OLIVIA
“Are you tired?” John asks. “You look tired. Are you ill? Do you need to use the restroom again? I can have the driver go back to my house. I’d rather not stop along the way.”
“I’m fine,” I say. I hate to be theI’m Finegirl, but I am fine. “I am a little tired. But I’m sad to be leaving London already, to be honest.”
“Ah. Well. I know it was an incredibly quick visit this time, but…” He reaches across the back seat of the Mercedes to squeeze my hand. “Hopefully next summer you can come again.” I wait for him to saywith me. Instead, he says, “Or maybe you’ll get recruited by the Royal Ballet.”
I hold up my free hand and cross my fingers, looking out the window at the beautiful architecture so he can’t see the stupid tears welling in my eyes.
“If you need to take a nap in the car, I recommend sleeping now, because once we get to the Cotswolds, the scenery should be spectacular. In a quaint, rural sort of way.”
I nod, still looking out the window. “Marvelous.”
He releases my hand and goes back to typing on his iPad.
I pick my duffel bag up from the floor at my feet and place it against the door as a makeshift pillow. I have to punch it and maneuver it around because it’s being an asshole and isn’t doing what I want it to do. Why can’t it just be soft and pliant and a safe place to rest my head when I need it to be, the fucker?!
I watch John for a while from my corner of the back seat. His ability to focus on whatever he chooses, whenever he wants to, is infuriatingly attractive to me. His discipline and drive are no different from mine as a dancer. It’s just that it’s off-season for me, and he has no off-season. Nor does he have an off switch, it seems.
I am trying to imagine what it would be like, being in a relationship with him when I’m in ballet-mode. Maybe it would be perfect. He’d be busy. I’d be busy. We’d find an hour in our schedules a few times a week to engage in stress-reducing bedroom activities together. Otherwise, we’d live separate, successful lives. We’d be conjoined only by our genitals, a shared history, and a love for my brother and parents.
Or maybe he doesn’t even want that. Maybe he only occasionally requires someone he doesn’t have to make an effort with, for business trips and gala events. Maybe he doesn’t want the same person every time.
It is disappointing that my euphoria has so quickly devolved into neurosis. It’s very unlike me to be wondering where I fit into a man’s life.Blech.I’ve never cared whether or not Julian was thinking about me when he wasn’t around. I was flattered and happy to hear from him when he wanted to see me. Then again, whenever I have seen him, there’s never been a spark, and I’ve never felt challenged. The same is true for every other guy who’s not John.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I try to remember what it felt like, slow dancing with him last night. Every muscle in my body remembers the choreography of that dance that Mrs.Broadhurst taught me when I was twelve. She told us that waltz was the piece she had chosen for the first dance with her husband at her wedding because it was what she was dancing to the first time he saw her perform. She wanted to do the dancewithhim. She showed us pictures of herself as a beautiful bride. I couldn’t get it out of my head all year—the photos or the music.
I cover my face, shocked and overwhelmed by the idea that for the rest of my life now, every time I hear “Beautiful Dreamer,”I’ll think of Johnny Brandt. His voice. The way his hand rested on the small of my back. And how he had no idea that while he was busy typing away on his iPad, I was sitting next to him, deciding on that song for the first dance at my own wedding. Stunned that I somehow can’t picture myself dancing to it with anyone other than him.
“Wake up, beautiful dreamer.”
I awaken to find my head in John’s lap. He’s looking down at me with an expression that’s a curious mix of fondness, impatience, horniness, and frustration. I now think of it as his O-face, because it’s how he’s always looked at me. I just didn’t recognize the horniness until very recently. The car isn’t moving, and I can hear the trunk—or boot, as it’s called here—opening and the sound of footsteps on pea gravel. John’s holding his hands up in the air so I can sit up, and I wish I knew if he’d had his hands on me while I was sleeping. I wish I’d known I was sleeping with my head in his lap.
I sit up and look around to see that we’re parked in front of a beautiful country house. “We’re here?!”
“Yes, we’re in Broadway. This is where we’ll be staying for two nights. Merrick’s house is about a ten-minute drive from here, in Chipping Campden.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up? I wanted to see the countryside.”
“You were sleeping so soundly. And when I tried to wake you up to see the scenery, you mumbled quite distinctly, and I quote:Shut up, nerd—I’ll look it up on YouTube.Then you shifted around to go back to sleep with your head in my lap and said,Don’t you dare move your legs.”
“I did not.”
“You did. And I haven’t moved my legs since. But now I have to.”
The driver opens the rear doors for us, and we both climb out, stretching.
“Holy shit,” I say under my breath as I look around. I was, naively, picturing a quaint little cottage in the middle of a narrow winding road, but this would be considered an estate back home. Huge stone house, exquisitely manicured formal English gardens all around. I think I can see a pond through the garden gate, and I can definitely hear ducks and geese. There’s another Mercedes parked near the garage. “Is this an inn?” I ask.
“It’s a country house. I’ve rented the whole thing and requested that the servants don’t come around during our stay, so hopefully they stocked the kitchen. There should be a big lawn in the back garden for you to prance and twirl around on. For your videos. After the meeting with Merrick. And a big soaking tub upstairs in a big bathroom with lots of light, in case you want to do one of those videos where you show people your skincare routine or whatever.”
The way my heart is pounding in my chest, you’d think he’d just told me I was the most important person in the world and that he’d do anything for me and love me forever. He definitelydidn’t say that. But I go over and throw my arms around him anyway. “This is so fucking perfect!” I squeal. I look over at the driver, who’s carrying our luggage over to the house. “Sorry!”
“Quite all right, miss.”
John gives me a quiet, playful slap on the ass. The driver unlocks a door to the back of the house and then hands John the keys.
I check the time on my phone. It’s after two thirty. We had an early lunch before leaving London, and all John told me was that his appointment with Merrick is at his house at teatime. I’m not sure when teatime is; I just know that I’m to accompany him because Merrick’s granddaughter will be there.
