Chapter 8
The walls of Room 304 were paper-thin.
To the left, a TV blared a reality show. To the right, a couple was arguing about money.
Ariel lay on the bed, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like France.
It was 2:00 AM.
Her leg was on fire. The stress of the day-the standing, the walking, the confrontation-had triggered a flare-up of the nerve damage.
She reached for the bottle of ibuprofen in her purse. She dry-swallowed three.
She caught her reflection in the mirror opposite the bed.
She looked pale. Ghostly.
Her eyes drifted to the corner of the room, where a cheap metal coat rack stood.
An urge seized her. Irrational. Primal.
She stood up. She stripped off her jeans and shirt, standing in her underwear.
She walked to the chair by the desk. It was sturdy enough.
She placed her hand on the back of the chair.
Barre.
She positioned her feet. First position. Heels touching, toes out.
Her right foot dragged. It wouldn't turn out all the way. The scar tissue was too tight.
She closed her eyes.
She imagined the stage lights of the Lincoln Center. The heat. The rosin on her shoes. The orchestra tuning up.
She was the Swan Queen.
"Plié," she whispered.
She bent her knees. The pain was sharp, but manageable.
"Relevé."
She rose onto the balls of her feet.
Her left leg was strong, remembering the years of discipline. But as she shifted weight to her right leg, the nerve screamed.
It wasn't just pain. It was a structural failure.
Her knee buckled.
Ariel crashed to the floor.
Her hip hit the carpet hard. Her knee slammed into the leg of the desk.
"Ah!" A cry tore from her throat.
She lay crumpled on the dirty carpet, clutching her knee. Blood seeped from a scrape, staining her skin.
And then the dam broke.
She didn't just cry. She wailed.
She cried for the five years she had wasted. She cried for the baby she had wanted but Fielding had refused. She cried for the dance career that had burned in a Ferrari on the I-95.
She cried until her throat was raw and her eyes were swollen shut.
She curled into a ball, shaking, letting the grief wash over her like a tidal wave.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty.
The couple next door stopped arguing. Even the TV seemed to quiet down.
Ariel lay in the silence, her cheek pressed against the rough carpet.
"Are you done?" she asked herself aloud. Her voice was croaky.
She waited for an answer.
"Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?"
She sat up. She wiped the blood from her knee with a tissue.
She looked at her legs. One perfect. One ruined.
"You can't dance," she said to the empty room. "But you can think. You can speak. You can see."
She dragged herself up. She grabbed the study guide from the bed.
She turned on the desk lamp. The harsh yellow light flooded the small workspace.
She sat down.
She didn't sleep.
For the next four hours, she conjugated verbs. She wrote essays on French Impressionism. She memorized vocabulary about art restoration.
Every time her mind drifted to Fielding, to Corinna, to the pink diamond, she forced it back to the page.
La douleur est temporaire. Pain is temporary.
La gloire est éternelle. Glory is forever.
By the time the sun began to grey the window, Ariel felt lightheaded, but sharp.
She went to the tiny bathroom. She washed her face with cold water. She applied concealer to the dark circles under her eyes. She put on lipstick-a shade of red she hadn't worn since her premiere.
"Bonjour, Ariel," she told the mirror.
Back at the penthouse, Fielding woke up.
He reached for his phone.
No missed calls. No texts.
He frowned.
"Still?" he grumbled.
He got out of bed, annoyed. He decided not to send the car. If she wanted to come home, she could crawl.
He showered, scrubbing hard, trying to wash away the unease that was settling in his gut.
Ariel checked out of the hotel at 8:00 AM.
She walked out onto the street. The morning air was crisp.
She hailed a cab.
"Alliance Française, please. East 60th."
She sat back, clutching her folder. Her leg hurt, but she didn't care.
She wasn't a wife today. She wasn't a victim.
She was a candidate.
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