Technically, she did not fall

On sequins, safety harnesses, and the art of not falling

It’s not that far down.

The inside of my lips stick to my teeth, and my breath razors in my throat. Woven steel presses into the sole of my foot, garrotting from heel to toe, splitting the toes that are simian-clinging to the preposterous walkway.

Not that far down.

There’s a net, right?

Frank throws me a withering look. His marshmallow ballast and my sequins pressing against each other, precarious on the crow’s nest. Frank’s carabiner jingling against his safety harness, his exaggerated sigh breezing me with the smell of cigarillos and Cherry Coke. I squeeze my hands around my waist in an attempt to self-soothe, but only manage to remind myself that I, in fact, have neither a carabiner nor a safety harness. And the status of the safety net is still unestablished. I’m too embarrassed to ask the question again.

What the fuck is wrong with me? How did I get here?

Two decades of decisions peer up at me from the chasm below. It’s stuffy in here, and a bored-looking teenager has started handing out concertina fans. A silver-haired woman, her lipstick bleeding into the smokers’ lines around her mouth and clinging to her front incisors, is furiously flapping one of them. Her hair is cape-ing out behind her in her own private gale, one single strand stubbornly clinging to the nape of her clammy neck. I wish I were her, plump and unbothered in a seat on the ground.

The music hasn’t started yet. The wind-borne ghost of the entertainment from the next tent is seeping in, though. I’m sure I can see people stirring in their seats, restless for entertainment that seems to be delayed for no reason. Maybe they’ll all get up and leave, and I’ll be spared this experience. But no one moves. They all sit there, sweaty and expectant, in the seats they think they have paid for.

My mind leaps back to the dressing room a lifetime earlier today. Swaddled with the others, I had felt a degree of reassurance. The air moted with setting powder and hairspray particles, smelling like excitement and Ellnet. Everyone vibrating as they hoiked up flesh-coloured fishnets and cheated broken zips with safety pins and hope.

Gurl…you got this!

You think? What if I fall?

You won’t fall.

But what if I do? Ouch!

Keep still, I need to sew this up or your tit’s gonna fall out of this corset. Although the size of yours, no one’s gonna notice anyway!

Raucous laughter. No one missing the irony of the ittie bittie titty committee line delivered by Darryl, aka Diamante, whose removable tits were flopped on the dressing table on the other side of the room.

I’m serious though, I don’t think I can do this. I can’t even feel under my right foot anyway, you know, because of…

The blood clots!

They all bellow in chorus.

Yes honey, we know. Listen you’re gonna be fine. And if you fall, you’ll probably just die.

Yeah. Thanks.

What a way to go though, right?

Diamante, having finished securing my pointless breasts into their sequined prison, has lost interest and is fixing someone’s hair.

I stare at myself in the grimy mirror. My makeup is so heavy I can barely recognise myself. Dense false eyelashes threaten to close my eyes permanently. Can you build muscle in your eyelids from blinking up lashes? If so, I reckon my muscle mass would rival Arnie’s at his peak.

How many other women have stared at themselves in this mirror? Watching a version of themselves they can only just recognise before they have to tiptoe out, across sawdust and sweat, and climb to the crow’s nest? Can the crowd see the difference between the performers? We’re so high up it could be anyone. Maybe the only way to be seen is to be a crumpled thing on the floor instead. A shorter performance, but more dramatic.

And if you fall, you’ll probably just die.

What a way to go.

Might not be so bad.

Frank sighs again. He’s had enough of my bullshit. Fair enough – if I was going to be such a scaredy-cat, I never should have put myself in this position. I’ve really got no one to blame but myself.

I’ve wormed my feet forward to the edge, toes wiggling into the abyss. Carlos does this act in a full suit and a tiny comedy umbrella. Carlos never seems scared.

Hey, how come Carlos is always so chill doing this?

Poor Frank. He really didn’t sign up for this.

Carlos has a safety harness.

Well then, why don’t I have one?

We can’t hide it under your costume, it’d look weird.

Oh. Right.

The lights have swivelled towards me, and I can’t see out properly any more. Squinting, I can just about make out the VIP box where they let family and loved ones sit. I can see them all drinking, chattering, and having fun. At least they’re not paying too much attention.

Somewhere in the crowd, a child is wailing as a balloon escapes their sticky hand and floats defiantly to the roof. Devastation at the premature departure of a thing so loved, pointing and pining for the thing that captured their attention so completely.

I wish I were that balloon.

Bare-faced at dusk, I pinball my way through the throngs returning to their leasehold lives.

3 stars, says the Guardian.

REVIEW: The Velvet Circus, Roundhouse, London ★★★

A technically competent evening, let down by a lack of commitment in the finale

There is much to admire in The Velvet Circus’s latest production. The staging is inventive, the company clearly talented, and the costumes are adorably shabby chic.

But we must address the crow’s nest.

Those who witnessed Carlos Reyes perform the same act at Cirque Lumière last spring will find themselves dissatisfied. Where Reyes brings a serene inevitability to the aerial finale — the sense that he has genuinely made peace with all possible outcomes — his replacement here brings only ability. Technically, she does not fall. Whether this constitutes a triumph is, this reviewer would suggest, a matter of perspective.

The crowd waited. One felt the collective held breath of an audience who had, after all, paid for the full experience. What they received was competence. Completion. A woman climbing back down a ladder in sequins. And we’ve all seen one of those before.

One does not wish her harm, precisely. One simply wonders whether, if the net were removed entirely, the performance might locate its missing conviction.

The candyfloss, at least, was excellent.

The Velvet Circus runs until Saturday.

A bellowing voice cuts across the field, a hand already raised to command the circle before the sentence is finished, holding court to a gaggle of fawning impress-ees.

I’d always said she’d have a career wearing sequins. When she was very young, I made sure she knew everything there was to know about them.

You must be so proud!

Being here always reminds me of the time I was on stage with Carlos, you must have heard of Carlos, that outstanding performer with the tiny umbrella.

You know Carlos?

Oh yes! He and I are the best of friends. In fact, I was sat in his favourite seat in the VIP box this evening.

I unlock my phone and open WhatsApp.

Have you finished getting changed yet? Someone has blocked your sister’s car in. Can you get them to announce it on the tannoy?

I put my phone back in my pocket.

The candyfloss, at least, was excellent.

Not that far down.