Chasing Butterflies (19 page)

A single streak of purple-coloured light shines down onto the stage from somewhere behind me when the dancer finally steps out. She’s wearing a brightly coloured mask, the sort people wear when they go to a masquerade ball. It hides half of her face, twinkling and glittering in the hint of light. Her long hair falls in big, bouncing curls over her bare shoulders, right down to her narrow waist. She’s short, but her legs look long and lean. Strong.

It feels as if the world has stopped spinning just for her as she moves with a fluid-like motion over the stage, captivating us with the way her hips sway and swirl. When the chorus of the song peaks, the dancer twists and turns so majestically that I can’t believe I’m actually watching another human. She’s like a breeze, swirling and swooping over an open field on a blustery day.

“You can breathe, you know,” the waitress says. “And you can shut your mouth too.”

I don’t bother turning around to tell her to mind her own business, but I do shut my mouth. I can’t stop staring at the girl onstage. I can’t stop looking at the curve of her hips and thinking about how good they’d feel moving around on top of me. Her ample breasts are encased in a dusty pink lace bra that has delicate little straps. Her matching knickers are the complete opposite to the thongs and G-strings I normally see at places like this. It’s kind of refreshing, actually. This girl isn’t a stripper. She’s a dancer. And a very good one.

When the music declares that the singer’s giving up on love and life and all that comes with it, the girl on the stage changes her style. The way she moves is mind-blowing, like she’s been drugged, and it makes her long, white hair flap behind her.

Then her hands are running up the curves of her body until she flicks her hair up into her hands, quickly spinning around before letting it all fall back down.

I suddenly feel sick.

My eyes roam over her again, this time for completely different reasons. Dainty frame. Long, snow-white hair. A tattoo on her back of a twisting vine with butterflies flying around it.

The drink I’ve been holding slips out of my hand and smashes on the floor. I start to shake my head, even though I know no one can see me. Just then I spy Jonny as he turns around to look at me, and he appears as shocked as I feel.
Good. At least he didn’t know. At least this wasn’t a set-up.

I turn away, not wanting to look at her—not wanting to see what she’s become. What she’s been reduced to. How did she get here? How did she end up like this?

I want to leave. I want to stay.

I want to talk to her. I want to never talk to her again.

“Is she really not going to let her tits out?” George asks, coming to stand next to me. “Man, that body. I’d pay another hundred to see those tits.”

I want to punch him, but then I remember that George doesn’t know who she is. George is just treating her like any other dancer. But she isn’t just any dancer. She’s
my
dancer.
My
Yara.

Yara

I love music. Music—and dancing—saved my life. If it weren’t for dancing and the club, I don’t know what I would have done.

Things were looking bleak for me. I’d seen things. Done things. Things I’d
had
to do to survive after I left Eleze. And I know that if I had carried on doing them, then I would have been half the woman I am today.

I close my eyes and listen to the crescendo of the song. I don’t think it’s my dancing that makes me the star performer here. Most of the girls in this place can dance better than me—in my opinion—and I hear them whisper behind my back about the fact that I won’t expose my breasts. I think it’s my music and the routines I perform, and the way I choreograph it all…lights off with a spotlight synchronised to every movement of my body, which moves to the music as if they’re connected. I can see it in their eyes: the moment when the song rushes into their ears before trickling into their hearts and seeping into their bones where it buries itself inside their souls. I don’t know how, but I know that what they see is something they’ll never forget.

But although I love dancing with all my heart, I can’t wait for Christmas break. It’s been a long, scorching-hot summer and it hasn’t eased off, not even in the last few weeks. I’ve danced almost every night, doing multiple routines, six days a week for seven whole months. I’m tired. My body is tired. Even my mind is tired.

The spotlight is bright, and I can only just make out the outline of the men that are sitting right at the very front. I look away quickly, not wanting to see their faces. Some of them look at me in awe, like I’m a goddess that they want to worship. As flattering as that may be, I know it’s only because they like what my body is doing and probably want to do something to my body.

Some of them look at me like they’re judging me. And I don’t want to be judged. They don’t have any idea what goes on in my life or why I’m even up here in the first place. They see a half-naked girl on a stage and assume that I’m scum. That I don’t have a brain. That I
have
to do what I’m doing just to get by. I want to tell those people that if I were that desperate, I’d take my clothes off and show my tits just like they sometimes chant for me to do.

Sometimes I laugh at how embarrassed I am about taking my clothes off now. I often think about the first time I met Gabriel and how he must have seen my breasts before he even saw my face. I feel my heart squeeze at the thought of him and concentrate on finishing my dance instead. Thinking about Gabriel never ends well for me anyway. Not even after all these years.

As soon as my dance is finished, the spotlight vanishes and the room is plunged into darkness again. I don’t wait a single second before disappearing offstage.

I push through the door and into the dressing room that I occupy alone, because most of the other girls can’t stand to be around me.
Fine with me.
I like to have the quiet of the room to come back to once my show is done.

I don’t need those girls anyway. They don’t know me, and they haven’t even tried to get to know me. They’ve assumed. Guessed. And they’ve guessed wrong. They also remind me too much of Jasmine and her friends, and the less I think about Jasmine, the better.

My mental health might have improved drastically over the last five years, but my memory of that day hasn’t diminished at all. The guilt I felt that morning still runs right through me today. I’d give anything to erase that day. Even if I had to take back all the memories I cherish of Gabriel, I’d do it. I’d forget him in a heartbeat if I could wipe my hands clean of the blood I see on them every time I look at them.

I flop down onto the padded, velvet seat in front of my dressing table and pull my mask off. When I look at my reflection in the mirror, I still see the same electric-blue eyes that I saw when I was younger. My face might have changed somewhat because I’m no longer a young girl with puppy fat, and my body is stronger and leaner than it was before, but my eyes are the same. And I hate looking at them.

I hate the way they stir up the memories that I’ve tried to bury. I hate that all I can hear when I see them is Gabriel saying that they reminded him of pale sapphires…that my eyes were the first thing he loved about me.

I sigh, wishing I could cherish those memories instead of regretting them. I’ve done a lot of things in my life that I regret, but leaving Gabriel the way I did is my single biggest regret—and I think it always will be. But deep down, I know I did the right thing. I just hope he knows that now.

I take a quick shower in my en-suite and then pull on some sweats and a tank top. I’m grabbing my bag, ready to leave for the evening, when I hear a knock at the door.

“Hello?” I call out.

The door opens and Natalie pops her head around the door. I smile at her. I like Natalie. She’s one of the nicer girls. “Hey,” she says, “sorry to bother you, but there’s a guy asking to see you.”

I frown at her. “But what—?”

“I know about the rule,” Natalie interrupts, “but this one seems different. Much different. He doesn’t seem like a pervert who wants to ask you out.”

I smile at her as I pull my bag onto my shoulder. “And how would you know that?” I’m not convinced. I’ve seen some of the guys that come backstage afterwards, and almost all of them had a convincing story to tell.

“He says he’s family,” she tells me.

Family?

“I asked him if he knew your real name and the boss said he was right,” she continues.

“I don’t have any family.”
And there aren’t many men who would recognise me from just seeing me in my knickers.

“Oh. Shall I tell him to take a hike then?”

I want to say yes, but I don’t. Instead, I ask, “What does he look like?”

“He’s hot,” she says, smiling at me. “Young-ish, but not too young. He looks like a bit of a goth, but a hot goth.”

“Is it Jez?”

“Who’s Jez?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at me. “Have you got a man that you didn’t tell us about?”

I shake my head and smile at her. I don’t know what it is with these girls, but they seem obsessed with my love life. Or lack of love life, I guess. “Never mind.”

“This guy was the stag in the party you’ve just danced for, so I doubt he’s going to try anything,” she adds.

The stag?
“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?” she repeats.

“Yeah.”

“You want me to bring him in here?”

“Sure,” I say, shrugging at her.

She frowns, looking confused. “Just the two of you? I don’t think it’s safe to have him in here.”

“Make up your mind,” I say through a laugh. “Did you notice any tattoos?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “He has an arm full of tats.”

Jez is getting married?
“Send him in and have Mark stand outside the door, please.”

“Okay, but don’t blame me if he jumps you.”

“He won’t jump me,” I reassure her.

I drop my bag as Natalie disappears. I feel myself fidgeting, feeling nervous and anxious. I haven’t seen Jez for almost twelve months. Things didn’t really end well for us, and I’m confused about what he could want from me now. I start to pace the room and idly twirl the huge, diamond ring that sits on my ring finger as I try to figure out if I should tell him the truth or not. I always believed telling the truth was the best approach, but the last five years have proved to me that the truth can hurt. A lot.

There’s a quick knock on the door, but before I can tell him to come in, the door opens. A tall, dark-haired man steps inside my room then shuts the door quietly behind him. It’s not Jez.

“Jonny,” I say, my voice resonating with shock.

“Hello, Yara,” he says, stepping closer to me. He sways a little on his feet, and I can tell he’s drunk. “That was excellent dancing up there just now.”

What do you want?
I clear my throat as I shove my shaking hands behind my back. “Thank you.”

He nods and I watch as his eyes trail all over my body. “You look well.”

I nod. “I feel well. I
am
well,” I tell him. “You look great too. And Natalie just mentioned that you’re the stag. Congratulations.”

He smiles and I instantly feel myself relax. No one smiles like that if they’re here to stir up trouble. “Thank you.”

“Is it anyone I know? Is it a girl from Eleze?”

“She’s from Eleze,” he says, “but she’s a little older than me, so I doubt you’d know her.”

“Oh, okay.” He carries on staring at me and I stare right back. He’s changed. He looks older than he did before, but his eyes are still twinkling as if he knows something that no one else does. I noticed that the first time I saw him, and it made me like him instantly. “So, when’s the big day?”

“Beginning of March,” he says. “My fiancée wants a daffodil theme.”

“That’ll be lovely,” I say as I give him a small smile.

“Gabriel is my best man.”

And there it is
. The elephant has truly made itself known to the room. I take a deep breath, but I don’t avert my eyes. If he’s come here to test me, he’s going to be disappointed. “I’m glad you two are still friends. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely day.”

He sighs and shakes his head, and then he rubs his hand across his jaw as if he’s annoyed. “I came to ask you for a phone number or an address where he can contact you.”

I swallow, feeling my heart pound in my chest as sweat glides down my spine. “Did he ask you to ask me?”

“No,” he mumbles. He blinks a couple of times as if he’s struggling to see.

“Has he seen me here?”

“Yes. He was here with me.”

Shit
. “Does he know you’re here now?”

“No. I haven’t spoken to him. He took off right after your show ended. I knew it was you because of your tattoo. He told me about it when we were younger.”

“Oh.”

“So, can I have your number or something?”

“I can’t give it to you,” I say quickly, feeling the panic shoot across my chest.

“Yara,” he says, “it’s been
five
fucking years. Don’t you think he deserves an explanation? Don’t you think after what he went through with Alex and then Jasmine that you at least owe him an apology for running out on him like you did?”

“Yes, of course,” I say, completely meaning it, “but I can’t.”

He lifts his chin and looks at me like I’ve dreaded the way someone might look at me. Like I’m a piece of crap he just stepped in. Like I hurt his best friend beyond words. “Why not?”

“I can’t, Jonny,” I whisper. “I really can’t.”

“Yara”—he pinches the skin in between his eyes and frowns—“I’ve been his best friend for twenty-four years.”

“You are twenty-four,” I tell him.

“Yes, I know. Our mothers had us in matching side-by-side Moses baskets from the moment we were born.”

“Oh,” I say, trying not to smile as I imagine them being forced to be friends.

“He’s not right,” he slurs. “He hasn’t been right since the day you left, and I’m scared he’ll never be right. I want you to give me
my
Gabriel back. You took a part of him with you when you left, and I want it back.”

He has a part of me too
. “You don’t know that he’ll talk to me,” I rush, trying not to think about what he’s saying. “He ran out just now when he could have been here just like you are. If he’s that desperate to speak to me, he would have come here himself.”

Jonny shakes his head and staggers toward me. “He was shocked. Confused. Probably wondering why the hell you were here of all places.” His hands find my shoulders and I feel myself stiffen at the contact. “Please just give me something. Give me some way of contacting you.”

“I can’t,” I breathe.

“You can,” he pushes. “You really can, Yara.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, hating how I can see tears building up in front of his eyes. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. Midday.”

I nod and wriggle out of his grip. “I’m sorry, Jonny, but I wish you all the best for your wedding.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head as his hand darts towards me.

“Mark!” I call.

The door bursts open and Jonny’s eyes go wide when he sees our security guy heading right for him.

“Yara,” he calls as Mark pulls him across the room. “Don’t do this! Don’t fuck this up again!”

“I’m sorry,” I call out to him as my own tears wobble in front of my eyes.

When the door closes behind them, I walk backwards until I hit the wall and then slide all the way down to the floor.
What have I done?

It’s an hour before I dare to leave my dressing room. It’s not that I’m scared of Jonny, but I don’t want to risk bumping into him again. Or worse, Gabriel. When I finally slip out of the side door of the club, I walk as quickly as I can through the alleyway until I get to the main street that leads right into the centre of London. I keep my head down and my bag pulled tightly on my shoulder as I think about what Jonny said.