Limerence (Famous Young Things): Chapter 3

Noah shoots up from his desk as I head straight for Ben’s office.

“He’s on a call, Felix,” Noah says, stepping in front of me. Like this cherub-nosed, shirt-and-tie-wearing twink has a hope in hell of fighting off 122kg of enraged dancer.

“Well, I’ll just be a minute, sweetheart. I’m sure he’ll want to hear what I have to say.” I push past him and practically throw open the door of Ben’s office.

Behind me, Noah mutters, “I’m positive he won’t…”

He is on the phone. But he doesn’t look surprised to see me and holds up a single finger before pointing it at the chair opposite his desk.

Into the phone, Ben says, “Perfect, Tamara, I’ll call you then. Okay, thanks, bye.”

“Sorry,” Noah simpers from behind me. “I tried.”

Ben gives him an indulgent smile. “It’s fine, thanks. Just hold my calls, will you?”

Silently, Noah backs out of the room and gently closes me in with LBC’s director. My boss. The king of the fucking world, if you will. The British ballet world at least.

We stare at each other like two predators across a prairie might for a few minutes, while I wait for him to own up to the betrayal like a man.

He doesn’t.

“You think I won’t go somewhere else? Because I will. I’ve had offers, Ben. A lot of them. But I never entertain them because I’m loyal.” When he still says nothing, I go on, “Loyalty, in case you’re unfamiliar, is sort of the opposite of betrayal. Betrayal is a word I know you’re more than familiar with since you just reinvented it for the season. Benedict Wells: His Betrayal Era. I think it will look great on the programme.”

Ben lets out a patient-sounding sigh. “Felix, did you see the sign on the door when you came barging in here without knocking? Right under where it says my name? Did you see what it says?”

I’m not sure if this is some kind of diversion tactic or a memory test but I feel like the wisest thing to do is stay silent. My opening monologue isn’t having quite the effect I was hoping for. I’m wondering if I should go again.

“Maybe you missed it,” says Ben. “But it says ‘Director of the Company’.”

I knew that.

“That’s my role here, Felix. To direct this company. That includes making decisions and choices which benefit and enhance it. Decisions and choices which, though they may feel personal to some dancers”—he gives me a very pointed look I don’t appreciate—“I make because it will make us the envy of all other ballet companies. Which in turn will draw audiences to those seats out there from all over the world. Choosing which dancers I invite to dance in this company is the most important aspect of that. I told you the very same thing three years ago in that hotel bar in Russia. Now, suppose one of the greatest dancers on the planet is suddenly back from hiatus and is looking for a new place to dance, and suppose that dancer expresses an interest in joining this company. Given all that I’ve just said, what do you suppose the director of this company should do?”

I want to tell him that he should have told Nicoló Savini to fuck all the way off and that he could dance in Mexico for all I cared, but I was feeling a little chastened by the scenario and his infuriatingly calm and reasonable way of making a point.

“Do you want to dance in the greatest ballet company in the world, Felix?”

I roll my eyes. I won’t even answer that.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Arsehole.

“Well, with the two greatest male danseurs on the planet, we just became exactly that. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day.” He sits forward and gives me a commiserative smile. “I know this will come as a terrible shock to you, darling, but this decision wasn’t about you. I can honestly say, you did not even enter my head when I pushed that contract across the table. It was about this company. And, as vulgar as it sounds, it was about money; like most things are.”

“Are you giving him the lead?” I pout. “Does he get to swan in here and just be handed lead? Because if so, what the fuck am I? Chopped liver?”

“I’m not giving anyone anything. He will be coming to LBC as a lead principal, yes. But that’s because he’s still Nico fucking Savini and he’s earned that spot. But the details of next year’s production will be announced in due course.”

I snort at that. As if Nico Savini wasn’t promised a lead role the moment he signed on the dotted line.

“Why is he here? It doesn’t make any sense?” I glare at Ben suspiciously.

“Just a happy accident that I was more than willing to jump all over.”

“Did something happen at Romasco?”

He shrugs. “I have no idea. It’s not my business.”

“Are you paying him more than me?”

Ben levels a look at me for that. He knows I don’t give a shit about money. It’s status—my status here—that I care about.

“Fine.” I fume silently for a few moments.

“Look, Felix,” Ben begins, “you’re the core of this company.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Sorry, is that a Freudian slip?”

“I mean the soul, you’re the soul of this company. Even the people who can’t stand you know how important you are to LBC. Our donors know. Our board knows, and I know. I don’t want you to go anywhere. You belong here. And I happen to think this company is stronger with both of you out front, even if I do have a headache just thinking about it.” He squeezes his temples. “I’m asking you to think about all of us, and about the audience who’re going to come in droves and pay to see you both dance. Can you just… try not to kill him? Please?”

I stare at him a few long moments.

That’s the problem with Benedict Wells, he is infuriatingly fucking likeable. And when he speaks, he is sincere about it. It almost makes everything worse. I’d been half in love with him once. The other half just wanted to impress him and not let him down. At some point, those two things had become muddled up in my head and now I just respect the bastard.

“I’m not making any promises where Savini is concerned.” I stand, still glaring at him. “But fine, I’ll try not to kill him.”

“Thank you, Felix.” Ben smiles. I make some childish noise at that and stride toward the door. “Oh, happy birthday by the way,” Ben says, already picking up the phone again.

“Yeah? Nice gift you got me, BeneDICK.”

“No other director would put up with this shit, you know. That’s why you stay here.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m the soul of this company.” I throw a smirk over my shoulder as I pull open his office door. “Oh, look, it does say director here—I thought you’d just made that up. Who knew?”

He shakes his head and waves me off. “You’re late for class. Go.”

So obviously Ben had a point; LBC with both Savini and I on the programme was a bigger draw than either of us on our own, I’m not a fucking idiot. It’s just that I don’t do well with sharing, and that applies to most things—I don’t do threesomes for exactly this reason. I’m the main event, the headline act. And I’m certainly not going to share the fucking spotlight with Nicoló Savini.

So if I can’t make Ben change his mind, then I’ll just have to resort to plan B. Make Savini leave of his own volition. Make every single minute he’s here a bloody nightmare so that Romasco and even retirement seems like paradise for him. It’s not like I can’t be fucking impossible when I want to be, ask literally anyone. Even Ava would agree.

Savini is about to learn that this stage isn’t big enough for the two of us. I just hope he’s a fast learner.



Fen shoots me her trademark black glare as I slip into the room, late. She’d been mid-monologue about something I’d only caught the end of. But no one was really paying attention, too busy watching the door, waiting for Ben or Savini himself to come strolling in. When they see it’s me, there are flickers of something in some eyes: curiosity, schadenfreude, barely disguised delight. Most people here know how I feel about Nico Savini. They know I won’t be welcoming my biggest fucking rival into the studio and company with open arms. They are looking forward to this.

Ava tries to catch my eye from across the room, raising one perfect brow when she does. I don’t need to nod or mouth anything; she can read my face frighteningly well for someone who’s short sighted, and gives me a look of commiseration before turning her focus back to Fen.

Our Chinese dance instructor is a bit like a piranha; tiny, brutal, and deadly. Until eight years ago, she was considered the best prima ballerina in the world. But then she got pregnant with twins, which as far as the dance world was concerned, meant she’d had a double leg amputation. She never got back to where she was before, so now she whips us into shape like we’re the ones who stole her dance career from her and not her two spoiled little fuck trophies.

They’re cute as fuck, don’t get me wrong, and it’s probably better that she takes her resentment out on us rather than them, it’s just the injustice of it that pisses me off.

“Felix, thank you for blessing us with your presence,” she says icily.

“You’re welcome, Fen.” I beam. Some of the class snicker. Fen glares.

It’s just before lunch when the door to studio one opens and Ben breezes in, halting Charlie and Ava’s lacklustre pas de deux. Everyone snaps to a stop; they’ve been on edge, pulled tight as a string waiting for it. The music peters out and the floor clears, and I’m certain I can hear the sound of breaths being held.

He’s alone.

“Everyone, I’m not a fan of gossip and rumours, it’s not my style to keep things from you, and I assure you this was all very quickly done. Transparency is key at LBC, you know that, so I’m delighted to confirm that Nico Savini will be joining us on an eighteen-month contract as of this morning.” He looks at me. “The casting for the summer production has not been decided as yet, and we will still be using the charity gala in four weeks’ time to determine everyone’s form and condition. Let me be clear, no one’s role is guaranteed here. Fen will ensure you’re all ready and able to show us your best. But, I think you’ll agree, that this is an excellent coup for us as a company; Nico’s talent only adds to the wealth of it we already have here. It’s going to be a fantastic season for us. Now, questions?”

“When’s he getting here?” asks Charlie, who, next to me, has the most to lose with Nico’s sudden appearance.

“Ah, he’s here already. He’s signing some paperwork in my office, and he’ll be with you all this afternoon. Next?” Ben looks around the room.

“I heard he was going to New York,” says Lucien. He’s corps and likely to stay there. And though Nico isn’t any real threat to him, or the opposite, he still sounds put out. The girls overall look far less bothered about Nicoló Savini’s arrival.

“Is that a question Monsieur Barthet?” Ben asks, smiling.

“I meant… I thought he was to go to NYBC. Why is he now here?”

Ben thinks about this. How to answer it. “Because the gods of luck smiled on me this week and I smiled back. Anything else?”

“Is he staying in the artists’ residence?” This is a guy whose name I don’t know. He’s new. “Because I have been on the waiting list for a dorm, so if he is…” He tapers off, clearly aware that he’s complaining to the director in front of the entire cast about his sleeping arrangements.

“He is not, and I have just this morning leased a further four rooms from the opera house so you will hear from Noah about your accommodation this week, Stefan.”

Stefan. I truly had no idea how Ben did it.

There’s a lull of silence. “Is that all?” Ben turns his smile on me, provokingly. I can sense a few others looking in my direction too. Fuck it.

“How’s his English? Are you going to make us all learn Italian?” I ask. It causes a few people to laugh. It’s not even funny, it’s borderline xenophobic. Savini is bilingual, he’d trained in the States since he was a kid, so he had this weird, not entirely unattractive, American-Italian accent which leaned heavily toward American.

“Hey, if you want to learn Italian and make him feel right at home here, Felix, I think that would be great.”

“Oh, I plan to make him feel right at home, Ben, don’t you worry.”



We don’t see him at lunch as we sit eating cous cous salad, from Tupperware bowls, that Ava had made this morning.

“It’s just weird,” she says. “Like, he leaves Romasco like that, disappears to god knows where for nearly two years, and then he just turns up here?”

“Maybe he was always coming here.” This thought had occurred to me as I’d cycled here this morning. His hiatus being a diversion to hide the fact he was leaving Romasco to come here, that this had been two years in the making. But it didn’t really make any sense to me. There had been some rumours, about a year ago, that he was coming back and that he was going to the US. This was around the same time as the rumours he was getting back together with Sofia Wynter, his ex. She was a principal at San Francisco, so a move to the US made sense at the time it was being bandied about.

Ava’s eyes light up. “So, what, you think this didn’t happen fast at all then? That Ben’s been sitting on it a while?”

Charlie drops down onto the grass next to us.

“You think Ben would do that??” asks Charlie.

That really didn’t make any sense either; Ben wasn’t an underhanded prick.

“Mmm. Actually, no, I don’t think that. Ignore me.”

“Sorry, Lix,” he says. “This is really shit. But you’re still better. Plus, he’s been away for two years; there’s no way he hasn’t lost it.”

“Mmmm,” I say, but I’m not sure I buy it. Nico has always been built differently from everyone else. He’s like a soldier. Hardened and tough. Notoriously consistent.

“Seriously, though, what was Ben thinking?” Ava says.

“About all the money he’s going to make.”

“Yeah, well, Savini isn’t about to be cheap, is he? How’d he get the board to agree to that sort of pay packet? Think they’re paying him more than you?”

“I don’t give a shit about that,” I tell her. “I care about how much room he’s gonna take up on my stage.”

“He is taller,” Ava points out, a bitchy look on her face.

“By two fucking inches, bitch.”

“I mean, that can make all the difference,” chimes Charlie, goadingly.

I stand and give them the finger. “I’m not sitting about here to be insulted. Fuck you two.”

Behind me, they both laugh as I storm off toward the toilet.

After I piss and wash my hands, I go to my locker to check my phone. There’s a message from Alex the waiter, which I ignore, and one from Christian, which I don’t.

SCD:

I brought you a birthday present from Geneva. Come over and get it tonight?

I type back:

Unless it’s those chocolate truffles, I’m not interested.

Behind me, the door of the changing room squeaks open, and I stuff my phone back in my bag and glance over my shoulder. My entire body draws up sharp. He’s strolling through the door like he owns the place, already. Like he’s been here years, already. I haven’t seen him for a couple years, what with the disappearing act, and I’m slightly taken aback by how… good he looks.

I watch his videos online—he’s my competition, of course I do—but in the flesh, he’s something else. Annoyingly fucking good-looking, even with his slightly-too-big nose, and built-like-a-wet-dream body. His hair is growing out again, he’d cropped it before the hiatus (the girls here had had some weird reaction to that) and now it was a toss of dark, almost-black curls the same colour as his eyes.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I keep staring at him until he does because I want to look him in the eye and make him look away first. Impatient, I slam closed the door of my locker to get his attention. His head snaps up, and there’s a physical reaction in his body at the sight of me. He stiffens, eyes flaring a little with what looks like extreme interest, before he tries to pretend his reaction didn’t happen.

“Taylor-Brooke,” he says with a slight dip of his head before turning to scan the lockers, looking for his own, presumably. “Fancy running into you here.”

“What, they never gave you a changing room of your own?” I twist the dial to lock it and turn to stand with my back resting against the lockers, arms folded.

“Ah, they offered but I said no. Told them I’d much rather slum it here with you.”

“If you wanted to slum it you should have stayed in Rome, sweetheart.”

He chuckles at that, shaking his head. “Been there, done that. Wanted a change of scene,” he says in a very low, very American voice. He finds his locker and punches in the code on the Post-it he’s holding. Then he pushes his bag into it.

“Literally no one wants you here, you do get that?”

He levels a black stare at me. “Your director does. Your board too. They sign off on all the new hires, you know,” he says. “Oh, and I saw your pretty friend Ava out there, she looked happy to see me. If you get my drift.”

My face contorts. “Oh, piss off, she wouldn’t touch you with a fucking pole.”

Yeah, there were rumours. That he’d slept with over 100 ballerinas (it was this same rumour that was written in the articles about his breakup with Sofia Wynter), that his dick was the size of his arm (to my disappointment, there was some evidence of this being true because dance belts and tights only did so much), that he was the quintessential Italian lothario (I’d never slept with a single Italian man who hadn’t overestimated his abilities, so there was absolutely no such thing). Well fuck that and fuck him, because Ava has standards, and I know she doesn’t even think he’s hot because I’ve asked her. More than once.

“Sure,” is all he says to that. He closes the locker and turns fully to face me, drawing a considering eye over my entire body. “Have you put on weight since São Paulo?”

I stiffen, every muscle pulling tight under my skin. I’d gained a few pounds since the last time I’d seen him, sure, but it was muscle. I open my mouth to spit that at him, but then the corner of his mouth quirks up into a smirk, eyes dancing with playfulness. He strides towards me and past me and, without looking back, throws over his shoulder, “Always good to see you, Felix.”

I bang the side of my fist off the row of metal lockers. “Prick!”

That was not how that was supposed to go.