“Alice is gonna lend us her car for the day.” Marcus stuck out his hand, and Alice dug into her bag, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a jangling set of keys.
“Are you sure you can drive with that thing?” she asked, looking down at the cam boot.
“Yes, Mum, I am sure.”
“Hey, that’s a compliment, because your mum is awesome.” Alice looked over her shoulder at Heather. “And are you sure you want to spend the day with him?”
Heather gave a small, awkward smile that she hoped concealed the return of yesterday’s restless energy, which had begun coursing through her body the moment she heard Marcus’s voice.
“Uh, well,” she said, deciding to join in on the playful ribbing. “I don’t want to, but Peter’s the boss, right? Come on, tour guide.” She cocked her eyebrows at him, and the grin he gave her in return made her breath catch in her throat. Alice handed over the keys.
“Have fun, Fred and Ginger,” she called as Heather and Marcus headed toward the lobby.
Marcus had thought long and hard about which beach he should show Heather. Sydney had dozens of ocean beaches, stretching along the coast from the centre of the city in both directions. The huge and convoluted harbour was dotted with dozens more beaches, sheltered ones, where the water was flat and peaceful. Some were a kilometre long, and others were tiny, tucked away in hidden bays even some locals didn’t know were there. Marcus had grown up down the street from one of the city’s best surf beaches, Freshwater, but it was too far from the studios to bring Heather there. Too close to home, too.
From the esplanade at Balmoral Beach, you could see right out past North Head, the headland that formed one side of the harbour’s snug mouth. Past the calm water lapping at the goldensand, past the clusters of sailboats anchored offshore, North Head’s steep, forbidding face towered over choppy water at the edge of the open ocean. At the turn of the century, Balmoral had been a destination for Sydney’s well-to-do and fashionable, who would stroll along the esplanade with their parasols and wade into the water in their Victorian bathing dresses. These days, it would be packed all summer with scampering children, leather-skinned retirees, and teenage boys trying not to stare at the occasional topless sunbather.
Marcus pulled Alice’s car into an open parking spot across from the fish-and-chip shop and climbed out as gracefully as he could.
“Is there somewhere I can change?” Heather asked as he pulled his cane from the back seat. Marcus realised she was still wearing her leotard, tights, and garbage-bag pants.
“Yeah, of course, there are public toilets just down there,” Marcus said, pointing down the wide esplanade to a small green building. He eased himself across the grass and sat on a bench to wait.
A steady stream of people passed by as he waited. There was a white-haired man walking an old, stiff-legged dog, and a trio of chattering mums in expensive-looking yoga pants with babies strapped to their fronts. Here and there tourists wandered past, periodically lifting their cameras from around their necks to snap photos of the calm blue water and the striking view right out to the heads. The water wasn’t warm enough for Marcus to want to swim, but a few brave souls were out for a dip. He watched one of them glide by in a dark wetsuit, envious of how elegantly they moved through the water.
“New York City is on the water, too, but it just smells so good here.” Heather was back, dressed in black leggings, a white T-shirt, and a faded denim jacket. Her hair was loose, and she shook out the kinks caused by a tight bun and a sweaty class. With some difficulty, Marcus averted his eyes and surveyed the beach rather than watch her run her hand through her hair. She sat down next to him, folding her legs underneath herself.
“Sadly, we can’t offer the exciting garbage odours of a big city like New York. All we have here is fresh air, stunning views, strong coffee, and excellent fish and chips.” He gestured to his right at a little building, which seemed to stick out of the water on stilts. “Down at that boathouse, you can buy overpriced baked goodsandrent a kayak. We can go have a look if you want. I haven’t checked with Shaz, but I think she’d be okay with me walking on the sand.”
“Why do you call her Shaz? Isn’t her name Sharon?”
“It’s how Australians do nicknames. Either you add anO, so Dave becomes Davo, or Rob becomes Robbo, or if the name hasA-Rin it, it gets aZ. So...Harry becomes Haz, or Carol becomes Caz.”
“And Sharon becomes Shaz.”
“Yeah, or Shazza.”
“Our company PT’s name is Dr. Rajendra, and I’m trying to imagine what would happen if we called him something like that. I don’t even know his first name.”
“Yeah, but I doubt Shaz would even answer if I walked into physio and called her ‘Dr. Murphy.’”
Heather laughed and shook her head. “I had no idea I’d need a dictionary to survive here. This morning was hard enough, trying to decipher Alice’s French with an Australian accent.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Alice seems pretty great.”
Her voice was light and casual. Almost as if, Marcus thought, she was trying very hard to keep it that way.
“She’s pretty great,” he confirmed. And then, because it suddenly seemed very important to clarify what he’d meant, he said, “She’s like my little sister. A pain in my ass, and willing to beat the shit out of someone for me.”
Heather raised her eyebrows, looking sceptical. “Oh, she’s small,” Marcus assured her, “but she’s mighty. You saw her in class today. You do not wanna fuck with Alice Ho.”
It was true, Marcus thought. Okay, so he’d never actually seen her beat someone up, or threaten to, but Alice was one of the fiercest and most loyal people he knew. When she’d joined thecompany, she’d been serious and quiet, the way so many girls were when they graduated from ballet school. But after a few months, she’d grown comfortable, and Marcus had realised that while she was dead serious about ballet, she was not a naturally quiet person.
She’d been his partner in a few ballets that year, when they were both in the corps and dancing peasant roles inSwan Lakeor playing courtiers at the Capulet ball inRomeo and Juliet. They’d spent hours together in rehearsal and slogged through night after night of performances under the hot lights at the Opera House. They’d been friends ever since. When the company toured, they would often buddy up, sitting next to each other on planes and finding the best spot for dinner in whatever city they were in. Alice was fun to travel with, because she could make a joke or a game out of just about anything. A few years ago, the company had gone viral because they’d spent a long layover at Singapore airport filming themselves doing big pas de deux lifts and pretending to do barre on the moving walkways. The whole thing had been Alice’s idea.
“And you two aren’t ...” Heather’s cheeks flushed an enticing pink as she trailed off awkwardly, confirming his suspicions about her earlier comment. Excitement and dread warred in his chest, and he suppressed a groan at the unfairness of the situation. Here he was with The Heather Hays, with her wide eyes and expressive brows and deliciously pink cheeks. The first woman he’d even noticed in over a year. Here they were, dancing around the question, and he had to be the one to stop the music. He fidgeted with the handle of his cane, putting off the moment of truth.
“We’re not,” he said finally. “Even if we were into each other—which we’re not—we wouldn’t dare violate Pas de Don’t.”
Heather looked at him quizzically. “Is that more Australian slang?”
