Bad idea.
Remember how much you can’t stand him, I ordered myself. Remember that he’s condescending and smug and he completely, utterly threw you under the bus to save his own ass.
“Let’s go over Peggy’s walk,” he said.
He’d mentioned that he wanted her to have a specific gait—one that immediately, visually set her apart from the others. Because even though the audience would be introduced to each character in their everyday clothes—Peggy’s being a sexy nightclub number—for the majority of the performance, everyone would be dressed in identical coveralls, with the pattern of their head coverings as their main identifier.
“I’m not cutting the heel off one of my shoes,” I said.
It was rumored that was how Marilyn Monroe had gotten her signature wiggle walk.
“I was more thinking Catherine O’Hara at the end of Best in Show,” Cal said.
I stared at him.
“Joking,” he said.
“Ha,” I said.
“Why don’t you just go with your gut?” Cal suggested. “Give us a few options.”
He made it sound so easy. Like I could pull a distinctive movement—one that was noticeable but not laughable—out of my ass on command. And not just one, but several different versions.
“I don’t suppose you have any ideas,” I said.
He was the director, after all.
Cal circled me, chin pinched between his thumb and pointer finger. Even when he passed behind me, I could still see him in the mirrors that lined the wall, so it felt like I was well and truly surrounded.
“Okay,” he said.
He waved for me to get out of the way. I didn’t have to be asked twice.
Leaning up against one of the mirrors, water bottle in hand, I watched Cal’s process.
He started by walking back and forth in his usual way. Then he started swinging his hands. Then his hips. The whole thing was extremely exaggerated and patently ridiculous, but I didn’t laugh. I watched as he let the walk grow more and more outlandish, crossing his feet like a high-stepping horse, shoulders jutting forward with each movement.
Then he began to pull back each element, piece by piece. His stomping steps began to look more like a glide, his hips shifting as if he were moving in water, slowly, carefully. The walk was both cautious and seductive.
“What do you think?” Cal asked, one hand on his hip, the other trailing along his side.
I didn’t answer, instead began walking behind him, attempting to mimic what he was doing.
“It helps to start big,” he said, when it was clear I wasn’t quite getting it.
We probably looked ridiculous, the two of us walking back and forth, back and forth, knees high, hips swinging. But he was right—it was easier to soften the movement than to build up to it. After a while, Cal dropped out of our two-person parade and stood aside to watch.
“Your right side is a little weak,” he said.
I’d heard that before. He was correct, of course, but I was loath to admit it, just as I had been back then.
“Better,” Cal said.
I could feel it—the way my body adjusted to the rhythm of Peggy’s walk—it added something to the character. This was a woman who knew she was being looked at, but instead of shrinking away from the attention, she leaned into it. She made you want to watch. Because if you were watching, she was in control. And Peggy was all about control. It connected me to her, even more than I’d already been.
“Let’s try incorporating it with some choreography,” Cal said.
Right. Because it wasn’t enough that I had to walk like this—I had to make it work with my dancing as well.
“Let’s try ‘With or Without Them,’ ” he said. “We want to make sure you stand out.”
There had been a time when all I wanted to do was stand out. Now, my feelings about getting the spotlight were a little more complicated.
“I thought this was an ensemble number,” I said.
“It is,” Cal said. “But each of you needs to feel specific.”
He went to the middle of the room and started walking through the choreography.
“Step, step, turn, hip, hip, arms,” he directed.
I followed, trying to meld his directions with Peggy’s style of walking. It wasn’t easy.
“Okay,” Cal said after I’d fucked up enough times.
He came and stood in front of me. I waited for him to yell. To berate me for getting his precious steps wrong.
Part of me wanted it. Wanted his anger. His fury. Because that I could match.
“Let’s try something,” he said.
Instead, he looked sympathetic, which was worse.
“This dance is kind of like a couples’ dance,” he said.
“Only without a partner,” I said dryly.
“Exactly,” Cal said. “You’re all talking about the men you miss—what it feels like to be alone right now. So, it should start out imperfect, which you’ve got down.”
I glared at him. He ignored it.
“But we want it to become fluid and natural,” he said. “You’re all learning how to be on your own. And you like it.”
“Of course I do,” I said. “Men just get in the way.”
Cal rolled his eyes. “Think about that old saying—that Ginger Rogers did everything that Fred Astaire did—”
“—but backward and in heels,” I finished.
“Bingo,” Cal said. “You’re doing this backward and in heels.”
“Easier said than done,” I muttered.
“Okay.” Cal stepped toward me, arms up.
I stepped back. “What are you doing?”
He lowered his hands. “I thought we’d try it together,” he said. “Like with the walk, it might be easier to subtract than add, if you know what I mean.”
I did, but that “this is a bad idea” feeling was stronger than ever. We’d done a good job of not really touching each other throughout this whole process.
Cal noticed my hesitation. “But if you’re not comfortable—”
“No,” I said. I was being ridiculous. “It’s fine. It’s work. We’re professionals.”
I straightened my spine and lifted my arms. Cal stepped right into the space between us, one hand on my hip, the other linking fingers with me. It was unnerving how intimate it felt to have his palm flush against mine. I put my hand on his shoulder.