working. I want to end it.”
A bolt of electricity slapped my chest, and the world became sharp-edged. A vacuum, a long silence. I was afraid to speak, in case I said the wrong thing.
Not working?
From my perspective, it had been working just fine. And so that was the word I said. “Fine.”
He cocked his head, a brief moment of anger crossing his brow. He thought I didn’t care. But I did. I had just beenshocked into silence. People always misunderstood me. I just didn’t know how to say the right things.
Josh, regathering his efficient self, ruled out a long, messy goodbye. He picked up his keys and phone and stood. “I’ll head off. I’ll book a room at the Berkeley tonight, and I’ll nip into the apartment to collect my things tomorrow while you’re at the studio.” He reached for my hair, but I flinched away. “I’m sorry, Em,” he said softly, in the intimate voice I had grown to love. “I really am. But you’re not the girl for me.”
I wanted to shout. To upend the table. To kick him so hard in the groin that his face turned blue. But I did none of these things. I was too visible: I was Emma Blaxland-Hunter, prima ballerina with the London Ballet. Granddaughter of the Blaxland Wool empire. I carried the family’s reputation on my slight shoulders.
He left. I waited five minutes and left, too, ignoring the curious stares in my wake.
I refused to believe that Josh wasn’t coming back. Certainly, the following day he’d moved out his clothes and toiletries and CDs while I was at rehearsal, but he hadn’t taken any of the potted plants on the terrace that he’d so lovingly tended. I was confident he’d return, so I didn’t call him. I wanted him to call me. He owed me an apology. A big one.
The summer days dragged on. I longed for the dark of winter. But instead the days lingered, a bright light shone on my uncertain heart. The heat just added to my misery. Atleast back in Sydney the houses were designed to cope with hot weather, to let the air flow through. Here, every building seemed designed to trap the stuffy warmth.
So, because the emptiness and the heat were all that waited for me at home, I stayed at the rehearsal studio later and later. The perfect way to forget about Josh, about how I was waiting for him to come back, was to throw myself into my work. Rehearsals for a September production of
Giselle
were in full swing, and from the moment I arrived at the studio till the moment I left, I barely thought about him. But the sadness hung, waiting for me as I dressed in my street clothes and brushed my long hair out of its tight knot. The emptiness. No Josh to meet for dinner. No Josh to come home to.
I spent every evening of those first two weeks walking from one end of the city to another. Sometimes the traffic got too much, and I escaped into parks; sometimes I idly stared in shopwindows. On the second Friday night, I caught sight of a Blaxland Wool display in Selfridges & Co. and went in to look closer. Blaxland Wool specialized in classy women’s wear. This year it was forties-inspired suits with short, short skirts in bright colors. I doubted Grandma would have liked them, and the thought gave me a pang.
Grandma.
If she’d still been alive, she would have been the first person I’d call. “Gran, I think he’s left me. I don’t think he’s coming back.” And Grandma’s voice would have soothed me down the line.
Shh, Emma, you will be all right. I know you, and I know you will be fine.
Grandma had more faith in me than I had in myself.
I fingered the cuff of one of the suits, getting my panic under control. Josh would come back.
Stay positive.
“May I help you?”
I turned, found myself looking up at a tall, coltish young woman with miles-long French nails. “No, no, I’m fine,” I said.
“Hey,” the young woman said, “you’re Emma Blaxland-Hunter.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” The jokes that Josh and I had made about our surnames. His was a double-barrel, too:
A bolt of electricity slapped my chest, and the world became sharp-edged. A vacuum, a long silence. I was afraid to speak, in case I said the wrong thing.
Not working?
From my perspective, it had been working just fine. And so that was the word I said. “Fine.”
He cocked his head, a brief moment of anger crossing his brow. He thought I didn’t care. But I did. I had just beenshocked into silence. People always misunderstood me. I just didn’t know how to say the right things.
Josh, regathering his efficient self, ruled out a long, messy goodbye. He picked up his keys and phone and stood. “I’ll head off. I’ll book a room at the Berkeley tonight, and I’ll nip into the apartment to collect my things tomorrow while you’re at the studio.” He reached for my hair, but I flinched away. “I’m sorry, Em,” he said softly, in the intimate voice I had grown to love. “I really am. But you’re not the girl for me.”
I wanted to shout. To upend the table. To kick him so hard in the groin that his face turned blue. But I did none of these things. I was too visible: I was Emma Blaxland-Hunter, prima ballerina with the London Ballet. Granddaughter of the Blaxland Wool empire. I carried the family’s reputation on my slight shoulders.
He left. I waited five minutes and left, too, ignoring the curious stares in my wake.
I refused to believe that Josh wasn’t coming back. Certainly, the following day he’d moved out his clothes and toiletries and CDs while I was at rehearsal, but he hadn’t taken any of the potted plants on the terrace that he’d so lovingly tended. I was confident he’d return, so I didn’t call him. I wanted him to call me. He owed me an apology. A big one.
The summer days dragged on. I longed for the dark of winter. But instead the days lingered, a bright light shone on my uncertain heart. The heat just added to my misery. Atleast back in Sydney the houses were designed to cope with hot weather, to let the air flow through. Here, every building seemed designed to trap the stuffy warmth.
So, because the emptiness and the heat were all that waited for me at home, I stayed at the rehearsal studio later and later. The perfect way to forget about Josh, about how I was waiting for him to come back, was to throw myself into my work. Rehearsals for a September production of
Giselle
were in full swing, and from the moment I arrived at the studio till the moment I left, I barely thought about him. But the sadness hung, waiting for me as I dressed in my street clothes and brushed my long hair out of its tight knot. The emptiness. No Josh to meet for dinner. No Josh to come home to.
I spent every evening of those first two weeks walking from one end of the city to another. Sometimes the traffic got too much, and I escaped into parks; sometimes I idly stared in shopwindows. On the second Friday night, I caught sight of a Blaxland Wool display in Selfridges & Co. and went in to look closer. Blaxland Wool specialized in classy women’s wear. This year it was forties-inspired suits with short, short skirts in bright colors. I doubted Grandma would have liked them, and the thought gave me a pang.
Grandma.
If she’d still been alive, she would have been the first person I’d call. “Gran, I think he’s left me. I don’t think he’s coming back.” And Grandma’s voice would have soothed me down the line.
Shh, Emma, you will be all right. I know you, and I know you will be fine.
Grandma had more faith in me than I had in myself.
I fingered the cuff of one of the suits, getting my panic under control. Josh would come back.
Stay positive.
“May I help you?”
I turned, found myself looking up at a tall, coltish young woman with miles-long French nails. “No, no, I’m fine,” I said.
“Hey,” the young woman said, “you’re Emma Blaxland-Hunter.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” The jokes that Josh and I had made about our surnames. His was a double-barrel, too:
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