Slow burn, p.13
Slow Burn, page 13
One day, perhaps, I would work out why that was. I knew it was not because I did not enjoy being with the women I slept with – being with somebody, full stop – but because I had this need to keep an emotional distance that I could not quite explain. My father had repeatedly told me that dancing was for girls. The kids at school had teased me relentlessly for doing ballroom dancing lessons instead of football. Sometimes, I wondered if this was my way of showing everyone just how much of a red-blooded alpha male I could be.
As if she could somehow sense my thinking, my mother called. I nearly did not pick up, I should be preparing for the show, but she was probably calling to wish me luck and it felt mean to let it ring out.
‘Ciao, Mama,’ I said, putting my feet up on the dressing table and letting myself relax. I had a little while until I had to be on stage, and speaking to my mother might be good for me. At least it would stop me worrying about not having any friends who wanted to come and watch me perform in the biggest show of my career.
‘Is now a good time?’ asked Mama, sounding more subdued than usual. Something was wrong.
‘What’s happened?’ I demanded to know, sliding my feet back onto the floor, sitting up straight. ‘Is it Papa?’
There were a couple of beats of silence. It was Papa, then, and whatever it was my mother was about to tell me was not going to be good.
‘He had a fall,’ she said. ‘Out in the vineyard.’
I swallowed hard. ‘Cazzo. Is he okay?’
‘He’s been checked over by a doctor. Apparently, he needs to ease up – they say he’s been working too hard.’
‘Right,’ I said. I knew where this was leading.
‘Can you come home, Gabriele? Just for a night or two? A day, even, to give him a little time to recover?’
I was about to go out on stage – there was no way I could make decisions like this right now.
‘Mama, I’m about to perform. Can this wait until later?’
My mother went quiet for a second or two. ‘We wouldn’t ask you to come if it wasn’t necessary. We know how important this show is to you, but we need you here, Gabriele.’
‘What did the doctor say, exactly?’ I asked. ‘Is there something else, something you are not telling me?’
My mother sighed. ‘It is not for me to say.’
‘You called me! The least you can do is give me all the facts. If it is an emergency and I need to come home, I will have to put measures in place. Get the understudy to take over. Is that what you want, Mama? Is that what you need me to do?’
I thought I probably sounded more frustrated than I meant to. And it was selfish of me to be thinking about myself at a time like this. But I could not help hoping that there would be some other way. If Papa was going to get better, then surely he could find temporary help for the farm? Did I really need to give up on this role, this show? My show.
‘Gabriele, we have let you follow your own path all of these years. Papa never wanted you to dance, you know that. He could have forced you to work on the farm years ago.’
‘Forced me?’ I said, confused. ‘And how would he have done that, exactly?’
‘Do not speak aggressively to me,’ said my mother. ‘I won’t have it.’
‘This is my life, Mama. My choices. Why are you holding my dancing career over me? I didn’t realize I had to choose between my job and my family – I thought it was possible to have both.’
‘It was, for as long as we could. But now we need you. It’s what any son would do.’
‘You sound just like Papa!’ I said, raising my voice again and putting my head in my hands. Why could they not understand that their demands had been unreasonable? Living in rural Tuscany, running a farm, I would never have been happy. And I disputed the idea that it was what all sons would do – most of the dancers I had met over the years thought only of themselves and their careers, and I had always been envious of their freedom. My parents were wonderful in lots of ways. I just did not agree with them on this one – admittedly very big – thing.
‘It’s time, Gabriele. Time to put your family first. I’m sorry, I know the timing is bad, but your father is getting sick – he wouldn’t want me to say this, but that is how it is. And he needs you. We both do. And we would like you to come home to run the farm with us as soon as Slow Burn has completed its run.’
I let this sink in. The realization that this was it, the moment I had been dreading and hoping would never come, but knowing deep down that it would. It was looking increasingly likely that this was going to be my last tour.
* * *
The entire cast were in costume, made up and waiting in the wings. Mama’s phone call had thrown me, but I had put it to the back of my mind for the show. Our only brief tonight was to do what we did best: entertain people; transport them to another place for an hour and a half and ease their worries away. If we were engaging enough, they would be thinking only about what was on stage and not about the difficult things that were going on in their own lives. I wanted them to be completely captivated, and I had every confidence that we – particularly Lira and I – could do that for them.
The stage manager gave the five-minute call. I stole a glance at the auditorium through a gap in the curtains. Carlos had been right, it was packed, and there was an air of excitement, the anticipation of being one of the first to see a show that would soon be talked about in newspapers and online, and if it proved to be a sell-out, they would be pleased that they had taken a risk on booking tickets. If we played it right, they would be the first to tell everyone at work about us, to buy tickets for their in-laws, to gush about it to their friends. Word of mouth could not be ignored – if we wanted the show to be a success, we needed people all over the country to be talking about us.
I felt a shift in energy as the house lights went down. I knew I said I would not, but I snuck a quick glance at Lira, and she must have had the same idea, because her big brown eyes, shining even in the semi-darkness, met mine.
She nodded.
I nodded back.
We did not need words. We knew what we had to do. And there was no going back now.
* * *
Out on stage, I let the audience drive me, my fears waning as I glided across the floor, spinning Lira, lifting her, finding the spotlight, performing moves that I knew were daring and thrilling to watch. The audience were enraptured, and broke out into applause and cheers after each and every number. We were doing it. They loved it; it was working. I pushed myself even harder, made every step even more perfect, because I wanted that for them, I wanted them to come away feeling the emotion that I was feeling with Lira in my arms.
It was only as I pulled her out of our final position at the end of our Argentine tango that I let myself look at her as anything other than a dance partner. It was not true to say that she could have been anyone before that – it had almost entirely been about the particular spark that we generated together. But as we stood at the front of the stage to take our first bow, and the audience were on their feet, I took her hand and linked my fingers through hers. When I glanced across at her, she was beaming, enjoying the moment, just as I was. And I felt proud of her for deciding to say yes to performing again; for even showing up to that audition after years away from competing. And if this was my last tour, I was happy that my very last professional dance on stage would be with her.
Carlos had instructed us to go straight to the bar after the show, where he would likely want to introduce us to some of the influential guests he had invited this evening: producers, tour managers, agents and journalists. A glass of champagne was pressed into my hands and I lost sight of Lira as Carlos took me by the arm, congratulating me in my ear.
‘That was magnificent, Gabriele. We will have the press eating out of our hands.’
As I met person after person, all of them on a high and exceptionally complimentary about the show, I found myself dropping Lira’s name into the conversation. It felt only right that her performance should be equally as lauded as mine.
Lira James is a protégé of Carlos Torres.
Lira James is a former world champion who has been out of the industry for a little while and now she has come back with a bang.
Lira James is the most phenomenal dancer I’ve ever worked with.
I kept catching Lira’s eye as she worked the room, hanging mainly with Luca, but occasionally Carlos would pull her across to talk to a producer or a particularly influential member of the press. I wondered what she was saying about me. Was she as complimentary about my dancing as I had been about hers? I guessed I would find out when the reviews came out.
When we finally had a moment alone together, I wanted to keep hold of it.
‘Come to my dressing room,’ I said to her on a whim.
She nodded, following me to my room, stepping inside after me. When I turned, it was like she had been frozen to the spot; as though she was unsure about being here in this room with me. I was not sure, either, given our track record for being alone together, but I decided for her, reaching past her to press the door shut. She looked at me, her face shiny from the exertion of the last couple of hours, her eyes bright and animated, as though maybe she had never had a night as wonderful as this.
Physically, we were close. Closer than we had been for a while, if you did not include the dancing; if you did not include that night at her studio.
She pressed her back against the door, although her eyes never left mine. Before I could stop myself or think better of it, my mouth was on hers. She responded quickly, deeply. It felt… like nothing I had ever experienced. Her lips were so fucking pillowy and satin soft, like I could just fall into them and never come back out. A moan coursed through my body; I could not hold it in. She must know now how much I wanted her.
‘Lira,’ I said, enjoying the way her name bounced around my mouth, kissing her neck, running my tongue all the way up to her earlobe. She arched her back away from the door. She wanted me too.
Good. A relief.
I found her mouth again because it was just too delicious not to. She parted her lips and I slid my tongue inside. Jesus, it felt so good. Everything about me felt more alive than it ever had; every cell inside of me was begging for more. Whatever it was she was doing to me, I needed her to keep doing it.
Suddenly she put her hands on my chest, pushing me lightly away.
‘We shouldn’t—’
I hesitated. Nodded. ‘I know,’ I said.
There were a few painful moments of longing before I plunged my mouth onto hers again. It was no good; I could not keep away. I was frantic with longing. Threading my fingers through hers, I pinned them above her head as she ground against me.
Of course we should not do this. It was a terrible idea, especially after the conversation I had just had with my mother. Much like our first meeting, there would be a definite ending to whatever this was. I would be in Italy after the tour had ended, most likely, and Lira would be beginning a new chapter of her life elsewhere.
And yet, still I wanted her.
I let her arms drop, sliding my hands into her hair, gasping with pleasure as my fingers became tangled in her soft curls. For the show, she had worn her hair slicked off her face and held in place with a shiny bun, but now strands of it were breaking loose and I buried my face in it, breathing in the scent of her. I moaned again, completely involuntarily, and this time I did not care how loud I was, or who might hear us. She cried out, too, seemingly not caring either.
I pulled her towards me. Effortlessly, she wrapped her legs around my waist. I carried her across to the dressing table, gently placing her down on the edge of it. Removing one hand from her body, I swept all my things off the table, sending everything clattering onto the floor.
She was still wearing her final costume, a red satin dress that clung to every curve. I eased the thin pieces of fabric off her shoulders. She found the zip herself, reaching behind her back, letting the dress fall forward to reveal a black lacy bra that barely contained the full, round breasts I had thought about repeatedly over the years. I unclipped her bra, wanting it out of the way, throwing it to one side, and then I ran my thumb over one nipple and then the other.
She threw her head back, laughing with delight. How lucky I was to have found her again when I had thought that one night was all I would ever have.
I was so caught up in how beautiful Lira looked half-naked, the baby-soft skin of her back pressed flat against my mirror, that it took me a moment or two to register the knock on my door. And Carlos’s voice outside in the corridor.
‘Gabriele? Are you in there? There is somebody you must meet!’
Lira looked at me with fear in her eyes – she knew as well as I did that Carlos would not be happy to find us together. With no words needed, we instantly began scrabbling to get dressed, to right ourselves, to put on the clothes that had been peeled off and flung aside. She put the back of her hand against her cheeks, hoping, presumably, to calm the flushed skin there.
I ran my thumb under her chin, desperately wanting to kiss her again but knowing I could not.
‘Rain check?’ I whispered.
She nodded, an unreadable smile forming on her full lips as I sighed, straightened myself up and headed for the door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Lira
Two days later, it was unusually quiet in the house when I woke and padded downstairs for breakfast. Mum and Dad had left for their trip, their ship setting sail from Southampton and heading for sunnier climes.
We’d only spoken once since our argument at the studio, and the conversation had been stilted and tense, not helped by the fact they were rushing to finish their packing, and I was obviously anxious about my performance. I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself, but the truth was, I’d sort of expected Sedi to make the effort to come and watch the show instead of wasting the ticket I’d put aside for her at the box office. Sure, she had a temper, and was definitely one to storm off and sulk on occasion. But we’d always been close despite our differences, one of which was that usually I avoided conflict at all costs while she waded right into the middle of it, all guns blazing. Nolo was more like me in that regard, although even she wouldn’t shy away from speaking her mind when she had to. I wasn’t sure where this need to be perfect all the time had come from – was it something my parents had done differently with me, or was it just part of my personality, something I would have to work hard to change?
Whenever we’d fallen out in the past, always over something relatively small, I’d been the one to approach Sedi; to say sorry first. But I hadn’t done that yet because, well, I didn’t think I needed to. What exactly would I be saying sorry for? Okay, I definitely could have told them earlier, when it first happened, the night Carlos had returned to the studio and asked me to audition. But wasn’t I allowed to keep anything to myself? I’d never imagined it would go this far, and hadn’t thought in a million years that I’d be cast, so I hadn’t exactly felt like broadcasting it to my entire family. Also, I knew their reaction would have put me off – they’d have been keen to remind me that it had been years since I’d set foot on a proper stage, and that it took time and practice to be a professional dancer, neither of which I had in their opinion. They were right – I definitely didn’t have the time, what with running the family business for them 24/7.
I made myself a coffee and some breakfast, threw open the French doors and took a seat on our little patio, looking out over the garden, relishing the peace and quiet of having the place to myself.
It was a lovely home, and of course I felt a hundred percent comfortable here; it was where I’d spent almost all of my life. But I didn’t own this house, just like I didn’t own the studio. I craved having something that was actually mine and only mine; something that nobody else had any say over, that wasn’t in some way linked to any other members of my family.
What I was going to do about this realization I had no idea, but even recognizing it was a start.
After breakfast, I walked down to the local newsagent’s and bought one copy of every newspaper they had in stock. Carlos had told me that, as it was Thursday, most of the reviews would come out today. It nearly killed me, but I didn’t look at them until I got home, scared of what I might find.
What if they were terrible? What if they raved about Gabriele – as they would, I was sure – but were disappointed by his less-talented female lead? What then? My family would have an I-told-you-so field day. And I would be left wondering why I’d tipped everything on its head for nothing.
Back at the house, I stalled even longer. I made a cafetière of coffee. I emptied the dishwasher. And finally, when I started clearing out the tins cupboard, a job I usually avoided at all costs, I knew enough was enough. I was going to have to look and face the consequences of whatever these journalists had to say. After all, even if they’d hated it, it didn’t mean everyone who came to see it would feel the same way. Although, could we really hope for packed auditoriums if it was panned across the board?
I laid the papers out on the breakfast bar, deciding to get one of the harshest critics out of the way first. I was familiar with their scathing reviews of books, restaurants, TV shows and anything else they could turn their somewhat vicious pen to. Nervously, I flicked through the pages one by one until I reached the theatre reviews column. There, in glorious technicolour, was a photograph of myself and Gabriele at the end of our rumba. He was standing behind me, one arm in the air, the other across my stomach. My hands were over his hand, holding him close, our last step before he spun me around and we ended the dance in an almost-passionate clinch. The headline read:
SLOW BURN IS A SEXY TRIUMPH
I swallowed hard. That was good, wasn’t it? I skimmed through the rest of the review, still half expecting them to highlight me as the show’s weak link. I only got one mention, but they’d called me a relative newcomer and an exquisite dancer, so that was okay. I could breathe again. Although there were still seven more newspapers to go.
