A Fine Balance (Short Story)

I think this was a remarkably early short story, but it actually seems to hang together a lot better than some of my later material. As always, as I’ve matured as a writer there are bits I don’t like, but it’s neat and nasty and has some nice observations. It’s quite enjoyable to be surprised by somebody who is altogether a different writer. If I wrote this story now it’s only the style I’d change; the characters need work but the idea is universal. It was written for a site called Three Cheers and a Tiger, which I only know through my records.

A FINE BALANCE by Christopher Stanley

   There was snow in the air; a fine dust that settled in the tiniest nooks. It was chilly, and Betty could see the doormen rubbing their hands together, even though they were wearing thick, padded gloves. She turned away from the limousine window, and back to the soap in front of her. It was a Dynasty repeat on cable. She hated repeats.

   Betty was waiting for her manager to come back with a cappuccino with lactose-free cream. There was no way she was stepping out of the car’s toasted interior without something warm to cling to. There was something ridiculous about it – the finest chinchilla fur wrapped around her body, Ugg boots, but she couldn’t go without a tiny, steaming Styrofoam cup. Shaking her head, Betty flicked the tiny screen off and there was silence.

   Betty hated repeats. Tonight would mark her two hundredth performance of this crummy ballet, and she’d hated all of them. The twirls that met with the wildest applause. The same pirouettes that bought gasps from the audience. The way she was picked up by the crotch became something of a wonder, instead of the ridiculous charade it really was.

   Her leading man, a homosexual called Rodolfo Cyan, loved it. Every time he came into her dressing room, to give her flowers after the show, his face would sparkle like an idiot child as he beamed his appreciation. It was amazing – the crowd didn’t come to look at him, but he behaved as if he was the star.

   Absurd. She was Dame Fiona Galletti. Nobody shared her stage. Nobody.

   It was dark in the limo, partly because of the snow, but mostly because of the shades. She never removed her shades until the last moment, when the make-up girls, shaking with nerves, politely explained that they needed to get to her eyes.

   The door opened, and Betty looked towards the doormen again. Burly, black-skinned. They could only get through the doorway sideways, but they cowered when Betty slipped between them. Undoubtedly, they were told they’d lose their jobs if they so much as glanced at her. They probably lived in two room apartments, with mewling children and harridan wives. No love.

   ‘Dame Galletti, apologies,’ oozed Julian, her manager. ‘The store was out of lait.’ Betty hated Julian, the obsequious little shit. Ginger and balding, he reminded her of a scrawny bird.

   ‘No excuses, Julian. Have you any idea how fucking cold it is in this tin can?’

   ‘Again, I’m sorry, your ladyship,’ Julian fawned. ‘I specifically requested the product in question. Of course, I will see these people never work for our organisation again.’

   Betty turned to the window again. What would he do, close down all the corner shops in New York? Of course not – she just enjoyed seeing him squirm. Some serve, others are born to help them achieve that. She enjoyed wielding the kind of power only the great have, being flanked by exhausted supplicants clutching clipboards, all working to guess what the right decision is.

   ‘I suppose we’d better go and give the public what they want, Julian.’

   ‘Of course, your ladyship. I shall go and check everyone is prepared.’ With that, Julian backed out of the car, nodding, and started to wield his own power by bawling out the doormen, who cowered in their own way.

   Sighing deeply, Betty shifted across the limousine carpet, looked left and right into the snowy evening, and planted a sole onto the white floor. There was no sound apart from the patter of the snow.

   As she barged through the doormen, who pretended not to notice, she could smell their cologne. It was expensive; she insisted on it. Whether they got their money back, Betty didn’t care.

   The corridor was busy, and she could feel everyone’s eyes on her back. They were forbidden to look directly at her – anyone caught doing so would make the contract void immediately. Betty turned the ends of her lips up in a slight smile. How did she, a salesman’s daughter from the North of England, end up with so much power – the power to decide if a Broadway run gets terminated in the blink of an eye?

   Sometimes Betty thought back to her roots – the cheap clothing, food without nutrients, the slaps across the legs. Was it that that made her strong? Was it the knowledge that she could never go back to something like that?

   Betty Whitehouse had started out below the bottom of the pile. She remembered the draughty halls, dancing on unvarnished wood, the air full of dust. The snow had reminded her of it. Trying to be graceful while grotesque men in dirty suits assured her that if she just did what they said, she’d go straight to the top.

   It was a combination of overwork, and the right kind of advice. By the time she escaped to London, it was the 1970’s, and there was more than ballet to occupy the minds of the jet set. No matter, she thought. She didn’t care if she was at the bottom of the pile, as long as it was somewhere glamorous.

   The first revue she did was an interpretation of a Saint-Saëns piece. The late, great Palomina Westbury was the centrepiece. Even in that piece of shit, Palomina shimmered beneath the lights. ‘Great’ was too inappropriate; she was magnificent.

   Betty Whitehouse, like everybody else, was terrified of Westbury. So her heart squeezed itself into a ball, palpitating, when Palomina spoke to her that first time, in the wings during an interminable rehearsal.

   ‘You know me, do you, girl?’ she said, looking elsewhere.

   ‘Of course, Ms Westbury.’

   ‘I suppose you’re scared of me, aren’t you?’

   Betty lied. ‘Of course not.’

   Westbury had snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, girl. Everybody is scared of me. I can’t wipe my arse without someone complimenting me.’

   Betty gasped.

   ‘Please, don’t be shocked. You’ve no idea what it takes to get here. I don’t have friends.’ Betty hadn’t looked at her face once. ‘Do you know what the secret to success is, girl?’

   Betty shook her head, nervously. Palomina grabbed her chin, and looked right into her eyes, into her soul.

   ‘You will never be successful if you try and balance your personal and professional life. You will never hear the right crowds, giving the right appreciation. You must decide which way to tip.’ She came in closer, so close she spat droplets into Betty’s face. ‘You must make people think you are special; that they must fear you.’

   She let Betty’s face go, and stomped back out on stage, shouting as she went.

   Palomina was marvellous. She was right. Success was not a delicate balance, thought Betty. It was all, or nothing. Later that day, Betty Whitehouse began to break free of her cocoon. A fellow dancer was attempting the delicate left-foot pirouette. Betty knew her; a homely girl called Pauline from the Midlands. Pauline, over-balancing, tumbled.

   Betty marched straight over. ‘Pauline, you fat bitch! You’re ruining this fucking ballet, you talentless shit! You can’t fucking dance!’

   Pauline looked up at her with tears in her eyes. Meekly, she replied ‘Sorry, Betty.’

   Behind her, Betty could feel Palomina’s eyes on her, nodding. Betty Whitehouse had weighed up her own life, and the delicate balance of her life had started to tip inexorably towards success.