Prima Donna (6 page)

There was a knock at the door and the waiter came through, carrying her breakfast. Pia was standing with her back to him, one leg resting gently on the
barre
, her body bent over in a
stretch.

‘Tell them to close the gym,’ she muttered, not bothering to turn around. ‘I need a session. And arrange for a masseur back here in two hours.’

‘
Oui, madame
,’ said the waiter, backing out of the room quickly. She was naked except for a lilac thong, and if she unfolded herself from that position, he wouldn’t be
capable of carrying trays for a while.

Wolfing down the toast, she pulled out a pale lime leotard, pink footless tights rolled up to her knees, some ragged leg warmers and a cropped cashmere jumper. She pulled her hair into a rough
bun and made her way down to the gym, barefoot. She shared the lift with a fur-clad, over-tanned couple in their sixties who held their Shih Tzu that little bit closer and kept their eyes firmly
glued to the ceiling, clearly convinced they were sharing space with a vagrant.

The gym had been closed by the time she got there, and a buff gym instructor stepped forward from an adjacent office as she walked past.

‘
Bonjour, madame
, I am Monsieur Dillion, the manager of the gym. Is there any way I can be of assistance to you?’

Pia walked into the gym and scrutinized it. Free weights, fixed weights, ergo machines, running machines, bikes, spinners, yoga mats, floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It had the lot. Off to the side
was a separate Pilates room with pulleys and tables ready assembled. She nodded appreciatively.

‘This looks fine, Monsieur Dillion. Privacy is all I need now. Thank you.’ And she walked away from him, grabbing a towel and going straight towards the Pilates room. She started up
MTV on the monitors in the gym and sat down at the Reformer – a machine rigged with pulleys and weights that looked like a medieval torture device – and embarked upon an advanced and
rigorous stretching and lifting routine. She felt the bass from the TVs vibrate through the glass walls as her muscles began to quickly warm, then burn.

But forty-five minutes later, she was still going, the back of her leotard wet with sweat, her hair hanging damply. She had progressed onto the Cadillac machine and groans of effort escaped her
intermittently, but stopping – pausing even – didn’t cross her mind. She was still only just getting started.

She opened the door into the gym and felt the blast of music hit her as she came out of the Pilates room. Cups of tea would no doubt be vibrating across the tables in the lobby upstairs, but she
didn’t turn it down. She moved over to the free weights and began curling, dipping, crunching and pressing, exercising and exhausting the muscles in turn over the course of another hour,
until eventually, slowing at last, she lay back on the yoga mats and began to stretch her muscles more deeply.

Lying on her back, eyes shut, her ankle resting placidly by her ear, she felt a blast of air waft over her. She shivered and looked over. The door was swooshing shut.

She lifted her head and saw a man putting his towel on a running machine. He grabbed a remote by the water cooler and turned the volume down on the TVs, switching over to CNN.

Indignant, Pia brought her leg back down and curled up. With her elbows on her knees she tipped her head to the side and stared at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, clearly not. ‘But the gym is closed.’

The man turned around.

Pia started.

‘You!’

Will Silk beamed. ‘Well, what a surprise,’ he said, eyes glittering. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again
quite
so soon. I didn’t realize it was to
here
that you were going.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘And yet, here you are.’ Will paused, hands on hips. ‘
You’re
not stalking
me
, are you?’

‘Hardly,’ Pia snorted, getting to her feet. Will’s eyes fell to her curves. She looked a knockout. He thought of all the high-maintenance women in their designer kit usually
populating the gym, and she knocked spots off them wearing a hotchpotch of cast-offs that even Britney Spears wouldn’t pull together. What was it with dancers wanting to look like they were
homeless?

‘You can’t be in here,’ Pia said imperiously, aware of his eyes like hands on her body. ‘I have exclusive use of the gym. You have to go.’

She turned her back to him and dropped into a deep
plié.

‘That’s funny. That’s what I said to them,’ Will murmured, watching her. She was incredible. Even just doing that, he could see her brilliance. It was clear she had more
raw talent – and passion – than any other person he’d ever met in his life.

‘What?’ Pia demanded, springing up and turning back to him. Her eyes were blazing. She wasn’t in the mood for riddles.

‘Well, I figure one of the upsides of owning the hotel has got to be—’

‘You
own
this hotel?’ Pia stood there with her hands on her hips. ‘
You
do?’

Will nodded, enjoying her fury. He could see that she felt put on the back foot at being a guest at his establishment. He tried to keep his eyes from following a bead of sweat that was trickling
down her neck and into her cleavage.

‘I’m the major investor here. I’ve got a few hotels actually,’ he added. ‘I’ll send the details through to your pretty PA, just in case you’re ever
passing.’

‘P-passing?’ She was incandescent with rage.

‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Seeing as we’re friends now.’

‘Why would you think we’re friends? I despise men like you. Bored playboys who think you can buy anything or anyone.’

‘Oh don’t tell me,’ he said teasingly. ‘You’re going to insist on paying for your room too now?’

‘Cartier’s picking up the bill for this,’ she replied witheringly.

‘Ah, right.’ Will nodded acquiescingly and turned away from her, stepping onto the running machine. Setting it to the Hills programme, he fell into an easy jog.

Pia watched him for a moment, furious that she couldn’t force him to leave. The man was impossible, slippery. He had an answer for everything. She picked up her towel and flounced to the
door, something she could achieve with a great deal more grace than most women.

‘Please – don’t mind me,’ Will said, as he watched her in the mirror. ‘Don’t let me drive you away.’

‘Oh you haven’t,’ she said contemptuously, slamming the door behind her.

‘I know,’ Will muttered, smiling to himself as he pushed the speed on the machine even higher and finally allowed himself to break into a sweat.

Sophie was sitting in the suite by the time Pia got back, reading in the
Daily Mail
the full update on her boss’s suspension and arch-rival’s
appointment.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked, as Pia burst through the doors, pink and flustered.

‘No!’ Pia pouted, gliding over to a table with the water jug on it. ‘That dreadful man from the Victoria’s Secret show. He burst into the gym and just
leered
at
me. I had to leave.’ Her delicate wrist fluttered with distress.

Sophie nodded sombrely. She was well used to Pia’s histrionics. As she recalled, that dreadful man had been pretty gorgeous and had retained his manners, even in the face of Pia’s
outrageous insults.

‘I remember him. The guy was such a jerk,’ she said faithfully, folding the newspaper away from sight. ‘Anyway, this will cheer you up. I’ve just made some calls to Dior,
Chanel and Dolce & Gabbana. There’s a party after the tournament today and there’s certainly nothing suitable for you in that bag I packed for Aspen, so they’re sending a
selection of dresses for you to choose from, plus some jackets for the tournament. Cartier has already sent up some necklaces and earrings for tonight – I’ve put them in the safe for
you. And there’re a couple of diamond watches there too.’

‘No. I can’t go to the tournament,’ Pia said dismissively. ‘That dreadful man will probably be there. He’ll think I’m encouraging him if I go to watch. He
owns this hotel, did you know that?’

‘No way!’ Sophie replied, shocked. She’d assumed he was a banker. ‘But . . . well, forget about him. You can’t have come all the way here to just sit in a hotel
room?’ she continued, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. Look at all this decadence – jewels, furs – being thrown at her, and she was fretting about some guy who had
made the mortal mistake of assuming he could buy her dinner! ‘And anyway, there will be thousands of people out there. He won’t be able to pick you out from among them all.’

She bit her lip at the gaffe. Of course Pia believed she would stand out in a crowd of thousands. She was an uncommon beauty.

Pia pulled off her damp clothes and walked into the bathroom for a shower, with the same nonchalance as Adam the day before. Sophie watched her retreat, that perfect butt without a trace of
cellulite or jiggle. Not that she should be jealous. She knew better than anyone what it took to hone a figure like Pia’s. Sophie saw how Pia moved like a geriatric in the mornings, how two
of her toenails were black and dead-looking, how she gasped with pain as the sports masseuse tried to ease and soothe her bruised muscles, how her bloodied feet meant she got through five pairs of
shoes each performance. No, Sophie knew she had no right to be jealous of Pia’s stupendous physique. The most she sacrificed her body to pain was the occasional spinning class, trying to pump
some volume into her butt. She deserved the droop.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Housekeeping.’

The door opened and a stream of women in black skinny trousers and black shirts filed in, carrying towers of pillows and blankets. They were the most glamorous housekeepers she’d ever
seen; surely they were spies sent in by Gucci?

‘Actually we’re fine, thanks,’ Sophie said getting up. ‘The bed’s already been done.’

‘Is special request of Monsieur Silk,’ the first woman replied, pulling the perfectly plumped and creaseless pillows off the bed with a look of disgust, as though muddy dogs had
slept on them rather than the exquisitely perfumed Pia Soto. The other two women took their positions at the bottom corners of the bed and expertly, seamlessly, silently stripped it down,
synchronizing their movements and origami folds.

My God, they’re like a housekeeping SWAT team, Sophie thought to herself as they speedily redressed the bed in gossamer-fine cashmere blankets finished with hospital corners, flat pillows,
and a white fur throw lovingly draped across the foot.

The first housekeeper fished an envelope out of her pocket and laid it gently on the pillow, while another sprinkled white rose petals across the bed. A plate of cupcakes covered in white
chocolate curls, and a bottle of Cristal were placed on the bedside table. Then, nodding briefly, the women filed out silently again, leaving behind them a soft and inviting snowy scene. What, no
albino reindeer? Sophie wanted to ask, as she sighed at the pristine sight. It would be a damn shame to wreck the perfection by actually
sleeping
in the bed.

The bathroom door opened and Pia emerged from the steamy haze.

‘Who was that?’ she asked, wrapped in a towel. ‘I heard the door.’

‘Uh, housekeeping,’ Sophie replied.

‘Oh.’ She saw the envelope on the pillow and picked it up, flinging herself casually onto the bed, completely oblivious to the scene change.

Sophie blanched, just as her boss coloured. ‘What’s wrong? What does it say?’ she asked after a moment.

Pia shrieked indignantly. ‘
Dah!
That man! How
dare
he speak to me like this? After all his insults and
still
he assumes he will get me? I hate him! Hate
him!’

She flung the card to the floor and stalked over to the wardrobe.

Hesitantly, Sophie picked up the card and read it.

Pia chose the white belted off-the-shoulder fur-trimmed jacket from Dior in the end. Sophie couldn’t see how on earth such a jacket could be worn – off the
shoulder? In the snow? – until Pia put it over her black 6-ply polo neck with skinny black jeans. With her hair tumbling out from a matching white fur turban, her green eyes hidden behind
enormous smoky shades, and a diamond watch dangling precariously from her thin wrist, she looked glamorous and incredibly famous. There was no chance the ‘dreadful man’ was going to
miss her. Not even in a crowd of eight thousand. Not even from the moon.

Sophie pulled up the hood to her olive-green Fat Face ski jacket and they walked out of the hotel together. The wind was but a tickle today, the sun obliging, and as she stared into the dazzling
horizon Sophie realized too late that she had left her sunglasses at home. She didn’t need to run up and down the street to know she wouldn’t be able to afford anything here . . . or
that Pia would ever offer to buy some for her.

Reluctantly, she pushed her hand into her pocket and pulled out her ski goggles. It wasn’t like anyone was going to notice
her
anyway.

A horse-drawn sleigh was parked outside the revolving doors, and Pia clapped her hands with delight, a rare flash of childlike excitement softening her pretty features. Sophie grinned back and
they jumped in with all the glee of ten-year-olds, covering their knees with blankets and furs.

‘Where would you like to go,
m’moiselles
?’ asked the driver, a middle-aged man with a thick beard and sun-burnt cheeks.

‘The slow route down to the tournament, please,’ replied Sophie immediately. Pia didn’t speak to the public.

‘Ha!’ said the driver to the horse, giving a short tug on the red leather reins, which were threaded with bells.

The two women sat back and enjoyed the view, eyeing up all the glossy pedestrians stomping along the pavements in their moon boots as they slid past the upscale boutiques and the grand
old-school palace hotels. The town was heaving with revellers and every other car parked was either a Ferrari or a Lamborghini.