When we are alone, Nicole sits on the piano bench. ‘I’ve been watching you for years, Ava. You have beautiful feet. Perfect placement. Excellent technique. And that is why you were so unbelievably boring.’
The word is a slap. My chin whips up – reflex, defence, the old armour slotting into place to hide the hurt. ‘I-I know.’
‘You dance too carefully. Technically perfect. Like if you extend too far, you might knock something over. But today? You were someone who wanted to burn the Tramway down.’
A smile spreads across my face. The first one in weeks. ‘I might.’
She exhales. ‘Good. That is the Mary I want. Strong and vulnerable. Dangerous. You showed hunger, Ava. That is what I’ve missed in you. It took a while, but finally, you got there.’ She picks up a folder. ‘You are ready. The role is yours. First cast. Premiere is in August. Prove me right.’
I stand there. The words should be fireworks – explosions of light in the chest – but they settle. This is it. The goal. The dream I’ve had since I was four years old in a studio in Cumbernauld, wearing pink satin and believing in fairy tales. Title role. Principal dancer.
‘I will.’
* * *
At half six, after finishing my final rehearsals and signing the contract rider, I walk out of the Tramway and into the setting Glasgow sun. I got the part. I’ll be Mary, Queen of Scots.
I’m still waiting for the euphoria and the rush of dopamine. The sense of arrival. But it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel…excavated. Scraped bloodless.
I unlock my phone, but I don’t know who to call. Dad is offshore. Mum is at her pottery class. Laurel is asleep in a time zone that’s already tomorrow.
There’s a void where a celebration should be. This is the success I chased for years. The external nod that says you matter. But it feels like the adrenaline crash after an exhausting fight with Nevin. Empty.
I’ve got no one to tell.
And there’s one person whom I’m desperate to share it with.
I stare at the glass until it goes dark in my hand.
If this is winning, it feels a lot like losing.
Claire isn’t home either, so I drag myself up the stairs to the attic studio where the radiator hisses but produces little warmth. I drop my bag on the floor without turning the lights on and collapse onto the rug, my back against the bed.
My body hurts. The high has drained away. All that’s left is the familiar soreness and the raw heat in my left big toe. I reach up and drag the throw from the bed, wrapping it around my shoulders.
I got the part.
I say it out loud, as if that would make it somehow real and tangible. ‘I got the part.’ The words bounce off the sloped ceiling.
This is the validation of one of the most fabulous choreographers in Europe. And I’m sitting on the floor of a stranger’s house alone. As I dig inside my bag to find my makeup wipes, my fingers brush against something stiff and papery in the side pocket. I pull it out.
A cinema ticket. The ink is so faded, it’s barely legible. The Wallace Picture House. 12 November. Screen 3. 17:20.
The evening I met Scottie.
I turn it over in my fingers. The paper is soft at the corners.
He bought me popcorn and offered me the bag before he took any himself. He didn’t know who I was. Or at least, he didn’t know that I was a dancer. He only saw a girl who needed a friend. He didn’t pick me because I was a prize or because I fit his aesthetic. He didn’t actually pick me. There was no picking of any kind.
We simply found each other.
I close my eyes. Scottie risked his career for me. He walked into a boardroom and threw his reputation on a grenade because he couldn’t stand the thought of me being afraid and questioned and humiliated.
And what did I do?
I ran and told myself I was doing it for him. But I stole his choice to protect my own fragile ego.
When I finally open my eyes, the room is dark, lit only by the streetlamp outside. Laurel was right. I was scared that if I stayed, and he saw the real me, he’d realise he made a mistake.
