‘I’m sorry.’
His gaze lifted. It travelled from my trainers to my face and stayed there, dissecting. A faint line appeared between his brows. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it.
‘Where the fuck were you, Ava?’
‘Nowhere. Driving.’
Then the glass shattered in the sink.
He turned and grabbed my wrist to hold me there. To make sure I listened. The clamp of his fingers cut off the blood.
‘Why do you lie to me? I only want to know you’re safe. I need to know you’re safe!’
As it turned out, he had driven all the way to the Tramway in Glasgow. He had brought flowers. Roses, the long-stemmed sort you see in films. He had made reservations at a posh bar in the Merchant City because he had planned to surprise me with a romantic evening.
And I wasn’t there.
He sat in the car park for an hour, watching every dancer leave, until the building went dark. Then he drove home to Stirling and waited. Cleaned up and rehearsed his questions.
A romantic gesture. That’s how he framed it. The roses wilted on the worktop while he held my wrist. Dead petals scattered across the granite, blood-red confetti for a party no one was having.
‘Ungrateful, stupid, lying bitch.’
I managed that night by dissolving. I let my shoulders drop, let the tears spill, told him I was struggling with the injury, the pressure, the fear. I assured him I didn’t want to burden him and that it was all too much. That was true.
The second I made myself small, the flip switched, and Nevin grew gentle. The fury was replaced by suffocating sweetness. He pulled me into his chest, stroked my hair, crooned that he would take care of everything, because I’m ‘unbelievably precious’ to him. He said that there’s nothing more important to him than us.
Not sure that’s the case anymore. But it’s what he keeps saying.
I think Nevin loves a broken thing because it gives him something to glue together, which makes him feel useful and powerful.
It’s impossible for me to be the girlfriend who went to the cinema by herself. That would imply independence – or disobedience, depending on your point of view. I can only be the fragile creature who drove around aimlessly because she couldn’t bear to tell him she had been sidelined. I have to let the pain in my foot be the headline act.
I probably should have ended it in August.
We were arguing about a dress he thought was too low-cut and too tight for his cousin’s daughter’s christening. He didn’t yell; he went stone-cold and didn’t say one word to me for the entire day. At the end of which I stood in the hallway, keys in my palm, and thought about walking away.
I could have marched out. A clean break.
But clean breaks are for people with somewhere to land. Laurel was already packed for Hong Kong. Perhaps she would have stayed for me, but I would never do that to her. And neither of my parents were an option. I can’t live in Northern Ireland or Aberdeen and dance in Glasgow. Not that I would ring them. The last thing I remember before they stopped pretending is Dad’s voice through the wall, going at Mum about the fees, the endless number of pointe shoes, the petrol.
I know the feeling. My credit card has been hitting its limit on a regular basis. And since the pay scale at Scottish Ballet leans more on prestige than pounds, I don’t have enough savings for a large deposit, let alone a hotel bill.
Nevin offered me stability: a full fridge, being able to turn the heating on whenever I like, and someone else paying the council tax. So I stayed and told myself that this, too, shall pass.
What the hell am I still doing here?
I should put the car in gear and navigate the roundabouts to Nevin’s flat. Our flat.
And yet I don’t start the car.
The dashboard clock says 19:14. If I drive fast, I can be there in seven. If I drive slowly, I can buy myself ten more minutes of oxygen.
God, I’m hard work. I know I am. I’m a collection of neuroses. My schedule is antisocial, and I’m often too tired for sex. Who else signs up for that?
And… He tries.
When I had a panic attack after the audition in October, Nevin found me hyperventilating outside and didn’t tell me to calm down. He held me, bought me a brownie, and spent the evening on the sofa watching three hours of documentaries, massaging my feet.
