Page 26 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

Asha

The Opéra Bastille building is incredible.

We were given a short tour and are now waiting in the audience area of the amphitheatre, which seats five hundred people.

If we get to the finals, which are presented like a proper show with members of the public paying to watch, we will be in the main theatre.

Totally daunting. It looks like something from the space age with hanging seating above the stalls.

The seating capacity in there is over two-thousand seven hundred.

Can you believe that? Bigger than any other audience we have danced for.

But even this smaller amphitheatre looks huge.

A sudden realisation makes me do a double take.

This holds just half the number of people due to attend my wedding.

That is one heck of a crowd. It is as well our group is dancing my wedding number in front of a large audience in advance.

It should help with any nerves on the day.

Truthfully, even I am a little anxious about performing to so many, but it is an excited anxiety, not a worried one.

The other entrants are dotted all over the modern auditorium seated on the tiered, curved black benches descending to the wooden dance floor. Some are chatting, some warming up and stretching out, and others just watching.

When Sheila’s dreadful group was dismissed from the theatre, I was delighted. I cannot, however, agree with Clarissa. I think Bold as Brass should be ejected from the competition and sent home.

Once Sheila’s group has gone, the audience engages in low-level conversation as the rehearsals continue.

Clarissa, who is sitting sideways on the bench in front and below us, has now been addressing us for several minutes.

I find it difficult to listen to her as my eyes are constantly drawn to the stage to see what is on next.

She is trying to tell us about backstage protocol and costume changes, but it is very hard to concentrate with everything that is going on.

Announcements are being made over the sound system to get the artistes to the floor in turn and each dance group leader shouts instructions for their dancers that resound through the acoustically sensitive space.

This, and the music for each dance, drowns out Clarissa, who instead of waiting patiently for a gap in the noise, keeps raising her voice until she is almost shouting.

More distracting are the many dancers moving on and off the stage area in groups of anything from two to thirty performers.

All ages, all races; truly cosmopolitan.

No one is in costume for this run-through and the lighting engineer is playing around with the settings for each group, sending random flashes of every colour across the stage.

I try to watch as many dances as I can from the corner of my eye.

There is quite a mix here. A few routines look fairly tame, but some of the choreography is fantastic.

I am pleased to see the standard of the dancing is variable.

Without boasting, I think we are better than most of the ones I manage to watch, so maybe we are in with a chance to reach the finals.

Clarissa clicks her fingers and fixes me with what can only be described as an evil eye.

I wish she had arrived earlier so she could have given out these instructions in the dressing room.

Then we could have just sat and watched the other groups.

We will not be able to see them during the heats.

Even if the theatre is not full, performers are not allowed front of stage while the dances are in progress.

This is a double disappointment, as I do not want to be stuck in our dressing room for hours on end, no matter how well appointed it is.

It will only take a spat between Monica and Ruby, and it will be unbearable.

And I can sense this is brewing. As soon as one thinks the other is not looking, they shoot daggers at the other.

‘Ladies, after all your efforts to get here, I know you are going to do well.’ Clarissa shouts above the rather appropriate Elton John track, ‘I’m Still Standing’.

‘Look at the obstacles you overcame just to get here. You should be proud of yourselves…’

Clarissa’s raised voice fogs as I look past her to the routine, which appears more gymnastic than dance.

I am amused to see the dancers are rarely standing for this song; the majority of their movements are made while they lie prone on the floor, kicking out and scissoring their legs, hips high in the air.

I find it hard to categorise this as dance.

‘Asha, are you listening?’

‘Yes, Clarissa. Sorry.’

‘Now, to the final order for our numbers. We are one of the few groups who have been entered in three categories and to accommodate this we have little time for one of our costume changes. It is between our first and second performance. We will only have a maximum of ten minutes, including getting to the dressing room and back. I asked them to put the Adele number first, followed by “Dancin’ Fool” second, as this is the simplest costume change. ’

We all nod.

‘Then you can do the Bollywood number at the end, as the saris take the most time to put on. As it happens, this will be the last dance of the competition heats, so it will be good to finish with something completely different. A scintillating showstopper.’

The noise stops suddenly and Clarissa’s voice shouting scintillating showstopper , resounds through the space and many heads turn to look at her.

Clarissa instantly lowers her voice and proceeds to tell us the dressing room rules.

I am only half listening. I am thrilled my wedding dance will be the last number, effectively making it the finale of today’s competition before the judges decide who will go through to the show tomorrow for the final.

Clarissa has even put my name with hers on the programme as joint choreographers for the routine.

I observe Clarissa critically. She looks drawn. I vaguely wonder for the umpteenth time if she has dentures. Even for me, it is hard to tell.

Hazel has not come to the run-through as the journey yesterday really took it out of her.

I think to myself she would not have survived our long expedition.

She is resting in their hotel and hopes to watch the competition later.

I reflect on what it would be like to have a member of my family so ill.

I shudder when I think of Jay and try to pay more attention to what Clarissa is saying.

‘You should all know the drill, but just to remind you. No alcohol is permitted. Snacks must not be eaten in the green room at the end of our corridor. At all times, you must conduct yourselves with the utmost decorum. You are representing the Clarissa Kirkland Group and must show model behaviour at all times. We should be seen as the crème de la crème of amateur dance. If you have to leave the theatre for any reason, you must change back into your ordinary clothes. No dance costumes outside. Now about wearing rings and other jewellery…’

I see Ingrida self-consciously touch her wedding ring, which seems to be stuck solid on her finger. I doubt she will be able to remove it without having to have it cut off.

Ruby looks at her ringless fingers and whispers some comment to Bonnie who in turn stifles a laugh.

Well, I will not say anything to Clarissa, but I refuse to take my engagement ring off for any of the numbers.

I would not risk leaving it in the dressing room.

Clarissa can forget that. Jay spent a good six months’ salary on my ornate sapphire, diamond, and platinum ring. It is staying firmly on my finger.

As I place one hand over the other to cover my ring from Clarissa’s eyes, Fay, who is sitting next to me, gives a sudden start and leans forward in her seat. She stares as a small group enters the amphitheatre from the stage area.

Clarissa is no longer able to see me, with Fay blocking the way, so I follow Fay’s eyes.

Two beautiful young women and two svelte young men, all tall, barefoot and wearing loose-fitting warm-up outfits, begin to walk around the space as the lighting around us dims. The stage ceiling lights change to a night-time setting and patterns representing a star scape pepper the floor.

The name of the group is announced over the sound system, Corps et Ame , and I hear Ingrida whisper to Ruby that it means ‘Body and Soul’. What a suitable name. Clarissa often says to us we should dance with the soul, not just the body.

Fay is tightly gripping the top of the seat in front of us and I can see the whites of her knuckles.

I cannot see her face, but as the music starts, two spotlights are trained on the dance floor and follow the two couples.

I find myself transfixed by the dance. I know the track well.

Clarissa choreographed a ballet solo for Monica to this very version a few years ago, “Fix You” by Coldplay.

Even though the dancers are not in costume, they move so beautifully I cannot take my eyes off them.

They are completely in time with each other and appear to float on the dance floor.

It is a mixture of contemporary dance and ballet, and it is incredible.

One by one, everyone in the auditorium stops talking to watch in hushed admiration.

This group is way better than anyone else I have seen and way better than us.

When they finish, the entire theatre bursts into spontaneous applause and the dancers smile and bow, a little self-consciously.

Fay sits back in her seat, and I see her eyes are brimming with tears.

‘You know them?’ I ask.

‘Edi…’ Is all she can say in a reverential whisper as she stares at the group retreating behind the stage rear curtain.

‘Who? Fay, are you OK?’

Fay turns towards me and quickly snaps out of her reverie. She frowns and purses her lips before dabbing her eyes with her linen handkerchief.