Eleanor smiles knowingly. ‘“So you’re alone here?”’
‘“Not any more.”’ Sinclair’s not taking his eyes off Eleanor as he reaches for her drink. ‘“If I drank from your glass, it would be like a kiss, don’t you think?”’
‘“Would it?”’ Eleanor asks, putting her hand on his as he lifts her glass to his lips.
‘“Or so I’ve heard,”’ he says huskily.
Their eyes are liquid heat. ‘“Then it must be true,”’ Eleanor breathes. ‘“Let lips do what hands do when they pray.”’ She presses the palm of her hand to his and follows his strong arm up to his shoulder. Sinclair bites his bottom lip, and my mouth goes dry.
I flinch as Mr Acevedo applauds.
‘There, you see! That’s exactly what I was talking about. That’s exactly the vulnerability and passion we need. Fantastic work, you two.’ Sinclair blushes visibly and immediately shrinks two steps back from Eleanor because he’s such a bloody gentleman. She gives him a quick smile. I want to boak. ‘Victoria, what do you say?’
I freeze, but I smile. All the same, my voice is revealingly croaky as I say, ‘Yeah, it was amazing.’
12
TORI
I think I’m jealous. There’s no point in denying it any longer. I feel more and more toxic with each rehearsal as I’m forced to look on while Eleanor and Sinclair’s stupid chemistry deepens even further. It’s horrible. I don’t want to be like this, but my emotions aren’t giving me any choice. It gets on my nerves the way Sinclair’s eyes keep straying in my direction every time they’ve played a particularly intense scene. It’s almost like he has to keep checking I’m OK. I’m the assistant director: it doesn’t matter to me. All I should care about is the play being a success, which is why I’m giving them tips I’ve got from books on ways they can build up even more tension. I let them have their starring-role moments and make an effort to grin and bear it. It’s easier when I’m there and can watch. The afternoons that Eleanor and Sinclair are spending alone togetherto get to know each other betterare a different kind of dire because they leave everything to my imagination. It’s only too easy to picture them falling in love with each other, having deep and meaningful conversations on long walks through the wintry countryside around the school. I usually try to arrange to meet Val at the same time because that feels a bit like revenge and taking back control. If I’m honest, though, it’s also incredibly childish.
I haven’t seen Val this evening. He’s probably in the gym, doing another round of weights, like he always does after rugby training. It doesn’t seem particularly healthy to me, the importance he sets on his appearance and the existence of unnecessarily ripped muscles, but last time I tried to talk to him about that, he said it might do me a bit of good to come as well, sometimes. Obviously I took that as an insult, so now the only thing that helps me not to keep thinking about Val, Sinclair, Eleanor and this whole complicated mess is to read. It works for precisely five minutes, then Sinclair messages me.
S:What are you doing?
T:Nothing. You?
S:I’m at the bakery.
S:Want to come?
It’s ages since he asked me, and I haven’t dared just turn up unannounced. Who knows? Maybe he’s been inviting Eleanor round there so that the two of them can shape bread rolls together, or do other things. Which would be OK – they’re meant to be getting closer. I don’t have a problem with that, even if that place and our nights together there were always just for us. Besides, I’m sure he comes up with more exciting plans for Eleanor. So I’m left with the bakery.
T:Give me five minutes.
Of course I need longer than that just to choose a jumper and put my hair up in a bun that looks flattering yet messy enough to make Sinclair think I didn’t do it just for him. The usual thing.
The February night is clear and frosty as I leave the school grounds and walk to the village in the dark. If I hadn’t lived here for seven years, I might find it creepy, but Ebrington is deserted at this time of night. Sinclair’s Bakery is the only shop with alight on. It feels like déjà vu when I knock on the glass door and, a moment later, Sinclair opens it. He’s wearing his dark red apron and a beanie hat to keep his hair out of the way. His hands are dusty with flour, his forearms strong and muscular as he kneads the dough and I listen to his lines. When he suggested it, I jumped at the idea because it’s a handy way of avoiding other conversations.
‘“It’s easy to laugh at this pain if you’ve never been hurt,”’ he says, practising a speech about Rosaline, who broke Romeo’s heart. He’s very convincing. ‘“I used to think it was pathetic too, but she caught me off guard. Lucky for me that I’ve stopped spending every waking second thinking about her since I met Juliet. Hold on . . . That’s her house, isn’t it? Why is there a light on this late? It’s . . .”’ He pauses and his hands stop kneading.
I give him a moment, but when he looks to me for help, I prompt him. ‘“The east.”’
Sinclair looks even more confused now.
‘“It is the east and Juliet is the sun,”’ I repeat.
His face brightens. ‘Oh, yes.’ He looks away again and clears his throat softly. The way Sinclair slips in and out of this role is the most attractive thing I’ve seen in ages. His expression is almost transfigured when he’s Romeo. I wish he could be like that all the time. ‘“She is the east and . . .” Wait, no.’
I have to laugh. ‘Maybe that way works too.’
He looks at me with those Romeo eyes that cut me to the quick. ‘“It is the east and Juliet is the sun. She is the sun, temptation, and the daughter of my accursed enemy. A Capulet, what a bad joke . . . But does that mean I want her any less? Of course not.”’ His eyes flit over me. ‘“I shouldn’t be here. If anyone sees me there’ll be trouble. But I can’t leave, I must hear her voice. Just look at the way she’s leaning her head on her hands.”’
I flush as I realize I’m actually resting my chin on my palm. I hastily straighten up.
Sinclair clears his throat. ‘“She’s so far away but I can’t forget how soft her skin looked. Oh, God, I can’t put her out of my head, just because she’s a Capulet.”’
I feel kind of dizzy as I speak Juliet’s line. ‘“Woe is me . . .”’
