“It’s been bugging me all afternoon, trying to figure out who you look like, and it just hit me. You’re a dead ringer for that gal, Katie Cleary. Do people ever tell you that? She was a silver medalist last Olympics, I think.”

Bronze, I think, and it was the Olympics before.

“Oh,” I say, turning my face away, as though checking a landmark. I fear that if he looks at me close up right now, he’ll know. It isn’t rational. Katie Cleary is a minor figure in this man’s life. “What happened to her?” It’s masochistic, but I can’t resist.

“You didn’t hear about it? It was a huge news story in the U.S. Canada too for a bit.”

“Well, I’m so disconnected down here, you know.” I tell tourists I’ve been here for five years, playing the role of a full-on expat.

“I don’t remember all the details. Georgia, you followed that story like it was a soap opera. What happened to that poor skier girl?” he asks as his wife sidles up to us. “Don’t you think Liz looks just like Katie Cleary?”

“Oh goodness, but you do! Yes, the Penny Cleary-Granger trial. So awful!”

“That’s right. I gather it ruined her career, suppose it would have anyone’s.”

I nod my head, for a moment unable to speak. I take a deep breath, forcing my eyes to be bright. I notice that even when asked directly, this nice Canadian couple can’t say out loud what Penny did.

“Well,” I say, clasping my hands together, bringing us all back to the moment: far removed from the tragedy of a stranger they think they’ll never meet. “That brings us to the end of our tour. Are there any questions I can answer for you all?”

There are so many questions, today of all days.

At last, I wrap up, telling them I have an appointment to get to and that I enjoyed meeting them all and hope they have a fantastic rest of their stay.

I should never have scheduled the lesson with Gianluca back-to-back with a tour, I realize as I haul ass to the studio. By the time I arrive, I’m a sweaty mess and my nerves are frayed.

“I’m so sorry, my tour ran late,” I say, crashing into a chair to change my shoes.

“Relax,” he says. “I’ll let it go this once. Only once though, Tiger. Tango takes discipline. And my time is valuable.”

I feel a hard stab of shame. There’s nothing I hate more than being late for a coach. I nod and furiously fumble with the ankle strap on my shoes. It’s hard to believe that G, the debauched bon vivant, has anything on me when it comes to discipline.