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They say the most popular gift for a ballerina to get is a bouquet of roses. Depending on the colour, they have different meanings. There are six red ones, one pink and one lavender, all tied off with a red ribbon around the paper to keep them together.

The lavender rose means creativity and enchantment with a ballet dancer's talent. A pink rose means admiration of skill and grace. Red ones, though, mean love and beauty and telling the dancer you love their performance.

Whoever sent these to my dance studio left a note, but no name, so I don't know how I'm supposed to thank them. 'Lily Price – thank you so much for your last performance. It inspired me beyond belief. I've never seen ballet before in person, but you made it easy to get into. I've been hitting writer's block for such a long time. Seeing you helped clear my mind. Thank you for the inspiration.'

No name, no address, no nothing.

I put the roses in water, ready to take them home later on. For now, I have paperwork coming out of my ears and can think about it later. I tie my hair up, cursing everything that the hair tie doesn't match my ginger hair; why people don't design them in ginger colour, I have no idea.

This career was meant to be a dream come true: being known in the ballet world for my work, being a household name among dancers, owning my studio and teaching others how to do what I do. It's never as fun as they say.

Dancers die twice, according to Martha Graham, and it's true. One of my friends from school became too injured during a performance and had to retire at nineteen. They say a dancer's first death is the worst – the death of their dancing – and it's awful. As hard as I try, I don't want it to happen to me, but I feel it. Not through injury, but through my age. I'm twenty-four. People want younger ballet dancers for the lead roles. They want young and supple, fresh meat, and what they don't want is someone with rumours and gossip behind them.

I'm renowned for my work, but people hiring don't just want someone good at the job. Someone with rumours of debauchery isn't what they want behind them.

Except they have it all wrong; as usual. One date with a celebrity and going with him into a club doesn't mean I'm drinking, taking drugs and sleeping around.

How little the circles of gossip know. I've never had a proper boyfriend, just little dates and interests here and there. I'm too married to my work for that, anyway.

Except for now, when the rumours catch the wind and end up en pointe and pirouetting throughout the ears of people booking dancers.

As I put the roses and note on the desk, I read the note again. A writer, huh? Someone else struggling, and my dance helped clear that. Seeing me as Cinderella helped someone else.

Maybe this career isn't as dead in the water as I thought. Or at least, maybe I should keep going. Someone clearly believes in me, even if it's not myself. This is what it's all about: touching people with the dance, the way my body can move into positions and express everything I aim for. If I can still do that, maybe it's not as bad as it seems right now. Everything else is just... noise, music to the wrong tune.

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Something I found quickly after choosing ballet as a career was how to move slowly and gracefully – or adagio. One of the first things you learn in ballet lessons is adagio movements and how the movements are performed in a flowy manner, with grace. Quickly, I found myself moving like it in everyday life; never rushing, always flowing and slow.

I like to be early for everything for that reason. Rushing stresses me out, hurts my feet, and puts me in a state of heightened annoyance. When you're a dancer, stress and annoyance are the last things you need.

Which is why, when I'm an hour early to work, I'm there for the delivery that shouldn't be here. Or, well, that's my theory. The florist is saying differently.

The same bouquet of roses that was delivered yesterday, with the same anonymous card that says the same words as yesterday.

"But these were delivered yesterday. Is this a mistake?" I ask the florist when she hands them over.

She smiles and shakes her head. "No, these are for you. Lily Price, owner of En Pointe Studio, right?"

I nod. "Yeah, that's me. If you're sure, I'll take them. Any word on who is sending these?"

She shrugs. "I'm not at liberty to say, Miss."

"Okay. Thank you." I take the roses and she leaves. "Fucking random." Putting the roses in water, I wonder what the hell to do with a second bunch. I took yesterday's home as they were specifically for me. This one I'll spread out around the studio to brighten up the rooms a little. A pink and red one will go nicely in the main studio by the window.

The note with the flowers is the same as yesterday, and I wonder why this person would send it twice with no variation. It has to be a mistake, right? It just doesn't make sense. Regardless, it's nice to know they're thinking of me, and I wonder why they're anonymous. Surely if you're sending roses to someone and thanking them, you'd want them to know who you are?

I want to know so I can thank them for the flowers and for giving me the spark back to my career. But I guess I'll never know, and that's the way this person wanted it. I suppose a gift isn't given to receive gratitude or thanks. It's a way for the person giving to say something. Why would you give a gift just to get something back, after all?

Looking at the florist's website shows me that this specific bouquet (with the option of colour choices for free) is expensive as well; thirty quid per bouquet. Whoever is sending them must be rich or well-known, but I don't recall there being anyone of note in the audience. So they chose those colours for a reason and spent a lot of money. They must be doing it on purpose and for a reason. I just wish I knew who it was...

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Day three, and yet another set of roses. Same colour, same number, same letter. No name, no address, no number. Just the same thing from the same florist. She wouldn't give me any more information, either.

Will they keep coming?

I have nowhere left to put all these roses if they do, and with the notes saying the same thing three days in a row, I'm pretty sure this is a mistake. The florist keeps saying different, though.

Maybe it's not, and this person is really inspired. Maybe their new story is about sending roses to ballet dancers...

Now I'm being ridiculous.

I'm about to lock up the dance studio and take the flowers home when I see the figure coming towards me. A man, tall, dressed in dark jeans and a shirt. I take a sip from my lemon-flavoured water before regarding the guy.

"Hi, I, uh, I'm closed. It's closed. The studio, I mean. My studio," I tell him. "If you're here for information, you can look at our website or come back tomorrow. Sorry, it's been a day."

He stands still and shakes his head, a small laugh coming out of his mouth. There's a tiny dimple on his left cheek. "No, I'm, uh, not here about dancing. Sorry to disappoint."

His eyes land on mine; green, sparkling. There's something I recognise maybe, but I can't quite put my finger on what. Maybe he's a parent of one of the kids or something.

"Nice flowers," he adds. I locate an accent as he says it; southern English. Posh, too.

"Thanks," I answer with a laugh. "Can I help you, then, if you're not here about the dancing?"

He puts his hands on his hips. "Yeah, those flowers. For you, right? Lily Price?"

"Yeah, that's me. What gave it away?"

"I recognise you from the show... the other night. Cinderella. I came to see it."

I nod. "Oh, thank you! I hope you enjoyed it."

"Oh, I definitely did. See, it's me, who sent you those flowers." He gestures to the bouquet in my hand. "This is super embarrassing. See, I meant to send only one bouquet, and I meant every word in the note. But the florist got it wrong and sent them the next two days as well... charged me full price for 'em, too." He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm not asking for them back. I just wanted to come and explain in person, say I'm sorry for the mix-up, and say thank you... for inspiring me."

This is awkward as fuck, and I think we both know it.

I tilt my head and ignore the awkwardness pirouetting around us. "You're the one who sent me the flowers?"

He nods and puts out his hand to shake. "I'm Olly Gilbert."

Holy shit. The Olly Gilbert, author of Cold Faith. I read it years ago; a story about a woman who'd been forced to marry after her religious parents found out she was pregnant. The couple ended up splitting, but he'd died from an illness before they could divorce.

He has released nothing since, which I think surprised everyone as it was a hit, with a TV show deal and everything.

"I'm Lily Price." We shake hands. "Thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful. Let me... let me put these in my car and I'll take you for a coffee. It's cold out here. There's a nice place down the road."

"Sure, that'd be lovely." 

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