Page 2 of Daring to Love

1

Amelie Winters

Iclose my laptop and shake my head, silently scoffing at today’s horoscope. I wonder why I keep reading it because, contrary to what it says, nothing exciting ever really happens to me. Not in the way it always tells me it will, anyway.

Each week, I vow I won’t give in the following week. That I’ll stop believing in fairy dust, unicorns, or that I’ll meet a tall, dark stranger who’ll sweep me off my feet.

I don’t live in a bloody Disney movie.

And yet…every week, I break my own promise because the fact is that I just can’t help myself. It’s an ingrained habit of mine that I’ve had almost all my life.

Some people believe in God, or fate, or serendipity.

I, however, believe in my horoscope.

The difficult part, though, is sifting through the good clairvoyants from the bad ones, and lately, I’ve come to the conclusion that this particular Mystic Meg is always wrong.

“Ugh.” I raise my mug and take a slow sip of my tea but shudder when the lukewarm sludge reaches my taste buds. A low meow makes me look down at my feet and I give my ginger-haired cat, Monty, a crooked smile.

“Being a hopeless romantic is so bloody annoying,” I mutter. “It’s ridiculous.”

He butts his head against my crossed ankles, and I bend to pick him up.

“I know, I know.” I close my eyes, comforted when he tucks his head underneath my chin. “Who needs a man when I’ve got you, eh, darling?”

He clambers up on my shoulder, his favourite place to be, and hides his head in my dark-brown curls. I shake my head at this daily ritual but am comforted by the familiar weight as well as affection. I glance at the big, white grandfather clock in my living room and get up from my seat. Time to get a move on and head to my morning classes at the University of Edinburgh. Quickly, I clear the table, cat firmly placed on my shoulders, thinking about today’s tasks.

Okay, I have to admit that Mystic Meg did get another point right – maybe she’s not as bad as I thought? – because my body is buzzing with anticipation. Today is pretty special: not only is it my birthday but turning twenty-three isn’t what excites me the most. No, the thing that marks today as a special occasion is what’s going to happen this afternoon. The ensemble is great this year, but today is more exciting than ever because rehearsals start on a new, modern interpretation of The Swan Lake next week, and I’ve been working harder than ever all year for this.

“What do you think, Monty? Do you think I’ll get the lead?”

He meows, and I chuckle at my own silliness. Pretending that Monty understands every single thing that I say makes me feel less alone. Being in Scotland on my own the past nine months has been hard, but it’s also made me much more self-reliant than I used to be. But at the same time, the move has been good for me, and I’m glad I listened to my instincts, as well as my horoscope, and made the change.

My phone pings, alerting me of new text, and I pick it up from the table and swipe to read it.

Maman: Happy birthday and good luck today, ma petite. xx

I’m touched by Maman’s text, but it also makes me long for one of her hugs. She doesn’t only embrace you with her arms, but her whole body, gently swaying you from side to side, and I’ve always felt much better afterwards.

Me: Thanks, Maman. I’ll ring you later tonight. xx

I twitch around as I reach up to untangle my mass of hair from Monty and manage to grab him underneath his front legs even though it’s from an awkward angle. My body doesn’t protest, though, and that’s one of the best things about being a dancer: the control I have as I command my body to bend and twist in different, sometimes impossible ways.

“Right, down you go. I have to get going.”

Another incoming text makes me stop reaching for my bag lying on the dinner table.

Maman: Your dad has arranged for a journalist to interview you tonight at the studio. Please remember to bring an extra set of clothes and your makeup. xx

I read the text twice, unblinking, and yet I can’t seem to take it in. The nerve of him! Dad means well, but this is the last thing I’d want on my birthday: having to deal with some middle-aged guy, no doubt, who doesn’t give a toss about dance but won’t stop staring at my cleavage all the while pretending he’s listening to what I have to say is not something I’ll take part in.

Finally, the alarm on my phone makes me spring into motion. I shake my head as I fire off a last text to my mum.

Me: Tell Dad I am furious with his meddling in my career. I’ll speak with you later. xx

Huffing, annoyed at not only my dad wanting to control my future career, and now being late for my classes, I scurry around my flat, practicing a speech to tell him off once I get home tonight. I pick up my bag and keys from the small dresser in my narrow hallway, and shrug into my leather jacket. I know I need to focus on myself and what I’ve rehearsed for tonight, but I’m seething. Sometimes, like today, it feels like I truly have fire inside me, because I’m burning up, almost sweating – and all because of my dear, old dad.

“I can’t believe he’d do this again, Monty.”