I’m an accomplice now. Whatever’s happening between them, I’m in on it. The fucking line has been crossed.
Chapter 8
Ava
Nevin’s hand rests on my neck as we pull up to the lane leading to his sister’s mews in Edinburgh. One of those hidden coach houses behind the Georgian terraces, renovated into property, the cost of which dwarfs what some people earn in a lifetime. I try to summon a shred of sympathy for anyone forced to celebrate getting older in the miserable, slate-grey bleakness of mid-January, but mostly, I’m dreading the next few hours.
He brakes for the final turn, and the seatbelt pulls tight across my lap. The bruise on my hip has faded to the colour of mustard. I press my thumb against it through my dress, dig into the tender flesh until my eyes water. The sting centres me.
Christmas at the Neely family estate. It’s two and a half weeks, and I wish I could forget it. Because that’s where I got this bruise. And the pain is a constant reminder of how it happened.
Stone walls, twelve-foot ceilings, cashmere, and cruelty wrapped in bows. Nevin’s mother served goose and passive aggression. Nevin was tipsy by three and sharp-tongued by four. His cousin made a joke, and I laughed two seconds too long.
Nevin noticed.
Afterward, in the boot room, pressed between Barbour jackets and mud-crusted wellies, he pushed me so hard I flew against the wall. ‘You think he’s funny, do you? Making eyes at my bloody cousin in front of my family?’ I counted to fifty, stared at a spot on the wood, and let the words wash past. The trick, always, is to keep your face blank. Let the body scream quietly.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that boot room, counting. Wishing I was sinking into the sticky upholstery at The Wallace instead.
But Nevin ruined the last Tuesday cinema afternoon of December for me, too, keeping me miles away from The Wallace. He also didn’t want to go to the Rebels’ Christmas party, moping over the dress code. But I think the reason was that some journalist in the Sunday papers wrote that his legs were going, and his ego couldn’t stomach the boys taking the piss. And then he insisted on an extended stay at his parents’ estate from Christmas through to Hogmanay, barricading us in the country.
Now we’re on our way to his sister’s birthday party. He swings into a bay on Charlotte Square, cutting the ignition before the tyres are even straight.
‘Ready, babe?’ His question isn’t a question. They rarely are.
So I follow him out the car. On the other side of Princes Street Gardens, the Edinburgh Castle is a clunky shadow against the black sky. Lit up, a stage set in the distance. My foot holds on the slippery cobblestones. Dr Menzies finally signed off on my ‘Return to Performance’ protocols three days ago. It’s barre only, no jumps, but I can take class.
It should feel triumphant. But my new schedule claimed the Tuesday afternoon slot. It belongs to Glasgow now, dedicated to the ruthless hunt for the solo. I’m training for our spring production. I want to be Principal, and I’m happy to bleed for it. I’m a ballet dancer. We are all masochists in tulle.
Nevin clicks his tongue. ‘Are you going to stare at the pavement all night? Stop dawdling, babe.’
He holds his hand out, and I take it. His skin is cold against mine.
Polly’s mews is a converted stable with arched windows and trailing ivy frozen stiff. Fairy lights flash along the roofline.
She throws the door open before we knock. ‘Darling brother! You’re here! So are your rugby…friends.’ She lunges at Nevin, air-kisses both cheeks. ‘I don’t know why you made me invite them. We shall see if we can keep them under control.’
Then she turns to me with a pinched mouth. ‘Ava, Love. Look at you. Such a…nice dress. Vintage?’
‘Thanks.’ I’m one hundred per cent sure it wasn’t a compliment. Vintage in Polly’s circles means heritage Hermès. In mine it means charity shop. And she knows it.
‘Come in, come in.’ Polly waves us past an elephant-foot umbrella stand. The floor is a minefield of footwear, Nikes, suede ankle boots, strappy heels abandoned where they fell.
The air is thick with Prosecco, cologne, a floral perfume drowning beneath it all. A speaker on the sideboard pumps out bass that shakes the ancient original beams overhead.
One hand still on my back, Nevin herds me through the crowd. ‘This is Ava, my ballerina.’ He flashes his teeth at a cluster of young men I don’t recognise. Polly’s doctor friends? ‘Ava is in the Scottish Ballet. Corps de ballet.’
I don’t correct him. What’s the point? I rehearsed like a maniac for three months. Stayed late and came early. I earned the technically demanding role of Marzipan. I’m not corps de ballet. The comment sits on my tongue, but I bite it back and shove it into the vault of things I’ll never say out loud because the aftermath isn’t worth it. I’d rather save my energy for the things I can control and pour every ounce of my fire into the choreography. That’s my real world. That’s all that matters.
Nevin routinely mistakes my silence for submission, oblivious to the fact that it’s nothing but apathy and disengagement. The thing he doesn’t see is that I stopped loving him a while ago. Whatever I felt at the beginning died piece by piece each day. Now this relationship is a corpse I’m still propping upright because the alternative, standing alone, frightens me more than his temper.
It’s not all him. It’s me, too.
‘All the girls on stage look the same. It’s perfect for her, really. She hates standing out. Right, babe?’
He has been to one ballet. One.
A gorgeous blonde woman in a sequined top grabs Polly’s arm. ‘Who’s headlining TRNSMT this year? I heard rumours about Gerry.’
