Page 5 of Second Chances

“Thank you,” I say and hand him the correct money plus a ten percent tip. I’m particular like that—I always give ten percent no matter what.

Climbing out of the taxi, my stomach instantly drops. I shouldn’t feel this unhappy about coming to see my mother. I love her to bits—it’s just she’s so…what’s the word…insistent. It grinds on me and leaves me feeling a shadow of my happy self when I leave. Tuesday is definitely the worst day of my week.

I have my own key, and I open the door to the sounds of the end of Act Two, Scene Fourteen from Swan Lake. My mother is a big lover of the arts and in particular ballet.

“Mum,” I shout out, and the music decreases in volume.

“Elena, welcome darling.” My mother is the epitome of a Stepford wife. Her elaborately blow-dried hair is perfectly styled. She wears her Chanel suit like it’s a second skin, and her shoes are neat courts, polished to within an inch of their lives. In stark contrast, I’m dressed in my trainers, which have seen better days, leggings, and a baggy top. “Have you just come from work?” She looks me up and down. “If you want to shower, there are clean towels in the spare room.”

“It’s ok,” I say, dropping my oversized bag on the floor. It opens, and several of the contents of my make-up case spill out. “Sorry.” I scoop them up and throw them back in the bag.

“Dinner won’t be long. Why don’t you open us a bottle of wine. We’re having chicken so a white will be best.”

“Will do.” I follow my mum into the kitchen. The smell of a delicious dish instantly hits me. My mum is the best cook ever. “What are we having?” I ask, so I can make a more informed decision about the wine.

“Poulet a la Providence,” she replies with a perfect French accent.

“Nice. I’ll get us a Chardonnay.”

“Make sure it’s cold,” my mum shouts after me as I head down into the wine cellar beneath her house.

I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“Yes, Mother. I’ll bring a warm bottle up because that always tastes the best.” I huff in whispered tones.Calm down Elena, she’s not as bad as you are imagining. She’s just lonely without your dad. That’s all.

I pull a bottle of my favorite Chardonnay from the fridge and take it back upstairs. Two glasses sit on the counter, waiting. Twisting the cap off, I open the bottle and pour a small amount for my mum to taste. I wait patiently as she swirls it around in her mouth and then swallows.

“Lovely,” she finally replies, and I pour a big glass for myself and a little one for her. She doesn’t really drink much, despite have a big wine cellar—it’s more for show. I take a large gulp of mine and sit down at the counter while she finishes dishing up.

“How was your day?” I ask.

“Good, I met with the ladies of the women’s association. It was our annual meeting. Lots of paperwork. I’ve been put in charge of the social calendar next year. It’ll be fun. At least I know I’ll be able to find places to visit that Barbara Witworth never could. Seriously, the last restaurant we went to was disgusting. The glasses were all smeared, and I couldn’t tell you what I ate, but it certainly wasn’t salmon.”

My mother continues her complaining while I switch off and flick my eyes toward a local newspaper sitting on the counter—it’s open at the arts pages, and I can see there are two ballets coming up my mother has circled to go and watch.

“Dinner’s ready,” my mother announces as she places our plates of food on the table, which has been neatly laid with her best cutlery.

“Thank you.” I reply, and picking up her glass of wine and mine, I join her at the table. The head is always left empty as a tribute to my dad, so we sit on opposite sides, facing each other. I take my first bite of the casserole.

“Hmm,” I murmur at the rich flavor on my lips. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” My mother takes a bite of her chicken and dabs at the corner of her mouth with her napkin before taking a small sip of the wine. “I’m going to see Swan Lake tomorrow.”

“I thought you were listening to it when I came in.” I keep my eyes down on my plate, knowing full well what is coming next.

“Yes, it has Pippa Adley in it as the lead. She’s come so far since the days you were in ballet school together. It just shows what you could have achieved if it hadn’t been for the accident…such a shame. Pippa was never as good as you.”

Bang.

And there is was.

The reason I hated coming to see my mother.

Every single time, it came down to this.

I’ve always loved dance, especially ballet. It’s been my passion since I was a little girl. I think I had my first lesson at two years old. I could barely walk properly let alone dance, but it was what I wanted to do. My mother had always enjoyed dance and encouraged me. She was the perfect mother. At eleven, I was accepted to study at the Royal Ballet School here in London. Pippa started at the same time as me, and we became good friends as we both boarded at White Lodge in Richmond Park. I dreamed big and was told I had the potential to make it as a prima ballerina in one of the biggest ballet companies in the world. Sadly, all that changed shortly after my sixteenth birthday. It was a stupid mistake—when running to meet my mother, I tripped and broke my leg. The promise of a glittering career for me ended that day. I no longer had the strength in my leg to be a lead dancer. I’m not sure who was more devastated, in the end, me or my mother. I took up teaching instead of performing, and I’ve never looked back. I can pass my enthusiasm on to those wanting to learn. Encourage other little children who at two years old are dancing before they can walk properly. I recovered from my injury…my mother never did.

The food suddenly feels like a hard lump in my throat—it’s tough to chew and difficult to swallow.

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