“Easy. Nureyev, of course.”
I laugh. Of course she’d pick the most famous male dancer of all time, and we start walking. “Of course. You can’t fault those cheekbones.”
“Oh, I don’t think you did too badly with your bone structure. You don’t need to be jealous.” Her eyes twinkle as she speaks.
“Plus he’s dead. And I’m here with you.”
Even in the lamplight, I can see her reddened cheeks. “That’s the weirdest and best compliment I’ve ever had.”
“I’m glad,” I say. “I’m auditioning for a recurring part in your annual fantasy.”
She shakes her head as if I’m simply incorrigible.
“Tell me about your mother,” she asks.
“Way to kill the vibe,” I say on a laugh.
“Come on, Jack. You love her. You bring her to the ballet, after all. Tell me you didn’t leave her alone to come and chase after me.”
“No, she had her trusty assistant with her and her driver waiting at the curb.”
“Oh, you’re… I see. She has a driver. Of course she does. Because… legacy. I’m getting the picture now.”
“I told you I’m spoiled,” I confess.
“I don’t think you’re spoiled,” she says. “I think you might be the perfect gentleman. A Prince Charming type.”
She makes me want to be Prince Charming. For her. “I’ll take that.”
“Who wasyourfirst crush?” she asks.
“A girl called Sally Frampton. I was twelve, and she lived in the townhouse opposite ours. She was fourteen and wore lipstick and a lot of pink. I could see into her bedroom if I angled myself right from the landing window.” I wince. “That makes me sound like a pervert. I wasn’t hoping she was naked. I probably would have died of shame if she had been. She had a dressing table against her window and I used to like watching her putting on lipstick.”
“Sounds very low-key stalker. Like stage one. Did you ever up your game?”
I chuckle. “Never graduated past stage one, I’m afraid.”
“First love?” she asks.
I hold her gaze a little longer than I should. I’m looking for something from her. Some kind of indication that she’s feeling what I’m feeling right now. She’s asked me a question, and I think she might be the answer. I think Iris might be my first love.
It seems ridiculous to be even thinking such a thing, but I feel so comfortable with her. We have no friends in common. I laid eyes on her for the first time just a few hours ago, but Ihave this deep-rooted feeling that we’ve been orbiting each other for lifetimes, waiting for the perfect moment to collide. And tonight’s that night.
“I’m not sure,” I say, chickening out of telling her my real answer.
“You’re not saying something,” she says, immediately latching on to me holding back.
I sigh. “You’re right. Dating and I have a complicated history.”
“You and dating? Are you a couple?”
I chuckle. “It feels like I date to keep my mother happy.” I scrub my free hand over my face. Did I really just confess that to the woman beside me, who I might be in love with? It might be a good idea to try to impress her rather than tell her all the bad shit about myself. For some reason, I have to tell her.
“Is this the bit when you tell me you’re gay and you’re looking for a beard when you date?”
“I think that would be easier. I’m not gay. But my mother wants me to find someone who’s… suitable in her eyes.” Iris doesn’t react. There’s no raised eyebrows or incredulous laugh. I’m grateful. “She’s from another era. It’s not just her. In the circles where I was raised, marrying a suitable person is expected. Required.”
She stares at the ground as we continue our walk.
