Page 91 of Lovers' Dance

“Smile,” Matt mouthed to me from across the table. At least he sat almost opposite me. I could send him secret messages with my eyes, if need be. My attention lowered to the table between us. I was raised in a household where we always tried to eat together. Aunt Cleo was an ace in the kitchen, and she liked watching us wolf down her culinary delights with gasps of ecstasy as each morsel brought us closer to the Promised Land. She implemented draconian measures when it came to table manners and the proper use of cutlery, but she had never prepared me for this much silverware. How many courses were they planning on serving? Why hadn’t I thought to look this shit up on Google the moment Matt had said we were having dinner with his family? I should’ve known better.

Staring anxiously at the silverware, I barely noticed the man hovering over my and Natty’s shoulders. When he reached down to place a gold-edged napkin on my lap, I jerked in surprise, then looked around the table. Matt’s parents were in deep conversation with the people seated close to them, and I remembered Matt’s warning about them being stand-offish. They hadn’t spoken to me since our introduction. How on earth was I supposed to wow them sitting way over here?

I noticed Natty, head bent and fingers flying over her cell, which she was hiding in her lap. The drama was still going on it seemed. I smiled politely at the woman on my right. She looked about fifty and her makeup was so well done you could barely tell she wore any. She returned my smile, then turned away before I could introduce myself. I caught Grumps’s gaze on me and suddenly found the intricate lacing of the heavy tablecloth interesting. Matt was chuckling at something Aphrodite had said. He was chuckling with his ex, and I didn’t know how to feel about it. Whatever it was I was currently feeling got pushed aside as the staff started bringing out the starters. When my plate was placed in front of me, I sent my first panicked eye message to Matt. He got it. Matt stared down at his plate, then sent me an apologetic look.

Steak tartare, garnished with—were those quail eggs expertly placed with designer flair?—and a delicate sprinkling of salad. I threw up a bit in the back of my throat. Everyone started tucking in like they weren’t shovelling raw meat in their mouths. We had come a long way since man’s first awareness of fire and what it could do. Why were there still dishes where raw meat starred as the main attraction? Another sickly, wet gag occurred in my poor throat when I spotted Natty’s knife splitting the little egg open which caused the runny yolk to slither over the meat. I loved meat, cooked meat, not meat with the remnants of a pulse.

Matt’s gaze was sympathetic as he popped a forkful in his mouth. If he thought I was going to kiss him after this, he was mad. Then, again, he mightn’t want to kiss me if he knew about the small vomit eruptions that had taken place in my oesophagus.

I sent another fervent prayer upwards, hoping God was done dealing with the more important problems and could lend a helping hand. I’d take anything; an earthquake, the return of mammoths, the Second Coming. I couldn’t stomach the thought of putting that meaty red mess in my mouth. Grumps was staring at me again. Oh crap.

I gingerly picked up a knife and fork.Revolting.

Stuck the cutlery into the starter.Nauseating.

Raised the steak tartare clinging to the fork.Vile.

Please, God, dosomething. The fork’s journey towards my mouth had begun. There was no backing out. Matt was watching me intently as he chewed. Once, on the few occasions he cooked dinner for me, he had done steak with vegetables. The steak had been dark pink when I cut into it, the juices leaking out from the meat too red for my liking. I had gotten up from the table, grabbed a frying pan, and cremated the meat within an inch of edibility. Matt had been offended. I told him the only meat I intended to eat in such a raw state was his dick, and he stopped berating me after that comment.

But, back to the problem at hand. The raw meat on my fork.

“Ms DuMont,” Grumps said, after swallowing his mouthful. I paused, mouth clamping shut and fork being lowered quickly, as I smiled politely and waited for Matt’s grandfather to continue.

Thank you, God.

“Adam mentioned you were a dancer.”

I nodded. “A ballet dancer and, please, call me Madi.”

“That’s so cool,” Nikki piped up.

Grumps sent her a little frown and she resumed eating quietly.

“You own a dance company?” he asked. The couple next to me were looking on in interest. Matt was giving me encouraging stares as he ate. I made a mental note to remind him to brush his teeth before he snogged me later.

“Yes, I do,” I replied, while pushing the food around on my plate. “Well, seventy percent that is. The co-owner is a childhood friend of mine. We both trained at the School of American Ballet—”

“Why did you decide to move to England?” Grumps queried abruptly. He put his cutlery down and leaned back in his chair.

“It was a spur of the moment sort of thing,” I said half-jokingly, hoping he would smile at me.

Grumps arched an eyebrow. “One should never make rash decisions when it comes to business. A practical, well-thought out strategy is needed in order to succeed.”

I risked a glance at Matt, who was frowning slightly at his grandfather. Then his body stiffened. The movement was so subtle I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t been watching him. One of Matt’s hand slipped under the table, unnoticed by the others, and he scowled at Aphrodite’s side profile. Louisa was nodding her head in agreement with Grumps, and Matt’s hand returned to the table.

“A dance company is quite different from a normal business, Mr Bradley,” I explained.

Grumps let out a bark of mocking laughter. “Of course it is. Ballet companies routinely make a loss at the box office and are perpetually dependant on outside financial support of some manner. Are you aware of the Royal Ballet?”

“Yes, of course I am,” I replied, a touch sharper than I’d intended, but damn. I didn’t know if Grumps was on the attack or whether he was interested in my career. If he was only interested, why did I feel defensive?

“And the Royal Opera House?” he questioned, piercing gaze trained on my face.

I put my knife and fork down. “Yes, I am.”

“You know that both are in direct competition for annual grants by the Arts Council?”

“Because they use the same building, they not only compete for funds but also for space in the Opera House. Yes, I know this, Mr Bradley.”

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