His face changes. Not the snarl I expected. His mouth goes slack, and his eyes widen. For half a breath, he’s not a bully. He’s a human staring at something he destroyed without understanding how it happened and what his role in it was.
My anger melts.
Then his sleazy act clicks back together. ‘She’ll crawl back, eventually.’
‘She won’t. And actually…’ I look him up and down, as if I’m inspecting a stain on the pavement and assessing whether or not it’s dog shit. ‘…you’re the one who’s done here.’
He lifts his hand. A reflex or threat. Doesn’t matter. ‘Go on. Fucking do it. I dare you. Come on. Give them another reason. Let’s fucking go!’
‘You’re holding a Chihuahua, Nevin. I’m not punching a man holding a wee dug. I love animals. But I despise arseholes.’
He looks over his dog’s tiny head past me at the men watching him with eyes like flint. He realises, finally, that he isn’t the wolf. He’s the rabbit. He lowers his hand and slumps down an inch.
‘Och, don’t piss your trousers, Nevin. I’m not gonna punch you again.’ I turn away with a shrug. ‘You’re not worth the bruises. Took three days for my knuckles to find their shape last time. What’s your thick head made of – cement?’
‘Oi! Neely!’ Coach Wallace barks across the tarmac. He’s standing at the double doors resembling an executioner – only with bottle-brush moustache. ‘Office. Now!’
Nevin scans us – the team that has just amputated him. Cut him clean off because he’s a sad man with ego and anger issues. A liar and a liability. He cradles his dog against his chest and strokes its ears. Then he hunches inward and trudges towards the building.
I don’t envy him.
‘Right.’ Brodie breaks the silence. ‘Lunch at the Sin & Tonic. Now. My shout.’
The lads cheer and surround me, pulling me towards the cars.
The victory is a mouthful of sand. Nevin’s history. My career is safe. Yes, I have my team. But the one person who matters isn’t here. And the silence on my phone is heavier than anything I’ve ever lifted.
Chapter 24
Ava
For the past month, I’ve dismantled myself and rebuilt the pieces into a machine. Wake up, train until each muscle screams in protest, rehearse until the toenails bruise and surrender. Sleep. Repeat.
Today is not a standard audition. There are no paper numbers pinned to chests, no cattle-call lines stretching into the industrial corridor. This is a ‘creative workshop’. Ballet code for we want your soul flayed open on the floor.
Fine. They can have whatever is left of mine.
Artistic Director Luc Tonnaire and choreographer Nicole Rousselle occupy the front of the Peter Darrell Studio like statues in judgment, though right now, only Nicole matters. Small, sharp, and lovely, Nicole takes no notes. She doesn’t need to when her eyes track every micro-adjustment. For the coming ballet, they want a Mary Queen of Scots who can carry a full production without breaking the audience’s trust.
That’s the prime job right there.
Claire left a mug of tea outside my door this morning with a Post-it stuck to the handle: Knees soft. Chin up. Don’t dance like you’re apologising. I peeled the note off and tucked it into my leotard strap. She didn’t knock. She never does. She simply knows.
I adjust the strap of my pink leotard. It bites into the trapezius, a grounding pinch that tethers me to the room instead of letting me drift back to the dead-air silence of my attic studio or the black screen of my phone.
The Machine is survival strategy. It isn’t built to feel things. It doesn’t think about a certain rugby player who can bend a tyre iron over his knee but holds your face like blown glass. All this contained power, this huge, squishy heart…
Nope. The machine never falls asleep crying. Ever.
Focus.
‘Allez!’ Nicole’s French accent cuts the humidity of the studio. ‘I demand more than steps. I know you can do them. Even the corps can do that.’ She flicks a manicured hand at the pianist, and he drops a loud chord. ‘Show me the woman who has lost everything. The young widow, the lover, the politician. I want the betrayal. Show me the woman who is not asking permission. Show me the queen who walks to the block with her chin up!’
Nervous energy spikes the air. The Principals – three of them, standing in a tight cluster – shift. Elena, the current reigning queen, probably considers this a formality. She’s incredible. The way she danced Giselle last season… But she assumes Mary belongs to her by right of succession.
And we shall see about that.
Principals first, then soloists, then the hopefuls who are supposed to be grateful to breathe the same oxygen. I’ve earned the right to stand here. This is my moment.
