Page 8 of Slow Burn

How pathetic of me. Basically, Lira had treated me like I had treated many other people, as though I was something to be used and discarded. I would have begged her to stay if I could have. And now here she was, back in my life, and there was no way I was going to let her get under my skin again.

I sat up. Perhaps if I walked, got some fresh air, I would feel better.

‘Have to go,’ I said, kissing Daniella’s wrist before sliding out of bed and looking for my clothes, noticing the look of rejection on her face. I felt terrible.

‘Let us hang out again soon, si ?’ I said, feeling as though I needed to give her something. Although I wasn’t sure that seeing each other again would help either of us in the long run.

Walking back to the tube, I checked my phone. I had received a message from my mother.

Happy birthday, my darling! Call me when you can.

Damn. I really had tried to forget it was my birthday today.

I had never liked birthdays. Actually, that was not strictly true – as a kid they had been fun.

I had often spent them in Argentina with Mama and my grandmother while my father stayed at home in Italy to look after the farm.

But once I started dancing professionally, once I moved away from home and was travelling from competition to competition and then later from show to show, it became less and less important.

Perhaps it did not help that I never told people when my birthday actually was .

I called my mother back instead of messaging, suddenly wanting to speak to somebody who knew me, who loved me, and who I adored just as much.

‘ Ciao , Mama,’ I said into the phone.

‘Ah, my Gabriele. Happy birthday, my sweet boy. How is everything in London?’

‘Busy,’ I said. ‘We start rehearsals for the show in a couple of days, so I am enjoying the rest while I can.’

‘Ah exciting. And you have a leading lady now?’

I swallowed, feeling as though my throat had tightened, suddenly. ‘We have.’

‘And she is perfect, just like you’d hoped?’

That was the problem – she was far too perfect in every way.

‘She is an excellent dancer,’ I said.

‘But…?’ said Mum.

She knew me so well.

‘But we only have weeks to choreograph four dances and she has been out of the game for years. I am worried she will struggle to keep up. I feel such pressure for this show to be a hit.’

‘It will be, Gabi, people will flock to see you, particularly when you come to Italy, but also in London, in Madrid, in Lisbon and in all the other cities you will perform in. You are a star these days and you must not forget it.’

I smiled to myself. I knew all mothers thought their sons were special, but it still felt good to hear it. It warmed my heart that somebody – even if it was my mother – could see positive attributes in me that had nothing to do with the way I looked, or even the way I danced.

‘What are you doing for your birthday?’ she asked. ‘Something with friends? You don’t have a girlfriend to tell me about yet, my love?’

I’d reached Covent Garden tube and stood outside, watching the tourists, the gaudily decorated tuk-tuks and the shoppers out with friends, and I felt quite alone.

Everybody had somewhere to go, someone to be with.

This was why dance had saved me – the dance company would be like my family for the next nine weeks, but then they would be gone, leaving me with nothing and nobody. Again.

‘Working, Mama,’ I said. ‘But that is what I do best.’

‘But there is life outside of dance, Gabriele, and you must not forget this. Ah, here is your father. He wants to speak to you.’

I suppressed a sigh, not because I didn’t want to speak to my father, but because it always left me in a strange mood when I did and I was already on the verge of feeling depressed. This is what birthdays did to me.

‘Fine, put him on,’ I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

There was a rustle on the other end of the line. I heard my father clearing his throat.

‘Gabi?’ he said. ‘Happy birthday.’

‘ Grazie , Papa,’ I replied. ‘How are you? How is the farm? Business good at the vineyard?’

‘Busy. We will have to employ more staff this summer, there is so much to do,’ he said.

The familiar feeling of having disappointed my father surged through my body, as it always did when I thought about the family business.

In his mind, I should be there in Tuscany now, helping him make and sell wine, not travelling the world doing this , a job he’d never fully understood or wanted for me.

‘I do need to speak to you, Gabi,’ he said. ‘About things here, about my plans for the future.’

I tried to laugh it off. ‘Okay, but this sounds serious. Can we not do this today, on my birthday, of all days?’

May as well use the birthday excuse.

‘Then when?’ he hissed.

I felt the stirrings of panic.

‘You are not the only one getting older,’ he said.

‘Soon I will not be able to put in so many hours at the vineyard. As my only son, you should be here, taking over. Remember it will be left to you when I am no longer here. Don’t you want to know how things run?

Don’t you want to support the family business that has paid for your schooling, for your dance lessons? ’

‘Papa, I—’

I heard a tussle on the other end of the line, my mother’s voice. She was scolding my father, telling him not to upset me on my birthday, berating him in his own language, Italian.

‘Gabi?’ said Mama. ‘Do not listen to him today. Now go and have fun on your birthday, yes? Promise me?’

‘I promise,’ I said.

Although having fun was a promise I was not convinced I could keep.