His face tightened, and he dropped his eyes to the grass.
“My mum does,” he said slowly. “My dad died. About ten months ago. Lung cancer.” He swallowed and kept his gaze on the ground.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.
With what looked like considerable effort, he pulled his eyes up to meet hers. The glimmer of mischief she’d seen several times was gone, and his mouth was an unsmiling line. She recognized the expression from yesterday: it was the way he’d looked as they’d rounded the tip of the headland under the Harbour Bridge and she’d caught sight of the Opera House.
Then she remembered what he’d told her about his injury: it had happened about a year ago. What a hellish year it must have been for him. Before she could stop herself, she put a tentative hand on his shoulder and gave it a light, cautious squeeze. He didn’t react, seemingly lost in his thoughts.
“Did you hurt your Achilles before or after?”
“Before.” His voice was thick and hoarse, and she resisted the urge to put her arm all the way around his broad shoulders. “A few days before he was meant to come see me dance. He’d been crook for a while, and—” he stopped and swallowed hard, then took a deep breath. “And we all knew it was probably the last time he’d see me dance. And then...he didn’t get to.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, knowing even as she said them how pointless and insufficient the words were. What an unimaginable series of catastrophes.
“Yeah, thanks,” he shrugged. “It’s been a rough year, but at least this is healing,” he added, kicking his left foot up gently.
“You looked pretty good just now,” she said, trying to inject some brightness into her voice. “Oh God,” she said, realizing quickly what she’d said. “I meant, I don’t mean—notgood-good, I just,” she floundered, “you were walking well, and it didn’t look like it hurt too much.” What was wrong with her? He’d just told her his father had died, and now she sounded like she was hitting on him. She was making such a mess of this.
He smiled weakly at her. “You’re more graceful than this on stage, right?” he said. His smile widened, his eyes unmistakably sly.
“God, I hope so,” she replied, with a relieved smile of her own. “Otherwise Peter has made a very expensive mistake.”
“We’ll just blame it on the jet lag,” he said, standing up. “Speaking of which, should we get you home?”
“Oh, sure,” Heather said, a little surprised and, if she was honest with herself, a little disappointed. Awkward moments and painful memories aside, she’d been having a good time with him. He was funny and earnest, and he didn’t seem to mind when she contradicted him. With Jack, she’d expended so much energy trying to keep him happy, alert to any conflict she needed to smooth over. But she didn’t feel the need to do that with Marcus.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself as they gathered their trash and walked back to the car.You’re here to dance. And besides, why would anyone risk getting fired just to go out with you?
Marcus was silent as he drove up the steep hill from Balmoral. They didn’t speak as he turned on to Military Road, followed it through Mosman’s commercial area, and along the peninsula back to Kirribilli. Occasionally he glanced over at Heather, who stared wordlessly out the window at the posh shops lining the busy thoroughfare.
He tried to remember the last time he’d had two good days in a row. Two days when he’d smiled without it feeling like work, when he’d had the mental energy to think of a joke to crack before the conversation had moved on without him. It had been months since he’d sat with someone in a silence that felt comfortable, not heavy with grief or fear or unspoken bitterness. It had been even longer since he’d felt a physical pull towards someone, since he’d felt the kind of thrilling awareness of a woman’s body that he’d felt just driving with Heather in the passenger seat.
It was a relief to find he was still capable of it. And it was a slight shock to discover that, without even realizing, a large part of him had given up on ever being able to do it again. It felt like realizing only after he’d slipped on a warm jumper that he’d been cold this whole time.
When they arrived at Heather’s place, he watched her unbuckle her seatbelt and gather her things, her delicate fingers fumbling slightly with the button. As she bent to grab her bag, her ponytail fell over her shoulder against her cheek, and he had to grip the steering wheel to stop himself from sweeping it back for her.Don’t be stupid, he told himself.As if The Heather Hays is going to break company policy for you. Even if she’d looked as disappointed as he felt when he’d told her about Pas de Don’t, he needed to keep his hands out of her hair, and the rest of his body as far away from her as possible. He knew this, and now she knew it, too. But as she put her hand on the door handle, he threw caution to the wind anyway.
“What do you want to do tomorrow?”
She looked at him, seemingly surprised. “How many days of tour guide duty did Peter ask you to do?”
“Well, I guess he didn’t really specify. But Sydney’s a pretty big city. Lots to see.”
“Please don’t feel like you have to do this. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“It’s not a burden. Really,” he added, because she looked unconvinced. “I’m having a good time.”For the first time in a long time.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll take your tour guide services for one more day.”
“Any requests?”
“Um, this is kind of touristy, but I would love to see a koala bear.”
“That is pretty touristy. But I’ll see what I can do.”
She smiled and got out. He watched her walk over the nature strip and open the low wrought-iron gate of the little terrace house, the late afternoon sun finding bronze threads in her long dark hair as she moved. For the first time since that terrible night at the Opera House, Marcus realised, he was looking forward to tomorrow.
Chapter 6
