Prima Donna (12 page)

‘What do you say? Let me whisk you off to darkest Dorset for phase two of our courtly romance. I’ll hide you in a tower so that all those hideous press men can’t find you and
we’ll breed goats and live happily ever after while you grow a new foot.’

Pia shook her head, fractionally, at his jokes. He was as bad as Sophie.

‘And if you’re worrying about your virtue, then don’t. You heard what the doctor said. You’ve got a ten-week chastity zone to protect you and absolutely nothing you can
do will make me break it.’

She cracked a weary smile, but still shook her head.

‘Ah-ah-ah!’ he said, contradicting her refusal. ‘You smiled. That means yes,’ he said.

Pia tried to sit up to protest, but he gently pushed her back down again, pulling the sheets further up, under her chin. ‘Now go back to sleep. I’m going to find Mr Rosen and make
the arrangements to get you out of here.’

She closed her eyes, too tired to argue further, surrendering to unconsciousness almost immediately. Will watched as all her arrogance and defences lifted off her in her sleep. She looked like
an angel, and he saw what a bundle of paradoxes she really was – ferocious but vulnerable; adored but alone; brilliant but tortured; fit but broken.

He looked down at her mutilated foot – of which Sophie had been so protective – and hoped, for all their sakes, that she was going to make it back from this.

‘Hey, good to see you again. It’s been a while,’ boomed a voice from across the street, as Sophie fumbled with her keys. ‘I was beginning to wonder
whether I should come over and start sniffing in the hallway.’

Sophie looked up and smiled wanly at Greg, her too-friendly neighbour. ‘Ha! No. I’m fine, really. Thanks, though, for the thought,’ she smiled, turning away. ‘I really
appreciate that thought about my dead and rotting body,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘You’ve been travelling with your foxy ballerina again?’

‘Yeah, something like that,’ Sophie replied, getting the key in the lock. She opened the door and picked up her bags. ‘I’m beat. I’ll catch you later, Greg,’
she said, half over her shoulder.

She tramped up the eight flights of stairs to the top floor, wishing for the umpteenth time she’d chosen an apartment block with lifts. Letting herself in, she dropped her bags with a thud
on the whitewashed floor and leant against the wall.

Home Sweet Home.

She looked around. Well, kind of.

In truth, the open-plan space looked more like the scene of a crime. Anyone else walking in – most especially her mother – would think the place had been ransacked. But Sophie
wasn’t alarmed, just defeated. More mess to clean up. Housekeeping wasn’t her strong point, and there were old newspapers scattered on the coffee table, piles of un-ironed laundry in a
wicker basket, stone-cold half-drunk mugs of tea growing penicillin on the worktops, the bed still unmade . . .

Oh Adam! The memory of him lying back on her pillows rushed back at her and her stomach lurched at the thought of what she’d done with Alonso – just hours after leaving Adam in her
bed. To think she’d waited for him so long and then, just as her skin smelt of his and her muscles still ached from his acrobatics – it wasn’t easy keeping up with a dancer in
bed! – she’d stuffed it up.

Not that it was her fault. It was Pia’s. If she’d been able to curb her rampant ego a little bit, Sophie wouldn’t have been forced to drink the bar dry in revenge.

She slid down the wall. It probably wasn’t going to make any difference anyway. Adam was notorious for his one-time flings . . . She knew that it had just been some fun, his way to while
away the time together until Pia came back and dominated both their lives again.

Besides, now that Pia had fired her, she wasn’t going to be at the studios, watching him day in and day out, as she had done. In fact, she might never even see him again. They’d
never swapped mobile numbers – there had been no need – and short of loitering with intent, why would their paths cross? Chicago was a big city.

She hugged herself dejectedly at the bleak prospect and shivered. The apartment was freezing and she remembered she’d turned the heating down before leaving for the tour. The weather had
been wet and mild in England, but back here in Chicago the February snow was still several inches thick and not remotely done yet.

She ransacked through her hanging travel wardrobe (she couldn’t afford proper furniture on the salary Pia had paid her) and pulled out a chunky sage-green jumper with funnel neck and
floppy sleeves. She swapped her skinny jeans for some grey ribbed leggings and pulled out her sheepskin slipper boots. As she eased into her soft clean clothes, she felt the tension lift off her a
little. In spite of the mess, it felt good to be back.

She padded into the kitchenette, turning on the hot water and heating, and made herself a mug of black Assam tea and, grabbing a loaf from the freezer, a toasted marmite sandwich.

She switched on the radio and sat on the arm of her battered sky-blue linen sofa, munching mindlessly. What to do now? It occurred to her that without a job to go to, she had absolutely nothing
at all to do and no one to see in the whole city. Being on call to Pia twenty-four hours a day had made it all but impossible to get friendships off the ground.

She closed her eyes for a moment and thought of her family, back in Ireland. It had been so long since she’d been home. She missed them. Missed her mum. Missed her sisters. It would be so
lovely to see them again, to go back. Maybe now . . . now that she’d been fired . . . maybe now was the time to return? There wasn’t anything to stay for, particularly. Enough time had
passed, surely?

Sophie shook her head violently and she nearly choked on a crust. What the hell was she thinking? Who was she trying to kid? She could
never
go back. In her father’s eyes, what
she had done was unforgivable. Had she not run away first, there was no doubt he would have cast her out. His back was turned to her, she knew, whether she was there to stare at it or not, and
seven hundred years’ penance wouldn’t make it up to him, much less seven.

She took a large, deliberate gulp of too-hot tea. Distraction. Distraction. She stood up and marched over to the small orangery on the terrace, which she used as her studio – the very
reason she had rented this flat and forgone an apartment block with lifts. The roof blinds were pulled over the glass roof, diffusing the cold blue winter light into a softer opalescence. Canvases
were stacked eight deep against the walls so that there was scarcely any floor space left; several were still sitting on the easels, unfinished.

Instantly diverted from her emotional maelstrom, mug in hand, she appraised them coolly. She’d been experimenting with various different forms – black chalk, pastels, oil, gouache
– but all the subject matter was a variation on a theme: Pia Soto – in
arabesque
, in
pirouette
, at the
barre
, in flight, resting, in her dressing room, in
practice . . . There were etchings of Adam too (now including the nude that had got her into such delicious trouble last week) and some of the other principals, a few of the corps rehearsing and
waiting in the wings, ready to go on stage. Mainly, though, they were about Pia.

‘Isn’t everything always?’ she mumbled to herself.

The smaller charcoals Sellotaped to the walls were details – a foot on
pointe
, an extended arm, a raised chin, a long neck, a turned-out knee. But the canvases were formal
narratives. She picked up one of the finished oil compositions. Pia was in profile, the curtain down, moments before a performance. She’d been wearing her puffa jacket when Sophie had
sketched the pose in pen, but when she applied it to canvas here in the studio she’d put her in the billowy Pavlova-tutu with the navy sash which she’d worn in
Romeo and
Juliet
. It was old school and Romantic, Pia’s still, tense body suffused with grace even in repose.

But it disappointed Sophie. She hadn’t captured what she’d been after. She could never get what happened to Pia in those final moments, just before the curtain lifted. When the
orchestra was tuning up and the company warming up, Pia froze – quite literally. She turned into a statue, retreating into herself so deeply that nothing, other than the sound of applause
when the conductor came out, could break the spell. Then, she would turn and run to the wings where Sophie would hand her a bowl to throw up in and some mints. It was a well-rehearsed drill, always
the same. The nearest Sophie ever got to a
pas de deux
.

It wasn’t nerves, she knew that much. Pia never doubted her own brilliance or her ability to perform. With the other dancers, Sophie could almost see their dancing characters settle upon
them like shrouds, overwriting their own personalities and desires. But Pia . . . ?

With Pia it was almost the opposite. She didn’t become Odette or Giselle or Manon by subjugating her own self; she didn’t become less herself in those quiet moments, she became
more
. She tapped into something at her core, something which filled her with fire and rage, but also joy and the sweetest tenderness.
That
was what set her apart from technicians
like Ava Petrova, not her turn out or the flexion of her back. Whatever she locked into, deep within herself, it released a range of emotion and empathy that elevated her from athlete to artiste.
She was compelled by something. But what?

The phone rang and, still frowning, Sophie went to pick it up.

‘Hello?’ she asked blankly, her eyes appraising her own short stubby brushstrokes.

‘Sophie? It’s Luce.’

‘Oh hi, Lucy.’ She’d always got on well with Baudrand’s assistant. She had to. They spent a lot of time smoothing out the ructions between their respective bosses.
‘What’s up?’

‘I was just calling to see if you were back actually. I’ve been worried about you. No one knew where you were.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve had a bit of a nightmare. I managed to leave Switzerland in a private helicopter with no passport, so you do
not
want to know how long I spent at the Irish
Embassy in London trying to get a temporary passport and visa.’

‘Nightmare!’ Lucy said sympathetically. There was a brief pause. ‘Look, I heard Pia fired you. I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, well. Her prerogative, I guess.’

‘Don’t be daft. She must have hit her head as well as her foot. Everybody knows she’s completely reliant on you to keep all the balls up in the air for her. You totally run her
life. She can’t do a thing without you. Honestly, the crazy cow’s lost it this time.’

Sophie smiled, grateful for the support. ‘Mmm, well, we’ll see.’

‘What’s it all about anyway?’

‘Search me. I’m as much in the dark as anyone.’ She took another bite of her sandwich.

‘Seriously? She didn’t give you a reason?’ She lowered her voice to an excited whisper. ‘You could take her to a tribunal, then, couldn’t you? Unfair dismissal, or
something?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘Oh I can’t be bothered. Can you just imagine the hassle?’ she asked, munching loudly. ‘Taking Pia to court would be like going to war. And I know which
of those two I’d prefer.’

‘Hmm. Well, d’you fancy coming in for lunch? Let’s catch up properly over a beer and plot a dastardly revenge.’

Sophie laughed – for the first time in days. ‘Yeah, I’d love to. When’s good for you?’

‘One? It’ll have to be on the dot though. Baudrand’s back from New York for the day with Ava, dealing with the paperwork for her visa, and I’ve got a meeting with him at
two.’

She checked her watch. It was 11.30 a.m.

‘Okay, great. I’ll come into the office to get you. There are a few things I need to pick up anyway.’

Sophie was ten minutes early and Lucy was on a call when she popped her head round the door. ‘I’ll just pop to the changing rooms,’ she mouthed. ‘Back
in a sec.’

She ambled down the familiar corridors, stopping to stare in through the windows and watch the rehearsals. Even without a note on the door, much less a programme, she was able to identify the
ballets being rehearsed. She realized she’d become a connoisseur.

She stopped outside Studio Four, Pia’s favourite – she always said the mirrors were most flattering in there. José Cabrera, Adam’s number two, was standing there, hands
on hips, talking animatedly with someone. Sophie leant forward, pressing her nose against the glass in the door to see who was partnering him. She could see a pair of black satin
pointe
shoes crossed at the ankle, but nothing more.

She watched him for a few moments more, music from the other studios drifting down the hall, and became increasingly aware of a sadness rising up inside her. She would miss this. She had come to
know and love the company so well – no, to know and love ballet so well – which was funny because she’d known nothing at all about it before coming to work for Pia.

She’d taken the job simply because the idea of all the travel corresponded with her need to keep moving, but little by little she’d been drawn into this closed world – seeing
at first hand its rituals and preparations, marvelling at the pomp and ceremony of the performances and galas. But what had really captured her heart were these closed-door moments: the rehearsals,
the buzz in the dressing rooms, the flurry of activity in the wings as dancers changed costumes and shoes. It had inspired her again, motivated her to pick up a brush after years of feeling so
empty she’d genuinely never believed she would be able to feel anything ever again.

Tearing herself away, she glued her eyes to the floor and walked past the other studios without looking in. There was no point in tormenting herself. She made a beeline for the changing rooms
and unlocked her battered wooden locker. It was covered with the initials of all the dancers who’d used it before her. She briefly considered adding her own but thought better of it. She had
no right. She hadn’t grafted for fifteen years day in, day out in the pursuit of artistic perfection. She was just admin staff, given a locker because she didn’t have an office.