“What’s the other option?”
“Report him? Tell him to fuck off? The options are endless.”
“That would get me kicked off the show; I can’t risk that.”
“You know that’s essentially coercion, right? He’s completely abusing his power.”
Her lips pressed into a pale imitation of a smile, the kind you give when there’s nothing left to say. My chest tightened, the silence between us louder than anything. Resigned, not bitter—that was the worst part.
“There must be something you can do,” I pushed. The tense interaction at the bar the other day suddenly made more sense.
“I need this job and the money…” She trailed off, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something. Her gaze searched my face, then she continued in a whisper, “Maybe if I get the winner’s bonus I can think about a new job.”
Some of the tension in my chest eased for a moment, but then a thought occurred to me. “Do you think he’s going to be a problem for us winning?”
Matilda shook her head. “No—well, hopefully not. It’s down to the viewers, and Mark doesn’t have control over our routines, so we can hope.”
“Good.”
Matilda hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking to the floor as she shifted on her feet. She took a deep breath before meeting myeyes. “Why are you doing the show, Luca?” she asked, almost timidly.
I debated not telling her the real reason I needed to win the show—it felt too close to home, too real for whatever this partnership was. But my mom’s face flashed in my mind, and I found myself wanting to tell Matilda abouther.
“For my mom,” I offered, and Matilda’s eyes softened, encouraging me to continue. “She was diagnosed with ALS a few years ago, and we don’t really know how much longer shehas.
“I’ve made some questionable decisions in the past, but I want to make her proud. I’m being considered for Johnny Castle in a remake ofDirty Dancing,but the producers want me to clean up my image first. Hence the show,” I finished and gestured around the room.
“Luca, I’m so sorry about your mother.” Kindness emanated through every syllable, but I didn’t want sympathy—it was too painful. As per usual, Matilda must have read this on my face because she smiled and dropped the sadness. “WhyDirty Dancing?”
That was safer territory.
“It’s my mom’s favorite film. We used to joke that the only reason she put me in dance lessons as a child was because she wanted her own little Patrick Swayze. It feels like fate that they’re doing a remake.”
“Oh, Luca, that’s so lovely.” She shouldered her bag again, and I gestured to the door for us to make our way out. “Is she a dancer?”
“No, but she loves watching it. She doesn’t even know about the Johnny Castle audition; she’s just excited to see us skate.” Every time we spoke on the phone, she sounded so happy that I was restarting my acting career, probing me with questions about future projects and industry news. It just solidified that I’d made the right decision.
I held the door open for Matilda, who flicked off the lights and thanked me as she darted through.
“Well, that’s it sorted, then. We’vegotto win now.” She smiled conspiratorially over her shoulder, as if we had some shared secret betweenus.
Like we were actually a team.
By the fifth week oftraining, we were smashing it.
I had mastered all the basic skills needed for the show’s first few performances, and we had finalized our choreography for Musicals week. Some areas like the two lifts and the skating-together section still needed polishing, but we had the rest of the week to perfect them.
Matilda and I had settled into a routine. Although I offered brief answers, Matilda never stopped chattering. Pointless facts about her littered my short-term memory: she dreamed of visiting Greece, loved folk music—especially the “ding-y guitar,” as she put it—and preferred Diet Coke over Pepsi Max, along with other random shit I really didn’t need to know.
She’d pester me with questions, too, and I hoped that my short answers would deter her. They didn’t. I found myself begrudgingly telling her what I thought was the best way to eat a KitKat. And that, no, I didn’t like pineapple on pizza—this won me a ten-minute monologue about why pineapple did, in fact, belong on pizza. And yes, I agreed that a Jaffa Cake was obviously a cookie and not a cake—I’d learned by that point it was probably best to agree with her or else risk a culinary analysis of cake/cookie definitions.
Despite everything, I was starting to enjoy her company. Her cheeriness and kindness never faltered, and while her fake act frustrated me, I started to get the impression it was exactly that—an act. One that she used as protection, and perhaps not with malicious intent like I’d originally thought. Sometimes, when I watched her talking to others, I caught her smiling with her mouth and not her eyes. I saw the way that when she thought no one was looking, her face would drop. She looked…tired.Like she was keeping the peace because she didn’t know how to do anything else.
—
On the Fridaymorning of our fifth training week, I entered the reception area, ignoring others and looking for a blond ponytail and oversized sweatshirt. As the show loomed, the studio had gotten busier, with celebrities and their partners squeezing in as much practice as possible. It was somewhat quieter that morning, as we had the press event later in the evening. Most of the partners had taken the day off, but we’d opted to stick to our practice routine.
The press event would be the first time I’d see Matilda in anything other than her tiny gym attire or a baggy hoodie. She was annoyingly beautiful when she made no effort; I dreaded to think how breathtaking she’d look all dressedup.
