I've had real problems uploading this - it won't accept documents written in Word 2007 as they are .docx - you have been warned! On another note and out of curiousity, can someone please tell me what S.U.V stands for? We call cars like that 4x4 in England (or Chelsea tractors if you are being disparaging). Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter - it moves the story along a bit.

Three Months Later

Ali's Story

Jelly – that is what my legs felt like. They no longer had any substance to them, instead there was only the numbness that set in once the threshold of pain has passed and I passed it quite a while ago, one hour and fifteen minutes, give or take.

And yet the smile never left my face, my arms stayed rigidly en couronne and held the arabesque without moving; without wavering, mirroring the movement of those around me. And in the middle of our group the final dying moments of the ballet were being enacted. Thank god were the words echoing in the back of my mind. Thank heavens.

Finally the curtain came down and we were all able to stumble back to our respective dressing rooms, the principals to their individual cubby holes, the artists to the large room we all shared. We stripped off our shoes and tutus, examined our bruised and blistered feet and wiped off our makeup, completing another astounding performance.

Prudishness was a vanity we no longer had in our profession, as we sat around in various states of undress, not caring that we could all see each others bodies. We all resembled each other – sinewy corded muscle in our legs and arms, flat taut stomachs, well the other girls anyway. Released from its Lycra imprisonment, mine still had a slight wobble to it and was crisscrossed by the stretchmarks of pregnancy.

I hastily donned my street clothes; there was no reason to hang about backstage and every reason to get home and slipped out the dressing room with a cheery goodnight to the other dancers, leaving them to their gossip and chatter. Ten-thirty, I had fifteen minutes to get to the bus stop and hopefully if the crowds pouring out the theatre and squashing around the stage door were polite I would make it with ease.

As I scurried along the corridors, heading for the exit a hand shot out and waylaid my path. "Whoa," the cry fell from my lips as I spun around, the fingers closing in a firm grip around my wrist, stopping me from making any further progress.

"Ali," his voice was husky and warm and he stepped out of the shadows, into the muted lighting in the middle of the corridor.

"James," I replied briskly. Shit, shit shit, what did he want now?

"That was a really great performance tonight; you haven't lost it at all you know."

"Thank you." The words fell graciously from my lips, I didn't think he simply wanted to complement me or pay lip service and I didn't have the time or the inclination to play his games. I stared at his hand, still clasped around my wrist. "Is there anything else? I am in rather a hurry."

"Just thought you'd like to know that there is a whispering that Madame wants to see you tomorrow morning. Forewarned is forearmed." I frowned, a slight dread freezing the flow of blood around my hot body. I didn't think I had done anything wrong, I hadn't created any disturbances. I had missed class a couple of days ago; Tess had been running a low temperature.

"Do you know why?" Damn, this is what he wanted, to draw me into conversation. I had been studiously avoiding James since I had returned to work; no easy task in a close knit company such as ours, especially given our history. Thankfully people tended towards sympathy and did not go out of their way to pair us up, despite our well matched abilities and techniques.

"No, I am sure it can only be good news," he smiled down at me and I shivered at the sight, for no reason it drove a frisson of fear down my spine. When once I would have done anything for him to look at me like that, now I wanted none of it, nothing to do with him. Unfortunately it didn't seem he felt the same. "So why don't we go out for a drink to celebrate?"

"Tonight?" I glanced at my watch, noting that he still held my wrist, although his fingers had slipped, curling around my palm. "I can't I'm sorry, I have to get home, I'm running late already. Bugger, a wasted five minutes, now I would have to run for the bus.

"What, in a hurry to get home to that freakish boyfriend of yours?" I had been right to fear his smile, for the lips curled into a snarl.

"He is not my boyfriend, he is my housemate and no; I am not in a hurry to get home to him, I am in a hurry to get home to my and your" I spat the word at him, "daughter. Goodnight James." With a determined tug, I freed my hand from his grasp and ran off down the hall, not looking back, not wanting to feel his gaze follow me.

With hurried steps I ran to the exit, pushing past the people waiting to see the stars of the show and ran through the bustling night streets of Covent Garden to the bus stop; thankfully that the warmer temperatures meant that I was not shivering with the cold after the warmth of my performances.

I reached my stop with seconds to spare, seeing the lumbering vehicle coming down the road I leapt on as it trundled passed, flashing my pass at the driver and settled back in my seat with a sigh.

I rather enjoyed my forty minute commute back to Shoreditch, it gave me a precious chance to be truly alone, in a way that I could be no where else. Commuters were a breed in themselves, they valued their space, their little cocoon of isolation and I was no different. At home I was a housemate and mother, at work a dancer, but for an hour and twenty minutes a day I could settle back and be me, slip into that little private world that I held close to myself and ruminate on my life, lecture and chastise myself, make plans, make lists, daydream and wish.

On this night my thoughts turned to what was waiting for me at home. A cosy scene, one that I had bought into the day I had accepted Eric's offer. The devil was charming indeed, but I had been desperate and so with great reluctance I accepted, fearful of the implications, but willing to overlook them in order to put a roof over my daughter and my head and try to carve a living out of this world for us.I had barely known Eric at the time. A month or so of tentative friendship was hardly the basis for moving in with someone. I am sure if I had asked the opinion of any friends they would have warned me off with stern words. But I didn't ask. There was something in his eyes that day that made me say yes, even when I believed I should say no.

And so, with little to do and within a couple of weeks we were installed (or reinstalled in his case) in a rather grand, bachelor style penthouse apartment in trendy Shoreditch, home to record producers and artists, fancy warehouse offices and cutting edge restaurants.

At first I could not assimilate what I saw with what I knew about the owner. In my opinion Eric was the rather spoilt son of a loving traditional family. The lifestyle I had built up for him, based on what I had been told by his mother and less by himself and what I had imagined did not add up to the reality. Once I thought he would work in the city, finance maybe; like his father and that he would live in a charming little flat that reflected his mother's traditional taste. I was very wrong.

The apartment was huge, really huge; a homage to everything expensive and modern. I didn't even want to know how much it must have cost him, but I am sure it was the sort that came up in property listings when you typed in fanciful price ranges with lots of noughts on the end.

Massive glass windows overlooked a stunning patchwork of city roofs, over to the grey steel thread of the Thames, and beyond. The vast wooden reception, open planned from the kitchen through to the living and dining areas was furnished with an eclectic range of modern yet surprisingly comfortable furniture and the only thing that seemed out of place in this bachelor pad was the gleaming ebony grand piano.

In true single man style there was every gadget under the sun, the lighting, heating and air conditioning all controlled at the flick of a switch. Music, television and sound all ultra modern and wired into the walls, so there were no trailing cables. You could listen (and he often did) to music in any and every room in the house from the one sound system and the television that graced the wall was a state of the art plasma screen.

The curved wooden staircase led to an upper mezzanine floor and here we had our bedrooms. Eric's was a huge master en-suite bedroom that I occasionally had the audacity to hover in the doorway of. A massive double bed draped with fine bed linen and soft woollen throws took centre stage, his clothes hidden behind floor to ceiling cupboards. Apart from a couple of expensive looking black and white photographs and a framed manuscript it was rather spartan.

The other rooms on the floor were, in contrast smaller, although my room was still big enough to fit a double bed and Tess had her own space, a greater luxury then the accommodation I had been allocated at my father's house.

With a start I realise I had wallowed in memories all the way home and the bus, unhindered by the usual snarl of traffic had plunged its way along the roads in double quick time. I pressed the button with haste and moved towards the doors, swaying slightly with the lumbering of the bus and jumping off as it stopped.

A brief walk took me to the charms of Hoxton Square and my home. I paused outside the nondescript front door, another faceless modern block, which were sprouting up like mushrooms in between the traditional architecture of the area. It was juxpositioned between an old warehouse on the one side and a timeless brick building on the other. However four floors up gave an entirely different view.

I opened the door quietly, not wanting to disturb Eric if he was busy, trying to be inconspicuous as possible. It seemed impossible for the open plan style meant that from his position on the sofa where he seemed to be watching television, the front door was in plain view.

He had turned most of the lights off, just leaving a couple of spots highlighting the granite kitchen worksurface. Any illumination in the living room came from the television screen, casting a flickering movement of light across the walls and ceiling.

"Hey Eric," I greeted him as I came in with a smile, watching the way the light of the television reflected in his mask, bathing him in an eerie glow.

"Hey Ali, you got back in good time. Had a good show?"

"Yeah, but god I'm exhausted. Did Tess go down okay?" He nodded his head and made a positive noise, obviously not wanting to be drawn into conversation, his attention on whatever it was that he was watching. I smiled again and slipped up the stairs to take a shower.

The landing light was on and I quietly crept into my daughter's room, smiling as I looked at her curled up in a small ball on her stomach, her face turned to one side and scrunched up against her teddy bear. Her light golden curls tumbled around her head and her small face was puckered up in the frown of a deep sleep. Resisting the urge to pick her up for a cuddle I gently laid my hand on her head. "Goodnight my love, God bless," I whispered for her ears alone and left as noiselessly as I entered.

Shower, that was what I needed next. The sweat of the performance clung to me like a second skin as I stripped off my jeans and t-shirt and climbed under the spray. Ideally I would like to take a deep wallowing bath, fill the room with bubbles and steam, but my growling stomach would not allow me to indulge. I was far too hungry; for on performance days it was wise to only eat lightly before you went on stage; meaning that I always came home ravenous.

Therefore ten minutes later I was in my pyjamas and padding back downstairs to raid the kitchen of anything and everything I could find to eat.

"I ordered a takeout for us from Yelo if you want some," Eric called, obviously noting my prowling. "It's in the oven."

"Thanks," I called back over my shoulder, opening the door and finding a steaming plate of Thai food from my favourite local restaurant. "Oh yum." Barely pausing to pick up a fork I moved over and joined him on a chair, curling my legs under me. He didn't converse, but just glanced over, amusement quirking his lips as he watched me shovelling the food into my mouth, barely chewing in my hasty hunger.

"Did you enjoy inhaling that?" he asked, with mild sarcasm as I put the plate down and belched lightly, clutching my rounded belly.

"That was soooo good." I leant back in the chair and disinterestly watched the programme, quickly realising it was an old Audrey Hepburn movie. "Why are you watching this?" I asked with curiosity, it seemed a strange choice for a man.

"Not sure, it just caught my attention." He shrugged. "I've always like Audrey Hepburn, there is just such a…"he paused and waved a hand in the air, chicness, about her."

"Chicness, that's not a word, I teased, before pausing with a slight frown and studying my housemate, there was something different and I could not quite figure out what. The dreadful plastic mask pressing against his face was in place, check, raggedy ponytail tied back, check. Usual clothes of jeans and t-shirts, check. I frowned more deeply, trying to figure it out without seeming obvious.

The more I got to know Eric, the more I realised that the metamorphosis he had been through was huge and painful. The flat reflected the sort of life he must have once lived, modern, cutting edge and designed to impress. He had led the style of life I could only dream of. Everything around us screamed of money and wealth, from the modern furniture, to the art on the walls.

All around were reminders of how his existence use to be, how he had obviously had a very active social life.

Worst of all were the pictures on the walls. They hung there mocking and nasty. Whilst he was not obviously vain enough to frame his own photo, there were still photographs of him with his parents, partying with friends and with various bands he had managed, hanging next to the awards they had won. Frames upon frames of gold and platinum disks paraded across the painted blue of his study.

It was cruel when you saw just how good looking this scarred man had been. He had once had the sort of face that made you stop and look again for its perfect uniformity and beauty. His high cheek bones and deep blue eyes, the determined chin and full sensual lips. Now it was all lost in a mass of scar tissue and pushed up against the moulded plastic of the mask he wore to try and ease the scarring.

I studied him again and suddenly noticed the change that had failed to register before. "Your hand!" I exclaimed with enthusiasm.

"What about it?" he glanced down at his left hand with vague amusement at my random comment.

"Not that hand silly, the other one, you don't have your glove on!" I paused, treading carefully with my words. "Is that because you – or did you just forget…"

"You are very good at not saying what you are trying to ask?" humour rounding out the tone of his voice. "Yes, it was torture day at the hospital today and they were pleased with the scaring, said I only needed to wear it for twelve hours a day. Nighttimes only!"

"Oh Eric," I clambered off the chair and sat down next to him, wrapping my arms around his neck in a friendly hug. "I am so pleased for you." His hand came up and grabbed my arm, forcing me to keep the lock around him and in the gloom I noticed that the scarring was soft and moulded, merged into the skin across his knuckles. I squeezed him again and pulled away, forcing him to let go, the bounds of intimacy already too great.

I was careful at keeping my distance with Eric. Knowing the candle that he carried me for me I went out of my way to discourage any notion of romance that he might carry. Not that I was cruel or disparaging in any way, far from it. Instead I decided to treat him like the older brother I never had, as a member of my non existent family. I did not have the support of my brother, mother or father, so I just decided to borrow and steal from him instead.

Helena was humanity herself, often taking Tess for the day when Eric went down to the hospital and I was engaged with classes and rehearsals. Three days a week my daughter went into nursery and two days a week I simply went in for class and had the rest of the day off. For those mornings, Eric would keep her entertained.

And so here I was, fully immersed in the St. John household, a fully fledged member, with no ties and no rights to the affection and compassion I received from all the family.

It was cruel to discourage my flatmate from falling head over heels in love with me. But I was scared, scared too commit, scared to let myself be in love again and potentially expose myself to the pain that I had been through only a year ago. Therefore I kept him at arms length. The pain of unrequited love was less then the pain of love lost.

With a start I realised Eric was speaking to me, whilst I sat immersed in my thoughts.

"Yes," I replied at random, not hearing what he had asked.

"So you think it is a good idea if I get a sex change then?" He continued. "Thank you for your opinion."

"What?"

"Ali, you didn't listen to a word I said," He replied mildly, "so I was just testing. I actually asked if you are dancing tomorrow evening."

"No, no. Two nights in a row, plus a matinee is for masochists only," I shook my head in the negative, pushing a stray lock of hair off my face. My action was stilled by his hand touching mine, holding it and pulling it down. I didn't resist, enjoying the sensation of his touch so we sat there, our fingers entwined as mine ocasionally brushed the soft new skin.

He didn't say anything, didn't even turn and look at me, but we just sat side by side on the sofa, holding hands, like a couple of love struck teenagers, our attention on the movie.

"Eric," I whispered and he turned to look at me, a question in his eyes. There was something in his depths that scared me and I found the words that I was about to say freeze on my tongue. "I'm beat; I'd better go to bed."

Once again I took the coward's way out, scared to continue the intimacy, although it was pleasant to be touched again, satisfying to once again have intimate skin contact with someone. But holding hands was just the beginning and it was not a path I wished to travel.

Releasing my fingers, I bent over and kissed the top of his head, in a gesture of sisterly affection. "Night night, don't let the bed bugs bite," I said in a teasing voice, frantically rebuilding fences. He said nothing, his lips quirking in a sad little smile.

I moved across the floor and had my foot on the first step before he spoke. "Ali," he turned around on the sofa, leaning across the back to look at me.

"Yes."

"Sleep well." I nodded sagely and with his chaste goodnight ringing in my ears, climbed the stairs to find my bed.