Читать книгу Save the Last Dance: The Ballerina Bride / Invitation to the Boss's Ball - Фиона Харпер - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

A NEAT stack of newspapers sat on the kitchen table in the basement kitchen. Other than the sound of her own breathing, Allegra could hear nothing. She tore her eyes from the stack and looked at her father.

‘Shall I read them to you?’ he asked.

Allegra shook her head and returned her gaze to the tower of newsprint in front of her. Instead of taking the top one off the pile, she picked one from the middle and eased it from its place. The critic who wrote for that paper was always the hardest to read. Not because he was vicious. He was blunt, yes, but never vicious. It was much, much worse than that.

By some magical power, this man always managed to hone in on those elements of the performance that Allegra fretted about herself and then shone a big, nasty spotlight on them. However, if she could read this review and get it out of the way, the rest would be a piece of cake. At least, that was what she was telling herself.

She pushed the pile of papers to the far edge of the table to give herself space to unfold the broadsheet and carefully turned pages, smoothing each one flat, until she reached the arts section.

There, filling almost half the page, was a grainy black and white photo of her and Stephen in the last act. Stephen, as always, looked like one of those sculpted marble statues, all perfect musculature and good bone structure, as he supported her in an arabesque.

She felt a little of the panic drumming beneath her ribs drain away. She didn’t look too bad herself. And the line of that back leg was perfect, even though she’d only hit that position for a split second before moving through it to the next step. Surely, a picture like that had to be a good omen?

She glanced down at the text beneath the picture and phrases swam in front of her eyes.

‘Astounding.’

‘Technically brilliant.’

‘Allegra Martin didn’t miss a step…’

She released the breath she’d been holding out through her lips and let it curve them into a slight smile. She risked a look at her father, but he was wading through another of the papers. The cup of chamomile tea he’d made her was now almost cold. She reached for it and took a sip, then grimaced.

Now her initial shakiness had subsided she went back to the beginning of the article and read it in whole sentences, taking it in slowly, weighing every word instead of fracturing it into phrases that had a tendency to jump out at her.

It all sounded good but as she switched from the bottom of the second column to the top of the third she started to feel chilly again. By the time she’d read a couple more paragraphs she knew why.

‘I’ve always been a huge Allegra Martin fan…’ the man had written.

The ballerina in question raised an eyebrow. Really? If that was the case, she’d hate to be on his bad side!

‘…but while her performance as the Little Mermaid was technically flawless, I still don’t think she has lived up to her early promise.’

Allegra’s stomach bottomed out and a faint taste of chamomile tea clung to her teeth, making her feel queasy. She read on.

‘Miss Martin seems to have lost the engaging sense of wonder and joy she had as a young dancer and, while I appreciate her virtuosity, I don’t feel she captured either the exquisite joy of first love nor the torture of unfulfilled longing that a truly great rendition of this part would require.’

She wanted to stop, but she couldn’t. It was like driving a speeding car when the brakes had failed. Her brain was frantically pressing on the pedal, but her eyes kept reading.

And it only got worse:

‘In Hans Christian Andersen’s original story, the Little Mermaid was a creature not blessed with a soul, and I’m afraid, with Allegra Martin in the title role, this was all too obvious.’

Allegra didn’t move. Nothing would work. Not her mouth, not her legs, not her arms.

Soulless? He’d called her soulless?

She pushed her chair away from the table and stood up, met her father’s eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Very unusual for her father. He always had something to say about her performances, some aspect she could improve for next time. Also, no matter how hard on her he was in private, when the reviews came in he normally got very defensive, would argue why the writer was wrong.

The chill in her stomach dropped a few degrees.

There was nothing to argue about, nothing to refute. She could see it now—the glimmer of disappointment in his eyes.

‘You think it’s true, don’t you?’ she asked, her voice almost a whisper. Even at that volume, it managed to wobble slightly.

He closed and opened his eyes slowly. ‘I don’t know what’s been wrong with you the last year or so, Allegra. You’re just not as focused as you used to be. Your work is suffering.’

She looked at him with pleading eyes. Yes, her father was hard on her, had always pushed her, but he was supposed to be her protector, her champion! Why was he saying this? Why couldn’t he dismiss the opinion of one ‘know-it-all hack’, as he liked to call them?

That was when she saw something else in his eyes, clouding out the original emotion, making it darker and harder. He wasn’t just disappointed with her; he was angry.

‘You can’t waste your gift like this. You’ve got to stop throwing it all away.’

There was a sharp stinging at the back of Allegra’s eyes. He wasn’t talking about losing the role of principal dancer—although that might be a possibility if her current artistic drought didn’t end—he was talking about the big picture, the vision he’d had for her ever since he’d put her name down for an audition for the Royal Ballet School, aged ten.

He wasn’t talking about jobs and salaries and reviews. He was talking about living up to her mother’s legacy, of carrying on where Maria Martin had left off on the road to becoming one of the greatest British ballet dancers in history.

He was saying she just wasn’t good enough. Might never be.

Allegra rose to her feet, looked at the paper still open on the table and then back at her father.

‘I want to see you bringing that same energy and commitment you used to have back to every class, every rehearsal, every performance,’ he said. ‘You owe it to yourself.’

You owe it to her. That was what he really meant, wasn’t it?

Didn’t he think she would if she could? I’m trying, she wanted to scream at him, but nothing’s working because I feel dead inside! I’m not her. I haven’t got her talent. I’m not sure I’ve even got my own any more! Or that I want it if I do have it.

The words didn’t even get close to being on the tip of her tongue; they swirled around her head instead, making her eyes blur and her throat swell. She licked her dry lips and forced something out.

‘I’ve got class at ten-thirty,’ she said. And then, without looking at her father again, she turned and headed up the stairs that led from their basement kitchen, pulled her coat from the hook near the door and walked with silent steps into the chilly morning air.

People were everywhere. Finn stood still and took a few moments to adjust. After a week in the frozen wilderness, where the only noise was the wind curling round rocks or the crunch of snow beneath his boots, a busy provincial airport terminal was an assault on the senses.

Not that he minded.

This was just a different kind of adventure, a different kind of wilderness. One that Finn considered far more dangerous, even with its thick sheen of civilisation.

And, while he hadn’t minded Toby’s company, he’d been secretly relieved when the man had been whisked away in a limo as soon as their helicopter had hit the tarmac. Now he was alone again. No need to use his vocal cords unless he really wanted to. No need to take anyone else’s needs into account. He could move at his own speed and choose his own route.

He ignored the moving walkway, clogged with bored-looking tourists with suitcases, hitched his rucksack higher on his back and set off down the near-empty carpeted area beside it, his strides long and his smile wide.

A buzzing in one of the side pockets of his cargo trousers tickled his legs. At first it made him jump, but then he realised what it was and bent to fish his mobile phone out of a slim pocket low down on his right thigh.

‘Hello?’

‘Great! Finn, I’m so glad your mobile’s finally on again. It’s all gone pear-shaped since I last talked to you…’

Finn gave a lopsided smile and began walking again as he waited for his producer to finish his mini-rant. Simon always got like this after a shoot. Finn knew he just had to let Simon vent until he’d either run out of steam or run out of breath—whichever came first.

When the sentences weren’t hurtling past at a hundred miles an hour and blurring into each other, Finn firmly squeezed a question of his own in. ‘So…what’s really up, Si?’

There was a slight pause at the other end, as if the other man’s unending monologue had suddenly encountered an unexpected hazard and had taken a split second to work out how to flow around it.

‘Slight snag, as they say…’

‘What sort of snag? We’re supposed to be off to Panama tomorrow. Can’t it wait until we get back?’

‘Ah…’

Okay. Now he’d managed to dry Simon up completely. This was news Finn probably didn’t want to hear.

‘It’s Panama we’ve got a problem with.’

Finn stopped walking altogether. ‘Oh?’

‘Anya Pirelli has injured her knee in a training session. Her coach says it’s going to be months before she’ll be ready to tackle a desert island.’

That wasn’t a problem, it was an unexpected blessing! Finn started striding again.

‘How awful,’ he said, feeling genuinely sorry for Anya, but he couldn’t help thinking there was a silver lining.

‘Don’t worry, though,’ Simon added quickly. ‘I’m working on a couple of possible replacements as we speak.’

Now, that was what Finn had been afraid of.

‘There’s no need, Si. We can go back to the old format. Me on my own.’

Simon’s silence was heavy enough to slow Finn’s pace yet again.

‘No can do, I’m afraid, Finn. The TV company have seen the rushes for the first new-format episode. They loved the Formula One star in the swamp. Said it did just what they’d been hoping it would. They’re adamant you need a celebrity sidekick.’

‘But—’

‘I agree with them, Finn. It makes you seem more human. Less of an indestructible force of nature yourself, someone the ordinary guy in the street can relate to.’

Finn had reached the end of the wide hallway now and he had to dodge people stepping off the end of the moving walkway as the space narrowed and funnelled them towards the gates.

‘Okay, okay,’ he finally said. ‘Let me know who you’ve got lined up when you’ve got something firm.’

He said his goodbyes and hung up. He was just about to shove his phone back into his khaki pocket and button the flap shut when he realised there was someone else he probably ought to call before he couldn’t use it again.

He punched a speed-dial button and waited. He got Nat’s voicemail. That was the problem with having a woman in his life who was as free-spirited as he was. He left a brief message, then checked his account for messages, too.

First in the queue was one from Nat.

‘Hi, Finn,’ her message said, sounding a little tense. ‘Look, the South Pacific shoot has been moved forward and I’ve got to fly out this evening.’

Finn frowned. He hadn’t seen her for four weeks, and he’d been hoping to catch up with her this evening. Oh, well. It couldn’t be helped.

‘Anyway,’ Nat continued, ‘your itinerary says you’re connecting through Schiphol, and so am I. I could get there early and we could meet up.’

Oh. Okay. That would be good.

Finn nodded to himself and waited to see if there was anything else. The pause was so long he’d started to pull the phone away from his ear when she spoke again.

‘Finn, I—’ Another pause, shorter this time. ‘We really need to talk, that’s all. Call me.’

And that was that. Finn tucked the phone back into his thigh pocket and shrugged.

Gate Ten loomed close and he moved swiftly and silently through the forest of people until he was standing near the desk by the doors.

The thought of leaving one point on the planet only to arrive somewhere different a few hours later always got Finn excited. And the sense of anticipation did a good job of stifling any niggling questions trying to take root in his brain. Like whether he should have been a little more heartbroken about not speaking to Nat in person. Or that perhaps he should wonder why she’d slipped from his consciousness as quickly and as completely as the phone bumping against his leg in its khaki pocket.

After class that day Allegra returned home. No one had said anything, but she’d known they’d all read every word of that review. It had been there in the surreptitious glances when they’d thought she wasn’t looking. It had been there in the barely contained smirks behind her back. She hadn’t even acknowledged the few sympathetic looks that some of the girls had tried to send her. Those had been the worst.

She’d been so much younger than everyone else when she’d joined the company, still a child almost. If the age difference hadn’t driven a wedge between her and her contemporaries, her meteoric rise through the ranks in the following couple of years certainly had. Now she had colleagues and dancing partners, but she didn’t really have any friends.

All she had was her father.

That was why she headed straight to his study after she’d let herself in. Even though they hadn’t argued, there’d been such a horrible atmosphere between them. She’d apologise. She’d make it right again. She’d swallow the rising tide of suffocation and live with it a little longer. Because she understood he didn’t mean it really. And he did try.

She pushed open the heavy wooden door and looked around. The room was empty. At least, she thought it was. She stepped inside to get a better look.

‘Daddy?’

Where was he? She wandered round to the other side of the large cherrywood desk with the green leather top, trailing her fingers along the edge as she did so. One of these days her father would have to give in and learn to use a computer, but for now he was steadfastly holding out. There was no scribbled note, no scrap of paper to hint at where he’d gone or when he might be back. She sighed.

Oh, well. She’d just have to find him later. She had a rehearsal in an hour and it had been tight fitting in a trip back home as it was.

She had reached the other side of the desk again when the phone rang. By the time she reached the door the answerphone kicked in and a male voice filled the empty room.

‘Hi. This is Simon Tatler again. I was wondering if you’d had a chance to think over the offer for Miss Martin to appear on Fearless Finn. As you know, the schedule is pretty tight, so could you possibly get back to me today?’

He added his number and email address and rang off.

Allegra stood, half in, half out of her father’s study with her mouth open.

An invitation to appear on Fearless Finn! A warm feeling surged up from her toes and burst up through her, leaving a smile on her lips. She’d get to meet him? Actually stand face to face with him? Her heart began to pound at the thought.

And then her excitement began to evaporate. This Simon had phoned before? Why was this the first she’d heard of it?

Her father found her moments later in the doorway, frowning. She jumped when he lightly touched her on the shoulder.

‘Are you okay, Allegra?’

On autopilot, Allegra nodded, but then she realised what she was doing. She turned to face him.

‘What was that message about? The one about Fearless Finn?’

Her father looked puzzled. ‘Who?’

‘The TV show…’

He blinked and shook his head faintly. ‘Nothing, really. They were looking for a celebrity guest. I tried to tell the man you couldn’t do it, but he insisted I think about it.’

‘You think about it?’

Her father nodded. ‘Yes.’

Allegra’s eyebrows pinched together. ‘Don’t you mean, he suggested I think about it?’

He shrugged and walked past her into the study. ‘It hardly warrants an argument over semantics, Allegra. You simply can’t do it. They wanted you to fly out to some godforsaken place tomorrow and stay there for seven nights. I don’t know what the man was thinking even approaching us about it—’

‘And you didn’t think to tell me about this?’

Her father smiled at her. That same soft smile he’d given her when she’d been a little girl and had tried to use a complicated word and had got it wrong.

‘I didn’t see the need.’ He walked round to the other side of the desk and rifled through some papers, effectively dismissing her. ‘As I said, it was impossible.’

‘I know it’s impossible!’ She paused and cleared her throat, got control of herself. ‘But that’s not the point,’ she said evenly. ‘It’s my career. It was my decision. You should at least have mentioned it to me.’

Her father looked up, a wad of papers clutched in his hand, looking perplexed.

He just didn’t get it, did he? It didn’t matter what she said, or what she did; he would never get it.

To him, she was just another thing to be conducted. He waved his baton and she jumped. He waved it again and she stayed silent. And she’d let him. All these years she’d let him, because she’d seen what he’d become after his wife had died, how he’d almost given up on everything. And she’d seen his renaissance when she’d started to excel at her mother’s art. How could she snatch that back from him and still live with herself?

She continued to stare at her father, who had paused rifling through the papers on his desk and was looking at her with raised eyebrows.

There was so much she wanted to say to him.

Let me live, Daddy. Let me breathe…

If only he would give her the same range he gave his musicians. At least they got to change tempo and mood. When he conducted them he made sure he breathed life into the music. He made sure it had light and shade, joy and despair, stillness and dynamism.

She had none of that freedom. She was always supposed to be the perfect little ballerina. Focused. Dedicated. Obedient. And, if her life had a score, no one would want to listen to it because it would be plodding and quiet and controlled. It would be dull.

‘You should have told me, Daddy,’ she said quietly, begging him to see past the even tone, the reasonable words. Begging him to look deep inside her and see what was longing to burst out.

He shook his head and shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said dryly. ‘I promise I’ll tell you about the next ridiculous offer that comes along. Happy now?’

No, not really. Because this was just a symptom, wasn’t it?

He shook his head again. ‘Sometimes I just don’t understand you, Allegra. You have the life a thousand other dancers would kill for. The life your mother dreamed about, would have given anything to continue, and yet still it’s not enough for you. Sometimes I think I’ve spoiled you, and that you’ve grown up a little bit selfish.’

Allegra blinked at him, stunned.

Selfish? When all she’d ever done was try to please everyone else, try to ease their sadness by showing them her mother had left a little bit of herself behind in her child?

Well, the compliments were coming thick and fast today, weren’t they? First she was soulless, and now she was selfish, too. She wondered that anyone still wanted her around if she was really that awful.

Maybe she was ungrateful and spoiled because she couldn’t stand the weight of her mother’s mantle on her shoulders a moment longer. It had been weighing her down since just after her eighth birthday. Once she had loved feeling that her talent had connected her to her mother, but now she wanted that connection broken, severed once and for all.

Her mother was dead. Nothing was going to change that.

And Allegra feared that if something didn’t change soon all the life would be sucked out of her as well.

She looked at the floor and then back up at her father, giving him one last chance to really see her, see past layer upon layer of expectation he’d pasted upon her, but his face was closed. He was still angry with her. For the comment she’d just made, for the performance last night, for the review he’d have to defend himself against to his arty friends.

Suddenly she felt utterly and totally alone.

The only remedy was to throw herself back into her work and hope the boiling pot of emotions she was busy trying to keep a lid on would flow out in her next performance, and give that critic good reason to eat his words.

‘I have a rehearsal at two. I have to go.’

And, without waiting to be dismissed, she turned and left her father’s study.

Nat was waiting for him at one of the airport bars. It was a pity they only had an hour or so together, otherwise they might have been able to go into Amsterdam for a meal. Finn didn’t mind too much about that, though. This was the life they’d chosen and they were used to it. There’d always be another time.

He walked up to Nat and pulled her into his arms for a kiss. Nat kept her mouth firmly closed and then slid away. Finn stopped and looked at her. Same Nat, with the jaunty honey-coloured bob, the girl-next-door healthy glow about her faintly tanned skin. As usual, there was nothing girl-next-door about the clothes. They were designer all the way.

She pushed herself back onto her bar stool and took a sip of a brightly coloured cocktail with a lime-green straw and an umbrella sticking out of it. Finn frowned. Where was the usual vodka and tonic?

‘What’s that?’ he asked, nodding towards the garish drink.

Nat’s smile started in her cheeks but didn’t make it all the way to her lips. ‘Dutch courage, I think they call it. Want one?’

He shook his head. ‘I think I’ll stick to beer, thanks.’ And he waved to get the bartender’s attention and ordered just that.

‘Finn…’ Nat folded her hands in her lap and studied them for a moment, then she lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out and say it.’

Finn went very still. She wasn’t pregnant, was she? Because that would be way ahead of schedule. He was only thirty. Plenty of time for that later.

Nat inhaled. ‘I’ve met someone,’ she said quickly and returned her gaze to her lap.

Huh?

‘Pardon?’ Finn said. It was the only word he could think of.

Nat sighed and reached for her cocktail. She held the umbrella-laden glass against her chest like a shield. ‘I can’t marry you, Finn.’

This wasn’t real. No, this definitely couldn’t be real.

This wasn’t Nat sitting opposite him sipping the wrong drink, saying the wrong thing. He must be having a weird in-flight dream and Schiphol airport must still be hours away.

‘Who?’ he said, and his voice sounded hard and flat. He couldn’t look at her.

He heard her fidget in her seat. ‘His name is Matthew, and he’s an architect. I met him at a charity do a few months ago, and then I bumped into him a few times after that. And, well, one thing led to another…’

How he hated that phrase. It implied that something couldn’t be helped, that the person in question had had no choice and, therefore, bore no responsibility.

‘He’s asked me to marry him,’ she said quietly.

That made him whip his head round. ‘But you’re supposed to be marrying me!’

‘I know,’ Nat said, looking at him from under her lashes. ‘I’m sorry.’

Finn just stared at her. He was feeling so many emotions that he wasn’t even sure which one to pick out of the bag first. How about anger? A good one, that. Much better than disappointment or the sting of rejection. Or the creeping sickness telling him he’d been stupid to let himself get too attached once again.

‘Sorry doesn’t cut it, sweetheart! We had a deal, remember? You’ve got a—’

He’d been about to say ring on your finger to prove it, but a quick glance at her hand left him without ammunition.

Silently, she reached into her handbag, opened her purse and handed his diamond back to him. He took it between thumb and forefinger and stared at it, felt its weight.

This was real.

Nat gave him a weak smile. ‘We weren’t really ever going to get round to it, were we, Finn? It was a nice game, pretending we were ready for a proper relationship when really we hardly spent any time together. We did it because it was easy.’

It had been easy! What was so wrong with that?

‘We worked together, Nat! Wasn’t it nice to know there was always someone to come home to? To have someone who wouldn’t moan about the long hours and weeks spent apart? Someone who knew how to pick up where they left off without a lot of fuss? Is the wonderful Matthew going to put up with all of that?’

Nat sighed. ‘It did work, Finn. Did being the operative word. “Us” was a habit we’d fallen into, a way of keeping our freedom while telling ourselves we were ready for more.’

What was she talking about? He’d been ready for more. Hadn’t he? The anger quickly dissolved into confusion.

He looked at Nat and she looked back at him.

‘Now I really am ready for more,’ she said.

‘Just not with me,’ he replied, then pressed his lips into a straight line.

She shook her head. ‘Matthew wants us to move to a nice big house in the country and fill it with kids.’ She smiled to herself. ‘I’m amazed to discover I want that, too. I’m even thinking about giving up Amazing Planet and doing something UK-based.’

What? Cutesy early-evening nature programmes? Nat hated those!

‘But you’ll go mad staying in one place for that long! You always said you didn’t want to be tied down like that. This is a mistake, Nat! You love your job.’

She looked back at him, unblinking and contrite. ‘I love him more,’ she said simply. ‘I want to be where he is, Finn. I can’t stand being away from him.’

Finn slumped back into his leather-backed stool. She was crazy, but there was no talking to her. She’d made her choice and, even if she regretted it later, he wasn’t going to stop her. And he certainly wasn’t going to beg. So it was time to cut ties, to let her loose, he supposed.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, watching the crowds bustle past. Families with whining kids and stupid big Spanish hats that no one born there would disgrace themselves by wearing. Elderly couples on city breaks who’d probably seen Amsterdam’s canals from the wrong side of a coach window.

He turned away, irritated, and found Nat watching him.

‘That was us, Finn. We were tourists.’

Finn glanced at the almost-empty cocktail glass. What exactly was in that concoction? Nat knew he’d never been on a package holiday in his life, knew he’d rather shoot himself first.

She stood up, looking very serious. ‘I want the real experience now, Finn. I don’t want to just whizz past the landmarks—dating, engagement, wedding—and still not really know what it’s like to live there.’

That drink had really gone to her head. She wasn’t making any sense at all.

‘I hate to ask, but would you do me a favour? Will you keep quiet about this until I get back from Tonga next week? I don’t want media speculation running rife while we’re both out of the country.’

He nodded. She could have anything she wanted. He didn’t care. He was numb. Just as well, really, because he was in no hurry to find out what a broken heart felt like.

She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. ‘Goodbye, Finn. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

And then she was gone. Lost amongst the overladen trolleys and duty free bags.

The bartender plonked his bottle of beer in front of him and Finn took a long, long drink.

Jilted in the time it took to order a beer. Marvellous.

‘I want to see that lift again.’

Allegra picked herself up off the studio floor and glared at her partner. Damien, The Little Mermaid’s choreographer, continued to stare at them, his patience thinning rapidly.

So was Allegra’s.

‘It would help if you put your hands where they’re supposed to go,’ she muttered darkly to Stephen. He was in a particularly infantile mood this afternoon.

Stephen helped her up, spun her into his arms and proceeded to take hold of her a good few inches south of where he was supposed to. Allegra clenched her teeth, prised his hand from her left buttock and moved it to her hip.

‘You’re no fun any more,’ Stephen moaned, not in the least bit repentant.

She placed one hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek and got into position. ‘You and I have never had that kind of fun, Stephen, and nor are we likely to,’ she said, as she tipped her head to the correct angle.

Pity, that. Because Stephen was blond and finely sculpted, and just about the only man under fifty she saw on a regular basis who wasn’t gay. But Stephen had the morals of an alley cat, and made the most of being a good-looking straight male in a predominantly female profession. When it came to women, flirting was Stephen’s default position. However, as long as any physical contact between them was strictly professional, Stephen was pretty harmless. Most of the time she ignored it and they got along fine, but this afternoon she really needed to impress Damien and her partner was not making it easy.

‘I think there are a few of the corps that you haven’t slept with lurking in the corridors hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Why don’t you see if you can rid them of their girlish illusions once rehearsal’s over and leave me alone?’

‘Careful, darling,’ he said as he dipped her backwards and then lifted her into the air. ‘Or soon they’ll be calling you the Little Cactus instead of the Little Mermaid.’

The rehearsal went fine after that. At least, Allegra had thought it was going fine. She lost herself in the dancing, just as she’d done in the early days, and forgot about everything—the reviews, her father, even the telephone call that had made her heart soar, just for a moment. Instead she concentrated on bones and joints and muscles, on shapes and lines and angles. It was a blessed relief.

‘No, no, no!’ Damien shouted as they got to the end of a particularly difficult combination. The pianist who’d been accompanying them broke off mid-bar.

‘You’re supposed to be the picture of innocent longing, my dear,’ the choreographer said, turning away from her and running his hand through his hair. ‘Do try and put some feeling into it or the audience will be dropping off to sleep.’ He turned to the pianist. ‘From the top—again.’

So they did it again. And again.

Allegra looked deep inside herself, pulled out everything she could find in there—and there was quite a shopping list, she discovered. Grief for a lost parent and a lost childhood. Resentment for every person who’d pushed and pulled and ordered her around in the last decade. And, yes, longing too. Longing for a pair of deep brown eyes and a crinkly smile, for a life of adventure that could never be hers. She poured it all in there and when they’d finished that section she was drained.

She broke away from Stephen and headed for her water bottle on the floor near the mirrors, then she picked up her towel and wiped the sweat off her face, neck and shoulders.

She turned to find Damien surveying her with hard eyes.

‘I can see you’re trying, Allegra, but it’s not enough. I need more.’ He nodded to the pianist. ‘From the start of the adagio…’

Allegra walked over to Stephen, a slight twinge in her right ankle making her favour the other foot, and they assumed the starting position for their pas de deux. The pianist pounded the keys and Allegra closed her eyes, told her exhausted body it could do this and started to move.

After no more than ten bars of music Damien interrupted them. ‘More, Allegra! I need more!’ he yelled as she turned and jumped, spun and balanced.

‘More!’ he shouted as Stephen propelled her into the air, turned her upside down and then swung her back to the ground.

Damien stamped his foot in time to the music, driving them on through the final and most physically demanding section. ‘More!’

I don’t have anything more to give, Allegra thought, her body on the verge of collapse. Surely this has to be enough.

The music ended and she and Stephen slid apart and sank to the floor, panting. The choreographer marched over and stood towering above them. Allegra looked up.

‘Not good enough, Allegra. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’d better buck your ideas up by tomorrow’s rehearsal or I’ll replace you and Stephen in Saturday’s performance with Tamzin and Valeri. I will not have months of my hard work undone by one lukewarm ballerina. Now get out of my rehearsal and don’t come back until you’re truly prepared to commit to this role!’

His face was pink now. Allegra was speechless. She looked at the clock. They still had half an hour. He couldn’t really be—

‘Get out,’ Damien said, and pointed to the door.

So Allegra left. She quickly changed her shoes and pulled on her stretchy black trousers, then she picked up her things, pushed the studio door open with her hip and walked out.

And she kept on walking. Out of the rehearsal studio, out of the building and out of her life.