PAS DE DEUX (May 10)

My seven-and-a-half year old self plopped herself energetically into a plush red seat for the first time, unaware of the moment's significance. Glancing ahead, it caught me mid-movement, mid-chatter. Silenced and frozen, I stared past the elegant suits and gowns slowly filling the hall, at the scene on the stage. A swarm of flickering stars – each catching the light and casting translucent lines of dust across the crowd – danced across the backdrop, peacefully peering down at dark snowy hills and trees. Later, shadowy figures tiptoed across the stage before gathering momentum, vaulting, flying and suddenly retreating back into the wings. As we left I turned to Ann, and told her that I wanted to come again.

Ann was a third of my life. Two days a week. Approx. We studiously examined all areas of life; scrutinizing algae and shrimps in jam-jars full of cloudy river water, sewing lavender into tiny paisley bags for top drawers and, most importantly for us, constantly attending ballets. A blur of pointe shoes, tulle and applause characterised our journeys to London, followed by running for the last train in kitten heels across midnight Covent Garden cobbles. My first taste of goat's cheese was at the Festival Hall mezzanine. I learnt the word Chanel on the Royal Opera House balcony between acts. While the conductor took his stand and the delicious strains of the violins announced the beginning of the evening, Ann and I watched the stilettos and sequins moving silently down the aisle next to us.

Ann sat beside me whilst I gaped at the firebird fiercely dancing herself to death and cried as sinewy Giselle lost her mind. She sat beside me whilst I hummed and tapped and once found myself the only observer to be loudly laughing. We pored through every shiny programme, charted the exotic jewels in the advertisements, the latinate names of artists and principals sprawled across the heavy pages. Miniature monochrome faces peered from performance biographies, next to tiny details of Kiev, Paris, Brazil. We chose our favourites, then swapped, undecided, and chose again. Every voile tutu, every jeté, entrance, exit, encore was recalled and reviewed.

Ann will always be elegant; her classic Aquascutum coat defines her. “A timeless piece worn for a lifetime is worth the price” she repeats. Her lavender eau de parfum is too old lady, she says, Ann wears Chanel No. 5. We wore the clothes she used to dance in, spinning until the full skirts whipped out, wide satin rings circling out from our knees. She played mazurkas at the piano while I danced through the French windows into the streaming sunlight of the garden. We branched out from ballets to window shopping at Liberty, fingering the silk scarves and wedding dresses. “I'll find a rich man and get married in this one,” I told her, stroking the floor-length organza. “Or you could make your own fortune and buy it yourself,” replied Ann.

Ann struck up conversations with strangers. Mothers, models, once a dancer. We left our murky night-trains wiser than when we boarded, freshly full of other people's lives. The day I turned a teenager we ate tart apple strudel between the acts of Ondine. We gazed at the taffeta, lipstick and updos around us, the Chopard jewels and Hermes silk. Observing all the heels in the room was pivotal to those nights but we never forgot the faces. During other intervals I skipped through the red and gold passageways of the Royal Opera House, exploring stalls and boxes, the circles, the gods. I found pale faces transfixed on the geometry of those bodies on the stage, eavesdropping on weighty controlling crescendos as the lovers drowned, the contract was torn up, the nymph returned to the sea, the spell was broken. Our ballets extended to VHS, to orphaned red glossy programmes, to the barre. To blush ribboned pointes that were unconditionally mine to dance in.

Last night was our last ballet. Ann swept through London; a nocturne, her hat-to-heel black stark against the settling snow of the first act. She is Odette, Clara, Lise, Carmen, Petrouchka and Giselle. Our pas de deux spanned more than a decade, showed me a different life. Ann showed me everything.