Lose Yourself

Book 2: Desires Unlocked Trilogy

by Evie Blake

Genres: Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Previously published in print and ebook as VALENTINA ON THE EDGE. For fans of FIFTY SHADES OF GREY and BARED TO YOU comes LOSE YOURSELF, the second book in the erotic, emotionally charged and addictive DESIRES UNLOCKED trilogy. In LIBERATE YOURSELF, Valentina Rosselli realised that Theo Steen is the only man she's ever loved. Now, in LOSE YOURSELF, she travels to London to win Theo back - and to continue their relationship from where they left off. But has she left it too late, and lost him forever? In London in 1948, virginal Maria falls in love for the first time, and is drawn into a passionate, intensely erotic relationship with the charismatic Felix Leduc. Maria is soon overwhelmed with desire - and finds that love induces her to behave in ways she never thought possible. As Valentina uncovers Maria's story and its ties to her own, she is tipped headlong back into her romance with Theo - passionate, intense and powerful.

Release date: November 12, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 464

Sample

1955

Last night she dreamt of Paris again. She wandered the alleyways of Saint-Germain-des-Prés at dusk – that time when they used to come out to play, the city still raw, still edgy from its recent liberation. She was searching for him. In the fading light she saw mauve shadows flitting this way and that, leading her on a false trail. She rushed down the streets, slipping on the smooth cobbles, desperate in her need to find him.

Yet he could not be found. She hunted for him in Le Flore, but the café was practically empty. Only Monsieur Boubal stood behind the bar, drying glasses with a white linen cloth, surveying her coolly.

You don’t belong here anymore, she read in his haughty glance.

She looked for him in all the clubs, the violence of the jazz accelerating her heartbeat as she pushed through the hot throngs of young Parisians and the new Americans, the guys with the scruffy little beards, the girls with long, lank hair and blunt fringes. They all stared at her blankly.

What are you doing here? She knew they were thinking. You are not a part of us anymore.

She was back in the dark streets, running, running. The abbey loomed in front of her as she turned a corner and she spied their hotel. Relief coursed through her. Surely she would find him there? She ran through the lobby, ignoring Madame Paget and her resentful stare.

Get out, she imagined her saying. You are not one of us.

Up, up, in that rickety cage lift. How could she ever forget it? And down the dark corridor she ran. She flung the door of their room open, her heart in her mouth, but it was empty. Devastated, she stepped inside. There were the tousled bed sheets, the three dead geraniums in the empty wine bottle on the windowsill, the empty case on the floor and, sitting on a chair, as if it was expecting her, was his camera. And yet he was not there. She stepped inside the room and picked up his camera, cradled it in her hands. He will come back. He must. She sat down on the chair, destitute, and her memory came back to her in the form of flickering images projected above the bedstead like one of the films they made. She sees her breasts and his hands caressing her nipples, she sees their lips meeting and his body upon hers, within hers. All is grainy and soft focus, yet the images slice her heart open like knife blades. She had surrendered every part of herself to their love. She had been possessed by it. How could she live without it?

Maria woke up on fire, her mouth parched, her body bathed in sweat. She was pulsing with need. There was a deep ache inside her womb and she began to reach down with her hands, to put them between her legs, to touch herself. No! She tore the sheets off herself with vehemence and lay on her back, letting the air of their bedroom cool her until her heart rate slowed and she was back inside her body – a body that had almost forgotten the darker side of passion. Carefully, she climbed out of bed. The cool floor beneath her hot feet pulled her back down to earth as she stumbled out of the bedroom into the hallway. Their apartment ticked in silence and there was not a sound from the streets outside. Milan had not awoken yet. She looked up at the cross above the hall table. She squeezed her eyes shut, clasped her hands tight and prayed to Jesus, her sweet saviour, to give her peace. Yet even He could not console her. On these nights, there was only one thing she could do to comfort herself.

She opened the door of her daughter’s bedroom and tiptoed inside. A lamp glowed in the corner, for her daughter was afraid of the dark. The room was a golden sanctuary. The shelves were full of books and dolls; pictures of fairies and magicians were pasted on the wall: the fairy-tale dreams of a little six-year-old girl. She sat down on the chair next to her daughter’s bed and gazed down at her. She felt a twinge of guilt at disturbing her, as she stroked the hair away from her forehead and leant down to kiss her. The child’s eyes fluttered open and she looked up at her mother, sleepy-eyed and confused. Maria climbed into the bed with Tina and held her in her arms. She pulled her child in so close to her that it was almost as if their two hearts beat as one. The child whimpered. She was tired, grumpy at being woken. Maria whispered into her tiny shell ear. She told her stories of a great romance. But this was not Maria’s story. No. She told her own mother’s tale: Belle and Santos; a love born in the majestic city of Venice; a star-crossed couple, destined never to be. A story that made the little girl cry and yet it was a story to believe in – that one day your prince will come. Maria squeezed Tina tighter. Better to fill her head with such nonsense than tell her the truth about love, of how it could turn a girl’s soul inside out and take her to such a place of liberation that it was terrifying. For once you had tasted this kind of love, experienced such abandon and bliss, it was hard to settle for anything less. And yet, what if the man you loved could never be yours? Then you were in prison for the rest of your life.

No matter how many princess tales she tells her daughter, Maria knows it is to no avail. As her daughter grows older, she sees it. Every time she looks into Tina’s unblinking eyes, she detects the fire of the spirit that burns in them all: her mother; herself; her daughter. And she sees more besides, for she recognises the child’s father – an echo of him – within the outlines of her face. And, when she sees that, she is afraid.







2012

Valentina lies on her tummy, turning the page of her book. She inhales the comforting scent of the paper as she rereads the paragraph again. Anaïs Nin is describing a Brazilian dancer, who is painting her sex with red lipstick. The woman is surrounded by her admirers, none of whom is permitted to touch her, only watch. The image plants itself firmly into Valentina’s creative imagination. Anaïs Nin goes to town describing the red luscious lips of this dancer’s labia, like a ripe tropical flower, and Valentina can’t help but feel affected. She finds herself squirming on top of the bed covers and crossing her legs, yet even still she can feel her insides warming. She has an irresistible urge to paint herself, see how it makes her feel.

She hears a rustle of paper, as her companion turns the page of his book. She twists round to look at him, leaning against the bedstead.

‘What are you reading?’ she asks.

‘Edgar Allan Poe,’ Leonardo replies, blinking at her from behind his glasses. ‘“The Murders in the Rue Morgue”.’

‘Oh, I’ve read that,’ Valentina says, remembering that this was one of Theo’s favourites. ‘It’s supposed to be the first ever detective story, isn’t it?’

Leonardo nods, lifting his head and taking his glasses off. ‘How is Anaïs Nin?’

‘Steamy.’

He cocks his head, his eyes mildly amused. ‘Is that so?’

She watches him regarding her body, his gaze resting on her backside. Leonardo has told her a thousand times she has the perfect bottom for a submissive: curvaceous, yet firm, plump and ripe for spanking. She knows he is teasing her, but the truth is she has grown to adore their games. It helps her to forget about Theo.

It is only five months since Theo and Valentina were in Venice together; only five months since their passionate reunion. And yet, the following day, it all fell apart. She remembers how close she had been to giving him her all, to admitting her love for him. Theo had spent months showing her how much he loved her, how he accepted her for who she was and never wanted her to change. Of course, he needed her to give something back to him; it was only fair. Yet something had stopped her from telling him she loved him. She still cannot reason why. It took just this one moment of hesitation to destroy their whole life together. For, despite her insistence that she could not even be called his girlfriend, they had shared a life in Milan. Until Theo was gone for good, she had not realised just how much he was a part of her.

After he had walked out on her in Venice, she decided she was going to win him back. Yet, when she returned to Milan, he was already gone. How did he manage it? To pack up and leave within twenty-four hours, the key to the apartment sealed in a blank envelope in her postbox. Not one word did he leave for her. Had he gone back home to America? All she knew was that his parents lived in Brooklyn. She had no address, and no phone number.

Of course, Leonardo knew where he was. They were old friends, after all. Much to Valentina’s shock, he told her that Theo had indeed left Italy. But rather than returning to his native New York, he was living and working in London now. She had been furious at first. Theo had given her no chance to win him back. He had given up in the end. He had told her he loved her, but how could he, really? Surely he would have tried a little harder?

And yet, deep down, Valentina knows that Theo did try everything apart from begging. He had his pride. That was surely why she was attracted to him in the first place: his self-reliance and strength. He was never going to plead with her.

During those first few miserable weeks, Leonardo told her to go to Theo. ‘You love him; he loves you. What are you waiting for?’ her friend told her.

Yet she was adamant. ‘No, it will only end badly. It is just as well,’ she told him. ‘It was never going to work. Even if we were to try for a while, what’s the point? Because,’ as she kept lecturing Leonardo, ‘no relationship can last forever.’

She knew she was echoing her mother’s words. She had wanted so much not to be like her but it seemed she was a carbon copy of her: a woman unable to commit to any man.

‘Do you really believe that, Valentina?’ Leonardo asked her.

‘Of course; don’t you?’ she said.

Leonardo looked wistful. ‘I am like you, Valentina. We are the same.’

‘Friends who fuck.’ That’s what Valentina and Leonardo call themselves. No ties to each other. Leonardo has Raquel, for a start – his glamorous hourglass girlfriend, who has invited Valentina to join them for a threesome on many occasions. Valentina just isn’t turned on by the idea. Despite the fact that Raquel and Leonardo have an open relationship, Valentina can’t help thinking that Leonardo is Raquel’s, so to speak. She prefers the idea of a more disparate threesome: herself, another unattached woman – like her new dancer friend, Celia – and Leonardo. All three of them are the same to each other. No ties. This is a get-together that has long been promised. However, Celia is on tour in America, and won’t be back for weeks.

Leonardo is spiralling circles on her stomach now with his finger tip, creeping lower and lower. She puts her hand on his to stop him in his tracks, and turns to face him.

‘No,’ she says.

‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

She kisses him gently on the lips. ‘You are such a conscientious friend, but no. It’s time I got up.’

‘Why? It’s Sunday.’

He is right, yet she can’t stay in bed any longer. Sundays were days she and Theo spent lazing in bed all day – making love again and again, only emerging for food and drink, before diving back under the covers. She knows that Leonardo has to go soon. He is expected back at home, since Raquel has her family coming over for the day. She can’t bear to be left in bed on her own all day, reading Anaïs Nin and getting more and more frustrated.

‘Are you coming into the club tomorrow?’ he asks her.

Valentina has been spending more and more time in Leonardo’s nocturnal hideout – the exclusive private-members-only fetish club he runs in Milan. She is there primarily on professional grounds: to construct artistic and tasteful erotic compositions with some of the consenting club members. Occasionally, on those nights when she misses Theo the most, her own sense of guilt, of anger, motivates her to try to block her feelings for him out and distract herself with S&M games. Yet always she plays with Leonardo and no one else. He is the only one she trusts.

Leonardo sits now on the edge of her bed, pulling on his socks. She looks at the back of his head, his dark curly hair that is so long it is almost to his shoulders.

‘You need a haircut,’ she says, prodding his back with her finger.

‘Raquel likes it long.’

‘Well, she’s making you look like one of those greasy gigolos!’

Leonardo whips round and in one deft movement pins her to the bed. ‘Are you calling me a sleazeball, Signorina Valentina?’ He begins to tickle her under her arms.

‘No, no . . . How could I?’ She stifles a laugh, looking at him in mock wide-eyed innocence. ‘When I think you’re the hottest man in Milan.’

Leonardo sits back on his heels and, for a second, Valentina imagines she sees a flicker of regret in his eyes.

‘Only Milan? Not the whole world?’ he challenges her.

She shakes her head. And they look at each other in silence. And for a second she wonders if they are doing the right thing, being such good friends and having sex together.

‘So,’ asks Leonardo again, ‘are you coming in?’

‘Tomorrow? Sure; Antonella wants to come with me.’

Leonardo groans. ‘Oh, God; she’s a maniac.’

‘Yes, it seems she’s found her dominatrix calling,’ Valentina teases.

Leonardo is in the doorway, putting on his jacket. Suddenly, she is filled with an urge to stop him from leaving. She doesn’t want to be on her own all day. Not again.

‘Would you like some coffee before you go?’ she says, pulling on her kimono dressing gown and walking over towards him.

‘Sorry, darling; have to go.’

‘Are you sure? I can make you a quick espresso.’

Leonardo steps forward and gives her a brief hug. ‘I can’t. Raquel is expecting me.’

After he is gone, Valentina wanders the corridors of her apartment. Sometimes she imagines leaving this place. She has spent her whole life here. It belonged to her mother before her and, when she moved to America, she told Valentina she could have it – sell it, even. She knows it’s worth a fortune. She could buy somewhere amazing, somewhere else, in another country. She doesn’t have to live in Milan. She’s a photographer; she can work anywhere in the world. And yet the memories that haunt her also sustain her, and sometimes she imagines she can still hear Theo in his study, typing away on his computer, with the strains of an obscure cello concerto wafting out into the hall.

Valentina stands facing the study door and opens it slowly. She steps across the threshold and takes in the bare walls, the gaps in the bookcases where Theo removed his books, and the empty desk.

She feels the ache inside her heart, yet she grits her teeth as she walks into the room. She will not cry. She has to get over Theo, move on. She is a free spirit and Theo wanted commitment. Yet, despite his needs, he understood her. He did everything he could to show her that. She walks around the room, the marble floors cold upon the soles of her bare feet. She approaches the desk, sits down in the chair, lifts her feet and spins slowly. She can smell him in here: that crisp, dry tang of Bulgari that catches in the back of her throat and turns her on, even now. She closes her eyes and slowly stops spinning. She places her bare feet back down on the floor and parts her legs. At first, she imagines she is Anaïs Nin’s dancer, painting herself and exposing herself to her admirers. Yet gradually the watching eyes fade away and there is only one man looking at her: Theo. She pushes her finger inside herself.

‘Theo,’ she whispers. Here, inside the privacy of his office, she can say his name. Oh, in these moments she sees herself leaving Milan, taking a plane to London and getting back her man. She circles herself with her fingertips, pushing deeper, further, imagining the touch of Theo upon her. She could never forget how he feels upon her body. She arches in the chair, summoning him to her.

‘Come back. Oh, please, come back,’ she begs, as she falls forward, climaxing and, within a split second, moving from release to devastation. She bends over, hugging her knees. She knows what this is. This is grief – different from her first heartache over Francesco, for that was a perverse, vengeful pain. No; this feeling is different – as if she has let drop the most valuable thing she ever owned. It is cracked forever; unfixable.

She sits bolt upright, squeezes her fists tight, and stands up. She has to pull herself together, get on with her life.

She marches out of the study, slamming the door behind her, and heads into the kitchen to make some tea. She has to push Theo out of her head. It is over. He has not called or written to her once in five months. She has to find the Valentina she was before Theo came into her life. She’ll call Antonella and they’ll go bargain hunting along the Navigli Canal. She has been spending a lot more time with Antonella since Marco moved to New York and Gaby is expecting a baby.

Gaby’s pregnancy had shocked them all. Valentina hadn’t even known her old schoolfriend had met someone else, after the break-up with her married lover, Massimo. Valentina had been so busy trying to forget Theo – which had involved a great many escapades in Leonardo’s club – that the first time she met Gaby’s new boyfriend, Angelo, was the very night they announced her pregnancy.

It had been Christmas Eve, and the friends were all out together. Marco had been the first of them to recover from Gaby’s unexpected news.

‘Brava, Gaby!’ he said while at the same time slapping Angelo on the back. ‘That is wonderful. Congratulations!’

Valentina was struck dumb. She stared at her friend, who was positively beaming with joy, and then at Angelo, who didn’t look quite as happy, but still had his arm protectively around her shoulders. She guessed he must feel like he was facing the inquisition: Gaby’s oldest friends.

‘Mamma mia!’ Antonella cried, articulating Valentina’s thoughts. ‘Are you crazy? You have only just met.’

Gaby glared at Antonella. ‘We’ve been together two months. Besides, it doesn’t matter how long we’ve been going out.’ She picked up Angelo’s hand possessively. ‘When you know he’s the one, you just know. Isn’t that right, Valentina?’

Why was she asking her? Gaby knew how she felt about babies, marriage – the whole commitment deal.

Valentina took a sip of wine and looked away from her friend. What could she say? Gaby was heading for disaster. She just knew it.

‘You know, girls, we’re nearly thirty. Now’s the time we should be thinking about having kids, settling down . . .’ Gaby began.

‘Are you for real?’ Antonella exclaimed. ‘My God, if I ever “settle down”, please shoot me.’

Marco stifled a giggle, while patting Gaby’s hand comfortingly. She coloured; her boyfriend, Angelo, looked at Antonella in horror. But Valentina could have said much the same as Antonella. She could have told Gaby what she really thought – that it would all end in tears. How could Gaby possibly think she could have a baby with a man she had only known a couple of months? Had she any idea of the hardship she was about to head into? Of course, Valentina said nothing. She loved Gaby. She had to make herself be happy for her.

Even so, since the announcement, their friendship has drifted slightly. Now it seems that Gaby goes everywhere with Angelo. Valentina has only seen her once on her own recently, when they went to a Matisse exhibition. Her old schoolfriend had been a nightmare, complaining that she felt sick every few minutes and telling Valentina that she had no idea how bad the nausea could be in early pregnancy. Of course, Valentina did know. But she wasn’t going to tell Gaby that. There is only one person in the world who knows she was pregnant once. And she is never going to see him again, right? That had been the other thing that drove her mad that day with Gaby. Her friend kept bringing up Theo – trying to get her to talk about him, telling her to call him, advising her not to let him slip out of her life.

In the kitchen, Valentina makes herself a cup of English breakfast tea before sitting down at the table. She hasn’t heard from Gaby in a couple of weeks. She should call her – check everything is OK. She should care that her friend is pregnant, and yet she doesn’t want to think about it. In fact, if she is honest with herself, she hates the fact that Gaby is having a baby. She will lose her, too, just like she lost Theo.

Valentina opens up her laptop. She hasn’t checked her emails for a couple of days. She likes not being available all of the time. Sometimes she imagines having the courage to throw her mobile off the top of the duomo and watch it smash into tiny pieces on the piazza below, but she knows that would be professional suicide. There is quite a lot of mail, mostly boring, but one item in her inbox grabs her attention. She looks with interest at its subject: ‘Exhibition of Erotic Photography.’

When she clicks on the message, she has to read it twice before she actually takes in the content. She is being offered a place in a group show of erotic photography, in the Lexington Gallery in Soho, London, at the end of next month. Finally, all of her focus and drive is paying off. Last winter, during the weeks following her break-up with Theo, she had spent days putting together submission packages and sending them out to galleries in London. She had reasoned that she had always wanted to exhibit in London, although, if she is really honest with herself, it had also crossed her mind that this same city is Theo’s new home. Without hesitation, Valentina grabs her phone. To hell with Raquel’s family dinner, she needs to speak to Leonardo, now.

‘Leonardo, guess what? I’m in a show at the Lexington Gallery in London!’ she announces before her friend even has time to answer his phone properly.

‘Valentina, that’s great, but I can’t talk right now.’ Leonardo sounds unusually uptight.

‘Oh, sorry . . .’ She feels a little hurt; she cannot help it. She imagines Leonardo and his voluptuous wife, Raquel, at the dinner table, entertaining her family: the aroma of home-cooked food, wine liberally splashed into glasses, chat of young and old, children hiding in between the adults’ legs underneath the table. A scene she has never, in her whole life, been a part of.

‘I’ll call you later.’ His voice warms. ‘Well done; it’s really great news.’

At last, something else is happening in her life to take her away from her heartache over Theo. Finally, her profile as an art photographer, rather than a fashion photographer, is beginning to build. It takes her out of her mother’s shadow – Tina Rosselli was Milan’s iconic fashion photographer of the sixties and seventies – away from comparisons with her mother and into a world that is hers alone. Maybe that’s why she keeps taking those photographs.

Her episodes in Leonardo’s club make her feel better. She is not herself, disguised in some costume with her camera. She is a stranger watching strangers, taking pictures of them as they reveal the most nocturnal part of themselves, their secret desires, their shadow selves. The honesty of these scenes never fails to move her. And these are the only times she can hide away from her hurt. So she just keeps on snapping, consumed by this mission: to make something aesthetically otherworldly, beautiful and luscious out of sex.

She sits back against her chair, her heart rate quickening. It takes her less than a second to make up her mind. She quickly types a reply to the email, accepting the invitation.

Finally, she can get away from Milan for a while and all the memories of her and Theo that haunt the rooms within her apartment. In London, she can reinvent herself. And yet, the truth is that Valentina knows it is not just the idea of the exhibition that is exciting her. She now has an excuse to go to London, a huge city, of course, with a population of millions, and yet, even so, it is Theo’s new home. In London, she will be closer to him.







1948

The day she leaves, it is raining – the way it only can in Venice – a penetrating downpour, barrelling down upon them as they walk towards the ferry. The lagoon sloshes over on to the pavement to merge with pools of rainwater. Her feet are wet before she has even set out.

The ferry is already there. Maria grips her suitcase handle, feels the stiff leather burning her palm. Her breath is tight in her chest. Finally, she is leaving.

Her mother places her hands on Maria’s shoulders, squeezes them tightly and looks intently into her eyes. She is hatless and her hair is stuck to her head like a shiny black helmet.

‘Never forget who you are,’ she says to Maria.

She looks away from her mother’s gaze. It is too intense and makes her frightened. She is beginning to have regrets. She is safe here in Venice. Why would she ever want to leave?

‘It will be very different in London,’ her mother continues. ‘It’s a very big city; much bigger than Venice. And it has been crippled by the war. Things will be harsh.’

Pina reaches forward and places her hand on Maria’s mother’s arm in reassurance. ‘She will be fine, Belle,’ she says gently.

Her mother drops her arms and, instinctively, Maria folds into the embrace of the two other women. She inhales deeply her mother’s scent of crushed roses and Pina’s more comforting aroma of burnt sugar and vanilla.

The bell rings for the ferry to depart and Maria knows that it is now, or never. If she doesn’t get on the ferry today, she will never be able to extricate herself from her mother’s love. It is so painful, this separation, and yet she has dreamt of this moment for many years – throughout the dull grey fear of the war, when she spent hours dancing on her own in the deserted palazzos of Venice, watching her young, supple body shimmering in the tarnished mirrors and dusty windows. She knows that, logically, her mother wants her to leave as well. She has always encouraged her to dance, reminding her again and again that her paternal grandmother was a Spanish dancer – that dancing is in her blood.

‘It is your calling, my darling,’ her mother had told her.

Her mother’s faith, though, was all words, not action. It was Pina who had given her the practical skills to pursue her dream. It was she who had found the right dancing teacher for Maria: a French-American Jew, called Jacqueline, who they hid throughout the war, and who tutored Maria not only in dance, but also in French and English. Jacqueline had left them over a year ago. They had not heard from her until two months ago when she wrote to Belle and Pina, telling them that she had a teaching position in the Lempert Dance School in London. Upon Jacqueline’s recommendation, the director of the school, Bruno Lempert, had a place for Maria. It was an opportunity Maria couldn’t possibly turn down: to actually train with the Ballets Jooss, one of the most cutting edge contemporary dance companies in Europe. Her chance had been handed to her on a plate.

‘Remember to work hard,’ Pina says, her expression earnest, and Maria knows she is trying to hide her emotions, for Belle’s sake.

‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ Maria begins to say. ‘Maybe I should stay . . .’

Her mother shakes her head, fiercely, although tears are sprouting in her eyes.

‘No way, young lady,’ she says, picking up her case, and almost pushing her daughter on to the ferry. ‘You are doing this, not just for yourself, but for all of us.’

Now they stand apart, her mother and Pina on the quayside and she on the edge of the rocking boat.

‘Be careful,’ Pina instructs her.

Maria frowns. ‘Of what?’

‘She means be careful of men,’ her mother says, smiling despite the tears. ‘She is right, my darling; don’t let yourself be taken advantage of.’

‘Of course not,’ Maria says roundly, gripping her suitcase to her chest. She means what she says, for she tries to have no interest in men. Although her mother idolised her father – never said a bad word about him – as far as Maria is concerned, he abandoned them. He never met his own daughter. Belle tells her that he is dead but, when Maria asks where or how, she is unable to elaborate. If she doesn’t know for sure, then it’s possible that he could be alive, somewhere, couldn’t he? It’s possible he just never bothered to come back and is letting them all believe he is dead.

Pina has always been there in her life. Maria has been perfectly content living in the home of her mother, and her lover. It seems the ideal relationship: two women who of course completely understand each other. ‘Such harmony, and no patriarchal mess.’ That’s what Pina was always saying. If only she liked women, but Maria has to admit that she is not attracted to other girls and, sometimes, she finds herself casting her eyes at a man – usually a lot older than herself for some reason – before she pulls herself together and looks away. She knows that if she is to succeed as a dancer then she must dedicate her life to her dream. Falling in love with a man could destroy her purpose. And yet, as much as she convinces herself that she doesn’t want it, Maria can’t help but sometimes fantasise about how it must feel to be in love, and to be loved. How is it to be one man’s princess?

The ferry begins to pull away and she waves goodbye. Her throat tightens and she is not sure whether she is crying or not, her face is so