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Deansgate it was ten past two and there was a long way to run to the top-floor studio. The street was much bigger than she’d thought and she was not so sure just which doorway staircase to take. Panic was turning her limbs to lead and she was in tears as she kept stopping shoppers and asking the way. Nobody knew where it was.
    It was half-past two when she recognised the doorway and found the right staircase, flying up two at a time. In the foyer she stripped off her uniform and flung herself into her leotard and ballet skirt. In her rush she knotted her ballet ribbons up wrong, her hair was flying out of her bun and she was pink with anxiety as she crept into the dancing studio, late, breathless and dishevelled. She took herself to the end of the barre, trying to catch up and keep in time.
    ‘ Plié … battement tendu …’ came the orders from the dancing master, who marched up and down with a tall stick, watching them carefully. There was no time to cry that this was not how it was meant to be.Rosa tried to concentrate and gather her trembling limbs into shape. Then her ballet shoe fell off and spun across the wooden floor. She crumpled and forgot everything she had ever learned. Mamma’s lucky crucifix was still in her coat pocket.
    The letter of rejection when it came was no surprise. From the moment she entered the class late, there was never any hope of retrieving her poise. After all, had she not sold her soul and lied to gain this precious opportunity and now she was being punished?
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sylvio. ‘I should carry spare. You should have gone on the bus.’
    ‘Never mind,’ said Mamma, looking sad for her. ‘Next time, perhaps.’ But there would be no next time. She would be too old and too developed to get a place.
    ‘Never mind, you did your best,’ smiled Miss Liptrot, patting her on the shoulder. ‘It was always a long shot, Rosa.’
    ‘Hard cheese, Rosie,’ whispered Connie, and gave her a gobstopper that changed colour. ‘It’s their loss not to choose you.’
    ‘Poor you,’ said Joy, looking at her with tears in her eyes. ‘It’s not fair.’
    No, it wasn’t a bit fair. How could she tell them that she had done her absolute worst and had not shown off Miss Liptrot’s good teaching one iota? Given the right start she would have danced thecompetition out of the door but nerves had got to her and the real Fonteyns of this world never showed nerves.
    Perhaps she was not good enough for the classical ballet schools? Perhaps her legs were too short and her turn-out was too poor. It was time to lay it all at the foot of Our Lady in supplication and contrition.
    ‘I have let everyone down,’ Rosa wept, ‘especially myself.’
    Comfort came from an unexpected source when she went to spend the night with Nonna Valentina, who slept in the back bedroom of Angelo’s house. The old lady was sitting at her dressing table pulling the jet-black hairs out of her brush and winding them very carefully over her bun pad, which was pinned onto her long thin hair, while Rosa was telling her an edited version of this sad disappointment.
    Nonna looked up and smiled as she secured the pad tighter to the nape of her neck with long grips. ‘Old age is not for the faint-hearted, little one. Once I could scarce grasp my plait in one fist. Now it is a pitiable little scrap. Do not fret. There are lots of ways to skin a rabbit. Lots of dancing to try, I think. I see you tap-dancing and making beautiful movements across the stage. There must be operas and musicals that need good dancers and singers. I once had the voice and looks of an angel but good looks are only lent for a season. Your talent is your gift for ever. It will never fade. It runs in the family. You are abeautiful Santini and we are proud people. We do not fail when we set our hearts on something. How else would Pepe and I have made such a great business? Never forget your dada in heaven is looking over you,’ she jabbered in rapid