‘The truth is, nobody had ever walked out on me before,’ I said. ‘I did not know how to react. I assumed it meant you were not interested and that I would simply have to get over it.’
‘It was all about your ego, then?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes in confusion.
I didn’t think so. It was more that I thought she must have been so disappointed by the whole event that she had sneaked out while I was asleep without so much as a peckon the cheek to say goodbye. And yet, I had been sure that the short time we had had together had been special. That passion we had, the way our bodies had so effortlessly fused together, had been real. I had been sure of it then, and I was sure of it now.
Lira finished her coffee and began rooting in her bag for some money.
‘I should go,’ she said.
‘Put your purse away. I will get these,’ I said, a little more tersely than I had intended.
It was just that I did not want her to go. I wanted to sit and talk more, and now I had chased her away. Perhaps it was a mistake to have been quite so truthful about what had been going on in my head that night.
She stood up.
‘See you at the theatre later,’ she said.
I nodded, unable to find the words I wanted to say, so choosing to say nothing at all. What was the point when I knew that, after this show, our lives would be going in completely different directions yet again. She was just discovering herself – and I hoped that she would be at the height of her career after the success ofSlow Burn. I was sure choreographers would be queueing up to work with her. And I would be in Italy, with my parents, on the farm.
It was happening all over again, except this time in reverse.
My eyes followed Lira as she walked out of the coffee shop, swivelling her hips to move past the too-close-together tables, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. Shestepped outside, the sun throwing her shadow onto the pavement, pausing for a moment or two and then turning left, back in the direction of the hotel.
My melancholy mood was soon interrupted by the buzz of my phone in my pocket. I took it out, glancing at the screen. I had a message from my mother.
Anxious now, I opened it up. She had been contacting me a lot lately, pressuring me for an answer about my plans. I had explained that I must see out the tour and then I would come home to be with them both and look after the business, at least for a while. Was that not enough?
I glanced down at the message, which made my heart race so hard I was sure other people could see it beating through the fabric of my shirt.
I’m worried about your father. He has looked very tired the last few days and his breathing sounds different. He’s breathless a lot. What should I do, Gabi?
It was like the words were swimming in front of my eyes. I could not bear the idea that something bad would happen to him while our relationship felt so distant. I had always hoped that, one day, we would be close again, like we had been when I was very young, before I had started dancing.
At first, he had half-heartedly entertained the idea of ballroom lessons, blaming my mother and my grandmother for introducing me to such a ‘girly’ pastime, but certain I would soon grow out of it and decide that playing footballand working with him at the vineyard were much more appealing. But, of course, that never happened and, as time went on, I talked to him less and less about my life, and he snapped at me more and more whenever I mentioned dancing. I had always imagined, though, that somehow we would find a way to embrace our differences, to tell each other that we loved each other deeply despite of them. But what if I did not get the chance?
You must take him to the doctor again, Mama. Immediately. Make the appointment now.
I watched as she received the message and began typing a reply.
He will not go. He says he is fine, he has had enough of being poked and prodded. You know how he is.
My father was stubborn – my mother joked that I was too much like him, which was why, most of the time, we did not see eye to eye. But when it came to his health, he was particularly hard to deal with, preferring to bury his head in the sand instead of facing the possibility that something could be wrong.
I messaged my mother again.
Then I don’t know what to say. But you need to get him checked out, Mama.
I pushed my phone back into my pocket, my head swirling with fear. Why was he refusing to listen to Mama’s advice? Could he not go and get himself looked at, for her, forme? Or did he like the idea of us worrying about him? Did he like the idea that he was now consuming all of my thoughts when I was supposed to be stepping out on stage in just a few short hours?
I stood up, needing some fresh air. Mama was probably overreacting. Perhaps it was nothing. And I had a show to focus on.
CHAPTER SEVENTEENLira
Slow Burn had been well-received in Spain. In fact, I wondered why we hadn’t performed more dates here given that Carlos was pretty much a national treasure. After a four-night run in Madrid, we had arrived in Barcelona for our final three nights in the country and it was a sell-out. Most of the cast were having lunch together at a bar on the beach to celebrate. I’d never been to Barcelona before – in fact, I’d barely been anywhere outside of the UK, come to think of it – and I was loving everything about it. The beach bars were modern and trendy, with cool, ambient dance music playing out of speakers and a perfect view of the vast sandy beach.
‘Who is up for sangria in a cosy little bar after the performance later?’ asked Daniella, throwing her arm around Gabriele’s shoulders.
She had, of course, commandeered a seat next to him, and now and again her eyes had flickered to mine, her eyebrows arched as if to dare me to protest. I refused to get pulled into competing for a man I didn’t even want. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. A man I absolutelyshouldn’twant.
