Distraction

Chapter Thirty-One

How quickly things had changed.

Three weeks ago, Libby started researching flights to Sydney - she'd had a job she despised, a feud with Grace, Patrick hated her and she was afraid to walk into a charity shop for fear of the octogenarian staff whispering behind her back. Now, sixty faces stared expectantly. Cross-legged, chins on hands, waiting.

Oh god.

'Are you ready?' Jane whispered.

Why am I nervous? Libby closed her eyes, taking slow steadying breaths. This wasn't the Coliseum. It was the dance studio in Haverton. The audience weren't middle class dance aficionados, they were ballet students aged five to eighteen. So why did she have clammy palms?

'Okay, let's do it.' She flexed her feet one last time as Jane pressed play.

The music began and years of rehearsals took over, moving Libby's feet without her thinking of the steps. It had been Jane's idea, to inspire the students, to show the them first-hand what they could achieve if they worked hard. Libby had been doubtful. Show them what a failed ballerina is like? But they didn't know she'd failed. They didn't know she should still be on stage. All they saw was a grown up, someone way, way older than them. To them she was the dream come true.

It ought to have depressed her, but their little faces stared in wonder and she tried not to laugh. That's probably what she looked like when she first saw the Sugar Plum Fairy. Libby floated through the moves, feeling more appreciated than she had in front of several hundred people at the Royal Opera House. Bugger keeping her smile restrained, she let it grow.

For the first time in four years, her future felt... hopeful.

She had her job at Low Wood Farm, she had ballet, she had a tentative new friendship with Grace, and then there was Patrick. God, why did one night playing cards sat next to Patrick still make her smile? He'd kissed her forehead, nothing more, but before she'd come to class, he'd been at the coffee shop, just like last week. They'd had espressos and he'd laughed at her nerves, but when he wished her luck, he'd tugged her plait, smiling. Okay, he didn't kiss her or ask if she'd like to go out for dinner to celebrate, but hope, she had hope.

Libby ended the dance with a deep courtesy as her munchkin audience clapped and cheered. From her left, Matilda, one of the studios newest recruits, stepped forward with a bouquet, gazing shyly. It was like she couldn't see Libby for the Sugar Plum Fairy - like the magic of a Father Christmas suit. Tears stung Libby's eyes.

*

Something had to change. He had to talk to his parents. Patrick wandered into their house, lifting the large canvas above the marauding pack of wagging tails and exuberant paws. He didn't go into the kitchen, but poked his head around the door. Bacon frying, coffee brewing, mum nose deep in the Guardian - Saturday morning.

'Mum?'

'Hello, darling. Coffee's fresh.'

'In a minute. Can I have a word?'

She followed him into the dining room, where he propped the painting, still covered in brown paper, against the table.

'Oh, a present for me?' She laughed. 'It's not my birthday.'

'I've... look, you can't tell anyone about it, especially Jane. You know what she's like. Promise.' After his mum nodded, Patrick tore away the paper and her eyes widened.

'Is that... the original?' she whispered.

'Yes. I know her.'

'This is the ballerina you took to Jane's? The girl from the Square.'