Prima Donna (19 page)

‘Better?’ Ava repeated, turning to face him. There was a frosty note in her voice. ‘Better’ was nowhere near brilliant. She didn’t do ‘better’.

‘Again,’ she said imperiously, flicking her arm up into the air, indicating to the piano player to strike up once more.

Sophie looked down at her sketch. Adam was holding Ava in the swallow dive and her arms were pulled back behind her, like a diver’s, her neck extended. Sophie frowned at it and rubbed out
the breast line. She watched Ava again.

Adam’s head dropped, despondently, as the chords sang out. He picked up the bar and stepped into a
glissade
. Ava was across the room, moving towards him in a series of
petit
allegro.

‘Lighter, softer, good, yes . . . yes and now up . . .’ Baudrand murmured as she advanced, flying into a
grand jeté
and then up into . . .

‘
Niet!
’ she cried fiercely, stopping the dance abruptly and glaring at Adam. ‘Why are you putting your hand there?’ she demanded. ‘You want me to
fall?’

‘I’ve never dropped anyone yet,’ he replied. ‘Besides, you carry your centre of gravity further forward than Pia—’

‘Well, that’s hardly a surprise with the size of her ass,’ Ava snipped.

Adam paused a beat. Sophie saw the anger flash through his eyes. He couldn’t bear to hear Pia criticized.

‘I’ve found that placement to be best for me when lifting dancers, like you, who carry their weight forward,’ he said finally. ‘It’s the way I’ve always done
it.’

‘Well, I don’t care.
I
like to be held
here
,’ she said, and she adjusted his hands further up around her ribs.

Adam looked at her. ‘Given that I’m the one doing the lifting, don’t you think it’s more important that
I
feel secure with the grip?’

But Ava had already turned away and was moving back to her spot across the room. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over. ‘Again!’ she said, clicking her fingers at
the piano player.

Adam tried to catch Baudrand’s eye but the director was watching his new star, rapt. Such passion. Such drive. Such perfectionism. He’d hardly been able to believe it when he’d
got the call saying she wanted to be part of the centenary celebrations. And now that she was here, the more he thought about it, the more he realized he’d been handed a golden opportunity in
Pia’s accident, an opportunity to move the company forward, and up and away from Pia Soto. For too long he’d been blinded by Pia’s light, by her unassailable self-confidence that
she was the best, and that had allowed her to get away with unforgivable behaviour, behaviour that had made him look a fool. But he’d overlooked one thing: she wasn’t the only one who
was best. She was joint best. Getting her nemesis on board hit multiple targets at once.

The music started up and Adam slid into the
glissade
again as Ava went through her tiny jumps, coming closer, and higher, and then she was in the air, above him. He reached up, his
hands reset to her favoured position, but as he absorbed her weight in the descent, he felt his wrist give and his arm buckled at the elbow.

Ava fell awkwardly to the ground.

‘You idiot!’ she screamed, from a heap on the floor.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, extending a hand to help her up. ‘But the balance is wrong. It’s too far forward like that. ’

‘You’re too weak, you mean,’ she scowled, ignoring his chivalry and getting herself up. She stood glaring at him, her hands on her hips, and her shoes – which look
clownishly long when flat-footed – turned out.

Adam’s eyes flashed. He prided himself on his strength and stamina, but they’d been practising this sequence for eighty-five minutes straight and the muscles in his arms were empty.
Even he couldn’t carry on body-pressing seven and a half stone indefinitely.

‘Well, maybe if you could get a grip on the choreography, I might actually be able to rest for a moment,’ he retorted. ‘Pia never took this long to understand what was needed
from her.’

Ava gave an outraged, curdled shriek at that. How dare he compare her unfavourably to Pia Soto!

Baudrand jumped up from his chair, keen to avert the contretemps.

‘Stop it,’ he scolded. ‘You are both exhausted. It is my fault. I should have stopped you earlier. One of you will get injured if we carry on any longer.’ He pursed his
lips and looked at them both. His new super-team.

‘It is coming,’ he said with a quiet confidence, his head nodding. ‘We are getting there. Technically your body knows this now, Ava. That is not where we must concentrate. Your
skill is not in doubt. It is simply a matter of feeling the character now, finding her in you and letting her out – just a soft touch. You must remember this ballet was written specifically
for Pia. It plays to her strengths – artistry, not technique. To conquer it you must think like she thinks.’

‘You mean, dance like she dances, dance
her
way,’ Ava sneered, as though the very idea was contemptible.

‘
Non
. I want you to dance your way but with her spirit. Don’t you see, cherie?’ A small smile hovered on his lips. ‘Then you will dance
her
ballet even
better than she could dance it herself.’

Sophie looked up, shocked, from her sketches. Had she really just heard it? Baudrand pitting Ava directly against Pia? Willing her, encouraging her to outperform his resident
protégée?

Ava didn’t miss the sycophantic tone in Baudrand’s voice, nor had she missed the way Sophie’s head had jerked up, or the way Adam had stiffened. She tipped her head in seeming
acquiescence.

‘And you, Adam,’ Baudrand said, his voice becoming hard. ‘You need to get back to the gym. Ava’s right. You should be able to hold her the way she prefers. Get some
strength built up in that wrist, and fast. There’re six weeks till opening night but we’ve got a full programme and five other productions to rehearse.’ He dropped his voice
ominously low. ‘Don’t make me regret my decision of choosing you. Just because you were Pia’s preferred partner doesn’t mean you’re necessarily right to dance this
with Ava. We’ll have to see how we get on.’

Baudrand walked away from them both. ‘We’ll start again at twelve tomorrow, after class, the Balanchine studio.’

Ava raised her eyebrows at Adam. They both knew she wielded the power. If she decided that Adam wasn’t ‘right’ for her, he’d be off the job.

His jaw clenched, furiously, and she gave a small smile.

‘See you tomorrow, then,’ she said dismissively, shrugging her petite shoulders and clop-clopping away to pick up her bag.

The piano player nervously rushed past, his folios fluttering under his arm. ‘G’night.’

Adam watched Ava go, lost in thought, lost in the threat. When she got to the door – to add insult to injury – she turned off the lights. Only the fading purple notes of dusk coming
through the skylight rescued the room from complete darkness.

Sophie gave a small cough, and he turned. She could see he’d quite forgotten she was there. Not that she was surprised. For all her fancy new title, she remained resolutely plain and
forgettable.

He came and sat down on the floor with her, pulling off the support rags he tied around his wrists. She crossed her legs and let the oversized sketchbook rest on her lap.

‘How you doing?’ she asked sympathetically.

Adam shrugged, disconsolate. ‘It looks like Pia might not be the only one whose career is put on hold while she recovers,’ he mumbled. ‘Come back, Miss Soto. All is
forgiven.’ He gave a wry smile but Sophie could see he was gutted.

‘Things will settle down,’ she said, but even as she said it she wasn’t sure they would. Several times in New York, Ava had been spotted deep in conversation with José
– who was up for partnering her in
The Rite of Spring
– and rumours were beginning to spread. If Ava wanted to play favourites, things could get bleaker still for Adam.
‘And at least she got us through the rest of the tour,’ she said quietly.

‘I guess.’ he shrugged. ‘It was odd without Pia though.’

Sophie nodded. ‘Yes.’

He sighed. ‘Well, it looks like the honeymoon’s over. Ava must have been behaving herself in New York. I thought she was unbelievably charming – can you imagine?’

A note of alarm rang in Sophie and she shook her head. She didn’t want to imagine. It was bad enough that he was in Pia’s thrall.

‘But now that Badland’s signed her up and she’s got her feet under the table it seems I’ve outlived my usefulness.’

Sophie sighed gratefully. Adam may still be barely aware of her presence, but at least she would be saved the torture of watching him fall in love with his new leading lady.

He fiddled with the unwound bandages. They were wet through and needed a boil wash from the looks of things. They sat in easy silence together in the gathering dark.

He noticed her drawings on her lap.

‘I hear things were . . . busy for you too,’ he said, shifting slightly to look at her. ‘It’s great news, by the way.’ He leant over and kissed her on the cheek.
‘I knew I was onto something with you,’ he grinned.

‘You did?’ she said, brightening up.

‘Absolutely. But just remember: I’m the one who started you off, okay? I was your first official model.’

Her shoulders drooped and she nodded.

‘I hear Badlands is putting on an exhibition for you? Same night as the gala?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s so great. At least one of us can look forward to a great time that night,’ he joked.

‘Don’t let her knock your confidence, Adam. You’re such a beautiful dancer. She’s just trying to mess with your mind.’

‘Yeah,’ he shrugged. ‘So that she can ship in José.’

Sophie looked at him, surprised. Had he heard the rumours too, then?

‘It’s okay. I know what they’re all saying, that she’s lining him up as my replacement.’

‘Now listen,’ she said, suddenly fierce. ‘Don’t let her do this to you. You’ve got to come out fighting, Adam. You’re a far better dancer than he is. He makes
so much noise on stage he might as well wear clogs. There’s a very good reason why Pia always chose you, and don’t you forget it.’

Adam stared at her, astonished by her lioness instinct, and for a moment he glimpsed the goddess behind the easel again.

‘God, I wish I could take you home right now,’ he beamed, reaching over and kissing her on the lips.

‘You can,’ Sophie gasped, instantly forgetting her resolution in the shower that morning to be strong and independent and over him.

He sprang up into standing and began winding the rags back round his wrists.

‘Oh Sophie, Sophie. You’re a bad influence on me, d’you know that?’

She shook her head, confused. He laughed, suddenly bright. ‘But you’re absolutely right about Ava. I’ve got to show her what I can really do. And I’ve got to listen to
Badlands and get down to the gym. The only thing I can pump tonight is iron, more’s the pity.’

He picked up his kitbag and walked towards the door.

‘Thanks, Soph! You’re a star.’ And with that, he winked and left.

A sodding star? She sighed as the door banged behind him, cross with herself for having been so eager for him. Why, oh why, was he such a hard habit to break?

The sunlight crept over the bed like a tide, bathing her in its warmth and golden glow. Sophie stretched languidly, still half asleep. It felt so good to wake up naturally
– and warm for once. Usually her bedroom was freezing first thing; the sun didn’t creep round to her windows until . . .

She gasped and sat bolt upright, grabbing her watch from the bedside table.

Twelve forty-six? Shit!

Leaping out of bed, she pulled on the clothes she’d taken off last night, picked up her bag, which was still unpacked from yesterday’s session, and raced out of the door. A second
later, she came back through it again and grabbed an easel and a huge, unwieldy portfolio case. The paints and brushes fitted in her bag.

Buying a bagel and coffee from the stall on the corner, she jostled her way down the eleven blocks to the studios, with the bagel held firmly between her teeth, her bags and easel taking out
unsuspecting pedestrians with glancing blows to the back of their knees.

‘Sorry. Sorry. Wide load coming through . . .’ she mumbled through her mouthful of bagel, unable to stop.

She was there in fifteen minutes and used her bottom to burst open the studio door. Adam and Ava were mid-performance and carried on, well used to interruptions during rehearsals. Sophie turned
and tried to tiptoe in, but the easel caught sideways in the door jamb and she became stuck fast, the fire door swinging back on its hinges and closing on her.

Instinctively, she closed her eyes on impact; when she opened them again it was to find three pairs of eyes staring at her squashed face in the viewing panel.

They all stared at each other for a long time – well, five seconds, but it felt a lifetime to her; she couldn’t move. Her nose was flattened sideways, the cream cheese from the bagel
in her mouth was smeared all over the place, and the faces gradually disappeared from sight as her breath misted up the glass.

Adam burst out laughing, and came running over.

‘You’re a riot,’ he said, barely able to get the words out as he gallantly opened the door for her. The squashed bagel broke up and fell to the floor, setting him off even
harder. He actually had to hold his sides, she noticed.

She hastily swallowed the bit of bagel that had been in her mouth as she wrestled with the easel’s legs, but her outsized portfolio and half-spilt coffee kept getting in the way. Damned
bloody hell, she cursed to herself, totally humiliated.

Adam released the easel for her and carried it over to her spot in the corner.

‘Thanks, Adam’, she muttered, aware that as well as looking like a fool, she also looked a state. Her clothes were crumpled and covered with paint and her eyes were as wild as her
hair, which she hadn’t had time to tame. She smiled apologetically, and sat down in her chair.

‘I’m so sorry. I overslept,’ she mumbled. ‘I was working late last night . . .’ Her voice trailed away.