Page 31 of A Class Act

‘You’re unbelievable, Robyn: you’re prejudiced, proud and full of stereotypes.’ Fabian shook his head.

‘So I’ve been told.’ I turned to Fabian, knowing I should have trusted my gut instinct from the very start, which had told me he was way out of my reach. ‘Look, at the risk of making a habit of jumping out of your car to run for public transport, I’m going back to London. I have to be at the theatre and I need plenty of time warming up, not having danced for almost a week. Just drop me off at the station, Fabian.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m driving you back. You need to change.’

‘You can’t – you’ve a speech to make back there. And—’ I held up my bag ‘—not only do I not want to be held responsible for your not turning up, everything I need’s in here.’ I found myself unable to meet his eyes, didn’t want to see what he must really be thinking: that I was just too much trouble. That his family were right.

‘Robyn…’ Fabian trailed off and I knew I’d lost him. He wasn’t prepared to fight for me and all the fight seemed to have gone out of me as well. He turned the ignition and we drove the five minutes to Marlow station.

‘Your work and your family will always come first: we probably just met at the wrong time.’ I leaned over to kiss him before opening the car door and, although Fabian moved towards me briefly, he didn’t try to stop me.

‘Oh, you’re back? How’s the knee?’ Carl Farmer, the director, crouched on stage with two of the lighting technicians, looked up only briefly to acknowledge my presence.

‘Fighting fit,’ I lied, knowing my knee still wasn’t 100 per cent. ‘I’ve come in early to have a good warm-up.’

‘Good, good, that’s good,’ he said vaguely, obviously more interested in the problem he was having with the lights. ‘Curtain-up’s not for a couple of hours.’

I changed into sweatpants and top and spent the next hour or so stretching, warming up and taking myself through various routines. It was so good to be back doing what I loved and I tried to put Fabian out of my mind.

But every step, every turn, every leap and everyjetéwas accompanied by his face, his touch, his kiss. What the hell had I been doing not fighting for him? For us? This damned pride of mine that had always stuck its neck out and tripped me up – it had well and truly done its work this time.

Leap and plié.

How could I continue with Fabian when he was on the point of defending that arrogant murdering misogynist, Rupert Henderson-Smith?

Stretch and élancer.

And how could there ever be any future for me with him and the Carringtons now that Julius bloody Carrington would be having a field day telling the world and his wife about Winston Allen, my paternal grandfather, who’d died in HMP Belmarsh while serving a life sentence?

Glissé, step, glissé.

I should have told Fabian myself. Of course I bloody well should have.

Step and tour jeté.

I landed and instantly knew my knee wasn’t quite as good as I’d thought.

‘Everything OK?’ Carl called from down in the footlights. ‘You’ve got one hell of a face on you, Robyn.’

‘Never better,’ I called in his direction. ‘Just off for a five-minute break.’

‘Yo Ming’s more than able to carry on as Arabella Plumpton-Jones, you know!’ he shouted after my departing back.

‘No way!’ I retorted over my shoulder. ‘I’m tip top. Absolutely raring to go.’

I grabbed my towel and phone, desperate for there to be some word from Fabian. Instead, there were six missed calls from Jess. I exited the stage door with my water bottle, needing fresh air and a phone signal. Jess answered immediately.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s Mum. She’s been rushed into hospital again. Had one of her seizures but she actually stopped breathing this time.’

I closed my eyes.

‘She’s very poorly, Robyn. You need to come home.’

‘I’ll get the train tomorrow – I’ll sort it. How’s Sorrel?’

‘I don’t know where she is.’

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