Limerence (Famous Young Things #2)

One

One

Felix

Two years later

T he waiter has a glorious arse. It is, as far as I can tell, the only saving grace to this absolute shit show of a birthday dinner. That, and the cheque Miranda just slid across to me. Enough zeros on there to pretend my father cares. Though I suspect she’d slipped it out of the book he keeps in the top drawer of his desk and written it herself.

“I’m sorry, Felix,” she says, sounding genuine.

I glance at the cheque. “You don’t have to apologise for this, Miranda.” I tuck it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket and give her a smile.

Miranda has a soft kind of look on her face. She’s my father’s third wife and far better than the last one (whose name should never be mentioned in his presence if one knows what is good for one) and has been trying to shape herself into some sort of mother figure to me since the day my father introduced us. It was frighteningly clear to Miranda that I’d been without a proper parental figure for too long. She couldn’t have children, as far as I knew, and since I had stopped being one when I was 16, she was out of luck.

“There’s a bill due through the house tomorrow,” she explains. “You know how it is.”

I stab a piece of tender lamb with my fork and bring it to my mouth. Chew. Glance again at the waiter’s arse as he bends over to pour wine into a glass at the table opposite.

“Oh, of course, I do.” I nod as I lift my champagne, counting every sip as fifteen additional reps tomorrow. “Someone has to take from the poor and give to the rich…”

She rolls her eyes playfully as she picks up her own champagne. Just then, her phone rings. Shooting me another of her ‘sorry your father doesn’t love you’ smiles, she stands. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. Probably best you aren’t listening,” she says and moves off in the direction of the foyer. We’re in Claridge’s. A place my father has insisted we come for every single one of my birthdays, which is strange since he rarely makes it to any of them. I watch as beyond the panelled glass, Miranda gestures angrily into the phone.

“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter with the magnificent arse asks with the sort of look I understand implicitly.

I turn my most charming smile on him. “Oh, that really depends.”

He smirks, dark eyes glinting in the low light. He’s got the body of a footballer, not a dancer, lean and tight. “On?”

“On what time your shift ends. See, it’s my birthday and my father didn’t make it again, so now I sort of want to get roughly fucked by someone who’ll let me call them daddy.”

I see his eyes widen and his throat move as he swallows, but the interest in his eyes only grows. I take a slow, deliberate drink of my champagne and wait him out.

“I get off at midnight,” he says.

A glance at my watch tells me it’s 8:42pm.

“That’s a shame,” I pout. “My birthday only lasts until midnight.” I hold out my glass for him to refill.

His eyes don’t leave mine as he pours, risky since the bottle cost ￡300 and I would not hesitate to make him bring another if he messed up.

“Maybe I could get off a bit earlier,” he says quietly as he replaces the bottle back in the bucket. “Like 9:30?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Mhm. Well that would certainly be more convenient.”

He swaggers off with a glance over his shoulder. Miranda makes another apology on my father’s behalf when she returns, confirming the cabinet are all locked in a last-minute review on tomorrow’s bill. She pays for the meal, and we sit in the bar to finish our drinks while we wait for the taxis.

“What will you do now? Something exciting planned with your friends?” she asks.

“Ah, actually, I’ve rehearsal tomorrow, so no, probably just an early night.” Not entirely a lie. I’m thinking if Alex the waiter gets to mine at 10, fucks me into the mattress for an hour, I can have him out and into an Uber by midnight then I can, in fact, get an early-ish night.

“The casting is next month, yes?”

I nod, flattered she remembered. “My chances are excellent, but you never know. Sometimes it’s just about who’s right for the part rather than anything else.” Also not a lie. But Ben would be a fucking idiot not to cast me in whatever the production is next year. I’m his best, and my chances are better than anyone else, but I still believed in never speaking these kinds of things into the universe for fear it would rip them away from me.

Miranda reaches across to squeeze my hand. “You’re the finest dancer they have, Felix. They’d be insane not to put you front and centre this season.”

“Thanks, Mir, that means a lot.”

Her face gets this sad look again and I know what she’s about to say before her mouth even moves. “He is proud of you, you know. Even if he never says it.”

And he’s never said it. Not once. I’d never spoken that into the universe, either. I wish for once he’d say he was proud of me. I’d stopped caring about it a long time ago; understood the madness of wishing for something that was never ever going to happen.

“Not sure that’s true, but thanks for saying it anyway.”

“I’m sure your mother would be proud of you too. Of the man you are, of the dancer you are.”

I feel the thick threat of emotion inch up from my chest to my throat. Not fucking here. Not now. I shake my head and retract my hand from hers. She pulls her own back like I’ve burned her.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” she says softly.

“No, no it’s fine.” I give her my stage smile. “I’m fine, truly. Just… no one really speaks about her all that much. It feels strange to hear her mentioned, is all.”

“Your taxi is here, Mrs Brooke,” says the ma?tre d’. She’s holding Miranda’s Burberry coat out to her.

“Thanks for coming,” I tell her. She moves to pull me into a hug.

“Come for dinner at the house soon, yes?” she says as she pulls back.

“Sure,” I lie.

“Happy birthday, Felix.” Her whole demeanour is sombre as she gives me a small wave and disappears out the revolving glass door.

I’m waiting only a few moments before the waiter appears, carrying a small white box wrapped in a deep-green bow.

“Courtesy of Claridge’s, for Mr Taylor-Brooke,” he says, handing me the box. “Happy birthday.”

I take it from him and tug the end of the ribbon, opening the box to reveal a square of glazed chocolate fondant inside. A bright red cherry sits on top like a jewel. On the lid of the box is a phone number and the words ‘ Text me your address – Alex.’

“Oh, it will be.” With a loaded look at Alex the waiter, I swipe my finger across the top of the glaze and suck it into my mouth. Then I turn and stride out of the restaurant. I wait until I’m settled in the taxi to pull out my phone.



The next morning, I meet Ava in the kitchen, where she’s shovelling yoghurt and granola into her mouth while scrolling on her phone. She lifts her eyes to me as I reach for the coffee pot.

“Did I imagine the hot guy in the hall last night?”

“You did not.”

“So it was a happy birthday then?” She grins lasciviously.

“Moderately.” Alex’s cock had not been as glorious as his arse, sadly, though he had a good idea how to use it. Proving that point, I wince a little as I sit down across from her.

“Tell me, how the fuck did you manage to pick a guy up while out for dinner with your dad?” She looks impressed, if a little horrified.

“Because daddy wasn’t there.” I sip my black coffee.

Her face clouds, darkening. If hating my dad was a show, Ava would be lead principal, soloist, and artist of the company. “You’re fucking kidding? Again?”

“Again.”

“That wee fucking shite,” she says, sounding very Irish. Angry, she dumps her spoon into her bowl. “Well, I’m glad you got some good sex then, babe. You deserve it.”

I bat my eyelashes. “Thanks, babe.”

“You get another cheque, then?” She raises an eyebrow. Last year we’d gone on a five-star all-inclusive weekender to Ibiza with my birthday cheque. Sex, sand, and stinking hangovers paid for by the party whip himself.

The truth is, I don’t need money. LBC pays me pretty well, enough to live on at least, and there is no rent to pay—this old, converted building had belonged to my grandfather (on my mother’s side) and she had left it to me along with the rest of her fortune—so I get to live in Regent’s Park for free.

But money and political influence is how my father solves most of his problems. The latter has never helped him solve the problem of me, so he throws money at me instead.

I’ve been a problem since my mother died. I was ten and already problematic for my father (far too effeminate and far too into ballet for his liking). So, acting out for attention was my raison d’être for the first half of my life. Eventually, though, I realised that there wasn’t anything I could do that would make him give a shit about me. Bad behaviour was rewarded in the exact same way good grades were: apathy and then money.

So now, at 22, I do as I please. I dance for a living, fuck whomever I want, and lavish my (and his) money on my friends instead. Or rather, Ava and Charlie, and the acquaintances at the company I haven’t managed to piss off or fuck over.

Ava lives here rent free because I refuse to take money from her. We saw each other ten hours a day anyway, and when her flat share turned sour and she needed a place to stay, it made sense for her to come here. It’s a huge place, and since I’m not the greatest at being alone, it’s actually more of a quid pro quo arrangement. She might not pay for rent, but I got something money can’t buy: a staunchly loyal, highly trustworthy, disgustingly talented Irish ballerina with a gutter mouth who would defend me to the death.

“Sure did.” I grin. It’s her birthday in early February, and I already know I’m going to take her to Champneys as a surprise. We both need facials, massages, and champagne breakfasts after the last fucking production.

She gives me a smile and goes back to scrolling her phone while I go back to drinking my coffee.

“No fucking way,” she gasps, eyes widening.

“What?”

“Nico Savini,” she exclaims around a mouthful of granola. I inwardly groan at the name. I’m hoping he’s broken something or announced his permanent retirement or gone missing on a solo hike in the Alps, but I’ve never been that lucky.

“He’s coming back,” she reads. “Savini, who took a very publicised hiatus two years ago after the sudden tragic death of Sergio Cina, his childhood coach, is in talks with all of the Big Five in what is being called the hottest bidding war since Natalia Pescu was poached by New York in 2014.”

“All of the Big Five ?” I repeat. A horrible sliver of unease moves over my gut, a roiling. Dread. I lean over the table as Ava angles her phone at me. It’s worldballet_official’s Instagram account. Notable for their accuracy. Sure enough, the post has a picture of Nico in mid- soubresaut, topless and wearing grey tights. ‘Savini to return to the stage’ it reads in bold black letters.

Just when I’d almost forgotten about his existence entirely.

I catch Ava’s eye.

“Ben wouldn’t, would he?” she asks me, a panicked look on her face.

Usually I’d say no. And with certainty too. But lately, Ben hasn’t been as happy with me as he used to be. He called me arrogant and self-centered at the last review; told me I wasn’t as good as I thought I was, told me there were plenty in the company who could take my spot. It was a lie, obviously. We both knew it was. There was no one in the company who was even close to good enough to take my spot. I’d told him this. In fact, there was only one other dancer in the world who, in the safety of my own soul, I would call better than me.

And he had gone on hiatus.

“He’d never come here,” I say, looking at Nico’s soubresaut again. The perfect arch of his back, the perfect extension of his legs, toes, fingers. There’s no one dancing right now who comes close to me, Ben, and you know it. That’s what I’d told Ben that day. And it had been true. That day, it had been true.

Nicoló Savini had made lead principal at Romasco Allegro when he was 17, the youngest to ever be given the role. He went on hiatus at the height of his career, as the highest-paid ballerino in the world. He’s 24 now and has been away from ballet for over two years, and for anyone else that would mean something. But Nico is… something else. He is made differently than any other dancer I’ve ever seen. And I would not put it past him to fucking saunter back into ballet as good, or better, than he sauntered out. Right into my fucking company.

The breath disappears from my lungs as the very real possibility comes hurtling into sharp, lucid focus.

I stand up from the kitchen table. “Ben is going to bring him to LBC.”

Ava blinks, bewildered. “Why would he do that?”

“Because that’s what he does,” I say. “He brings us back from the fucking wilderness and makes us eternally loyal to him.”

“You’ll kill each other,” she points out, correctly. “If Nico Savini comes here, you’ll fucking kill each other. Surely he knows that?”

“Oh, he knows. But who doesn’t love a bit of bloodsport?” I’m already on the couch, pulling on my trainers furiously. “Oh, it is fucking on. I’m going to make his life a fucking misery for this.”

“Savini’s? Ben’s?”

“Both. I’m going to make both of their lives an abject nightmare, just you fucking watch.”