All Fall Down Page 7

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ Marco’s eyes sparkle. ‘Wow. This is just like old times. You try to boss me around, and I arc up and give you shit about it, and then we settle on a mutually beneficial arrangement after we kiss and make up.’

  He did not just say that. I wipe my palms again at the idea of what ‘kiss and make up’ would be like with Marco now.

  ‘Yeah.’ I heave out an unsteady breath. ‘It’s just like old times.’

  Four

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say to Daddy. ‘It’s all going fine.’

  My father sits himself up a little higher on the pillows. ‘And the finale went okay? How are the flyers? Is Rogan keeping everyone together?’

  ‘Luke’s doing a great job.’ I try to keep my face and voice as relaxed as I can. Maybe if I’m calm, Daddy will calm. ‘Everything went off without a hitch for the finale. You don’t have to worry, the show is looking after itself. People take care of each other. You know they do.’

  ‘I know.’ He squeezes my hand, turns his head away. God, he still looks so grey. ‘I just…I can’t help thinking about it, y’know?’

  I squeeze back. ‘Dad, it would be weird if you didn’t think about it. And you can always talk about it with me, okay? I’ll keep you up to date. But I don’t want you to worry–everything’s going fine.’

  ‘I know, I know, it’ll be fine without me. That’s how you want it, right? You want it self-sustaining. You want to create something that goes on after you. That’s how generational shows are born…’

  Daddy continues talking, waxing lyrical about circus life, the nature of keeping a company–a community–going, the constant striving for new acts, new delights for the audience, the continuing development of the performers… Somebody else might put his rambling down to the medication he’s been prescribed in recovery, but I know the truth: Daddy talks like this all the time anyway. The show is his whole life. He was born into it, and he’s carried on the name, the traditions.

  I sit and listen as he talks, keeping an eye on the level of colour in his face. I don’t want him to tire himself out with a lot of patter only a week and a half after he’s come out of surgery, and I need to ask him about admin tasks later. We’ve somehow made it to Saturday and the show is running great, but it’s a steep learning curve and I’m tired. Even if I could get some advice on how to handle some of the more official organisational aspects, that would be a plus. I glance out the window, worried about what’s happening on the lot without me.

  ‘So are you and Marco driving each other crazy yet?’

  ‘What?’ When I look back, my father has a glint in his eye. ‘No, of course not. We have a division of labour. It’s… He can be hard to manoeuvre around sometimes, but generally Marco and I are–’

  ‘You’re not supposed to manoeuvre around your co-organiser. You’re supposed to manoeuvre with them.’ Dad is actually grinning, now. He weaves his hands in front of himself, in what I think is supposed to be a waltzing gesture: one palm up, holding a partner gently, the other holding her imaginary hand. ‘It’s like a dance, Fleur. If you move together, everything suddenly becomes so much easier and faster.’

  I give him an eye-roll. ‘If Marco and I are dancing, we’re not waltzing. We’re Morris dancing. At best.’

  ‘Isn’t that the one they do in the UK, where they jump over swords?’

  ‘Correct.’ I stand up and gather the scraps from the breakfast tray settled in front of him, wheel the tray trolley out to the side. ‘And now you’ve had a full report from me, and it’s time for you to slide down a little and take a nap, like Dr March ordered.’

  Daddy’s expression complains, but he settles back all the same. ‘All this napping. I don’t think it’s healthy. The best way to recover from injury is to ease back into it. I should be walking, moving around–’

  ‘Let’s just work towards sitting up more frequently,’ I suggest, levelling his pillows. ‘We can leave the hospital corridor sprints for later.’

  ‘Nobody likes a smartass, kiddo.’

  ‘And one happy day, sometime in the future, I’m going to remind you that you said that.’ I smile sweetly as I pull up his blankets.

  It only takes about five minutes for him to fall asleep; it’s eight in the morning, but he was woken three times in the night, and he’s still in pain. I make him rest whenever he’s looking pinched in the face.

  While he nods off, I tidy the room and gather up my things. The sleeping bag and camping mat are rolled into a neat bundle in the corner. Boxes of paperwork are tucked into my backpack, and my change of clothes is folded on a shelf. It’s about as civilised as I can make it; the idea that I’m sleeping on the floor of Dad’s hospital room is something Eugenia is still tut-tutting about, so I have to camouflage everything.

  But I’m not staying on the lot while my father is here alone. The time I spend away from him at the moment seems to be filled with an urgency to return. My Dad needs me, and I want to be here for him.

  Fighting words, considering I have to leave him right now to the tender mercies of the nurses. I sigh, kiss Daddy on the back of the hand before I go out; he’s already completely flaked. The door makes no noise as I shut it carefully behind me.

  A few feet away from the door, in the dim corridor, Marco straightens from where he’s been leaning against the wall. ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘About three hours. Sorry to make you wait, let’s move.’ Steering for the elevator, I bring Marco up to speed. ‘It’s probably good we’ve cancelled today’s matinee. I’ve got training this morning, plus the inspection, and I’ve already had another call from Bennett about the rigging for Lee’s spot.’

  ‘We’re scheduling that again tonight, yeah?’ Marco keeps step with me, slapping a sheaf of paperwork against his leg.

  ‘Well, that’s the plan, but it’s dependent on the rigging.’ I stab the elevator button, trying to tie up my hair and wrestle my backpack onto one shoulder at the same time. ‘It should be fine, Lee’s a pretty organised guy. But I’ve handed that one on to Mitch, because he should have the–’

  ‘–rigging and mechanics covered, yep.’ Marco takes my backpack off me, settling it onto his own shoulder as we get into the elevator. He presses the button for the ground floor. ‘Rigging is beneath your paygrade, Petal, you should be focusing on payroll and getting the safety inspection sorted.’

  ‘Nothing is beneath my paygrade right now. It’s all hands on deck.’ I manage to get my hair secured in a high top knot, hold out my hand for my bag.

  Marco returns my backpack. ‘So the safety inspectors agreed to come in today?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s a win, but the inspection paperwork is a pain in the butt. If we don’t get that tier of bleachers certified for tonight, it’ll have been a whole week. We can’t afford to lose ticket sales, and right now we’ve got about forty fewer seats to put audience in. We need that bleacher back in action.’

  ‘It will be.’ Marco seems to take up a lot of space beside me in the elevator. When did he get so broad? ‘Want me to help you fill out the inspection papers? I’ve got a half hour just before lunch–’

  ‘Yes? Um–also, no?’ I scrub my face with both hands. I really should have had a shower this morning, just to wake myself up. ‘I mean, I should be learning how to do this stuff myself.’

  ‘You are.’ He reaches back and frees the collar of my windbreaker where it’s curled under behind my nape. ‘You’re learning everything at fairly breakneck speed, I think. But you don’t need to make things more difficult for yourself than they already are.’

  I consider. ‘Okay. Then…yes, that would be great.’

  ‘And we don’t want any rookie mistakes on the paperwork slowing down inspection approval,’ Marco goes on, and I hate him then with an abiding venom.

  ‘There won’t be any mistakes on the paperwork,’ I say icily.

  ‘Of course there
won’t be.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m not criticising you, Fleur, I’m just saying–’

  ‘Sure. It’s fine. I get it.’

  I do get it. Really. And he’s right: we don’t want any clumsy errors causing snags in any area of the show at the moment. But goddammit, why does he always seem to make it sound as if it’s my screw-ups which might potentially delay things? I’m pretty sure he’s laughing at me in his quiet moments.

  I avoid his eyes. ‘Now I think about it, I can probably get through that paperwork myself. So you can just use your extra half hour to–’

  ‘To what? Sort out poster printing costs and radio slots? I did most of that yesterday with Jones.’

  ‘Then find something else to do.’ I scowl at him. ‘It’s not like there isn’t a laundry list of tasks. Talk to Mitch about speeding up the security sweeps. Or…I don’t know, if you’ve exhausted all the possibilities–which I really doubt–you could always get back into training again.’

  ‘You think I’m losing condition?’ His expression is sardonic. Suddenly he’s close beside me, nudging my shoulder with his. ‘What about your condition? Did you get any sleep last night?’

  I tug my top knot with both hands, fixing it in place. ‘Yes, thank you, I did.’

  ‘And I’m sure it was very restful, having the nurses wake you up every two hours.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s fine.’

  ‘You look pale.’

  ‘And how did you sleep?’ I turn the question back on him, my tone curt.

  ‘Fine. I wasn’t sleeping on a camping mat.’ The corner of his mouth lilts up. ‘Of course, I didn’t have any company, which is always a more pleasant way to sleep…’

  I make a rude noise as I roll my eyes, facing resolutely forward. ‘Well. So dreadfully sorry you’re not getting any action here in the beleaguered circus where you’ve come to work, as opposed to just swanning around the offices of Cadell Management, looking decorative and flirting with the interns.’

  ‘You think I look decorative? Don’t answer that. And for your information, I would never flirt with an intern.’ He chuckles. ‘But hey, if they wanted to flirt with me…’

  ‘Ohmigod, shut up.’ Thank all that’s holy, we’ve reached the right floor. I push past Marco, making for the exit. ‘Now we’ve finished discussing your sex life–and I can’t believe I just said that sentence, Jesus–what’s with all the papers?’

  ‘What?’ As his long legs eat up the ground beside me, Marco looks down at the paper bundle as if he’s just noticed he’s holding it. ‘Oh. Right. The new permission forms for photographic releases–I’m going to need everyone on the lot to sign one, but you need to have a quick look through them first. I’ll drive, you read.’

  It’s weird. On some levels, Marco is incredibly helpful. He’s taken over the ringmaster’s role to perfection, striding into the ring in his paisley waistcoat with me on his arm. At the start of every performance he warms up the crowd with debonair banter as I pass him gimme lines and make glamorous bows. Behind the scenes, he collects me from the hospital at eight a.m. sharp, prioritising work I need to check through during the day, tidying up details I don’t have time for, taking over completely during periods I’m in training or performing in the ring, dropping me at the hospital every night…

  Most days, he’s the first person I see each morning and the last person I say goodbye to at the end of the day, except for my Dad. Marco’s become–and I hate to say this–indispensable.

  On other levels, he’s a disaster.

  Admittedly, the disaster part is more about me. I lose patience with his attitude and his constant, insufferable smugness, which obviously makes our working relationship less productive than it could be. Our ringmaster intro is dripping with snark, and not all of it is faked.

  He pushes my buttons. Worse, he knows he’s doing it. And I can’t seem to help it: every time he goes fishing, I bite.

  Like with the comment about his sleeping habits–I mean, what’s that about? Does he really think I want to know this stuff? Who cares if he prefers having a warm body in bed with him at night, or if he flirts with interns, or…or…

  I sit in the passenger seat of the car, ostensibly reading through permission pro forma, while actually imagining what it would feel like to reach across the transmission, wrap my fingers around Marco’s neck and squeeze. My fingers flex involuntarily. But I stop with that train of thought: I can’t strangle my co-organiser. Eugenia would be really upset with me, for starters.

  Marco and his mother still seem to be pussy-footing around each other, as far as I can figure out. They have this peculiarly formal arrangement, exchanging greetings and making conversation in such a polite way that if I didn’t know them personally–or if I was, y’know, blind, and couldn’t see the family resemblance in their features–I could easily believe they were strangers who just happened to work together. But every now and again, I’ll catch one of them looking over at the other one with this expression of sad longing…

  I don’t get it. I don’t think I’m supposed to. It’s Marco and Eugenia’s personal business, and it’s really none of mine. But I wish I could bang their heads together and make them talk to each other–I mean, actually talk, where they tell each other whatever it is they need to tell each other to smooth things over between them.

  Watching them skirt around each other is frustrating. Being a bystander to all this helpless miscommunication is somehow almost as awkward as being a participant. Dad and I might have a slightly co-dependent relationship, sure, and we don’t always agree on everything. But we always talk about things. We never shut each other out.

  I don’t know what Eugenia and Marco’s deal is. But whatever’s going on, it’s bound to emerge eventually. Living in close quarters in the circus, these things always do.

  Putting it off, in my experience, only makes things worse.

  Case in point: this morning’s training session for the flying team.

  Dee is down at floor level with me, watching Luke swing high above. He and Rueben are playing catcher for Sorsha, who looks like a sweatpants-and-lycra-clad fairy as she tries out a new trick. We’re still perfecting the mix of trapeze and tightwire she introduced when she first arrived. Sorsha flings herself around in space, making it all look so easy.

  But Dee’s eyes aren’t trained on our newest flyer.

  And I honestly can’t handle it. Being around Eugenia and Marco all the time has basically frayed me down to my last nerve, and while I can’t do anything about that situation, I can at least call out this one.

  ‘You and Luke should really just sleep together and get it over with,’ I point out.

  ‘What?’ Dee’s head whips around and her mouth is one big ‘O’.

  ‘Oh, please.’ I try not to sound scathing. ‘I mean, come on, Dee. I’ve been working with you both for nearly three years, and I know an unrequited crush when I see one.’

  ‘It’s not a crush.’ Dee’s face flames magnificently. ‘And I don’t think I want to–’

  ‘Hey, listen.’ I keep my attention north. ‘Not judging. At all. And you’re right, it’s not a crush. You obviously genuinely like each other. I just don’t know why you’re not acting on it. Luke is a great guy. And seriously, Dee–we’re trapeze artists.’ I wave a hand at the gantry. ‘We “dance with death” every time we perform, if you believe Marco’s voiceover during the spot. Which I do, actually, since the accident.’

  Dee’s face gets even redder, if that’s possible. ‘I don’t… I mean, I’m not…’

  ‘Which is why I think you should make a move. What if something happened and you never got to tell him how you feel? How shitty would that be?’ I wave in Luke’s direction again. ‘Anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s into you. If he isn’t, he sure looks at you a lot for no apparent reason.’

  ‘He’s the team leader,’ Dee says, straightening her sho
ulders. ‘Of course he keeps an eye on everyone. It’s his job to…’ She pauses, licks her lips. ‘He really looks at me?’

  ‘All the time. Ohmigod, just grab him already.’

  ‘I’ll…take it under advisement.’ Dee’s voice is wry, but her face is more serious when she turns and looks at me. ‘You’ve been thinking about this stuff lately, huh?’

  I snort. ‘Well, no, I don’t spend all my free time, such that it is, thinking about the romantic entanglements of my flying team, but–’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ Her expression levels. ‘I mean, you’ve been thinking about life stuff. Since the accident.’

  ‘Which one?’ I make a weak laugh. ‘We’ve had the trapeze accident, the Ferris accident, the–’

  ‘All of them,’ Dee says. ‘Both of them.’

  I know what she means straightaway. And she’s right. The accidents–both Dad’s and mine–have changed me. I don’t know how subtle or dramatic the changes have been yet, but I know they’re there. Better not to talk through all that old crap, though. Better not to make it more tangible than I can cope with right now.

  Before I have a chance to formulate a diplomatic reply, Luke’s voice echoes down from the gantry. ‘Fleur? We’re done here with Sorsha, I thought you might wanna run through that double cutaway you suggested adding a few weeks ago.’

  I blink, glad for the diversion. ‘Um, sure. I’ll be right up.’

  I miss the moment when Marco walks into the practise area. It’s not until I’m twenty feet up, swinging into a final somersault, that I notice the flash of a white shirt at ground level. Usually I’m focused in the air. Flying is one of the single fixed points in my life; it’s always been something I can relax into. I can switch off my higher brain functions and sink into instinct. But today that gleam of white, the shimmer of dark paisley on Marco’s waistcoat, catches me off guard.

  And I miss the catch.

  I mean, I totally miss it. I’ve never done that before. Sure, in performance prep when I’m testing out something new and difficult. But not when I’m doing a simple somersault.