imagining.
It would be the end of my life.
‘Aren’t there other things I can try?’ she asked in desperation. ‘Besides surgery?’
The doctor gave a shrug. ‘We can talk about physiotherapy and painkillers and diet. And rest,’ he added, giving her a dark look. ‘But I think you’ll find that the pain will still be too severe, certainly if you want to continue dancing. Ballet requires movements that are very unnatural.’
Eva knew this all too well, of course. She’d spent a lifetime perfecting the demanding movements most people never even tried. Pirouettes and adagios and grand allegros en pointe all made exacting demands on her limbs and joints, and she knew she was only human. She was at the wrong end of her thirties and there was a limit to what she could expect from her body. But she couldn’t give up dancing.
Not yet! She’d worked too hard, had sacrificed too much. Sure, she’d known that her career couldn’t last for ever, but she’d hoped for at least five more years.
Dancing was her life. Without it, she would drown, would completely lose her identity.
She was in no way ready for this.
The osteopath was staring at her a little impatiently now. He had no more advice to offer.
In a daze, Eva rose from her chair, thanked him and bade him goodbye. As the door to his office closed behind her, she walked through reception without seeing anyone, trying not to limp, to prove to herself that the doctor must have been wrong, but even walking was painful.
Glass doors led to a long empty corridor. What could she do now?
She tried to think clearly, but her mind kept spinning. If she gave in and had the surgery, she was sure the company wouldn’t want her back—certainly not as their prima ballerina—and she couldn’t conscience the idea of going back into the corps de ballet.
The worst of it was, this wasn’t a problem she dared discuss with her colleagues. She didn’t want anyone in the dancing world to know. The news would spread like wildfire. It would be in the press by lunchtime. By supper time, her career would be over.
As she made her way carefully down a short flight of stairs and onto the Parisian pavement outside, Eva, who had always been strong and independent, valuing her privacy, had never felt more vulnerable and alone. On the wrong side of the world.
* * *
‘Hello, this is Jane. How can I help you?’
Griff grimaced. He couldn’t believe he was tense about speaking to Jane Simpson. In their school days, Jane had been the Emerald Bay baker’s daughter. Since then she’d married a cane farmer and was now convening the class reunion.
‘Hi, there, Jane.’ He cleared his throat nervously and was immediately annoyed with himself. ‘Griff Fletcher, here. I’m ringing about the school reunion weekend.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Jane sounded excited. ‘It’s great to hear from you after all this time, Griff. I hope you’ll be able to come.’
‘Well, I’m still trying to see if I can...er...fit it into my schedule. But I was curious—how are the...er...numbers shaping up?’
‘They’re great, actually. We have about thirty-five coming so far—and that’s not counting partners. It’s really exciting,’ Jane enthused. ‘I do hope you can make it.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
Since the barbecue with Tim and Barney, Griff had been warming to the idea of going back to the Bay. But he wanted to ask about Eva. The thought of running into her in front of everyone from their school days completely ruined the picture. There was too much unfinished business between them. There was bound to be tension. And friction. It would be unavoidable.
If Eva was going to be there—which Griff very much doubted—he would stay well clear of the place.
The simple question should have been easy to put to Jane. Griff couldn’t believe he was uptight.
It wasn’t as if he’d spent the past twenty years pining for his high school sweetheart. Many of the relationships he’d enjoyed since then had been fabulously passionate and borderline serious.
Admittedly, Griff’s relationships did have a habit of petering out. While almost all of his friends and colleagues had tied the knot and were starting families, Griff didn’t seem to have the staying power. He either tired of his girlfriends, or they got tired of waiting for him to commit to something more permanent.
At least he and Amanda were still hanging together. So far.
Now, he braced himself to get to the point of this phone call. Every day in court he faced criminals, judges and juries, and he prided himself on posing the most searching and intimate of questions. It should be a cinch to ask Jane Simpson a quick, straightforward question about Eva.
‘I don’t suppose...’ Griff began and stopped, as memories of Eva’s smile flashed before him. The view of her pale neck as she’d leaned over her books in class. The fresh taste of her kisses. Her slim, lithe body pressing temptingly close.
‘Have you heard from Eva?’ Jane asked, mercifully cutting into his thoughts.
Jane had been one of Eva’s closest friends at school, so she knew that he and Eva had once been an item.
Griff grabbed the opening now offered. ‘No, I haven’t heard from her in ages. We’re...not in contact these days. Has she been in touch with you?’
‘Yes, and I’m afraid she’s not coming,’ Jane said. ‘It’s such a pity she can’t make it.’
OK. So now he knew without having to ask. Relief and disappointment slugged Griff in equal parts.
‘I’m not at all surprised,’ he said.
‘No, I’m sure Eva’s incredibly busy with her dancing. It’s wonderful how amazingly well she’s done, though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes—amazing.’
‘Anyway, Griff, let me know if you do decide you can come. It should be a fun get-together. Do you have my email address?’
Jane dictated the address while Griff jotted it down. He would leave it a few days before he emailed her. In the meantime, he would swing by Tim’s favourite lunching hangout and let him know he was free to join him and Barney on a nostalgic trip back to their schoolboy haunts. And if he did happen to see Eva again, of course he wouldn’t lose his cool.
* * *
Eva sat beneath the red awning of a pavement café, clutching a cup of blissfully decadent hot chocolate as she watched the rainy Paris streetscape. Beyond the awning’s protection, raindrops danced in little splashes in the gutter. Across the street, the lights of another café glowed, yellow beacons of warmth in the bleak grey day.
Even in the rain Paris looked beautiful but, for the first time in ages, Eva felt like a tourist rather than a resident. She could no longer dance here and everything had changed.
She’d come to Paris to work, to further her career.
