This Could Change Everything(105)

Scarlett removed her white headdress and raked her fingers through her slicked-back purple hair. And Conor, acknowledging his mistake, said, ‘Look, I’m sorry. If it sounded like a toss-up between ballet and belly dancing, I must have just assumed you’d been busking as a belly dancer. I had no idea. And you’re so talented.’

‘I was, once.’ Scarlett dismissed his praise. ‘Ballet was the love of my life. I was awarded a bursary to study at White Lodge. That’s the Royal Ballet’s lower school,’ she explained. ‘And I had an audition for the upper school in Covent Garden. I was sixteen and it was all I’d ever dreamed of.’

‘What happened?’ said Conor, because something clearly had.

‘I was crossing the road one morning and got hit by a motorbike that didn’t stop. I was left in the gutter with a broken ankle, and that was pretty much it. The dream was over. My ankle mended eventually, but by then it was too late. And it was never as strong as it needed to be, not for the Royal Ballet School. They need you to be one hundred per cent.’ She shrugged. ‘So now I just do it for fun. I go over to Bristol to do my classes every week and occasionally we put on shows, and it isn’t what I’d dreamed of, but that’s life, isn’t it? At least I’m still here. I could have been killed.’

Her calm acceptance was causing Conor’s heart to feel as if it were being squeezed by a giant fist. ‘Did they ever catch the motorcyclist?’

‘No.’

‘It changed your whole life.’

‘I know, but stuff happens to all of us all the time. You walked out of your job, didn’t you? If you hadn’t, everything would be different now. You’d still be working as a solicitor, you probably wouldn’t be living in Percival Square, you wouldn’t have met Essie . . . or me. I mean, imagine how terrible that would have been . . .’

She was joking now, but Conor had never been more serious in his life. ‘You—’

‘And if Ess hadn’t written that round robin, she wouldn’t have met Zillah either. Every day we do things that are capable of changing everything, and that’s what makes life exciting. When I was busking last summer, I used to fantasise that Steven Spielberg would come to Bath and catch sight of me and be completely enthralled, and then he’d beg me to appear in his next film.’

‘And did he?’

‘No, but it could happen. That’s the point. The other week when I was working on my market stall, I sold one of my stained-glass necklaces to a woman, and it turned out she worked as a receptionist at the hotel where Steven Spielberg stayed while he was filming War Horse in Castle Combe—’ Scarlett stopped abruptly. ‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’

In a rush, the memory had come back to him. Conor said slowly, ‘Last Christmas . . . one evening when it was snowing, I saw a guy playing a violin on Milsom Street, and a girl came up and started dancing around him . . . like proper ballet steps . . .’

‘Well, you couldn’t call them proper,’ said Scarlett. ‘I was wearing trainers.’

Conor exhaled and spread his hands. ‘It was you.’

‘It was me.’ She nodded with amusement.

‘I can’t believe it. You were amazing.’ He couldn’t begin to explain the effect her brief performance had had on him; he’d been completely blown away, both by the magical scene itself and by the idea of a girl who could break into dance like that for the sheer love of it. For weeks afterwards, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.

And it had been Scarlett all along. If he’d been able to catch up with her that evening, would she have captured his heart from the word go? Would he have felt about her then the way he felt about her now?

Who knew?

There was nothing else for it: he needed to seize the moment. ‘Could we go outside?’

Scarlett’s eyebrows went up. ‘Why?’

Oh great, and now he appeared to be on the brink of a heart attack. ‘Please. We need to talk.’

Out in the garden, Conor found a secluded spot where they wouldn’t be overheard, although Scarlett still couldn’t work out why he was being so weird.

Carefully arranging the gauzy layers of white tulle that made up her skirt, she seated herself on the wooden bench. ‘What’s this about, then?’

‘You. Me. Me being sorry.’ Conor sat down next to her and fiddled distractedly with his shirt collar, as if gearing himself up for some awkward admission. ‘Look, I know it’s none of my business, but are you seeing anyone else right now?’

Scarlett blinked. ‘You mean Danny?’

‘Anyone at all.’

‘No. No one.’ At times like this, she found it helpful to channel cool, in-control women. Surveying him with outward calm, she conjured up her inner Helen Mirren. ‘Why?’

‘OK, let me just get this out.’ He took a deep breath. ‘When I met Belinda, I liked her straight away. Then over time I gradually went off her. That’s the way it usually goes for me. But when I first met you, I didn’t like you at all.’

Charming. ‘I noticed.’

‘The thing is, though, as time went by, how I felt about you kind of . . . began to change. I stopped finding you annoying and started liking you. Just a tiny bit at first, then more and more. And now I really like you,’ said Conor. ‘I mean, a lot.’