Page 27 of Slow Burn

I lifted my face to the roof of the theatre, letting the light rain down on me, the applause ringing pleasingly in my ears.

The audience was on its feet, clapping and whooping and whistling for more.

It was the last night of our London run and I thought that it might have been our best performance to date.

Everyone in the cast had been energized by the excellent press reviews – we knew every ticket had been sold and that, already, people were calling for more London performances later in the year; a longer run.

Carlos had even hinted he was in talks about a national tour.

I was trying not to think about the fact that the show might have to go on without me.

Needless to say, I had not shared this possibility with a single person.

What good would it do to talk about it; to burden other people with my family issues?

Perhaps, deep down, I was hoping that a miracle would happen, and that my father’s health would drastically improve and that he would insist on running the business himself for the foreseeable future.

It was stupid of me to dream such a dream, but there it was, fluttering hopefully away in the back of my mind.

The company was travelling to Spain at the weekend – first to Madrid and then on to Barcelona, then to Porto and Lisbon.

And then the final run of shows would be in my home country, something I knew would feel spectacular on every level: Venice, Milan, Rome and finally Florence.

My parents would come to the Florence show, if my father was well enough.

I would scroll through my contacts to see who else I could invite.

And no doubt there would be the Bring the Heat fans hanging around backstage, asking me to sign autographs for them.

I was well known in Italy in a way that only being on television could manifest, and I fully intended to enjoy it while it lasted.

With one more bow, I led a beaming Lira off stage.

These days she dropped my hand the second we moved beyond the curtain and out of the audience’s sight.

It was like she could not wait to stop touching me.

I knew this was my fault, because I had not tried to kiss her again.

In fact, I had been actively avoiding being alone with her.

That moment in my dressing room had been incredible, and it was what I thought of now when I lay in bed, feeling as lonely as ever and wishing Lira was lying next to me.

I wanted to fold into her curves again, to rest my head on her chest, to have her stroke my hair and whisper in my ear like I imagined she might.

Because Lira did something to me that no other woman had ever done: she penetrated the protective shell I had built around myself and made me wonder if I was capable of having a romantic relationship after all.

But we could not be together, and that was that.

The timing was always wrong for us, and I had to accept that perhaps the closeness to her I craved was not meant to be.

Two days later, the entire cast was safely housed in a slick, modern hotel in central Madrid.

Right across from the building, on a bustling shopping street, was the theatre we would be performing in for four nights straight.

Every seat had been sold, apparently, which was hardly surprising given the Latin origins of the show and the excellent reviews we had garnered in London.

We had a performance that evening, but I had decided to take a walk around the city and take advantage of the few hours I had free first. One thing about Italy I missed when I was in London was the weather, and this June afternoon in Madrid was reminiscent of home, on account of the hot sun, the sort that baked the hairs on your arms and licked the back of your neck.

I would explore the Malasana neighbourhood we were staying in, perhaps stop for some refreshment in one of the coffee shops on Plaza del 2 de Mayo.

Enjoy some time to myself before meeting up with everybody mid-afternoon for a quick lighting check.

That was the thing about being on tour – it sounded glamorous, but you barely got to see any of the places you were performing in.

The weather warmed me from the inside out the second I stepped out onto the pavement.

I turned left on a whim and then left again, weaving my way off the busy main road and into a side street that felt shady and quiet in comparison.

I was keeping half an eye out for somewhere to grab a drink – perhaps something cold and over ice rather than coffee – when I spotted Lira in front of me.

I recognized her straight away. She was wearing a yellow summer dress and sandals and her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, her sculpted shoulders perfectly framing her dark curls on either side.

I would recognize the dimensions of her body anywhere – the way her waist nipped in exactly where it should, the slim, muscular legs that only a dancer or an athlete would possess.

She was taking a photo of something up ahead.

I hesitated for a moment or two, wondering what to do.

Should I turn back, pretend I hadn’t seen her?

But why would I do that? We had to dance together that night; it would be strange – and rude – not to acknowledge her.

And not only that, now that I had seen her, I could not un-see her, and despite myself, I wanted to talk to her again, because it had been days now and, annoyingly, I missed her.

I upped my pace. As long as she didn’t move, I was going to be standing next to her in approximately two seconds flat and then I would have no choice but to speak to her.

I instinctively glanced at my reflection in a shop window.

I was wearing linen trousers, because I did not do shorts, not in the middle of the city, and a simple cotton T-shirt with a short-sleeved shirt worn over it.

My hair was tied back in a bun because it was too hot to have it hanging loose around my neck.

I was parallel with Lira now and wondered how long it would take her to notice me standing there. I cleared my throat loudly. She fumbled around with her phone and glanced across at me, a little startled.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, seemingly relieved.

‘You thought there was a stranger staring at you for no reason?’ I asked, laughing lightly.

I liked that she had relaxed when she had seen me – it was a definite improvement from the way she used to recoil when we first started rehearsing together. Perhaps being away from home was good for her. She looked great – relaxed, happy to be here. Happy-ish to see me.

‘Have you ever been here before?’ I asked her, taking in my surroundings, too.

I had been to Madrid a couple of times, but I had never had time to get a proper feel for the city.

From what I could tell, I liked the vibe very much – it reminded me a little of Milan, except sunnier and with even more tourists.

She shook her head. ‘It’s hard to travel.

With the studio. But I love exploring new places when I get the chance.

Taking photos, trying new foods, all of that.

It’s one of the things I can’t quite believe about this tour – that I get to experience three different countries in the space of five weeks. ’

I smiled. Her enthusiasm was infectious. And she was right, of course. This job we were doing was pretty spectacular when you thought about it – even if we were staying in very basic three-star hotels, which would not usually be my choice.

We fell into step beside each other, meandering slowly along the street.

For the first time in ages, I started to properly look around me, looking up at the beautiful buildings we were passing, which were painted in tantalizing shades of tomato red, sky blue, palest pink and sunshine yellow, and flanked with wrought-iron balconies housing tropical plants and mini palm trees.

I breathed in the sweet smell of sugar, no doubt from the tempting-looking bakery we had just passed, suddenly letting myself enjoy the local atmosphere in a way I had failed to do on my previous visits here.

It felt as though I was seeing the city for the first time, through Lira’s less-travelled eyes.

‘Look, there is a flamenco show in town tonight,’ I said, pointing to a sandwich board outside what looked like an art gallery. ‘It is something I have always wanted to see live in Spain, but have never found the time to.’

Lira nodded enthusiastically. ‘We should get some people together after the show, maybe? I’d love to see it, too.’

‘Sure,’ I said, furiously pushing the sensation that I should never have mentioned flamenco to the back of my mind.

What happened to spending as little time together as possible?

Even if there were other cast members there, I already knew that standing together in some sexy, hot, basement bar with sultry guitar music and one of the most sensuous dances in the world being performed right in front of our eyes would be a very bad idea.

‘Do you have time for a drink?’ I asked her. ‘I was going to try to find a café.’

It had rolled off my tongue before I could think better of it.

My God, what had happened to me? All my resolve to stay away from Lira because of what was happening with my family seemed to have flown out of the window the second we touched down in Madrid.

Perhaps the sun could be blamed, or the fact I felt less anxious now I knew how successful the show was proving to be.

And anyway, the truth was, it had been the same in London – I simply could not make the best decisions for myself when I was around Lira James.

And I had no idea what I was supposed to do about it, other than avoid her completely, which clearly was impossible.