* * *
Four hours later, the Great Hall at Stirling Castle is candlelight and history and haggis. Long tables draped in white linen, glasses glittering under chandeliers. All decked out for a Burns Supper. A lone piper stands in full Highland dress, the drones humming low. It’s beautiful. I should be soaking the evening in.
But Nevin’s drinking too fast. Again. Instead of the candlelight, I’m fixated on the level of the liquid in his glass, listening for the shift in his tone and mapping the distance between the man who brought me here and the one I’ll have to manage later.
His laugh grows louder with each dram of whisky, his hand heavier on my thigh. I shift in my seat, angling away, but his fingers tighten. A reminder. Sit. Stay.
I smile at the couple across the table. Nod along to a story about someone’s sister’s gap year in Thailand.
Scottie sits a few seats down from us with other Rebels. His suit jacket strains across his shoulders. Hands built for rucks and ripping the ball free wrapped around crystal. He seems out of place, a man meant for open sky squashed into formality.
God, I miss hanging out with him.
Our eyes meet, and my belly does a slow, inconvenient flip. I count four seconds of eye contact before I force myself to look away. Four seconds. A whole arabesque.
‘Ava’s brilliant at what she does.’ Nevin’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I force my attention back to my segment of the table. He is addressing the man to his left, but the rest of our part of the table is listening – and Nevin loves the attention. ‘Scottish Ballet. She’s in the corps.’
Jesus. He knows I’m on the road to become First Artist. He knows that I’m working my arse off to become Principal dancer. He just doesn’t give a shite.
The man nods politely. ‘Must be demanding.’
‘Oh, it is. For me.’ Nevin shows a row of teeth in a grin. ‘She’s great at the pretty stuff, aren’t you, babe? Like a cute coat rack.’
Hollow laughter ripples around the table – the sound people make when they are not sure if they want to laugh, but they also don’t want to seem rude.
The chandelier overhead blurs into a wash of light.
Keep your face still. Scream quietly.
But my fingers tremble on my bobbing knee.
‘Honestly, she’s a bit obsessed.’ Nevin leans back, swirling his whisky. ‘I tell her it’s just dancing, you know? It’s not saving lives like a doctor. But she gets so worked up.’ He shakes his head, the picture of exasperation. ‘Dancers, eh? So highly strung. Need a lot of managing. Sometimes I think there should be a support group for their partners.’
More awkward laughter. Smaller this time.
I’m not sure he’s joking, though. I think he genuinely sees himself as a martyr who has to deal with the burden that is me.
Arsehole.
I lift my water glass, take a sip, and set it down. A warning bell rings in my head. De-escalate. Fade. But the ‘coat rack’ comment is a splinter I can’t work out. It’s not so much the insult to the discipline. It’s the reduction. To him, I’m an anecdote. Or decorative. A prop in his life, not a person. Like an Italian espresso machine.
He is five whiskies deep, and his reaction time is slowed. I have a window to strike.
‘Good thing Nevin is so patient. Not everyone could date a woman who has a professional career on an international stage.’ There. A flash of the Ava I used to be. The one who argued back. ‘And it’s not like he is a doctor, either. Only a bloke with a ball. And playing locally. So he has enough energy left to manage me. I’m a lucky, lucky girl.’
Nevin’s grin hardens. The micro-expression is there and gone, a flicker of surprise that I’ve dared to bite back in public. Although his whisky-brain can’t really comprehend what I said. The retort was wrapped in enough self-deprecation to pass as a joke. He probably won’t remember it.
I hope to God he doesn’t.
I rise. Every movement is calibrated for control. Not for a second do I wobble. ‘Excuse me, I’m going to freshen up.’
Someone asks Nevin about the upcoming match, and he launches into an analysis of Edinburgh’s scrummaging. He doesn’t even look as I slide my chair back.
I walk with my spine straight. Ballet dancers don’t run.
I navigate the minefield of chairs and trailing gowns, push through the oak doors, and keep going. The corridor is cold stone and dim lighting, ancient castle walls that have seen centuries of people fleeing dinners they couldn’t stomach. I find a recessed window and splay my palms against the cold rock. My breathing is a shallow, rapid pattern that precedes panic if I don’t get it under control.
In for four. Hold. Out for four.
