Before we were interrupted, I had been about to ask Lira what she meant by everything changing for her. Irritated, I turned to see Daniella, who had somehow shoehorned her way in between the two of us and was grinning up at me. I should be thankful; I had been trying to avoid having this conversation and now Daniella had given me the perfect excuse. So why did I suddenly want to hear more about what had been going on in Lira’s life back then?
‘Heading to the tube?’ asked Daniella chirpily, either oblivious to the tense atmosphere or pretending not to notice.
‘We are,’ said Lira, thankfully stepping in. ‘Where do you live, Daniella?’
And as the two of them began to talk, I wondered whatLira had been about to tell me; whether I would ever find out and whether it would explain what happened the night she left me in a hotel room without so much as a goodbye.
CHAPTER TENLira
The evening before our dress rehearsal, and with less than forty-eight hours until opening night, things felt strained to say the least. Our four duets were choreographed, but they still needed work, and Gabriele wasn’t convinced our Argentine tango was strong enough. We’d arrived at James Jive about an hour ago, after a day of rehearsing with the rest of the company at Pineapple, and we’d already acknowledged that we were going to have to rehearse all night if we had to.
For a brief moment, I let myself wonder about where he might sleep if he missed his last train. There was no way I could take him back to the house – Mum and Dad hadn’t left for their cruise yet, and, ridiculously, I still hadn’t told them about the show. Sedi had headed back to Shoreditchthe morning after I’d stormed out of the dinner and I’d tried to arrange a video call with her and Nolo to explain, but Nolo had been at long rehearsals most days and Sedi had been in Paris for an audition and we hadn’t been able to agree on a time. As for Mum and Dad, I’d had plenty of opportunities to say something, and I’d apologized for my outburst at lunch, but neither of them had actually asked me why I wanted to spend less time at the studio, and what it was I wanted to do instead. Knowing them, they were probably hoping it would all just go away – actually talking about problems wasn’t really a thing in our family.
I’d locked up the studio for the night and had read over the notes left for me by one of the freelance dance teachers I was secretly employing to cover lessons while I was at rehearsals. I’d put them all on the payroll, so at some point Dad was going to notice, but hopefully it wouldn’t be until he and Mum were mid-Mediterranean, by which point theSlow BurnLondon run would be in full swing and I could deal with their disappointment from a distance. I mean, how bad could it be, right? Maybe it was all in my head, anyway – when they found out why I couldn’t run the studio for a while, they might be over the moon for me, excited that my passion for performing had been unexpectedly re-ignited. Anyway, whatever happened, it would be worth it – I’d never have imagined I’d be heading up a West End show in just a few days’ time. My fears about being dropped or not living up to Carlos’s expectations were waning with each passing day, and I was confidentthat I could actually pull it off. And if I could just hold off my family for a little bit longer, I would be able to focus on giving the best performance of my entire life on opening night without worrying about what everyone thought. For possibly the first time in my life I was being completely and utterly selfish and putting my own happiness first – and it felt pretty damn good.
I took a sip of water, reminded myself we very nearly had this routine down, and walked into the studio where Gabriele was waiting for me on the dance floor.
I flicked the music on and took my starting position for the Argentine tango, as I had a hundred times before.
‘We need one more lift,’ said Gabriele, suddenly.
‘Really?’
Wasn’t it a bit late to be adding something else in? The routine looked great as it was.
‘I will try something this time; something I saw online and think we should try to recreate. Go with it, okay?’ he insisted.
‘Fine,’ I agreed.
‘I want us to dance like we are in Argentina,’ he said, taking my hand and looking into my eyes. ‘Remember that I learned this dance from my grandmother, myabuela. There is an aggressiveness to it over there, a violence. Many years ago, it was illicit, forbidden, lower class, and even today it must still have that intensity. We must dance like our lives depend on it.’
I nodded, falling into the walking step,la caminada,letting him lead me across the floor. We knew each movement like the backs of our hands, and yet, in some way, the steps felt brand-new each time we performed them. With what he’d said about Argentina in our minds, this time I felt him commanding me. I felt heady, breathless, like I never wanted our dance to stop.
And then, taking me by surprise, Gabriele fell to one knee, running his hand down my thigh until he reached my ankle, at which point he placed it over his shoulder. I knew what he was about to do and had no choice but to go with it, praying I could balance as well as he seemingly thought I could. With my leg hooked over his shoulder, he placed his hands around me and rose to standing, taking me with him. My pelvis was pressed so hard into his face, I was surprised he could breathe, but he appeared to have enough oxygen to spin me around twice before lowering me gently back to the floor.
‘Embellishment!’ he shouted.
I lifted my foot off his shoulder, extending it out as far as I possibly could before whipping it around behind me and sinking into a deep lunge.
‘Good,’ said Gabriele, pulling me up to meet him, our foreheads touching now, his long eyelashes tickling my cheekbones as he blinked.
We picked up the steps we’d rehearsed, theboleosbecoming faster and faster, sharper and sharper, until the music came to a crescendo. For our final move, he lifted me again and I kicked my foot out behind me before swinging oneleg back through his legs, finishing up in the splits on the ground. Then, with one hand, Gabriele lifted me high into the air, and as soon as my feet touched the ground again, he put his hand on the small of my back to support me as I fell into an extreme back bend, my right fingertips trailing on the floor behind me.
I stayed very still for a beat or two, my blood pumping hard through every part of my body, before he hauled me up.
‘Did that work?’ he asked, breathless himself.
I nodded. It had felt risky, but I knew it would look fantastic. ‘Yes.’
And then, as I looked into his deep brown eyes, and he looked just as intensely into mine, something happened between us; the thing I’d been missing, a softness to his gaze, a searingly addictive feeling curling up from my feet into my stomach and my chest. It was as though his defences had dropped away and I could see the real Gabriele again, the one I’d known briefly all those years ago.
The music was still playing, and of course it was romantic and evocative, so maybe that was what tipped us over the edge. Or perhaps it was the heat from his palm, which was still placed firmly on my lower back making me feel safe and seen.
I wanted him to keep it there forever.
Was it me or were our mouths drawing closer together?
His head dipped a little, as though he might be about to kiss me. Letting myself go with the intense need for him that suddenly overwhelmed me, I rocked my weightforward onto my toes, pressing my chest into his strong, wide one, lifting my chin, ready for him to press his lips against mine. He was centimetres away, then millimetres. Our chests were rising and falling as we looked into each other’s eyes. My heart was racing so hard I was sure he could feel it.
