Authors: Karen Swan
‘And this is Violet,’ he said. ‘She’s going to do all the preliminary physio work with you until we can get Evie back for the more specialized rehabilitation.’
‘Preliminary? What does that mean?’ Pia looked at her, embarrassed and resentful of the indignity of being held like a baby in front of this magnificent woman. ‘Have you ever
worked with a dancer before?’ she asked.
Violet shook her head. She seemed to be fighting back a smile. ‘No,’ she said simply.
‘Athletes?’
‘After a fashion,’ she shrugged.
Pia looked at her suspiciously.
‘What does that mean?’
Violet shot a look at Will and he coughed. ‘There’ll be enough time for chatting later,’ he said. ‘It’s cold out here and we need to get you indoors.’
He went to move but Pia kicked her leg out like a brake. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Let her answer the question.’ She knew when she was being lied to.
Violet looked back at Will again. He shrugged. She had to find out sooner or later.
‘I’m an equine physiotherapist,’ she said.
Pia’s jaw dropped. She glared at Will. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? You practically kidnap me and then tell me I’m going to have some . . . gypsy working on me like I’m a
shire horse. What the hell is this? Have you forgotten who I am?’
A low murmur of amusement washed through the crescent of staff and Violet’s eyes flashed at the insult. ‘Actually, I’m—’
‘Spare it,’ Pia snapped. ‘You can go back to your caravan. You’re not needed here.’
Violet gasped, looking to Will for back-up, but he just shook his head. ‘Later,’ he mouthed, whisking Pia briskly through the front door.
He didn’t give her time to admire the impressive hallway as he climbed the stairs, depositing her angrily upon a vast emperor-sized bed. She had just humiliated him in front of his staff
and God only knew what it was going to take to get Violet to treat her now.
‘I want to go back to the hospital
now
,’ she demanded.
‘No,’ he snapped.
‘What do you mean, no?’ she cried. ‘You can’t keep me here against my will, you know.’
‘Well, unless you intend to get out of this bed and drive yourself there, then, yes . . . I think I can.’
Pia glared at him, outraged. Her mobile was out of charge now – Sophie usually did that for her – and there was no telephone in the room.
Will looked down at her. She looked like a doll in the huge bed, with hot cheeks and silky hair. He took a deep breath and sat down by her feet.
‘Look,’ he said, in a more placatory tone. ‘I’m just trying to do the best thing for you. I think you’ve lost sight of how important that foot is to your career. If
you leave here now, who’s going to look after you?’
Pia didn’t reply.
‘For all the flowers and get-well cards you’ve received from your fans, no one has come forward to look after you.’
She flashed him a murderous look. Like she needed reminding.
‘And for reasons best known to yourself, you’ve already fired the one person who did. So from what I can see, it’s down to me.’
She stared at him, incredulous. ‘How do you do that? How do you manage to make it sound like I’m imposing upon you? I don’t want to be here!’
‘I’m the only person who’s liaised with your doctors and spoken with your dance director since the accident happened, and I know exactly what it is you need,’ he
reasoned.
‘Which is someone from the goddam pony club, is it?’ Pia hissed, through teary eyes.
‘Violet’s excellent at her job and she’s only going to be doing very basic exercises with you anyway. I’m trying to secure Evie for you, but it seems you’ve really
pulled a number on her in the past and she’s not having any of it at the moment.’
Again, he made it sound like it was all her fault and she was imposing upon him.
‘But I’m confident we’ll get her. No one can resist me for long,’ he winked.
‘I think you’ll find I can,’ she said petulantly, throwing her head back on her pillows and staring up at the ceiling. His double entendres weren’t going to raise any
laughs from her. She wished for the millionth time that she hadn’t been so rash with Sophie. She’d do anything to see her open, friendly face right now.
Will looked at her for a long moment – he imagined this was what it was like having a toddler – but Mr Rosen had warned him that her ominous silences and sneering rebuttals were
classic signs of fear and depression. ‘You’ll need to take it on the chin,’ he’d warned. ‘It’s a necessary part of her processing what’s happened and what
she’s still got to go through. Don’t take it personally.’
He walked to the door. ‘Mrs Bremar will be up with your dinner tray in an hour,’ he said as the grandfather clock chimed downstairs. ‘And there’s a bell next to the bed.
Ring it if you need anything.’
‘A bell? My God, where have you brought me? Do you even have running water here or will you be getting that in a bucket from a well?’
He ignored her sarcasm and shut the door softly behind him, leaving Pia alone with her temper in the plush bedroom. She looked around hatefully at the yellow silk curtains and the beautiful grey
de Gournay prints on the walls; then, convinced she was alone at last, she finally let herself cry.
When, an hour later, the door opened again, the tears had dried but their tracks remained.
‘Here you are, dear,’ Mrs Bremar said kindly, clocking Pia’s damp skin as she placed a bed tray over her lap. A bowl of steaming chicken soup and a golden-baked baguette had
been arranged on bone-china plates. ‘I wasn’t sure of your appetite yet,’ she said, opening out the napkin for Pia. ‘There’s not much on you. You look like you
don’t eat much.’
Pia said nothing. She was used to suspicion about her frame. ‘This looks fine, thank you,’ she muttered.
Mrs Bremar walked across the room and put on the side lamps. ‘Can I do anything for you while I’m here?’ she asked.
‘How about arranging a police escort to get me the hell out of here?’ Pia said quietly, eyeing the soup.
The housekeeper smiled. ‘You know, he’s only trying to look after you,’ she said, her head tipped to the side.
‘But why? He hardly knows me.’
‘He must like you,’ Mrs Bremar shrugged.
‘That just goes to show he hardly knows me. I’m not likeable.’
‘I think its romantic,’ she persevered.
‘I think it’s creepy.’
Mrs Bremar gave a chuckle and shook her head. There was nothing more to be said. ‘Well, I’ll come back for your dishes in a wee while,’ she said, shutting the door and leaving
Pia alone again.
Pia awoke the next morning to find Will sitting at the edge of the bed and Mrs Bremar arranging the breakfast things.
‘Like I said . . . creepy,’ Pia muttered to Mrs Bremar.
Will looked quizzically between the two women. The housekeeper suppressed a smile as she handed over a plate of bacon and eggs.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Pia said sullenly, looking away.
Will raised his eyebrows sternly. ‘Eat. Or I’ll feed you myself.’
Pia stared at him, hating him, but she knew she wouldn’t win here. She cut a minuscule morsel of egg white and chewed it exaggeratedly.
Will resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew that was the reaction she wanted. ‘How did you sleep?’ he asked.
‘Terribly,’ she lied. ‘I’d have been better off sleeping on the floor. What have you hidden in the mattress anyway? Your fortune in gold coins?’
‘That’s a Halsten bed,’ he said wryly, amused by her spikiness. ‘Cost ten grand.’
Pia shrugged. ‘What can I say?’
‘The less the better, I think. Anyway, I’ve spoken to Violet, and I’ve convinced her to come in to assess you and start you off on your rehabilitation programme.’
Pia dropped her fork. ‘No—’
‘Whatever you have to say about it, I don’t care,’ Will said, holding his hand up. ‘She’s not some hick doctor who’s going to damage you further. She’s
brilliant—’
‘With anything that whinnies maybe!’
‘It’s bones and muscles, Pia. And it’s just until we sign Evie. But she’s only coming back on the condition that you apologize to her. She was enormously offended by your
comments. You humiliated her in front of everyone.’
‘Over my dead body!’ Pia sneered.
Will stared at her. ‘You
have
to get on with your rehabilitation programme. The more you let slip now, the harder it’s going to be to get back. Violet’s on your
side.’
‘I sincerely doubt that.’
‘Apologize and you’ll have an ally in her, you’ll see,’ he said, getting up from the bed. ‘I’ve got to fly to Zurich and then on to New York for a few days,
but Mrs Bremar will see to everything you need.’
Pia stared at him, aghast. He was
leaving
her?
He stood over her and hesitated, seemingly at a loss as to how to say goodbye. Finally, he picked up her hand and squeezed it like a fond uncle. Pia tried to ask him to stay, not to leave her
alone here, stranded in a house full of strangers, but the words wouldn’t rise and a strange croak left her throat instead.
Will passed her a glass of water. ‘And remember to keep your fluids up,’ he said, crossing the room and shutting the door behind him.
Pia stared at the ceiling, the intricate ornamental plaster-work creeping over it in white trellises, like fanciful lacework. She stared as the teardrop corbels hanging down
began to slowly blush pink in the late slanting light, the pigment oozing like syrup over the
treillage
until it made its sleepy way down the walls heading, like her, for bed. Day five was
nearly over.
It had been four days now since Will had left and she’d seen not a soul apart from Mrs Bremar, who came in at regular intervals to strip the bed, administer medicines and change her
position with strategically placed pillows. She had no idea when Will was due back and, contrary to his message, Violet hadn’t turned up to start treating her. The days were beginning to rack
up and her panic at her visibly shrivelling, deteriorating body – which was moving further and further away from the primed tool she had spent a lifetime honing – was being steadily
replaced by a defeated bleakness. Her appetite was almost completely suppressed and she was eating barely a meal a day. She’d never been so still or quiet in her life. She felt like a
hibernating mouse – existing, but not living.
As she watched another day die, the tears making their silent, secret pilgrimage to her pillow, her hands periodically balled into fists and her legs twitched frustratedly, the urge to kick
almost overwhelming. She knew these nervous tics were her body’s way of crying out for movement, stimulation and touch. Being kept immobile and isolated was like sensory deprivation for her
and she felt like she was being tortured. How long did she have to endure this for? Every minute was like an hour, every hour like a day. Time was observed only through Mrs Bremar’s routine,
and she was the sun now, around which Pia’s day revolved.
Her fingers rustled against the newspaper that Mrs Bremar had brought in with lunch and which lay as untouched as the food. She picked it up slowly, as though suspicious of the intrusion it
would bring of the outside world.
It didn’t start well. Harry Hunter, the playboy novelist, was splashed all across the gossip pages as usual. She stared at his photograph – reading the text felt too exhausting
– and felt herself leave her prison as she remembered their brief, lost weekend in Venice. She closed her eyes at the memory. He’d been there for the film festival; she’d been
performing in
La Bayadère
and
Apollo
. She remembered the foppish mop of blond curls that she’d twisted round her fingers in bed, the Eros mouth that had brought her
such pleasure, the six-foot-three-frame that had been such fun climbing on, the pale green eyes that were impossible to look away from . . .
And yet somehow, come the Monday, look away she had, and she’d never regretted it. She opened her eyes again and looked back at his photo. For all the fun they’d had he was too much
like her to ever make her happy – every bit as hungry for success, and just as ruthless and selfish as she. And as much as she knew her happy ending had nothing to do with finding Mr Right,
she did know that what made for searing passion in bed made for wearisome conflict out of it. And she had enough of that to contend with as it was.
She flicked her eyes down and was momentarily surprised to see her own self laughing back at her. For a second she didn’t recognize who she was with, and couldn’t remember where the
photograph had been taken. Then she saw the jewels and felt herself start. Something was wrong. She pulled herself further up the pillows and started reading properly.
Beautiful Pia Soto’s luck appears to be going from bad to worse as yet more disaster follows her from her recent ill-fated trip to St Moritz, where she was badly
injured. In the wake of these photographs, which show her enjoying the full hospitality of luxury jewellers Cartier, rival firm Patek Philippe have announced they will not be renewing her
lucrative $1 million contract when it expires later this year . . .
She scrutinized the photograph showing her dripping in Cartier and laughing with the MD. Next to it was a shot of her hotel suite at the Black.
. . . But there is some light on the horizon for ballet’s bad girl, as she puts her failed affair with married Andy Connor behind her and enjoys a torrid new romance
with financier Will Silk. Silk, who is the major investor in the chic Black hotel group, where Cartier put her up, all expenses paid, in the penthouse, is understood to be overseeing her
convalescence at his mansion in the country . . .
Pia let the paper drop from her hands. She’d been sabotaged, of that much she was certain. Someone had betrayed her. Someone had tipped off Patek Philippe that she was
Cartier’s guest and they were picking up her bill. But who? Who would have access to that kind of information? Who would want to betray her? Sophie – exacting a kind of revenge? It
seemed hard to believe.
Before the accident, it would have been inconsequential anyway. Just a paperwork bore. Cartier was desperate to sign her and she would simply have swapped one for the other. But now, with her
foot in plaster and her international career – and therefore profile – hanging in the balance, she wasn’t such a good bet. And if she didn’t get back to the world stage, all
her other contracts would probably lapse too.