Limerence (Famous Young Things #2)

Four

Four

Nico

I get a polite but chilly welcome from most of LBC. After spending the morning being given the company tour by Benedict Wells and his sprightly PA, I’m taken to their conference room to sign a stack of contracts concerning my new position here: the employment contract, insurance papers, public relations agreements (they’ve already set up a handful of interviews they want me to give while I’m here, one of which is a Vogue spread for their February issue with Felix in a couple of weeks), and general social media commitments.

It was already starkly different from Romasco; I’d taken part in a watch campaign once about three years ago, but I hadn’t been very good at modelling for the photos and hated the entire thing, so I’d told Lena I didn’t want to do it again. I wasn’t here to fight with anyone though, so I’d just nodded and signed the papers like a good little boy.

After Felix and I’s reunion in the changing room, I’d been taken by Ben to the main studio for introductions. They’d clearly been expecting me because the class of around twenty leads and soloists had been sitting on the floor in little pockets, waiting, when I entered.

Fen Lai, who was an exceptionally talented ballerina before she retired, is the lead instructor here, and she welcomes me with a tight but warm smile as Ben makes me introduce myself. A joke really, because there’s not a single person in this room who doesn’t know my name, weight, and inside leg measurement.

Taylor-Brooke bursts into the class a few moments into my introduction, Fen Lai glowering at him with all the force of a tiny thunderstorm. He’s changed out of the hoodie and sweats he was wearing in the locker room. Now wearing a loose grey tank top that shows the sharp angles of collarbone, a peek of torso, and sliver of pectoral. If he leans forward, I might even be able to see a nipple. His tights are a darker grey and accentuate the shape of his calves and ass. I wait until he’s across the room before I continue.

“…to be back. I’m going to give you guys and LBC everything that I have. It’s an honour for me to be dancing alongside some of the most talented performers in the world.” I meet Felix’s eyes directly; he’s glaring at me with unspoken threat. “I hope I can earn your respect and, in time, your friendship. Thank you for having me. And thank you to Benedict and the board for the opportunity. Fen, I’ll try not to give you too much trouble.”

The small woman’s face softens as she ducks her head.

“As long as you turn up on time, I am sure we will have no problems,” she says pointedly.

“I promise to always be early. It’ll get annoying after a while.”

Ben comes forward and slings an arm around me. “An honour to have you here, Nico. Now, everyone, go do what you do best.”



The class is good; Fen is exacting and hard to please, which I like. She doesn’t go easy on me, or anyone else. Felix doesn’t put a foot wrong. It’s as infuriating as it always is to watch; how naturally he moves, the soft way he lands, the way the air seems to lift him from the floor and carry him with it. I watch as his cheeks darken from rose pink to red, his chest dapples with sweat, and his muscles tighten and pop. I’m not the only one watching him; the entire class does. Transfixed in the eye of perfect form and easy grace. His face gives away nothing, not effort or exhaustion. It’s a mask of pure focus.

And then I’m called to solo. It’s a short sequence I’ve been doing since I was eleven, nothing at all challenging about it. A leave from attitude to cabriole , a triple step chassé and a movement across the space into grand jete . I could do it with my eyes closed, but for today, all I need to do is ensure it’s better than his. Smoother than his, anyway. That my extensions are more clinical than his. I can feel him watching me, wanting me to fuck up this simplest of exercises. It’s a little more distracting than I like, but I execute it fine.

It’s a few more hours of floorwork before Fen calls it a day. It seems early to me from what I’m used to, but since I never started until after lunch, it feels like we’ve done very little. I’m barely even warmed up.

As the others filter out, I make my way across to Fen. She’s talking to her assistant: a tall woman made of hard angles pulled over pointed bones.

“Nicoló, how did you find your first class with us?” Fen asks, turning to me.

“No problems on my end, it’s been good to get back into it properly. I never stopped dancing, but it’s different in a class with other dancers. You don’t know how you hold up.”

“You hold up,” she says.

“Um, good. So, I wanted to ask about the protocol for late rehearsals, do I need a key or a pass or something?” It’s something I’d meant to ask Noah, Ben’s PA, but had forgotten.

She shakes her head, turning to scoop up her cardigan. “There is security out front, you have your code for the door, yes?” I nod. “You leave by the student entrance when you go. And if you are here before six, it is the same. Good? Good.” And she’s gone in a flurry out of the room. Her assistant throws me a friendly glance and runs after her.

The arched windows of the room give a view out onto the grey rooftops of Covent Garden. It’s raining again, a slow, constant drizzle which dapples the windows and darkens the sky. I do another hour of bar work, stretching my body out until it aches and the light outside starts to die completely, and then I head for the locker room. It’s blissfully empty, only the smell of men and showers lingering behind. I decide to sprint home and shower there. I hate rain but I do like running in it, like the sensation of wet air on my heated face. According to the map app on my phone, it’s less than a mile, which will get me home in plenty of time before I have to go back out for my appointment.

As I slip out of the student entrance, I pull up my DP playlist and set it to start on Trick of the Light, flick on my app, and start to run.



The office is in a very modern building with a sparse reception area. An elderly man with a bulbous nose lifts his head from his paper when I approach the desk. He reminds me a little of my father.

“Hana Berenguer,” I tell him.

“12th floor. Lifts are there.” He points across the lobby and goes back to his newspaper.

As I come out of the elevator on the 12th floor, a woman is waiting for me. Small and thin, with a warm smile and a shock of grey hair cut short on one side and left long on the other. She’s wearing an ankle-length green dress and a pair of yellow boots.

“You must be Nicoló,” she greets. There’s a faint accent that I am guessing is German from the name, but truthfully, I’ve no idea. “I’m Hana.”

I nod, shaking her hand as I follow her down a carpeted hallway into a small cosily-decorated room. It’s an office: there’s a desk, but it doesn’t quite feel like one. There’s a small sofa, a wall of books, and a comfortable-looking armchair. Plants are scattered around on tables and shelves. A print above the wooden desk shows what appears to be Santorini.

Gretchen recommended her. They’d gone to university together and were very similar in lots of ways. She’d said, “It will feel like you are with me.” We’d agreed on my trying this initial meeting, and if Hana and I didn’t click, then Gretchen and I would resort to video calls for our sessions.

“Anything to drink?” Hana goes to the corner of the office where I see a small kitchen set up.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Me too, actually.” She sits, hands clasped in front of her, with that same almost motherly smile she gave me as I got off the elevator.

“You have seen my file? Gretchen has told you why I see her?”

Something faintly sad flashes in her eyes. “She has, yes.”

I nod, glancing at my own clasped hands.

“I thought we could get to know each other a little today—it is a free session—before we get into anything too serious. I want you to feel comfortable talking to me, Nicoló. It’s important that you feel you can.”

I nod again. “Yeah, I get that.”

She smiles. “So, I’m Hana. I was born in Mechelen, in Belgium. I came here to London to study when I was nineteen, and I never left. I met my husband at work; we were both teaching languages in a school in South London. But when he died quite suddenly, I decided to do something with my life that I had always wanted to do—which was this, here. So I went back to university and retrained as a psychotherapist, and I’ve been doing it for ten years. Aside from marrying my husband, it was the best decision I ever made. I don’t have children, but I do have a couple of cats and a dog whom I love as though they were.”

I’m not certain what to say to any of that, so I just offer her a smile. She has a nice energy, something in her manner that does remind me of Gretchen. I’m not sure where or how to begin, and while yes, she is a therapist, opening up about myself has never come naturally to me. I only started this, let’s call it, journey, about a year ago, and I’m better at it now than I used to be. But getting started is always the biggest hurdle for me.

I’m grateful when she puts me out of my misery.

“Gretchen told me some things about you, so I know that you were born in Calabria but moved to America with your mother when you were ten, where you stayed for seven years before going home to Italy to dance. Rome is actually one of my favourite cities; I go often.” This I already knew because Gretchen had told me. Hana and she saw each other multiple times a year. Part of me wonders if maybe her and Hana are more than just friends but that’s not my business.

“I also know you’re an extremely talented ballerino.” This she says with weight, one that suggests that the reason I’m sitting in front of her is related to this fact, which is the truth.

“Ballet is the only thing I know how to do,” I admit. “It made sense for me to become very good at it.” The truth was, I’d had very little choice.

Hana nods. “And what about hobbies? Things you enjoy doing outside of dance. Do you have anything like that?”

“Why is that important?”

Her kind expression doesn’t falter. “Well, it helps me understand you in the round; I find it useful to know what sorts of things help you relax, or which you do to clear your head.”

I shift in my chair. “I work out. I listen to music. I read. Sometimes I take photos—I like photography.”

“Solitary hobbies, I see.” It’s not said judgementally, just with a note of understanding. She sits back a little in her yellow chair, studying me with large, kind eyes. “What about your family? Do you have a good relationship with them?”

“It is fine. Nothing wonderful, nothing terrible.”

“I know from Gretchen that your mother has passed, some years ago?

“Cancer, yes. When I was sixteen.”

“And your father? You’re close to him?”

“Surely Gretchen told you about that?” It comes out sharper than I mean it to. It’s not her fault I’m tired, wired, and knotted with frustration. Being around Felix today was more… challenging than I thought it would be.

“We cover a very basic level of information, Nicoló. If you feel I’m the right fit for you, then Gretchen will pass over your file.”

“Right.”

I don’t know if I want to do this. It feels too much like starting over again, though I know it’s not true; it’s not starting over. Because deep down in the core of me, I know I’m better. I know I’m getting better. “My sister and I are close. I mean, we’re getting there again. She just had a baby and when I took some time off, I helped her. So we’re closer than we used to be. When I went to the States with my mother, to dance, it sort of fractured our family.” I’m really not sure I want to do this, so I close my mouth up tight.

“You have never spoken to her about what happened to you?” Hana asks softly.

It’s a slightly different direction to what I’m expecting. I shake my head to the question.

“No. I’ve never spoken to anyone about that,” I admit. “I mean, aside from Gretchen. It’s why I do this. So I don’t have to tell anyone else about it.”

She gives me a very sad look. “But is that something you want to be able to do someday? Tell someone? Someone you love and trust.”

I stare at her. It’s a new question: not something Gretchen had ever asked, not like that at least. And for some reason, it’s not Porzia I think of. Not Icaro or Antonio or my father. It’s him.

Felix.

Because in all of the realities where I’m better and I’m healed and I’m allowed to have the life I want, it’s him who’s there next to me. It’s Felix Taylor-Brooke holding my fucking hand and looking into my fucking eyes and telling me how I’m his and he’s mine. He’s not getting cream-pied by twinks he meets in Ibiza. He’s mine.

And I fucking hate him for it.

I hate that I’ll never get to fucking have it.

But mostly, I hate myself—for being infatuated with my biggest fucking rival since I was fifteen years old.

For being so embarrassingly and stupidly in love with him all these years.

“Yeah,” I tell Hana. “I’d like that.”



The boy is beautiful.

I know that boys are not supposed to be beautiful. Or rather, I know that I’m not supposed to think they are – but he is. That thought forces itself into my head as he moves across the stage. Golden curls like a painted angel. Skin a rich, pale-gold that peeks out of his vest. Pale indigo tights stretched across supple calves and legs. I know I shouldn’t be looking at his legs, either. But he extends them into perfect lines, from shoulder to fingertip and hip to toe, and it’s impossible to look anywhere else.

He’s younger than me, dancing in the 12-14 category. Though, he’s better than some of us in the 15-17.

He’s better than me.

I feel the presence behind me, and I stiffen.

“13,” Sergio says. “That is how old he is. You are not even as good as he is now. You will never be as good as him.”

I know. I wanted to reply, but talking back had never gone well for me.

“Watch how he moves into dégagé.”

I watch. It is flawless. The boy points his foot backwards, weight supported on his straight leg. It is the end of the routine, and he holds that position for an unholy amount of time. Releasing, he drops into a low bow on one knee before ending in fondu.

He skips backwards with a bright smile and disappears behind the purpose-built screen. The room was a large conference hall, turned into an arena for this event: the European Grand Prix. The upper mezzanine is for warm-up, giving us the perfect view of the floor below, where the competitors spring and jump in front of a panel of twelve judges. We are in some city in Germany I cannot remember the name of.

“You are up fourth. Get ready. I will see you downstairs,” Sergio says before striding off, I assume to go smoke. He smokes when he is angry or stressed. He smokes too much.

I do what he says, practising my double assemblé in the space I’d managed to conquer when I arrived. Then, our numbers are being called, and I pick up my towel and go downstairs to the main hall. Two officials ask for my number in accented English, though it is printed clearly on the sign affixed to my outfit.

“84,” I tell the woman, hoping that I’ve said it correctly. I am getting better at English, but numbers still trip me up sometimes. She hands me a small card with the number 4 written on it and points me through into the arena. I look around for Sergio, but do not see him. Some of the other dancers have their family as well as their coaches with them, and I try to imagine what it would be like to have mama here.

It would be nice to see her smiling face watching from the side, to hear her applaud too loudly when I am finished. She’d wrap me up in a tight hug and tell me how proud she is. But the travel costs are too expensive (father already resents the money he sends for my coaching and board), so it is just Sergio, and he will not applaud me. Next year, the Grand Prix is being held in Rome, and she will be able to come. Perhaps even Porzia, Antonio, and Icaro would come. Father, of course, wouldn’t come.

It is during the third dancer’s routine that Sergio reappears by my side. The smell of cigarettes turns my stomach.

“He is not good,” he says, studying number 46. “His legs are too short, so he does not have the power for the jumps. And he rushes his routine.” The boy wasn’t as skilled as the beautiful blonde from the younger group I’d watched earlier, but he wasn’t as bad as Sergio’s tone suggested he was.

When he is finished and the judges are conferring together, Sergio turns to me and settles his hands on my shoulders. Looking into my eyes, he says, “You have practiced this routine for months. You can execute it almost to perfection if you want to. Or you can be lazy. You can embarrass yourself and me. Do you want to embarrass us here?”

I swallow and shake my head. “No, sir.”

“Your parents starve themselves to put you here; your brothers and your sister go hungry so you can dance. Do you want this to be for nothing?”

“No, sir.”

Behind me, someone is calling the number 84. Sergio releases me, and I move toward the stage, thinking of his words: your parents starve themselves. Your brothers and sisters go hungry. Do not embarrass me.

I feel like a dog in a cage before a race, trembling with adrenaline as I move into the first position and hold. As I angle my head upwards as the position requires, I see the beautiful boy leaning on the railing, watching me with a look of extreme focus. The music starts and I blast out of the gate.

It goes well. I do not make any obvious mistakes. I remember my extensions and execute my turns well. Or so I think.

Sergio finds me in the warm-down room—a smaller conference space immediately next door to the main arena. Grabbing me by the arm, he pulls me out of the hall and down the corridor. He finds a restroom with a wheelchair access sign on it and tries the door. When it is empty, he shoves me inside and locks the door behind us.

“You embarrassed me,” he growls.

“I did not make any mistakes.”

His palm strikes my cheek. Hot flames lash my skin. No one but my father has ever hit me before. My brothers had been rough with me while we played sometimes, but I had never been struck like this by anyone but my father. I’m too stunned to react.

“You do not decide this! I decide this!”

I hold my cheek and bite my tongue.

“Your eyes were not on the judges; you were not focussed, you were not concentrating.”

But, I want to say, I did not make any mistakes.

“What else is on your mind? What else is more important?”

I look down, away from the cold grey eyes that fume with anger. I do not know if this is a question I am supposed to answer.

When he grabs me and shakes me, I understand that it was.

“Nothing. There is nothing more important.”

“Sir,” Sergio warns. “There is nothing more important, sir.”

“There is nothing more important, sir.”

He throws me backward and drags a hand through his hair. I shrink back against the wall and try to become invisible. I understand then that Sergio will never praise me. No matter how well I do. No matter if I won. Still, I will not be good enough. My faults will always be more important than anything else.

“I am going to smoke. Pack your shit and meet me outside.”

“Yes, sir,” I said quietly.

He gave me one last disgusted look before opening the door and charging down the corridor. My cheek hurts, so I run the cold tap and pour some water on it. When I am calmer, I open the door. Outside, lying flat on his back on the floor and stretching his legs upward, is the beautiful blonde boy.

Your eyes were not on the judges; you were not focussed; you were not concentrating.

“Oh, hey,” the boy said. “It’s you.”

He is English. His accent is very smooth and very British. Like the queen’s.

I freeze. Had he seen Sergio come storming out? Did he know I’d just been hit by my coach for not being good enough? I turn my still-hot cheek away from him.

“I was hoping I’d see you. That routine was amazing! Bluebird is so hard. How long have you been practising it? Like, the height you get on your doubles is totally insane, mate.” He was twittering on like a bird. He was still lying flat on his back, but he shifted then and sprung to his feet. “Can you do the 540? I bet you can. I’ve been practising for about two years, though my coach doesn’t know. She’d kill me.” He laughs, and it’s soft and pretty like a girl. His eyes, a green-gold colour I’ve never seen before, twinkle with mischief. “Anyway, I just wanted to say great job! You’re definitely gonna take the category. Easy. Did you see the guy from Germany? Christ, like a fucking baby elephant clomping around. Stick to the circus, buddy.”

“Felix!” an impatient female voice shouts from the other end of the corridor, back towards the warm-down room. “Hurry up!”

“Shit, that’s my coach. Anyway, it’s good to meet you; keep up the good work. I’m Felix, by the way!”

He didn’t wait for me to tell him my name. He just skipped backwards, pirouetting away down the corridor.