Page 25 of Slow Burn

Two days later, it was unusually quiet in the house when I woke and padded downstairs for breakfast. Mum and Dad had left for their trip, their ship setting sail from Southampton and heading for sunnier climes.

We’d only spoken once since our argument at the studio, and the conversation had been stilted and tense, not helped by the fact they were rushing to finish their packing, and I was obviously anxious about my performance.

I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself, but the truth was, I’d sort of expected Sedi to make the effort to come and watch the show instead of wasting the ticket I’d put aside for her at the box office.

Sure, she had a temper, and was definitely one to storm off and sulk on occasion.

But we’d always been close despite our differences, one of which was that usually I avoided conflict at all costs while she waded right into the middle of it, all guns blazing.

Nolo was more like me in that regard, although even she wouldn’t shy away from speaking her mind when she had to.

I wasn’t sure where this need to be perfect all the time had come from – was it something my parents had done differently with me, or was it just part of my personality, something I would have to work hard to change?

I made myself a coffee and some breakfast, threw open the French doors and took a seat on our little patio, looking out over the garden, relishing the peace and quiet of having the place to myself.

It was a lovely home, and of course I felt a hundred percent comfortable here; it was where I’d spent almost all of my life.

But I didn’t own this house, just like I didn’t own the studio.

I craved having something that was actually mine and only mine; something that nobody else had any say over, that wasn’t in some way linked to any other members of my family.

What I was going to do about this realization I had no idea, but even recognizing it was a start.

After breakfast, I walked down to the local newsagent’s and bought one copy of every newspaper they had in stock. Carlos had told me that, as it was Thursday, most of the reviews would come out today. It nearly killed me, but I didn’t look at them until I got home, scared of what I might find.

What if they were terrible? What if they raved about Gabriele – as they would, I was sure – but were disappointed by his less-talented female lead? What then? My family would have an I-told-you-so field day. And I would be left wondering why I’d tipped everything on its head for nothing.

Back at the house, I stalled even longer.

I made a cafetière of coffee. I emptied the dishwasher.

And finally, when I started clearing out the tins cupboard, a job I usually avoided at all costs, I knew enough was enough.

I was going to have to look and face the consequences of whatever these journalists had to say.

After all, even if they’d hated it, it didn’t mean everyone who came to see it would feel the same way.

Although, could we really hope for packed auditoriums if it was panned across the board?

I laid the papers out on the breakfast bar, deciding to get one of the harshest critics out of the way first. I was familiar with their scathing reviews of books, restaurants, TV shows and anything else they could turn their somewhat vicious pen to.

Nervously, I flicked through the pages one by one until I reached the theatre reviews column.

There, in glorious technicolour, was a photograph of myself and Gabriele at the end of our rumba.

He was standing behind me, one arm in the air, the other across my stomach.

My hands were over his hand, holding him close, our last step before he spun me around and we ended the dance in an almost-passionate clinch. The headline read:

SLOW BURN IS A SEXY TRIUMPH

I swallowed hard. That was good, wasn’t it?

I skimmed through the rest of the review, still half expecting them to highlight me as the show’s weak link.

I only got one mention, but they’d called me a relative newcomer and an exquisite dancer, so that was okay.

I could breathe again. Although there were still seven more newspapers to go.

I was busy reading our sixth glowing review when my phone started burning up. The first message was from Diane, one of the freelance dancers who’d been helping me at the studio.

WAAAAAHHHH! You kept that quiet. So proud of you!

My old dance partner, Tomas, had also reached out.

We’d kept in touch over the last decade or so – he’d been devasted when I’d had to break up our partnership, but he knew my parents well and eventually accepted the fact that family responsibility weighed heavily on me.

Unlike Gabriele, he understood that I wasn’t free to fully pursue whatever I wanted to, or go wherever I wanted.

He’d gone on to find another dance partner and was still performing and competing across the world.

I thought we’d probably never forget each other, particularly our last heady win in Paris. He had four words to say:

You’ve still got it!

I smiled to myself. I did, didn’t I? The comments spoke for themselves: I was a dancer, not a dance teacher . Or, at least, I was both. Not prepared to let my sisters make me feel bad anymore, I texted them both, already deciding that I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Family Zoom. Midnight U.K. time, 7pm New York time. I’ll send a link.

It wasn’t unusual for us to chat so late. We might usually have tried to do it a little earlier in the evening, but Nolo often had rehearsals all day, and with the time difference it tended to mean a late call time our end. Plus, I had a show tonight.

Anyway, I knew for a fact that Sedi was never in bed before 1am, so there should be no problem.

I put my phone in my bag, determined not to spend all day wondering if they’d read it, wondering what their response would be.

Surely they couldn’t hate me so much that they were going to refuse to speak to me?

I had to keep reminding myself that I had done nothing wrong.

I felt a shot of nerves as I walked backstage to the dressing room at 6pm.

I had no idea where the land was going to lie with Gabriele after what had happened in his dressing room on press night, and I’d purposely rushed off straight after the performance yesterday because I was a coward, and I was one hundred percent avoiding having a conversation with him about it.

The only saving grace was that we hadn’t actually had sex – thank God Carlos had interrupted us.

Even if the nearly-sex had been just as amazing as I knew it would be.

Because here I was, making the exact same mistakes I’d made over a decade ago.

I’d seen the way he garnered looks wherever he went; the way all the dancers checked him out, even though he barely gave most of them the time of day.

And now I was one of them, one of the many who had fallen victim to his considerable charms. If I slept with him one day, he’d probably move onto somebody else the next, and I’d have to spend the remainder of the run pretending I wasn’t bothered.

Luca might think it was all bravado, but I certainly wasn’t convinced, and I wasn’t sure that Gabriele could do anything to convince me.

As I passed his dressing room, I had the idea that maybe I’d be more mature about this than I had been when I was nineteen and would try to talk to him about it.

Shut it down. Name it for what it was – a moment of passion, brought on by the high of coming off stage.

It wouldn’t be repeated, I was pretty sure we’d be on the same page on that.

I paused and rapped my knuckles on his door before I could change my mind.

The door swung open and Daniella stood in the doorway.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello,’ she said, making me feel like an unwanted interruption.

My eyes were drawn to Gabriele, who I could see over her shoulder. He was sitting at his dressing table, not yet in costume, wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans, his hair pulled back into a messy bun, his eyes burning into me.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said, already backing away.

‘I was just leaving,’ said Daniella with a smile that felt all kinds of insincere. ‘He’s all yours.’

I nodded, standing aside to let her pass.

This had now become a bigger thing than I intended it to be.

A quick conversation about how, sure, we’d fumbled our way around his dressing room the night before last, but let’s draw a line under it and go back to being professional dance partners, had now taken on a different significance.

Because was he still seeing Daniella? And if he was, did she know what had happened between us?

It could put the whole show in jeopardy if we all fell out, and I’d feel awful about it if I’d hurt her feelings, even if she did act like Gabriele was her property.

‘Hi,’ I said, finally addressing him.

‘Are you coming in?’ he asked, nodding at the door.

It felt too dangerous to go inside and close the door again, the memories already coming flooding back: the way the mirror had steamed up, how ice-cold it felt against my back, the franticness of it all.

I skulked in the doorway instead, feeling safer there. Except, then I realized that anyone walking past would hear what I had to say and that would be mortifying, so I stepped lightly inside, closing the door behind me, but keeping as much distance between myself and Gabriele as I could.

I sincerely wished he didn’t look quite so hot all of the time. How could a man make a simple white T-shirt look like that ? I could practically see the muscles rippling underneath it; could just imagine the taut, golden-brown skin I’d find if I just lifted the hem and pulled it right off.