Page 20 of Slow Burn

I smiled to myself. ‘I do. I should look back at them sometime; remind myself of how far I have come.’

My mother and my abuela had always been my two biggest champions.

Spending summers in Argentina with them had ignited my passion for the Argentine tango, way before I knew I wanted to dance for a living.

As a child, I learned the steps the proper way, on the streets of Buenos Aires, where the music and the steps felt like they were in my blood, and where, every night, locals would play music and perform the dance in its rawest, dirtiest form.

Being half-Argentinian gave me an advantage over other dancers, no matter how accomplished they were at every other dance.

The Argentine tango was special – it penetrated your soul, and you either got it or you did not, and if you did not truly understand its roots, the dance would never take an audience’s breath away.

Lira felt it. Perhaps it was her South African heritage that allowed her to tap into the music like that. I had never been to her mother’s home country, but I imagined the passion for music and tradition there ran just as deeply as it did in Argentina.

‘How is Papa doing?’ I asked, vaguely thinking I ought to get back to the party.

‘We do not need to speak about that now,’ said Mama. ‘This is your special night, you go enjoy it.’

‘Why, were you planning to tell me something that would stop me enjoying it?’ I said, my heart sinking. She may as well tell me because it would be on my mind now, anyway.

Mama sighed. ‘Papa is not so well. I worry about him, you know that. He is trying to do too much on the farm and comes home every night looking so tired and grey. He barely has an appetite, not even for his own wine.’

I raked my hand through my hair. This did not sound good. Food and wine were two of my father’s greatest pleasures, and if he was not enjoying them, it must mean that something was wrong with him.

‘When was the last time a doctor checked him out?’ I asked.

‘You know how stubborn he is,’ said Mama. ‘Perhaps you could talk to him? Even better if it could be in person. I was hoping you could come home for a night before the European tour begins?’

‘That is in less than a week, Mama. I will see you both when we come to Firenze .’

‘But that feels such a long way away, Gabi. What if…’

I swallowed hard, dread seeping through me. What was she suggesting?

‘What if what?’

‘Nothing.’

She thought something bad was going to happen before I could see him, I could hear it in her voice.

Heart problems ran in his side of the family, and if he was pushing and pushing himself all of the time like she said he was, who knew what state his health might be in.

Why did he not hire more staff? Take a step back, run things from the sidelines?

I knew why. He was too proud to ask for help.

If he got very sick, I would have no choice but to go home to Italy and run the wine business for him, which was exactly where he had always wanted me to be.

It was wrong of me, but I wondered if he was purposely not helping himself so as to force my hand.

‘Leave it with me, I will see what I can do,’ I said, already running through my schedule in my head.

There might be more rehearsals, finessing our routines, press interviews, plus performances six nights of the week. I was torn between wanting to make a quick visit home, for my mother more than my father, if I was honest, and wanting to say no, that I could not, that it would not be possible.

Lately, when I went home, I worried that something would happen while I was there and that I would be trapped, never able to leave.

Which was a terrible way to think of your family home, and I always felt very guilty about it afterwards, because I loved my parents dearly; I just did not want to live with them in the middle of nowhere.

Despite the vastness of the land we owned, the rows and rows of vines, the olive farm, I felt strangely claustrophobic when I was there, and was always, always desperate to get back to the city, whether that be my apartment in Milan or my rented place in London.

The further I was from the hills of Chianti country, the better I felt.

It was easier to have physical distance between my dance career and the family business; it was what had always worked best.

‘I don’t mean to make things difficult for you, Gabriele,’ said Mama, feeling bad now, no doubt. ‘I know how busy you are. Forget I said anything.’

I had dragged it out of her, I supposed, but still – she could have made something up. The last thing I felt like doing was celebrating now.

I ended the call and put my head in my hands, trying to clear my mind.

Perhaps my mother was being melodramatic; she did have a tendency to overreact.

And my papa was a grown man – if he felt unwell, he needed to go get himself checked out, and I did not see how I could force him to do so, or why I should have to.

A knock on the door jolted me out of my melancholy.

‘Come in,’ I called, probably more tersely that I should have done.

The door was eased tentatively open and Lira poked her head around the frame.

‘Hey,’ she said.

She was glowing. Happy. And why would she not be? She had just danced the gig of her life and had pulled off the almost impossible, just as Carlos had reassured us she could.

‘Hey,’ I said, sitting up.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ she asked, hovering in the shadow of the half-open door.

I waved her inside. ‘It is fine. Prego entra .’

She let the door close behind her and suddenly we were alone in the stagnant heat of my windowless dressing room, her eager, open face lit up by the bright bulbs dotted around the edge of my mirror.

‘How did you think it went?’ she asked, crossing her arms and then uncrossing them again.

She was nervous; it was adorable.

‘Almost perfection,’ I said.

She laughed. ‘Always so modest.’

‘You would do well to sell yourself more, Lira. Who else is going to do it for you?’

‘Maybe,’ she said, a slightly wistful look in her eye, as though I had hit on something that felt important to her.

Her family, I guessed. If she was keeping the fact she was doing the show from them, I could only presume they were not supportive of her career choices.

But how could they not be when she danced as beautifully as she did?

Were they not proud of her? But then I thought of Papa and how he had never said he was proud of me, either. Quite the opposite at times.

You are throwing your life away on a stupid dance job! Call yourself a man? A real man would run the family business, like a good son should.

‘I was thinking we should rehearse the rumba a little more, if you can find the time,’ she said. ‘I messed up that step. And one or two of the lifts felt a little clunky.’

She was exactly right, and I could not help but be surprised at her attention to detail. I’d barely registered it myself, but thinking about it now, one of the lifts had felt more difficult than it should have been.

‘What are you doing tomorrow daytime?’ I asked her.

‘I thought I would celebrate by working like a dog in the studio all day,’ she said, with a wry smile.

‘You are joking?’ I said.

‘Half-joking. I do have a couple of lessons to do in the morning – the cover teacher has a medical appointment she can’t get out of.’

‘Shall I come to James Jive after that? Say 1pm? We can run through the dance for an hour or so and then head back into London together for warm-up.’

‘Sure,’ she said, frowning a little. ‘You’re agreeing to come all the way out to Castlebury for an hour without complaining? Who even are you?’

‘Hilarious,’ I quipped.

Her smile was infectious. Way to get me out of my bad mood.

‘I guess I should get back,’ she said, tipping her head towards the door.

I nodded. ‘I will be out in a few minutes myself.’

As she opened the door, I almost called out, asked her to stay. Everything felt better and brighter when she was here, and as she closed the door behind her the room felt dull and cold again.

I had not thought about family responsibility once while she had been here, only about the show and her exquisite skin that I wanted to lie on top of and somehow melt into.

Had that subconsciously been why I had agreed to trek out to her hometown tomorrow when I should have been relaxing, getting ready for that evening’s performance?

Did I think I was in with a chance of kissing her again?

That was hardly going to happen in broad daylight, was it, and we were not even focusing on the tango this time, although the rumba was definitely almost as sexy.

I got up from my seat, took a deep breath, put the anxiety about my father’s health to the back of my mind and flung open the door. This was my night as much as it was everyone else’s, and I deserved to revel in it, no matter what was going on back in Italy.