome and charming. I was astonished and elated that he had chosen to love me. I responded with a passion I didn’t know I was capable of feeling because my life until that point as a simple village girl had been so ordinary. When Loys admitted that he was really Count Albrecht in disguise and already betrothed to the beautiful, blue-blooded Bathilde, I could not at first understand it. Surely there had been a terrible mistake? The pitying glances of his courtiers assured me it was true. My love was a poisoned apple. I had been deceived, my dreams were dust and ashes and there was no peace for me in the world but death. And die I did, after a fit of madness that demanded tremendous technical skill.

The part of Giselle is one of the greatest tests for a ballerina. It is not only extremely difficult technically, but it requires a great range of expression. The ghost of the second act must make the strongest possible contrast with the simple red-cheeked village girl of the first. Because every gesture is minutely circumscribed, it tests one’s ability to communicate to the utmost. I barely noticed the applause as I came off the stage in the interval because I immediately began to think myself into a state of ethereal otherworldliness. Pavlova always danced the dead Giselle in burial cerements, but I had been given the more usual romantic tutu. It was only as I was struggling into the basque which holds the costume together that I noticed that my foot was hurting. As soon as I thought about it the pain increased to something that approached but was not quite agony.

Annie came to hook up the bodice of white slipper-satin covering the basque that held the tutu together. A pair of delicate gauzy wings was attached to my shoulders.

‘You danced well, dear. Those ballottés with the jetés en avants straight after are pigs to get on the beat and you were spot on.’ Annie had seen Fonteyn, Markova and Barinova dance, so praise from her was worth having. ‘Lubikoff’ll be pleased.’ Annie bent to smooth out the three layers of snowy tarlatan that finished at mid-calf. ‘You don’t want to let Lenoir bully you into doing just as he likes.’ She fastened a silver girdle round my waist and brought me a new pair of shoes while I removed trickles of sweat and mascara and powdered my face, neck and arms. ‘I know you’ve got to get on, dear, and goodness knows we’ve all done it, but he’s such a cold stick, such a brute of a man. I hate to think of you having to let him … whatever’s wrong with your foot?’

‘It is a bit swollen.’ I flexed it and winced. ‘Be an angel and tie it up for me.’

Annie’s experience with dancer’s feet was second to none. She tsk-tsked volubly when I took off my tights to disclose the hot, reddened flesh of my left foot but, after she had bound my instep and ankle, it felt almost comfortable again. I pulled on my tights, fastened my shoes and kissed her gratefully before running down to the basement, known as ‘hell’, to take up my position on the little platform which at the appropriate moment would shoot me up to the stage as though I had risen from my grave.

I adored the thrilling moment of stepping into the blue starlight and bourréeing towards the centre as though I weighed less than a mote in a moonbeam. Annie’s bandages held my foot in a secure yet flexible grip and at first all went well. Then it came to the moment when Giselle hops en pointe on her left foot, traversing half the stage, which is difficult to do gracefully in the most favourable circumstances. I found it doubly hard when each hop sent a thousand volts from my toe to my knee. An expression of mournful tenderness was called for. The pain forced me to grit my teeth and it was all I could do not to grunt with pain. During the pas de deux with Myrtha, the Queen of the Wilis, the throbbing and stinging was nothing less than excruciating. I seemed to be dancing on white-hot knives. Perhaps something of the agonizing struggle to control my arabesques may have been interpreted by the audience as passion and pity for the distraught Albrecht. Anyway, the clapping, whistling and stamping of feet as I sank back into my grave was terrific.

‘You look terrible!’ said Bella, Queen of the Wilis, who was waiting with me in the wings while the corps de ballet took their curtain call. ‘That foot’s playing up, isn’t it? Bad luck!’ Bella’s words were sympathetic but I saw excitement in her eyes. The first night was only five days away and Bella was my understudy.

‘I’m all right.’ I grabbed a towel to mop the sweat from my neck and shoulders. ‘You were wonderful.’

Bruce, as Hilarion, scampered on to the stage and received measured applause. It is not much of a part.

‘Thanks.’ Bella ran gracefully into the spotlight and curtsied to a lively reception. She was considered an exceptional dancer with tremendous precision and serenity, but unfortunately one critic had labelled her cold and the epithet had stuck. The part of Myrtha suited her admirably, but I knew she longed for the chance to refute this and show a greater emotional breadth as Giselle. I didn’t blame her one bit.

Smiling beatifically, Bella took her place among the line of soloists in front of the corps. Alex a.k.a. Albrecht came on to an enthusiastic response which he received with elegant bows. When the audience began to tire, he flung out one arm towards the wing where I was standing and I tripped across as lightly as I could, considering my foot was on fire, to take his hand.

I was startled by the roar of appreciation. Alex stepped back to let me take the call alone. I smiled and tried to look as though I was gratified without actually purring. Some dancers make a great play of kissing hands and gesturing from the heart to the audience, which I think is irritating as it smacks of spurious humility. I stepped back into the line as a bouquet of flowers – oh dear, chrysanthemums again, well, the LBC was hard up – was brought on by the conductor, darling old Henry Haskell. More clapping. The curtain came down. As I was looking directly at it and no one could see, I allowed myself to pull a face of hideous suffering. The curtain rose again. Henry led me forward for further congratulation. I gave them a serene, Buddha-like smile, though my whole leg felt as though it was being flambéed on a spit. Another curtain. I was on the point of weeping.

‘One more! One more!’ cried the stage manager.

‘Come on! We’ll take it!’ said Alex, his eyes shining.

‘They’re still clapping like crazy!’ Annie, who had been watching my terrific reception from the wings, took the chrysanthemums from me. ‘Go on. Just one last curtain, dear.’

‘Not if it’s my last one ever,’ I said, lifting my foot and only just managing not to howl like a wounded dog.

I reached my dressing room, pressed my face against my dressing gown which was hanging on the back of the door and screamed into its folds. Then I hopped over to the mirror and sank into the chair before it. I knew it would not be long before the room was crowded with a mingling of friend and foe and I had to get myself in a state to receive them. I took two painkillers with a glass of Lucozade and then, as an afterthought, swilled down two more. I examined my foot. The flesh was protruding either side of the ribbons. Hang the expense, I would order a taxi. While I was framing excuses to avoid going to Dulwich there was a tap on the door and Mr Lubikoff came in.

‘Let me be the first to congratulate you.’ He closed the door firmly behind him.

Miko Lubikoff had been born plain Mike Lubbock and at the age of fourteen had been selling cabbages from a barrow; he was an example to us all of how hard work and perseverance in the teeth of all odds will pay dividends. He had put the money he earned from the cabbages into ballet classes and, though it was late to begin, talent and diligence had earned him a place in the corps of a fourth-rate company. From this modest beginning he rose rapidly. Though without an extraordinary technique, his strong personality and musicality, particularly in the caractère roles, brought him to the notice of the cognoscenti. Here luck played a part for, whereas Sebastian had an appetite only for young girls, Miko’s taste was for sodomy – preferably with angelic little boys, but he was not fussy. Sebastian’s nymphets rarely had enough money for the bus home, whereas Miko rolled happily about in bed with any balletomane with a large bank balance. Pillow talk bought him partnerships, investments, even a theatre, and currently he was one of the biggest cheeses in English ballet.

He was now past the age of dancing and had grown corpulent with rich living at other people’s expense. His face was round and his nose was fat. His head was a naked dome above two stiff triangular wedges of hair, dyed bright gold so that he looked like a cherub whose wings had mysteriously risen from his shoulder blades to above his ears.

‘My dear Marigold!’ He bowed as low as his stomach allowed. ‘Permit me to say how awed I feel at finding myself in the presence of the outstanding artist. My fingers and toes still tingle from the stimulation of your performance. What attack! You snap from the ground in the first act and in the second you float. Superb! Exquisite!’ He kissed his fingertips.

Rumour said Miko had been born in Stoke Newington, but now he spoke with an interesting mixture of dramatic inflections, trilled consonants and stilted constructions that could have passed for Slavonic. I did not despise him for this. Illusion and invention are the lifeblood of ballet.

‘Thank you so much for the flowers. They’re beautiful.’ A wave of pain from my foot made me feel sick.

He shook his head, smiling. ‘A paltry tribute to one who will go down in the history books with Pavlova, Karsavina, Kchessinskaya, Ulanova and Fonteyn.’

For a moment I wondered if it could be true. In which case ‘Savage’ would sound rather discordant in this catalogue of greats. Then common sense asserted itself. There were plenty of dancers as technically competent as me. Some were better. It would take a piece of extraordinary good fortune to persuade people that I had something special that merited a place in the exosphere of stardom. So far critics had been content to call my performance ‘fiery’, probably because of an unconscious association with the colour of my hair.

‘You have received my letter?’ Miko continued. ‘You understand that I would like you to come to work for me? I can offer you the great classic roles and besides them the exciting new ones, which you can make your own.’ He smirked a little. ‘But there are some sweets that, alas, I cannot promise.’ He pretended to look sorrowful while keeping his merry little eyes fixed on mine. ‘I am told on the good authority of the ladies who have been favoured – and there are so, so many of them – that Sebastian is inimitable in the bedroom.’ He need not have stooped to be catty. For me Miko’s sexual orientation was not the least of his attractions.

‘Naturally I’m terrifically honoured to be asked to join the English Ballet,’ I began, ‘but my contract with—’

Miko held up a stubby finger. ‘Let us leave the business details for now. It has been an evening of the consummate delight. We do not want to spoil it with the … how you say, nitty-gritty? Come and see me in my office at six o’clock on Monday evening.’

I hesitated. If I kept that appointment it would be the end of my career with the LBC. News of my visit to enemy headquarters would fly back to Sebastian as fast as Miko could send it. My goose would not only be cooked but eaten and digested. This left me with almost no bargaining power. How could I be certain that Miko would offer me a principal and not a soloist contract? Miko smiled winningly. My thoughts flew about en gargouillade, that is, a double rond de jambe en l’air, en dedans with the first leg, en dehors with the second, all in the course of one leap and really tricky.

‘It’s a little awkward.’ I pulled a face to express the delicacy of the situation, and also to relieve the emotion caused by a throbbing so bad that I wanted to clutch my foot and yell. ‘You see—’

‘Hello Miko.’ Sebastian had entered as quietly as a cat, which was his habit. ‘Come to see how Giselle should be done?’

They gave each other tigerish smiles.

‘I congratulate you, Sebastian. A superb production. Rarely have I seen one that was superior. Not for three years that I can remember.’ The last production of Giselle had been the English Ballet’s, three years ago almost to the day. ‘And Giselle herself … no, I have not seen a better. Certainly not Skrivanova. By the end of the second act, that one, she land with a thump, like a tired horse.’ This was generous, as the rustling and whispering from just outside the door, which Sebastian had left a little ajar, testified to a larger audience than us three. Skrivanova, his prima ballerina, was bound to hear of this disparagement. The intense interest created abroad by this discussion was not just idle inquisitiveness. If I joined the English Ballet, there was a chance that someone in the LBC, probably Bella, would get a principal contract. All the coryphées – the dancers in the corps who had shown promise and who were under consideration for a soloist contract – were hanging on every word.

‘Skrivanova. Yes.’ Sebastian lingered in a hissing way on the last consonant. ‘Naturally I don’t blame you for wanting my dancers for yourself. There isn’t another company in the world that has such a flair for discovering talent.’

I felt a stab of guilt, for this was true. Though I had worked insanely hard, it was Sebastian who had promoted my career

‘Ah yes. The men, no, there we have the edge, but when it comes to the ballerinas, my dear Sebastian, you have an exceptional success. Almost, one might say, you are a Svengali. You take over their minds and bodies until they become an extension of your artistic vision.’ I understood that Miko was making an appeal to my pride and independence.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t sleep with them all, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Only the desirable ones. Skrivanova has a face like an amiable frog and the brain to match. It never even crossed my mind to take her to bed.’ Another appeal to my pride and also a stab in the traitorous Skrivanova’s back.

Miko shrugged. ‘With make-up she looks all right. But I agree with you, old fellow, she cannot hold a candle to Marigold.’

They looked at each other with a man-of-the world cordiality which hid honed steel, and then at me, much as two hungry tigers might contemplate a fresh kill.

‘So,’ Sebastian was unable to conceal another hiss, ‘let’s not beat about the bush. This isn’t a social call. You want to lure yet another of my pretty birds into your net. And you think that Marigold will betray her old friends for money. Isn’t that rather insulting to her?’

I wondered if it was. Certainly I was awfully fed up with having to scrimp and make do. I was prepared to be insulted if it meant I need not worry about the rent and could afford to wash my hair with shampoo instead of washing-up liquid.

Miko laughed and spread his hands. ‘I come clean. I want Marigold to dance for me. And naturally I pay her more because I can afford to.’ How much more? I longed to ask. ‘But it is you who insult her if you think it is only money which will make her come to me. She will be a fool not to do so. It will be the making of her.’ He hesitated, then brought it out in a rush. ‘A principal’s contract with the second finest company in Europe is not so easily come by.’