Page 12 of Second Chances

“Just trying to help. Look, go exercise—it always calms you down. I’ll sort this out, and then maybe we could go for a quick drink before I go home. It’s not like I have to drive anywhere. My overprotective husband won’t let me.”

Shutting my eyes, I take a deep breath and push my chair away from the computer screen.

“He’s not overprotective—he’s a Dom, and that’s what they do,” I remind her before getting the hell out of the office and into the gym.

An hour later, and a good few miles on the treadmill, I’m feeling a hundred times better.

Amy appears at the doorway of the air conditioned, fully stocked gym. She’d had it put in for our staff to use, so they don’t have to pay London fees to exercise elsewhere. She’s holding in her hand several sheets of paper I instantly recognize as the class lists.

I wipe down the treadmill and grab a fresh bottle of water before going over to her.

“Thank you,” I offer, my bad temper completely disappeared now. “I hate technology. No, correction, it hates me.”

“It’s ok. I had to phone the helpline because it was doing strange things. It wasn’t your fault. They’d had an update in the software, and it caused a glitch,” she explains. “It’s one of those things.”

I twist off the cap from the water bottle and take a drink while Amy places the class lists down on a nearby table and perches on a bench.

“Want to talk about it?” Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, and I know she isn’t going to take no for an answer. I have little choice but to talk about what happened in the office.

“It’s nothing.”

“Elena, you can’t fool me.”

I huff.

“You’re as bossy as your husband. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Don’t try to change the subject. You’ve been down for a while. Talk to me. What’s wrong? Is it the dance school?” Amy asks, leaning toward me. She’s been my best friend for years, and I’ve helped her through tough times by providing a shoulder to cry on or entertainment in the form of my awful jokes, but I’ve always kept my feelings hidden away. Maybe I need to open up to her for once.

“I’m just feeling a little frustrated at the moment. You know one of those times when everything you try to suppress on a daily basis explodes and leaves you a mental mess.”

She reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Anything in particular?”

I look down at my leg. I’m in short leggings. The scar from my numerous surgeries is evident on my tanned leg even after all these years. When I first came into Amy’s employment, I told her what had happened and why I wasn’t gracing the stages of the Royal Ballet. It was hard admitting my failure, but she didn’t mind at all. In fact, her comment was ‘their loss, my gain.’ I think we became best friends at that precise moment.

“Is it hurting?” Amy asks, her eyes focused on the long surgical wound scar on my leg.

“No, nothing like that. It’s stupid really. I love what I do. It’s the best thing in the world. These kids are amazing. Some of the stuff they can do blows my mind. I know we’ll have all the parents in tears at the end of year show…” I trail off and look out of the window at the city of London, living its life as I watch on: taxis speeding past, taking people to destinations unknown, couriers on bicycles peddling frantically to try and keep on time, and city workers rushing between meetings with coffee in one hand and a sandwich in the other—their only way of finding time for a bite to eat. I’m lucky to have this job. It isn’t as pressured as the world on the other side of the windowpane, but…

“Elena?”

“Sorry.”

I hold my head in my hands in frustration.

“One of the girl’s I went to dance school with has made prima ballerina. She’s currently with the Royal Ballet, but there’s talk of her transferring to the Bolshoi. It was my dream to dance for both of those companies until I was injured. I just feel frustrated that things haven’t turned out for me the way I planned…It’s silly. I’m sorry. It’s just a bad day.” I go to leave, but Amy grabs my hand and stops me.

“It’s not silly. Not at all. You know my past. Nothing turned out the way I thought it would for me either. I fought all the way until I met James—he showed me how to go with the flow, and I did. I couldn’t be happier now.”

I realize I’m moaning over a leg injury when Amy’s childhood was so much worse than mine. She lost her parents at a young age and was taken under the care of her uncle. It turned out he was running a brothel, and she was nearly killed by him because she was the true owner of the club and not him. It was all a big, upsetting mess, and here’s me, moaning over my leg injury. It is silly.

“It really is silly,” I repeat again and try to pull away from my friend.

“Elena, don’t shut down on me.” Amy holds my hand tighter.

The whimper that comes out of my mouth is the response to months of pent up frustration. Soon it turns into full-blown tears, and Amy holds me tightly as I allow the sobs to wrack my body and ease the tension. Eventually I manage to get myself under control, and Amy releases me.

---