Chapter 9

Of course that night would not leave my mind. It was by far the most haunting thing that had ever happened to me. But there was so much to do in the following few weeks to prepare for Blackpool, I forced myself to trust Sasha and banish the experience from my mind. I never did see the sedan again, so I trusted that it was taken care of, whatever “it” was. Not that I was going to let him off the hook forever. After Blackpool was over and we’d calmed down, I would definitely press him for full details.

One of the positive things that had come out of the whole nightmare was my realization of how happy I was with my life. How much I would miss it if it—any of it—was taken from me.

I was back to eating healthy and regularly. After the chocolate rose Sasha gave me that night, I developed a new love for dark chocolate—filled with antioxidants along with delicious taste once you got used to it. I drank three of his juices a day, including the beet juice, which, after the horrible man’s beet-y stink that night, became a kind of empowering symbol that I would overcome him. And Sasha and I became regulars at the famous Musso & Frank down the street from me—and where we’d had that early sexual-angst-fraught encounter—where we’d have iron- and protein-rich medium rare steak with steamed broccoli and Brussels sprouts.

I worked harder on our Blackpool routines than I’d ever worked before. It was like I had a new lease on life, and there wasn’t a single aspect of it I wasn’t going to live to the fullest.

***

We returned to Daiyu’s two weeks before the competition. I’d somehow managed to gain enough weight that my dresses fit perfectly. They were far more gorgeous than I’d imagined. She had all the rhinestones on and they glimmered in the bright Los Angeles sunlight gleaming through the opened window. I looked unbelievably glamorous, like I never had before. Certainly not in any of my ballet costumes. I looked like a real ballroom dancer.

Daiyu—and Sasha—surprised me by making one additional costume. This one was in the same toga-esque style but in this really rich bronze. In all the drama of the past few weeks, Sasha had forgotten to tell me, but the American team had been invited to dance in the world team competition held at the beginning of Blackpool, before the individual comps. Actually, he hadn’t thought we were going to be asked to participate since we were a new partnership, and thus had no ranking. But the new judges had changed the rules so that one very high-ranked partner would mean the partnership’s inclusion on the team. And Sasha, of course, was so highly ranked, they wanted him and whoever he was dancing with regardless of whether the partnership was new.

“There’s always so much drama when the U.S. team competes,” he’d said with a sly smile. “I think they just don’t want to take the chance of having a boring team comp.”

Drama, hmm? Well, as with everything happening in my life of late, I had no idea what all that word could possibly entail. I figured I’d be finding out soon enough.

So, we were to dance with the U.S.’s three other top couples in a team match two days before our regular competition. I shouldn’t worry too much; it wasn’t as serious, Sasha had assured me. Winners didn’t go down in the history books or anything, the way the individual champions did. This was really kind of a goofy, fun event meant to get the audience warmed up for the real comp, allowing them to cheer on their favorite competing country.

For us, it would mean a great chance to warm up and would give me the opportunity to dance on the big ballroom floor and us to go over our routines one more time before it mattered for real. Besides a small opening number involving all team members, we’d just be dancing our regular competition routines, so no need to learn anything new. Of course, my heart initially skipped a beat or two when I learned of yet another competition we’d be dancing in, but I just wasn’t the stress case lately I’d been before. Sasha told me to trust him, that it was no big deal. And I did. I trusted him wholly, with everything.

We recorded ourselves practicing in the costumes. Daiyu had layered all three so well, putting in several rather hidden skin-toned straps, so there was virtually no chance of a costume malfunction, which made me a lot more comfortable. The costumes all looked so elegant and sleek. Sexy without looking gauche or trashy. I was awed by how much we looked like real partners, just like all the dancers on the videos I’d watched ad nauseam.

“You were wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong,” I teased Sasha, pressing my index finger into his rock-solid pec. We’d just finished going through our last routine and were still in the costumes. I was careful not to make any fingernail indentation in the gorgeous fabric of his sheer top, so I made sure to press into his gloriously silky skin.

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“On our first day at Daiyu’s, you thought I wouldn’t be happy with my costume. With whatever costume she made for me. That I’d never be happy with my body.” I put my arms behind my back, clasped my hands, and swung my body back and forth, smiling up at him sweetly like a happy schoolgirl.

He smiled and nodded. “That’s true. I do remember saying that.”

“And you were wrong. This costume is hot, hot, hot!” I swung about more fully, now swirling my arms about too. “I actually look…good.” I was suddenly embarrassed at my new, improved self-esteem.

He shook his head and laughed. “No.”

“No? Did you just say—”

“I mean to say that the costume looks very, very good on you. But it is not the costume that is hot. It’s the wearer.” He grabbed both of my hands to stop me from swinging. His expression suddenly became very serious.

He stepped slowly toward me and, still holding my hands, pressed his lips to mine where they remained for quite a few moments. Then he began brushing those full wet lips against my cheek, then down to my chin, to my neck, and to my clavicle, before running his tongue along the top of my right breast, out toward my right shoulder—the one left bare by the toga top.

He stopped and looked at me with puppy dog eyes. He ran his finger along the top line of the costume. “I would like to see more hotness, please. Less costume, more wearer.”

I laughed, embarrassed. “Yeah, probably not a good idea to do anything in these anyway. We don’t want to, you know, soil anything.”

But he was already busy unfastening the hook atop my zipper, which was located directly under my armpit. It tickled as his fingers fidgeted with the clasp and I giggled.

“Oh wait,” I cried out as he finally got the zipper down. “My shoes.” I looked down at my feet. “I don’t want to snag any stones or anything on the way off.”

He mock-harrumphed and bent down. “What I won’t do to get you naked,” he muttered as he slowly unbuckled my shoes, then delicately removed each foot from its stiletto’d binding. I giggled again, feeling a bit like Cinderella, except that my prince was freeing my foot rather than fitting it into the glass slipper.

After my shoes were off, he gingerly pulled the top of the toga down, over my left shoulder, down past my breasts to my waist, then on down my thighs. He went so slowly, partially to avoid snagging any part of the costume, but more so he could run his nose and lips over every inch of my body, every pore of my skin, as the material revealed it. At points, he ran his tongue over my bareness, but more often, he just breathed in deeply, stopping seemingly every several pores, as if to take in every bit of me. Okay, he was really testing me now. I didn’t know if I was that comfortable with my body yet!

When he finally had the blasted thing off, he walked to the chair near the window and delicately draped it over the back. Then he turned to me, looking me up and down with hooded lids.

“Let me see your rrrumba walks,” he commanded.

“Oh stop it! No way!” I shouted. “Take off your costume, put your pants and top on the other chair, and get over here.” My voice wasn’t quite as commanding as his.

He simply tapped his foot and widened his eyes. Waiting. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. I took a deep breath, shifted my weight to my left foot, pointed my right toe, traced it along the floor, and began walking toward him. By the third step, I was only about ten percent as self-conscious as I’d been during that very first private lesson I’d had with him, and by the fourth, somehow it was all gone. There was nothing judgmental at all in his eyes.

When I was about halfway to him, he began walking toward me. Except his steps were swifter and sharper, more masculine. They made my heart race, those steps. And they grew more and more swift, until he practically rushed me. When he reached me, he pulled me into him.

“Perfect,” he whispered before kissing me deeply, wrapping his arms around me, one on my back shoulder blade, one around my waist, pulling me into him.

“Sasha,” I managed to say as soon as I could catch my breath. He was somehow on top of me, though we were still both standing. He looked at me with those heavily lidded eyes and made me want to fall to the floor and literally pull him on top of me. “No. Come on. We don’t want to mess up anything,” I said, emphasis on the last word. I rolled my eyes in a downward direction, feeling the wetness between my legs meeting the material of his pants.

He took a breath and stepped back, releasing me. He pivoted around and darted toward the chair. But before removing one item of clothing, he sharply pivoted back around toward me. At that very second the music came on. It was Tom Jones’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On,” which we’d used to dance a slow, practice cha-cha to. How in the world he did that, I’d never know. I didn’t see the iPod remote anywhere near him. It was like magic.

As the drool-worthy, sexy lyrics began—“Baby, take your coat off…real slow”—Sasha slowly began to run his fingers down the deep v-neck of his shirt. The shirt had no buttons, so he mimicked undoing them. I laughed at the gesture, but the way he fingered the solid black lining of his mainly mesh top, where the silky material met his skin, made my sex clench. By the time he got to the top of his pants and began fingering the thick waistline, I was beginning to throb. And when he slowly undid his zipper then began to lower his pants down past his hips, I was pretty much on fire down there. He kicked off his shoes, tossed off his socks, and whipped off the shirt all in one fell swoop, leaving him only in his hot black dance briefs.

He began doing these tantalizingly slow, pelvic-swaying cucharachas, but then threw in some mad-hot lightning steps to the side, dancing about four steps to every beat of music. Or more. I couldn’t tell. His hips, legs, and torso moved so fast everything was a wicked blur. He suddenly stopped, with the same razor sharp abruptness with which he’d started, and when Jones crooned, “You give me reason to live,” he drilled his ever-so-penetrating gaze right into me.

My sex swelled and my breath caught, and I wanted badly to rush him, but those eyes somehow made it impossible to move. It was okay, though, because as suddenly as he stopped, he started again, this time cha-cha-ing toward me, moving like a flame. I gasped as he reached me, whipped me into a close hold, and cha-cha’d with me around in a circle. He pulled me into him closer and closer with each dizzying step. I couldn’t spot or hold my head back to restore my equilibrium because that would have meant turning my face from his, and I simply couldn’t do that, he was so beautiful. We were going faster and faster and my breasts were bouncing straight into his glorious pecs, nipple brushing nipple. I was getting so dizzy I would have fallen if he wasn’t holding me.

“Stop!” I finally cried out.

He did as I asked and I pushed him back, into the barre, and closed my eyes for a second, hoping to regain my balance. I opened my mouth to take in a deep breath and his mouth immediately covered mine, making it impossible for me to tell him to take off his briefs, which is what I’d had in mind. I felt like he knew I’d wanted to say that. Fine, I thought. I’d do it for him. I reached around his backside, grabbed his firm ass, bunched the material in my hand and pulled down. When I felt his penis against my skin, I pulled back so I could look at him. Crooked, wily smile, hooded eyes, and that teasing erection all just made me want to devour him.

I pushed him down farther onto the barre, pulled myself up as high as I could go, stood on my tiptoes, spread my thighs, and slid him into me. His back was against the mirror and I placed a palm on either side of him, onto the glass. It was incredibly bizarre seeing myself this close, especially with mouth open, in such a state of ecstasy, rocking back and forth, breasts bouncing. Well, this was me. This was what I looked like in the throes of passion, with my man. I rather liked myself like this. I arched back and lifted my chin. He took advantage of the position to lick the hollow of my neck.

I don’t know how long we were in that position but I could feel it wasn’t ideal for him with his back against the wood. Just as the thought of a big ole splinter lodging in his backside occurred to me, he moved forward, away from the barre, lifting me completely off the floor. Man, talk about strong!

I giggled at his raw muscle power as he flashed me that wicked grin then began walking forward, still carrying me. I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his back more tightly and lifted my center as he carried me all the way across the floor and up the winding staircase to the bedroom.

***

I was full of nervous excitement the day of our flight. We packed very carefully, ending up with four ginormous suitcases. Two of them were for the three costumes alone. The other two, for the rest of the things we’d need for the week. We took an UberLUX to LAX and went through customs and checked our baggage. The extra weight came to two hundred dollars in additional luggage fees. Sasha used a special credit card provided to him by the sponsors. I was so comfortable knowing that all expenses were paid for. My natural inclination was to worry about every little purchase, but we were free to do anything we wanted. Sasha recommended we get shoulder and back massages from the terminal’s salon for the long flight ahead. We’d be in business class but he was such an active person he still found it hard on his back to sit or lie down for long periods of time. I’d never taken a flight over five hours and I’d never flown in business class, so I really didn’t know what to expect. Not to mention I’d never been abroad. Even just getting my passport had been a new experience. To say my life with Sasha was really opening the world to me was a huge understatement.

The massage was dreamy. Afterward, we relaxed with a glass of wine in the business lounge. Well, I had white wine, Sasha had a Scotch. And, yes, it was eleven in the morning! I was nearly crazed with nervous energy, but Sasha was somehow relaxed.

“There’s no point in stressing out now,” he said. “We know what we know. Everything’s in our muscle memory. It is what it is in terms of how the judges will like it. We can’t control that any more. Stressing out now will only give us the potential to screw up.”

I knew he was right.

Our flight left L.A. for New York at noon. The overnight flight from New York to Manchester departed at eight p.m. We’d arrive in England at two thirty in the morning east coast time, but seven thirty a.m. British time. Then, we had an hour-long car or bus ride from Manchester to Blackpool. By the time we actually got to our hotel, allowing for delays and waiting times to go through immigration and collect our baggage and all, Sasha estimated our trip one-way would take an entire twenty-four hours. Good thing we’d have another twenty-two hours to settle down before our first team practice began.

Once our journey got underway, it was actually hard for me to worry about the competition. Everything was so new to me. Business class was really wonderful. Plenty of leg and elbow room, and the seats reclined to almost lying position. And they gave us unlimited cocktails. I ended up drinking a lot of wine and by the time we landed in New York, had a little headache. But aspirin took it right away. Aspirin combined with excitement. They had a good deal of in-flight entertainment. A lot of movies and TV shows. Sasha watched “Dark Knight Rises” but I just gazed out the window the whole time and listened to classical music. The window showed nothing but clouds for most of the flight, but it was so relaxing. And I could see the ground peeking through at some points when there was still daylight. I imagined all the farms and mountains and plains and lakes we were traveling over. I’d taken only two cross-country flights, or flights between California and North Carolina, electing to stay in San Francisco for Christmases and summers after my first year at Hastings.

Even though our New York experience was limited to JFK Airport, I found myself enthralled to be there. I wished we’d had time to go to Lincoln Center and catch a New York City Ballet performance. It would have been nice to see how the area had changed, or stayed the same, since my try-out for the summer intensive, and reflect on how much my life had changed in those twelve years. I was a dancer now, but a completely different kind of dancer than I’d tried out for the School of American Ballet with the intention of becoming. And I had a law degree, to boot. And lived on the opposite coast. And had a gorgeous Russian boyfriend and professional dance partner!

The overseas flight’s dinner was really good—Shepherd’s pie with Caesar salad and chocolate mousse for dessert. And red wine for me, despite my little headache. It was my first overseas flight; I couldn’t resist. After dinner, Sasha reclined and dozed off, holding my hand. I didn’t recline the seat even a bit. I was too excited to sleep.

In the morning, the flight attendants served us yet another meal: this time English breakfast, which was, again, delicious. All manner of rich, meaty sausage-looking things they called pudding. And a fried tomato, and baked beans, and this fried doughy toast that tasted like a hushpuppy. Mmmm, to die for! To drink, not wine this time, but tea with very creamy milk. I wasn’t that crazed with the complimentary cocktails!

I was still struggling a bit with the eating. But I was doing much, much better. With food this delicious, and new to me, I had to try some of everything.

“I am glad to see you have such an appetite,” Sasha noted with a nod and dimpled smile. “Good. You will definitely need it.”

Sasha and I had to go through separate lines at customs since he had a Russian passport and I an American one. It was weird being separated on our way to the same place. We kissed and hugged goodbye like we wouldn’t be seeing each other again for a long time.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” he said with a faux sinister tone before planting a long, solid kiss on my lips and dipping me dramatically. I lifted one leg, giggling.

It took forever and a day for me to get through the non-European line. There were a lot of Americans. When I got outside, Sasha was sitting on one of his suitcases, reading his phone.

“I was worried they suspected you of being a terrorist, and put you through the third degree,” he said, looking up right as I approached as if he’d sensed my presence.

“Do I look like a terrorist?” I said, play-slugging him in the arm.

“Sure, why not? Yellow-blonde hair, big jade doe eyes, soft, milky skin, good enough to drink. Mmmm,” he said, kissing my neck.

“Still waiting for the terrorist part?” I said, laughing.

“Oh yes. Well, terrorists come in all shapes and sizes, no? Wasn’t there an American newspaper heiress who was perhaps a terrorist? Something like that?” He had this cocked smile, like he was kind of serious, but not completely.

“I don’t know if terrorist is the right word for her, but Patty Hearst,” I said just as I remembered she’d gone by the name Tatiana at one point. That was what the Russian men had called me. My heart stopped for a second. I hadn’t thought about them in a while. Sasha had not fallen through on his word, not surprisingly, of course. The car was long gone. There was nothing to indicate the whole thing ever happened.

“What’s wrong?” he said, pulling back to look at me while cupping my chin in his hand.

“Nothing,” I said, deciding not to bring it up. He’d promised they wouldn’t hurt me again and I didn’t want him ever to think I doubted him. And I didn’t.

“Seriously. You suddenly are upset by something.”

“No. I’m just feeling a little upset stomach over all that I ate on the plane,” I lied.

“It will wear off. If it doesn’t we will get something at the pharmacy,” he said, kissing my forehead.

I knew that whole thing was over. I trusted Sasha. I did. After Blackpool he’d tell me all about it. Still, I couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding.

***

Several other couples around our age pulling large bags like ours walked toward a train station connected to the airport. Several of them looked at Sasha and smiled bashfully, then looked away without officially greeting him. He smiled back, knowingly. Admirers of his, here to compete as well, I thought.

Instead of going to the train station, we followed a sign for taxis. We walked into a big open area, where numerous black English taxis lined up. These were for real? I’d always assumed these old-style cars were only used in movies and that English taxis were yellow and looked like those in New York. But apparently I’d been wrong. Outside one stood a man holding up a large sign that read “Zakharov.” We headed toward him. As he took our bags, Sasha opened the back door for me. How fun that we were riding in one of these! As we got in, I saw camera flashes out of the corner of my eye. At first I got scared, remembering the flashes of light caused by the opening door during my kidnaping, then realized these were camera flashes and there would be no reason for those men to take pictures and make their presence so obvious. Still, I was confused, and stopped.

“Go ahead,” Sasha said into my ear, patting my arm.

Then I heard giggles and chattering. He was a celebrity here, I reminded myself. And he was trying to be nonchalant.

The ride to Blackpool was amazing. Everything was so charming. I kept having to mentally pinch myself in reminder that we were in England. Sasha put his arm around me and kissed my cheek and neck, eventually resting his chin in the crook of my neck.

“Mmmm, try to get some sleep at some point, love.”

No way! Not now. We passed a plethora of green, rolling hills with grazing cows, sheep, and horses. And then we passed through some towns with very old, gray brick buildings that reminded me of something out of Dickens. Some towns were more bustling and cheerier. One had a big clock in the town center. Cobblestoned streets were everywhere. I got out my cell phone and snapped away at everything. I spied a sign that read “Liverpool.” I hadn’t even thought about how close we’d be to Beatles-land.

Blackpool itself was a charming little seaside city with lots of curvy, narrow brick roads and streets lined with grocery markets, National Westminster banks, pubs and exchange kiosks—reminding me I needed to get some cash. Sasha told me he’d take care of everything but I wanted to bring some of my own money. There were small restaurants—mostly either fish and chips or Indian places. The town center had a big shopping mall with a Marks and Spencer department store and a Boots pharmacy, as well as a very cute-looking Italian bistro and some American-style cafes. There were lots of billboards and a few double-decker buses with large advertisements on their sides for Las Vegas-style entertainment and casinos. We wended around the slightly larger main street, the sea to our right, which had a nice little boardwalk and, off in the distance, a Coney Island-esque theme park. It was too far to see all they had but I could definitely make out a Ferris wheel. Too bad it was too chilly to go out on the beach.

Finally, we wended around a large round building that looked like a civic center. I saw the words “Winter Gardens” etched over the quadruple gilded doors. There were other signs pointing to an opera house and the grand ballroom. My heart pumped wildly. We’d arrived.

But we continued circling around the rotunda, then took a smaller street that led to a cobblestoned road a couple blocks away that led to another street bearing a series of small hotels. The largest one was called the Ruskin Hotel, which was quite packed with people, and brought back memories of college English classes. How fun!

The check-in counter at the hotel was booming. Wow, so many dancers. The nanosecond Sasha entered, all eyes were on us. And I mean every single one.

“Hey, Sasha, hey man, how are you?”

“Sasha!”

“Oh my God, look!”

“Where’s Xenia? Are you competing?”

And about a few hundred things were said in Russian. I recognized only the name of my man.

Okay, I was exaggerating. But seriously, so many voices. I didn’t know how many. Two large groups of people ahead of us in line walked over to shake his hand or pat him on the back. Most of them spoke Russian, but a couple were Chinese, three or four spoke Italian, and there was a small group of Brits. A group of Japanese men and women, all wearing jackets bearing names of dance shoe suppliers or costumers, was leaving the hotel. One of them saw Sasha and began excitedly speaking in Japanese. The others looked toward the leader’s pointed index finger and began giggling and talking excitedly among themselves.

“Rory? Rory?” I suddenly heard Sasha say. I was so engrossed with taking it all in, I had to turn around to look for him. “This is Max,” he said, introducing me to one of the Russians in line.

Max nodded, then said something in Russian, which Sasha answered in Russian, after which several faces in line turned around and looked me up and down, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Both men and women. He’d obviously told them I was his new partner. I hadn’t looked in the mirror in a while, not since the plane. I must have had hair resembling a rat’s nest, sleep in my eyes, makeup smeared all over my face, and very possibly bits of that yummy pudding hanging from my lower lip.

As I turned around to take in the entire scene, I realized everyone—every single person in that room, including the two hotel clerks up front busy checking people in—was looking right at me. I knew Sasha was a huge star who everyone who knew anything about ballroom knew of, loved, fantasized about. Or hated, I guess if you were friends with or fans of a competitor. I just hadn’t thought about what that would mean for me. How I’d be received. And what it might do to my still sometimes fragile self-esteem. I took a breath. Get used to being on display, I told myself. And take a look at yourself in the mirror a little more often. This was nothing compared to the gawking we’d get when we were in costume, ready to dance. Or while dancing.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I heard an accented voice behind me. The group of Japanese dancers was now standing directly behind us, and one was tugging on the bottom of Sasha’s jacket, thrusting a thick catalog-looking booklet entitled “Blackpool Dance Festival” in his face.

Sasha smiled and nodded, taking the booklet and the pen the man was holding. He opened it and signed his name. The man was practically orgasmic when Sasha handed it back to him. So it wasn’t just women who went all goopy over my man.

The Japanese group then formed a line—they were actually pretty organized about doing this, making me wonder if they were a formation team—and, one by one, handed him their booklets for autograph. Soon, another group saw what was going on and headed over as well. This group didn’t yet seem to have their booklets, so they were giving him all kinds of paraphernalia. Anything he could write his name on. One had a ticket to the day’s pre-comp competition for qualifiers; one had a greasy receipt from the fish and chips shop next door; one ran over to the front desk and grabbed a pamphlet showcasing the hotel we were in. Soon, everyone got that idea and followed in turn.

“Ah, wait, wait, please,” the desk attendant called out. But he was too nice and soft-spoken, and all of his pamphlets were gone in about three seconds flat. One of the women in line before me, who’d looked me up and down when Sasha introduced me to his Russian friends, caught my eye. When I made eye contact with her she looked at Sasha then back to me, giving me a look of pity. The man who’d been talking to Sasha when he was interrupted did the same. I wanted to disappear.

About two hours later, we were finally checked in and leaving the lobby. Our room was on the third floor.

The elevators were a trip. They were just wooden boxes that went up and down in an open shaft and you had to jump on and off as they slowly rose and descended in the open wall. The English word for them was “lift” and that’s what they literally were.

While Sasha showered, I unpacked, hanging my dresses and Sasha’s tuxes neatly in the large closet. I’d planned to take a nap, but found myself too pumped up. It was my first time in England and at a huge dance competition to boot. I had too much energy to sleep. So, when he got out of the bathroom, I took a nice, long, warm shower, blew dry my hair—thankfully, I had remembered to bring electric converters so my blow-dryer and other electronics would work—put on a full face of makeup, and moussed my hair up.

When I was all done, I looked in the mirror. Finally, I looked like a Sasha Zakharov partner. I came out of the bathroom in a lacy red bra and underwear, intent not on seducing Sasha right then—I wanted to go out and explore while we still had daylight and some warmth—but on giving him something to look forward to later that night. But he was gone.

Hmmm. Why didn’t he tell me he was leaving, I wondered. No bother. I dressed in a Mod Squad-esque short miniskirt, form-fitting red sweater, and over-the-knee black boots. When I looked just about as hot as I could make myself, I grabbed my bag and my set of room keys and ventured out. He wasn’t in the hall or the lobby. Just when I was about to get out my cell and text him, I heard him calling me.

I turned toward the back bar area. It was hard to make him out, and I mainly did so by his raised hand. I’d recognize those long, thick, powerful fingers anywhere! He was surrounded by people. I saw the same group of Russians he’d spoken to in the check-in line, but now there were many, many others.

I walked toward the raised hand.

“Um, excuse me,” I said to some people standing in front of the hand, my voice nearly a whisper.

They were turned away from me, toward him. And they didn’t speak English, or spoke very little. Of course I sounded like a mouse, anyway.

“Excuse me,” I said a little more forcefully after clearing my throat.

Still no movement. Then Sasha’s hand lowered and I lost sight of it. I sighed. This was ridiculous. But then I saw his hand again, now poking through the bodies directly in front of me. I took it and it pulled me in. I crashed straight into a black-haired guy and platinum blonde woman.

“Sorry,” I said with a nervous laugh as they were forced to part and allow me in.

My annoyance immediately dissipated when I saw my man’s beautiful smile.

“Mmmm, you look delicious,” he said, eyeing me up and down and licking his lips.

Again, all eyes on me. Every single one of them, looking me up and down in the same manner. Embarrassing, even if I didn’t look awful like before. I looked down, bashfully. “I didn’t know where to look for you. I’m glad I found you.”

“I thought you wanted to sleep for a little while so I came down to catch up with old friends,” he said, pulling me closer to him, ignoring everyone else around him, which simultaneously made me elated he was shunning the others but also made me feel badly about interrupting his fandom.

“I just can’t sleep. I thought we could go out and explore the town. And believe it or not, I’m hungry again.” It was like once I started eating regularly again, I couldn’t stop. It had been several hours, though, since the airplane breakfast. “Do you mind if we get something to eat?”

“Of course not,” he said, kissing me right on the lips. He took out some English bills and put them on the bar and said something to his friends in Russian. “You look so good, Rory,” he said, turning back to me. “I’m just afraid you might get a little cold. The weather here is not like L.A.”

I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d thought only about what would make me look my absolute hottest. “I’ll be fine,” I said, shaking my head. This was the end of May, after all.

But when we got outside I was definitely sorry I didn’t wear a heavier sweater and a longer skirt. Or pants. Thankfully, that little Italian bistro I’d admired when we drove in was just around the block.

“Oh yeah, this is where everyone always goes. It’s a nice little place,” he said.

The restaurant was absolutely packed, and again every single head turned when we walked in, followed by lots of chattering and giggling and pointing.

“Sasha!” a male voice called out.

Now I felt like I might have overdone it a little with my outfit. Everyone seemed to smile widely at Sasha, only to turn their eyes to me and give me the up and down, eyes widening. Most people were dressed in jeans, sneakers and jackets bearing the name of a dance costumer or shoemaker. I hadn’t even thought to wear the windbreaker Sasha had given me with the name of our shoe sponsors on the back. It wouldn’t have gone with my current outfit, of course. But I was definitely planning on wearing the silk robe, with Daiyu written in both Chinese and beautiful Roman cursive letters across the back, over my costume to keep myself warm during the competition. I even packed the lovely robe—practically a gown itself—along with my dresses in the costume bag.

“I see a friend from Moscow. Be back in a sec. Get us a table in the back, in a quiet area, if possible,” Sasha said, giving my shoulder a squeeze and my cheek a gentle peck.

A woman holding menus approached me. She said nothing and wore only a bemused semi-smile but I assumed from the menus she was a hostess.

“Hi, um, a table for two,” I said.

“Yeah, might be tricky at this hour.” Her words were coated with a light layer of irony. I looked around. She was right; there didn’t appear to be anything free. “I think there’s a couple in the back who’re about to leave,” she said and walked away, I assumed to check.

But just then I heard Sasha calling for me. “Rory! Rory!” I looked to the far right side of the room. He had his hand up high in the air and was waving me over. He was completely surrounded by people. I’d longed for our nice quiet table in the back too but his deep-dimpled smile, oozing with boyish charm, was just too much to deny. My boy was ecstatic about something.

I took a breath and walked over, bracing myself for the crowd. When I got there, again, bodies blocked mine from his and I couldn’t see his shining face in that sea of heads and shoulders. But somehow he sensed when I was near because his big, brawny arm darted straight through the bodies and parted them, his long, suave fingers finding their way to my hand, interlacing with mine and guiding me toward him.

When I got inside the throng, I saw that Sasha’s Russian friends had carved out a place for us at their insanely overcrowded table. There was one cushionless wooden chair for me. You could smoke here and tobacco was just about all I could smell. This was so the antithesis of what I’d had in mind. I wanted a quiet dinner with my sweetheart, to eat something with lots of protein and carbs to give me energy for the very stressful next few days, and maybe have a glass of light white wine to soothe my frayed nerves. But it was all too obvious from the looks on the faces of everyone seated, these were people he hadn’t seen in a very long time. I could do this. I could be game for him.

Sasha said something in Russian while caressing my arm and gently guiding me down onto the hard wood seat. In response to whatever he said, everyone looked at me and nodded politely.

“Yes, very, very good to meet you,” said one man in English but with a very thick Russian accent. He extended his hand to me and I took it and told him it was wonderful to meet him too.

I nodded and smiled at the others as well. Blushed, is more like it. It would have been nice to know what exactly Sasha was saying to them as he continued talking in Russian. People looked back and forth between him and me, so I assumed he was talking about me, about us, but I came to terms with the fact that since no one here spoke English very well, I’d have to resign myself to asking him later what all he said. It was definitely nice to be spoken of, just a little embarrassing when I didn’t know the content.

The more he went on, the more I realized I’d be spending a lot of time here just like this: with Sasha and large groups of his friends and fans, but without being able to participate in the conversation since it was taking place in a different language. I now wished at least one of my friends from the studio would have come. But Rajiv couldn’t get away from work, and even Samantha couldn’t come this year; she’d spent all her competition money on U.S. comps. England was too far for most people from the studio to come just to spectate. Some of the teachers would be there competing themselves, but not Pepe or Mitsi since they didn’t do international-style dance. Just Bronislava and Maurizio, and I didn’t know either of them well enough to really hang out sans Sasha.

The longer I sat still listening to all the Russian going on around me, the more I realized how famished I was becoming. My stomach was now grumbling and I was starting to feel a bit crabby. I needed to eat soon. But none of the waiters seemed to understand that there were two new customers who hadn’t yet eaten at the overcrowded table.

I tried to flag down the woman who’d been about to seat us, but it was impossible to get anyone’s attention through the mass of torsos I was enmeshed in. So I got up, thinking I’d either get their attention better this way or might go to the bar for a menu. Sasha stopped midsentence and looked up at me quizzically, his puppy dog eyes looking so sad I might leave him. All conversation stopped at the table as if something catastrophic had happened. I looked away briefly and tried to make eye contact with a waiter working two tables down from us, with no success.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m actually getting really hungry,” I said, looking back down at Sasha.

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad your appetite’s back. We will order then, or perhaps go to a less crowded…”

He began to get up, but I gently pushed his arm back down. He was having too much fun reuniting with his friends. The second he’d begun to rise the atmosphere had dampened palpably. I didn’t want to do that to him. We’d have plenty of time to be together.

“No, no,” I said. “You stay and chat and I’ll just go to the bar to order. It looks like that’s what you have to do for food around here right now. You want me to get you anything?”

“Ohhh,” he said in contemplation. “You know, just whatever looks good. I’m not really that hungry. I’ll trust you.” He flashed those boyishly charming dimples at me again and winked this time, making my lower belly fill with liquid heat so much so I didn’t know if I could actually walk normally to the bar.

When, oh when will I have this man on my own, I thought as I looked back at him, his deep blues remaining focused on me till my view of him was obstructed.

The bar was so packed it was almost as hard to get the bartender’s attention as the waiter’s. All the wait staff seemed flustered and overworked. Hadn’t they increased staff in anticipation of such a big event, I wondered?

“Excuse me?” I finally shouted at the man as he filled a beer mug and a stirred a martini at the same time. He looked at me, almost in terror that I’d ask him to do yet another thing.

“I’m sorry. It’s just we’ve been waiting and I’m famished. Can I order here and have my food served over there? I pointed to the table, now even more ludicrously overcrowded. He looked at me dubiously. I couldn’t blame him. How would he ever find me in that crowd?

“Honestly, miss, kitchen’s really backed up. Probably going to be an hour, hour and a half wait. Maybe longer.”

Oh no, that was too long. I was too hungry. “Oh, no. Well, in that case, no thank you. I’m sor…”

But he was already off.

I went to return to the table but couldn’t see Sasha’s head at all now. He’d never be able to sense my presence like before. And I didn’t really need to bother everyone, making my way through, if I was only going to leave again. There had to be another restaurant somewhere around here, I thought. Maybe the hotel’s bar served dinner? I texted Sasha that the bartender said the wait would be over an hour and I was too hungry and was going somewhere else. I knew Sasha wouldn’t be able to hear his phone ring and he’d told me it was cheaper and easier to text than call, anyway. But he seemed not to have heard his message ding either. I could easily see why. I knew he wasn’t ignoring me, and I wasn’t mad, but I was starting to get a headache.

You didn’t seem that hungry, so I’ll just walk around and find something. Don’t worry. I’ll see you back at the hotel, I texted again, then waited to see if there was any response. There wasn’t, so I walked outside into the fresh air which, cold as it was, now felt good.

I walked back in the direction of the hotel and spotted the fish and chips place I’d seen earlier in the cab. There were only a few people inside. It would probably be easier to eat here than the hotel, I thought. The hotel would probably be just as crowded as the Italian place. Plus, the English were known for fish and chips. It had to be good.

I walked in. I checked my cell again. No message from Sasha. He wouldn’t mind if I ate without him. I sat at the bar. I was just about to order when I realized I didn’t have any English money yet. Ugh. Sasha had insisted I could rely on him for everything money-related. I knew I could but I also knew better than to make myself dependent on someone, anyone. I always felt more comfortable being self-sufficient. I should have insisted he give me a few pounds or have gotten my own back in L.A.

When the guy behind the counter looked at me, I asked him if they took credit cards. He laughed. I guess I was being a typical American who charges everything. At least that was a European complaint about us in some movie I’d seen. Couldn’t remember the name.

So, I got up and went in search of the exchange kiosk I’d seen in the cab, trying hard to retrace the direction we drove. There was now a line winding outside the Italian restaurant all the way down to the end of the block. What a joke. What was it with this place? Did they put something in the pasta? Or did everyone just know the stars were inside and want to be around them? The latter, probably. I walked to the opposite corner, then turned it and ventured down the block. There were enough people out and about that it wasn’t really scary. I just had to remember the street names so I didn’t get lost amongst all these narrow, winding roads.

Finally, I spotted in the distance a line of people in front of a kiosk. As I got closer, I saw that the brightly lit awning read “Cambio Exchange.” Oh, good.

I walked back to the fish and chips a hundred American dollars poorer but fifty-something pounds sterling richer. Amazingly, I’d remembered all of the street names and so didn’t have a problem finding my way back—all the more amazing the way my head was starting to pound.

By now all the tables were taken, so I ordered and sat at the bar. They didn’t seem to have any bottled water, and, I guess somewhat ridiculously since this was England, I was scared of the tap in a foreign country, especially when I was so close to a big competition. So I ordered a Coke. Feeling the sugar rush the second the liquid hit my lips made me realize what a mistake I’d made. I hadn’t had so much sugar in a long, long time, and my headache really started to soar. Then, as much as I tried to keep my mind from going there, I couldn’t help freaking a little over the sugar and calories I was putting into my body… It made me dizzy.

My food arrived. Both the fish and the chips came wrapped in newspaper, which by the time it was placed before me, was completely saturated with grease. I momentarily felt like throwing up. But I was able to push that sensation back down. I opened the newspaper containing the chips, sprinkled some salt on the thick-cut fries and started eating. They were okay. Actually, pretty good.

I picked up the fish. I didn’t know how to eat it without taking the newspaper off and the paper was so soggy I ended up eating some of it along with the fish. Gross. I got the queasy feeling again when I lifted it to my lips. I had to eat something besides fries, I told myself. I had to eat something nutritious. I managed to get half of the fish down. Then I simply couldn’t eat anymore. I wiped my hands off as best as I could but they didn’t have many napkins here. I ended up getting the face of my cell phone lathered with grease while trying to see if Sasha had texted me back. He hadn’t. Hmmm, what was up with that? I was beginning to worry a bit. It wasn’t like him to go for hours without checking his phone, especially when I’d never returned to the table. Thoughts of the Russian men who’d kidnapped me whipped through my mind, but I forced myself to banish them. I trusted Sasha. Of course, he’d promised not to let anything happen to me; but he hadn’t said anything about himself.

I walked back to the hotel and had just jumped onto the moving box in the elevator shaft when I felt my stomach lurch. I made it to the toilet just in time to throw up everything I had for dinner. When I couldn’t throw up any more, I splashed cold water on my face and gargled three times with Listerine, then wiped my cell phone off with the towel—was only partially successful in removing all the grease—and crashed down on the bed. I lay on my back just staring at the ceiling, which I now realized was rather ornate. Each corner of every box had a small gargoyle looking down at you. Hmm, a bit creepy.

The thought of the Russian men returned. I felt a sense of foreboding in the pit of my stomach. Where was Sasha?

Stop it now, I told myself. I pulled myself up and grabbed my cell phone.

Are you okay? I had fish and chips and am now back at the hotel, I texted him.

I waited five minutes. No answer.

Throwing up had made my headache go away, for the most part. And I momentarily felt better. But now I was worried. And lonely, seeing as how I knew no one here except Sasha.

I wish so much you guys were here! I texted Rajiv and Samantha. I took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears. Everyone here was Sasha’s friend and I couldn’t even communicate with them. And my worry over his whereabouts was swiftly turning to fear. I could feel my racing pulse, partly through my left temple where my headache was beginning to return.