Chapter 8
Ava
Nevin’s hand rests on my neck as we pull up to the lane leading to his sister’s mews in Edinburgh.
One of those hidden coach houses behind the Georgian terraces, renovated into property, the cost of which dwarfs what some people earn in a lifetime.
I try to summon a shred of sympathy for anyone forced to celebrate getting older in the miserable, slate-grey bleakness of mid-January, but mostly, I’m dreading the next few hours.
He brakes for the final turn, and the seatbelt pulls tight across my lap. The bruise on my hip has faded to the colour of mustard. I press my thumb against it through my dress, dig into the tender flesh until my eyes water. The sting centres me.
Christmas at the Neely family estate. It’s two and a half weeks, and I wish I could forget it. Because that’s where I got this bruise. And the pain is a constant reminder of how it happened.
Stone walls, twelve-foot ceilings, cashmere, and cruelty wrapped in bows. Nevin’s mother served goose and passive aggression. Nevin was tipsy by three and sharp-tongued by four. His cousin made a joke, and I laughed two seconds too long.
Nevin noticed.
Afterward, in the boot room, pressed between Barbour jackets and mud-crusted wellies, he pushed me so hard I flew against the wall.
‘You think he’s funny, do you? Making eyes at my bloody cousin in front of my family?
’ I counted to fifty, stared at a spot on the wood, and let the words wash past. The trick, always, is to keep your face blank. Let the body scream quietly.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that boot room, counting. Wishing I was sinking into the sticky upholstery at The Wallace instead.
But Nevin ruined the last Tuesday cinema afternoon of December for me, too, keeping me miles away from The Wallace.
He also didn’t want to go to the Rebels’ Christmas party, moping over the dress code.
But I think the reason was that some journalist in the Sunday papers wrote that his legs were going, and his ego couldn’t stomach the boys taking the piss.
And then he insisted on an extended stay at his parents’ estate from Christmas through to Hogmanay, barricading us in the country.
Now we’re on our way to his sister’s birthday party. He swings into a bay on Charlotte Square, cutting the ignition before the tyres are even straight.
‘Ready, babe?’ His question isn’t a question. They rarely are.
So I follow him out the car. On the other side of Princes Street Gardens, the Edinburgh Castle is a clunky shadow against the black sky.
Lit up, a stage set in the distance. My foot holds on the slippery cobblestones.
Dr Menzies finally signed off on my ‘Return to Performance’ protocols three days ago.
It’s barre only, no jumps, but I can take class.
It should feel triumphant. But my new schedule claimed the Tuesday afternoon slot.
It belongs to Glasgow now, dedicated to the ruthless hunt for the solo.
I’m training for our spring production. I want to be Principal, and I’m happy to bleed for it.
I’m a ballet dancer. We are all masochists in tulle.
Nevin clicks his tongue. ‘Are you going to stare at the pavement all night? Stop dawdling, babe.’
He holds his hand out, and I take it. His skin is cold against mine.
Polly’s mews is a converted stable with arched windows and trailing ivy frozen stiff. Fairy lights flash along the roofline.
She throws the door open before we knock. ‘Darling brother! You’re here! So are your rugby…friends.’ She lunges at Nevin, air-kisses both cheeks. ‘I don’t know why you made me invite them. We shall see if we can keep them under control.’
Then she turns to me with a pinched mouth. ‘Ava, Love. Look at you. Such a…nice dress. Vintage?’
‘Thanks.’ I’m one hundred per cent sure it wasn’t a compliment. Vintage in Polly’s circles means heritage Hermès. In mine it means charity shop. And she knows it.
‘Come in, come in.’ Polly waves us past an elephant-foot umbrella stand. The floor is a minefield of footwear, Nikes, suede ankle boots, strappy heels abandoned where they fell.
The air is thick with Prosecco, cologne, a floral perfume drowning beneath it all. A speaker on the sideboard pumps out bass that shakes the ancient original beams overhead.
One hand still on my back, Nevin herds me through the crowd. ‘This is Ava, my ballerina.’ He flashes his teeth at a cluster of young men I don’t recognise. Polly’s doctor friends? ‘Ava is in the Scottish Ballet. Corps de ballet.’
I don’t correct him. What’s the point? I rehearsed like a maniac for three months.
Stayed late and came early. I earned the technically demanding role of Marzipan.
I’m not corps de ballet. The comment sits on my tongue, but I bite it back and shove it into the vault of things I’ll never say out loud because the aftermath isn’t worth it.
I’d rather save my energy for the things I can control and pour every ounce of my fire into the choreography.
That’s my real world. That’s all that matters.
Nevin routinely mistakes my silence for submission, oblivious to the fact that it’s nothing but apathy and disengagement.
The thing he doesn’t see is that I stopped loving him a while ago.
Whatever I felt at the beginning died piece by piece each day.
Now this relationship is a corpse I’m still propping upright because the alternative, standing alone, frightens me more than his temper.
It’s not all him. It’s me, too.
‘All the girls on stage look the same. It’s perfect for her, really. She hates standing out. Right, babe?’
He has been to one ballet. One.
A gorgeous blonde woman in a sequined top grabs Polly’s arm. ‘Who’s headlining TRNSMT this year? I heard rumours about Gerry.’
Ha! Saved by the Belle.
‘Drink?’ Nevin asks.
‘Water would be lovely.’
‘No. I need you to look like you’re enjoying yourself.’ He presses a flute of Prosecco into my hand. ‘It’s a party, not a funeral.’
I take the glass, but I don’t sip.
Polly’s house is packed. Bodies spill from the main room into the kitchen, cluster around a makeshift bar, wedge themselves onto a velvet sofa. There’s a pool table in a side room. My gaze sweeps the space and catches on a figure near the far wall.
I’m surprised it took me so long to find him.
Scottie leans against the white-washed wall with crossed arms. His Celtic-shirt strains across his chest, copper hair catching the low light.
His forearms are hatched with stud-marks, healed pink stripes from tackles.
My gaze drops to his quads. They fill his trousers to a dangerous capacity.
Two pillars of muscle that look unyielding enough to stop a train.
He is watching the crowd without being part of it.
Nevin talks about rugby as content for sponsors and a way to piss off his parents; Scottie wears it under his skin.
Polly bops up beside him, bubbly in one hand, the other landing on his biceps. She squeezes and presses her fingers into the muscle, and then she leans in to say something.
My reaction is immediate and irrational. A hot, crawling anger that has no business existing. She is allowed to touch him. He is not mine. He is not anything to me – other than a friend. We watch films and split popcorn, and that’s it.
But her fingers are still on his arm, and that vicious rage keeps gnawing at me.
Stop. You have a boyfriend, whether you’re still in love with him or not. Scottie is your friend. You don’t get to feel this.
Polly laughs and pats his chest before drifting away.
I thought she despised rugby players. Horny cow.
Then Scottie’s focus shifts. He finds me across the room.
The noise dulls to static. For three heartbeats there’s only his face, his shoulders, the impossible width of him. The heat in my stomach dips lower, a slow unravelling that I’m one sip too sober to blame on the Prosecco. It’s the way he looks at me. As if he has been waiting.
I look away first. Before Nevin notices.
It’s been four weeks since Scottie carried me across the ice.
Four weeks since I lied about the fading fingerprints and he let me, which was worse in a way.
He saw right through me and said nothing.
Made space for me instead of demands. I miss that peace.
I miss the dark and the quiet. His warmth in the seat beside me.
I miss my friend.
His number sits in my mobile under ‘Bear.’ I’ve typed three drafts and deleted them all.
Nevin’s hand finally drops from my spine, and I can inhale without calculation. He vanishes into a gathering of rugby players.
Across the room, Scottie still hasn’t moved. His gaze is on me. A flicker of acknowledgment, barely a nod, a gesture easily missed by the rest of the room.
I see you. I haven’t forgotten. I’m here.
I return it. Just as small. Just as loaded.
I risk one more look toward the wall. Scottie has turned back to his bottle, face neutral, shoulders to the crowd. But something has passed between us. Something Nevin didn’t catch. Or did he?
His fingers clamp down on my shoulder before releasing. ‘Come on. Let’s mingle.’
For the next blurry hour, I am the perfect accessory.
I shadow Nevin through a carousel of introductions, I smile at strangers and laugh at jokes.
Nevin introduces me to everyone – my ballerina, my girlfriend, my other half.
Mine. And each time I feel a little more like one of Polly’s expensive purses.
Somewhere in the crush, Scottie drifts further out of sight, but I always track him in the periphery, a copper-headed beacon near the pool doorway.
The room grows hotter. By now, most people are seriously off their tits.
What is it with doctors and partying so hard?
I escape to the drinks table while Nevin dominates the sofa.
My fingers itch with the phantom urge to pull out my phone, snap a photo of the room, and send it to Laurel with an eye-roll emoji.
Polly’s voice cuts through the music. ‘Listen up!’ She stands on a coffee table. ‘This party is dead. We’re going to The Drum Vault. Everyone. It’s my birthday, so nobody is allowed to say no.’
Coats are being grabbed, Ubers summoned, bodies funnel toward the door in a wave of shrieks and laughter.
‘Coming, babe?’ Nevin’s hand finds my elbow.
I don’t look for Scottie. But I feel him move with the crowd, trailing behind me. And I’m glad he is here.
The Drum Vault lives up to its name. Brick walls, low ceilings, bass that reverberates through the floor. The air is tense with the manic desperation of a Saturday night in January when everyone’s trying to forget the dark and the cold.
Nevin is five drinks deep and louder by the minute, which means I’m the one driving us home. Not that he asked or anything. He is with a circle of players near the bar, laughing at a joke only he finds funny. At least judging by their faces.
I’m parked on a stool at the fringes of the action and wish I could join. Dr Menzies said I could dance again. But it’s unwise to remind Nevin what it’s like when I’m moving on my own instead of dangling on his arm.
The music shifts. A slower track, deeper, with a cello weeping under the thud of the bass. My body is already reacting while my mind is still buffering. It’s a version of a classical piece I’ve danced on the studio floor. My hips sway on the stool on pure instinct.
I shouldn’t.
I probably really shouldn’t.
But my feet are already carrying me toward the floor.
My body needs to move.
I find a small gap at the edge, barely room to stretch my arms. No choreography to remember – my brain is switching off. I let my weight sink through my hips, let my spine articulate one vertebra at a time. My tendon holds. My body sings.
And I forget.
I forget Nevin and the bruises. I move because moving is who I am, and I’ve been starving.
Rhythm bleeds into my veins, a tide that is wiping out every conscious thought until nothing remains except the flex of my spine and the slide of my hips.
It’s the rush of finally gulping down a greedy lungful of air after suffocating in a thimble.
My blood runs hot beneath my skin, sinking right between my thighs. Nevin hasn’t touched me in months. Not since the injury, not since I became something to manage rather than want. The less I resist, the less he seems interested. As if my compliance bores him.
I arch my spine and let the movement ripple down. Fever blooms across my skin. The beat wraps around me as I close my eyes and exist in the music.
When I open them, Scottie is watching me from the shadows.