Chapter 10
Ava
It should relax me. Eucalyptus steam curls across the spa treatment room and I suppress a cough as my body sinks into the heated lounger.
Ahead of the Burns Supper later, Nevin booked a whole spa day at Gleneagles – Scotland’s version of paradise for people with funds.
It’s his apology tour for the mess at Polly’s party a fortnight ago.
When we checked in earlier, he gave me a folded note. I know I’ve been an arse. I’m trying. I’ll do better. Please let me try.
And maybe he truly means it. Maybe all the bad days were flukes, and this version of him is the real one. The other Nevin is stress and pressure and the rugby season wearing him down. But I’ve been here before – the gestures, the softening.
I push my thumb into my quad. I spent yesterday afternoon on the anti-gravity treadmill, while Margot analysed my gait on a screen.
And I stayed late to mark the choreography for the spring production.
Excessive heat is still inadvisable for the tendon, though, which is why I’m alone in the relaxation suite instead of sweating beside Nevin in the sauna.
The luxury and thoughtfulness. The fact that he planned this for us, all his idea. I should be grateful.
This is good. This is Nevin trying.
Still my thoughts keep drifting to two weeks ago. The Drum Vault. The bass thrumming through my bones, and Scottie’s gaze finding me across a crowded room. I let him watch. I wanted him to watch.
I smother the notion immediately.
My phone lights up on the side table and I take it.
Laurel?
Joy spills through my chest, chased by a twist of guilt. I haven’t called her in weeks. Not so much as a text beyond the occasional emoji. I’ve been a terrible friend, and she is reaching out anyway. I swipe to answer.
‘Ava!’ Her voice bursts through the speaker, bright and chaotic, six thousand miles away in Hong Kong. ‘I was expecting voicemail. Are you alive?’
‘Barely.’ I press the phone to my ear, sinking deeper into the lounger. ‘How’s Lotta?’
‘She snores. Tiny, adorable walrus noises. I want to smother her with a pillow, but also I love her, so I’m conflicted.’
A laugh spills out of me. ‘That must be true love.’
‘It’s torture.’ Laurel’s grin is audible.
‘We have dim sum almost every day. Char siu bao. Har Gow. Curry fish balls. I’m eating my body weight in carbs and regret nothing.
But my hair looks like I stuck my finger in a socket, thanks to the humidity.
’ She pauses. ‘Wait. Where are you? It sounds echoey. Are you in a toilet? Did you pick up your phone while you’re having a jobby? Ava!’
I let out another huff of laughter. ‘Spa. Relaxation suite. Nevin booked us in.’
‘A spa?’ Her pitch spikes. ‘Oh my God. The fancy fucker.’
‘Yeah. Gleneagles. The whole day. Massage, sauna, the works.’
She whistles. ‘Gleneagles. I’m impressed. Maybe he’s getting his head out of his arse. So things are going well. That’s grand.’
I open my mouth. The truth is right there on the tip of my tongue.
Moving in with him was a mistake. I think I’m disappearing, and I don’t know how to get out.
I should tell her. But admitting I’m trapped means admitting I failed.
It means confessing that the smart, independent Ava MacKinney – who moved out at eighteen and navigated the world of professional ballet – got herself tamed and caged by a man with a nice smile and a set of pecs.
I can’t bear the pity. I got myself into this, and I’ll manoeuvre myself out.
I only need to find the right angle. The right moment.
I swallow, and the truth goes down with it. ‘Yeah. He has been great lately.’
Which is technically not wrong. All depends on your definition of lately.
‘You deserve it, hen.’ She laughs, but there’s an edge to it. ‘Are you happy?’
It finds the hairline crack in my ribs and pries.
Am I happy?
I’m not sure what happy feels like anymore.
There’s the performance of happiness, the construction of smiles.
The version of myself I smooth and trim until there’s nothing left that might snag.
The routine isn’t new. I learned it at eight, cross-legged on the landing in Cumbernauld, listening to Mum and Dad rip into each other about the schedule and the money.
Don’t ask for new shoes. Don’t need anything. Don’t cry.
‘Of course. Just tired. Training has been intense.’
‘Ava.’ Laurel strips the banter entirely from her tone. ‘You’d tell me if something was wrong, aye? Properly wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong. Promise.’ The silence stretches and I hold my breath.
‘Okay.’ She doesn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘But I’m serious. If you need me, I’m on the first flight back. Lotta will understand.’
‘I know. Thank you.’
‘God, I miss you. Hong Kong’s amazing, but I’d kill for a chippy supper and your stupid wee face. And taking the piss out of terrible reality telly.’
‘Miss you too.’
‘Are you back to full capacity yet?’
‘Getting there. The physios reckon that if the tendon holds up, I’ll be cleared for grand allégro by mid-February. But I’m in the room. That’s something.’
‘That’s good. You’re a machine.’
I guess I am. An apparatus held together with discipline and denial.
‘Listen, my battery’s dying. Lotta forgot the charger at the flat, because of course she did. But I love you. Call me soon, aye?’
‘Love you!’
The screen fades to black, and my reflection stares back at me. Pale and drawn. The truth was right there, twice, and I smothered it both times.
Coward.
Laurel asked if I was happy. She has never asked that before. Which means she has noticed. Even from six thousand miles away, through sporadic texts and clipped video calls, she has seen the fractures. And I lied to her.
I set the phone down and push myself upright, swinging my legs over the side of the lounger. My knee bounces, that restless tremble I can’t control when anxiety sinks its teeth in.
Nevin emerges from the sauna and the ice plunge like a Nordic God. Golden hair slicked back, skin red from the heat.
‘There you are.’ He slides into the chair beside me. His lips brush my shoulder. ‘You look stunning, babe. I haven’t told you that enough recently. I could kill any guy who looks at you.’
He laughs, but his eyes stay cold.
My heart used to do happy pirouettes when he bombarded me with compliments in our early days. Now there’s a numb space. I want to feel it again. I want to look at him and remember why I chose this. Scream at him to go back to how it was.
Instead, I smile and hope it looks real enough. ‘Thanks.’
‘This was a good idea, aye?’ He stretches, but his gaze stays on me. Watchful. ‘An investment in us as a couple.’
Investment. Like a portfolio.
‘It’s lovely. Very thoughtful of you.’
‘You deserve it.’ He laces his fingers through mine, and I have to force myself not to pull away. ‘I know things have been rough. But we’re solid, babe. You and me.’
‘Mhm.’
His smile widens. As if my hummed agreement is a contract signed and sealed.
This time, I catch my reflection in the window across the room, and the woman staring back is a stranger with dead eyes.
Four hours later, the Great Hall at Stirling Castle is candlelight and history and haggis.
Long tables draped in white linen, glasses glittering under chandeliers.
All decked out for a Burns Supper. A lone piper stands in full Highland dress, the drones humming low.
It’s beautiful. I should be soaking the evening in.
But Nevin’s drinking too fast. Again. Instead of the candlelight, I’m fixated on the level of the liquid in his glass, listening for the shift in his tone and mapping the distance between the man who brought me here and the one I’ll have to manage later.
His laugh grows louder with each dram of whisky, his hand heavier on my thigh. I shift in my seat, angling away, but his fingers tighten. A reminder. Sit. Stay.
I smile at the couple across the table. Nod along to a story about someone’s sister’s gap year in Thailand.
Scottie sits a few seats down from us with other Rebels. His suit jacket strains across his shoulders. Hands built for rucks and ripping the ball free wrapped around crystal. He seems out of place, a man meant for open sky squashed into formality.
God, I miss hanging out with him.
Our eyes meet, and my belly does a slow, inconvenient flip. I count four seconds of eye contact before I force myself to look away. Four seconds. A whole arabesque.
‘Ava’s brilliant at what she does.’ Nevin’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I force my attention back to my segment of the table. He is addressing the man to his left, but the rest of our part of the table is listening – and Nevin loves the attention. ‘Scottish Ballet. She’s in the corps.’
Jesus. He knows I’m on the road to become First Artist. He knows that I’m working my arse off to become Principal dancer. He just doesn’t give a shite.
The man nods politely. ‘Must be demanding.’
‘Oh, it is. For me.’ Nevin shows a row of teeth in a grin. ‘She’s great at the pretty stuff, aren’t you, babe? Like a cute coat rack.’
Hollow laughter ripples around the table – the sound people make when they are not sure if they want to laugh, but they also don’t want to seem rude.
The chandelier overhead blurs into a wash of light.
Keep your face still. Scream quietly.
But my fingers tremble on my bobbing knee.
‘Honestly, she’s a bit obsessed.’ Nevin leans back, swirling his whisky.
‘I tell her it’s just dancing, you know?
It’s not saving lives like a doctor. But she gets so worked up.
’ He shakes his head, the picture of exasperation.
‘Dancers, eh? So highly strung. Need a lot of managing. Sometimes I think there should be a support group for their partners.’
More awkward laughter. Smaller this time.
I’m not sure he’s joking, though. I think he genuinely sees himself as a martyr who has to deal with the burden that is me.
Arsehole.