Arabella’s fingers wrap around my elbow. “Just a little pale. Nothing an hour with your rose wouldn’t solve.”
I make a face.
“Too much?” Arabella asks as she takes a sip of her wine. She’s still wearing the workout clothes I know she’s been dancing in all day. She’s currently performing in a jazz improv piece with a small company of dancers and next week she rejoins the Irish Modern Ballet, rehearsing forThe Nutcrackerwhich will perform all December and over Christmas and New Year.
“Too much what?”
“Too much sex talk?”
“We’re not talking about sex. We’re talking about orgasms and self-pleasure. Not the same things,” I point out.
“Yes, but it’s all… related.”
“You don’t have to pussyfoot around me. I’m asexual, not a nun.” I appreciate Arabella’s awareness and she has been nothing but supportive since I told her I am asexual, but I am sensitive to even a hint of being infantilised.
“Don’t I know it.” Arabella smirks.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’d make a shit nun. You curse too much and don’t like God enough. Besides, can you even imagine you wearing a habit and why would you ever want to hide your fabulous hair, especially when you throw it over your shoulder so expertly?” Arabella teases.
A bubble of words charges up my throat and I suddenly want to tell Arabella that I am more than a pretty face, pretty clothes and pretty hair, but I know this defensiveness has nothing to do with my best friend’s teasing comments and much more to do with how I have been feeling about myself recently. Maybe there’s something up with the moon right now, like Loncey said. I squeeze my eyes shut as that thought materialises. That idea can fuck all the way off. I’m not going to think about that, orthem, for a second longer, not when I have a rare few hours of my best friend’s company.
“How are rehearsals going?” I say, after giving her one of my signature hair tosses which we both smile at.
“My feet hate me. My knees crunch when I go upanddown stairs. And I never knew I could get cramp in my actual heel but I do now. I hate tap.”
“But you’re so good at it,” I say. Arabella is good at it all, but she truly excels at ballet. “Besides, soon you’ll be back in your pointes and you’ll have forgotten all about your cramp rolls and ball changes.”
“I know. I just hope I’m fit enough.”
“Oh, Bella, you are so fit enough. You’ve been dancing several hours a day for years.”
“But ballet fit is different, as you know,” Arabella says, and I always appreciate the way she talks to me like I’m still a dancer even though I haven’t danced for over ten years now.
“You’ll be grand,” I tell her. “By the way, cheers!”
I chime my glass against hers.
“You want to help me one day with some warm-ups once I’m over the worst of these rehearsals?”
My wine nearly goes down the wrong hole. “You want me to do ballet with you?”
Arabella shrugs. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t dance.”
“Anymore… but you could easily start again. I’d bet it would all come flooding back to you in no time.”
“It may come back to me up here.” I tap one of my French-manicured nails to the side of my head. “But my legs would be clueless. You know I try and avoid all kinds of physical exertion.”
“Says the woman who thinks nothing of working twelve-hour days across multiple countries, all while looking like she doesn’t lift a finger for less than ten grand.”
“I don’t.” I give her another hair toss.
“Maeve, I love you to smithereens but you and I both know that’s bullshit. You work harder than anyone I know. I have to schedule these catch-ups with you weeks in advance and do I need to remind you about the life you’ve built for yourself? A beautiful designer apartment, a wardrobe most women would gouge out their own eyeballs for and complete control over your own finances and schedule.”
A heavy weight settles in my stomach. Arabella’s right. I am living the life I’ve always dreamed of. And yet…
