‘Hey, DJ,’ I said, as casually as I could, using the nickname I called her when I wanted to butter her up. ‘Are you sticking around tomorrow?’
‘I was planning to – I’ve got a few days off.’
I bit my lip, deciding I was just going to have to go for it and lie.
‘Reckon you could cover at the studio in the afternoon? I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Mum, her ears pricking up.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ I said, ‘just some headaches I’ve been getting.’
This was more of an embellishment than a lie – I had been getting the odd headache, but I suspected it was more about dehydration than anything else, as I was often so busy at the studio I didn’t stop to eat or drink. I felt less bad about exaggerating the truth than I would have done about making something up altogether.
Sedi groaned. ‘Do I have to?’
‘It would be great if you could?’ I said, smiling sweetly at her.
Did she really begrudge me an hour or two off? I’d run that studio six days a week for more than a decade, and had rarely taken a holiday. Everyone made such a huge deal of it when I did that it put a dampener on the whole idea of taking a break in the first place. And it was one afternoon; surely she could manage that? And then I’d have to work out what I was going to do for the rest of the rehearsal time and tour, because clearly I couldn’t rely on my family to help out.
‘It’s not often I come home – I’d planned to spend the day in front of the TV with my feet up,’ moaned Sedi.
I stifled the urge to snap back at her. She was so entitled sometimes, and was never willing to put herself out for anyone else, probably because she’d never actually had to.
‘Surely you can do this for me, just this once?’ I said. ‘You’ve literally taken about two lessons so far this year.’
‘To be fair, that isn’t her job, Lira,’ said Mum, sticking up for Sedi as usual.
‘Sure, but we can help each other out, can’t we? Isn’t that what families do? I need to be able to take time off occasionally – all I’m asking is for a couple of hours off to go to the doctor.’
‘Fine, but you can’t be gone long,’ said Sedi, looking pissed off. ‘And you’ll have to tell me exactly what to do because I just want it to be as easy and stress-free as possible.’
Of course she did. That summed up Sedi – swan in, do the minimum amount of work needed, and swan out again. And sure, dancing was hard, she didn’t get every job she wanted – but it felt like everything else simply fell into place for her.
I tried not to let it bother me, and the last thing I wanted was to get into an argument. It was just that, without even realizing it, Sedi had hit a nerve. My sisters had left home the second they could – Sedi moved away to dance college up north and my youngest sister, Nolo, went to New York to dance at sixteen. Meaning it had just been me, Mum and Dad at home for years now, with me spending most days at the dance studio and Mum and my sisters helping out only when I practically forced them to. Dad oversaw the financial side of things, but he wasn’t a dancer, which, fair enough, meant he couldn’t help out with lessons, but he rarely even came to the studio these days, and I did the reconciling of takings at the end of each day myself anyway, and all the budgeting and ordering in of stock. They probably had no idea that, although they’d ’strongly advised’ me to stop dancing when I was nineteen, I’d felt actually, properly bereft for ages afterwards. It might have felt like the right thing to do at thetime – I’d won the World Championships, had fulfilled most of the goals I’d ever had, and it had made sense to walk away while I was at the top of my game. But what if I’d given it up too soon?
‘Come to the studio at one on Wednesday,’ I said to Sedi. ‘I’ll need to leave at quarter past, so that’ll give me time to talk you through what’s happening and who to expect.’
Sedi tutted, just as her phone pinged with a message. She slid it out of her pocket and read it, the trace of a smile crossing her lips.
‘Good news?’ I said.
She shoved her phone away. ‘Not really.’
I waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. And then I mentally ran through a list of every single dance teacher I’d employed over the years, hoping one of them would be able to cover my lessons while I went off on tour. Because the way this evening had gone down, it was clear that nobody around this table would be willing to step up.
CHAPTER SIXGabriele
I tried to arrange my face into a relatively approachable expression as Lira walked into the rehearsal room the next day, but, honestly, it was a struggle. I was in a terrible mood, made worse by thoughts of my birthday and the sinking feeling that I should probably have had people to celebrate it with; people other than my mother who cared when it was. I was pretty sure my dad only remembered because she reminded him. And then, of course, Papa had gone and made everything worse by bringing up the vineyard.
I knew I was in a privileged position, with wealthy parents and a thriving family business. And I knew my father thought I was being selfish, pursuing a dance career when really I should have been by his side, learning the wine business, preparing to take over the farm when he retired.But the truth was, I had no real interest in that world; I never had. I’ll admit it sounded idyllic, making wine in the hills of Tuscany, shipping it to some of the best restaurants in the world, employing a whole team of staff. But all I’d ever wanted to do was dance. And I knew that my time was limited; that a point would come where I would have to fulfil my familial duty.
Maybe then I would feel ready – I hoped as much, anyway. I just kept praying that I had time to achieve everything I wanted to in the dance world first. At least headlining a West End show was about to be ticked off my list.
‘Morning,’ said Lira, greeting Carlos first and then, reluctantly, dragging her eyes to me.
I wished I had pretended to be doing something that required me to keep my head down, because, God, why did she have to look so damn good all of the time? Today, she was wearing a leotard that left little to the imagination, and a flippy little miniskirt that may as well have not existed for all the coverage it gave. Her skin was glowing, and then there were her slim, muscular arms; the pretty face I had tried so hard to forget. Those cheekbones, those eyelashes, the lips that were almost begging you to kiss them. I felt an ache in my groin and almost groaned out loud, not because I was turned on by her mere presence – which Iwas– but because I was frustrated with myself for feeling this way. How did she manage to do this to me?
‘Morning,’ I grumbled.
