Prima Donna (32 page)

‘I’ve never been to Ireland. I keep meaning to go.’

‘Oh you must. It’s so lush and beautiful. It’s called the Emerald Isle – you’ve never seen so many shades of green. Honestly, you’d love it,’ she
sighed.

‘It sounds like you miss it.’

Sophie nodded. ‘I do.’

‘When did you leave?’

‘When I was fifteen.’

‘Fifteen! Really? That’s so young.’

‘I stayed with friends,’ she shrugged, trying to be casual.

‘Why did you leave at that age?’

There was a pause as Sophie checked her story. She’d never had to give her life story before. ‘Ireland’s a small place,’ she said eventually. ‘I guess I just felt
I’d outgrown it.’

‘I see,’ he replied, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘You must have been a pretty grown-up fifteen-year-old. I was still five foot six and a soprano when I was
fifteen.’

Sophie giggled.

‘Do you go back often?’

‘No, nowhere near enough. I’m completely petal to the medal trying to—’

Russell choked on his drink, laughing.

‘What?’ she asked. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘I think you meant to say “pedal to the metal”?’

Sophie looked confused. ‘What did I say?’

He saw her body tense. She obviously hadn’t done this before, and was tripping over herself, worrying about what to say; although he always took the view that it was what the subject
didn’t
say that was most revealing.

‘No, nothing,’ he said, composing himself. ‘I shouldn’t have interrupted. Go on.’

Sophie shifted position nervously, trying to get back to her official line. ‘Well, I’m so busy with getting the show ready at the moment that I’ve scarcely got time to sleep
and eat. And before that I was on twenty-four-hour call with Pia so—’

‘With Pia?’ Russell repeated, his interest piqued. ‘Pia Soto?’

‘Yes. I was her assistant,’ she answered, suddenly wondering whether she should have kept that under wraps for the time being. It wasn’t that it was a secret or anything
– how could it be? – but all the attention on the two rival productions was really ascending to a peak, and Baudrand wouldn’t be happy if Sophie brought more attention to Pia in
this interview than to herself.

‘Really? I didn’t know that.’ He took a long sip of his Ribena. ‘How long did you work for her?’ It stained his lips red. She tried not to look at them. He was
distractingly good-looking.

‘Three years or thereabouts.’

‘And you left to pursue your artistic career?’

‘Well . . . not exactly,’ Sophie replied, wondering how to get out of this. She didn’t want to tell an outright lie. He was a journalist. It was his job to check facts and find
out the truth. ‘We . . . uh . . . she fired me, actually,’ she sighed.

‘
Fired
you? Why?’ This was just getting better and better.

Sophie shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Really?’

‘Honestly. I don’t know why she did it. It happened right after her accident.’

Russell nodded intently. There was a bigger story here. He could feel it. Forget the niche Arts supplement – eight hundred words and a grainy head shot. If he could get what he needed from
Sophie – and just two minutes in, he knew she was hiding stuff – this story could leap to the colour magazine, three thousand words, two double-page spreads . . . the cover, even. He
looked at Sophie, all lean and lanky, her incredible red hair backlit by the sun into a blazing halo. He could just imagine them styling her like a Rossetti muse.

He paused for too long. Sophie was watching him now and saw the cogs turning in his mind. They both knew there was blood in the water.

‘I don’t want to talk about any of that now, though,’ she said tersely, pulling herself up and trying to take control. ‘It’s got nothing to do with my art and the
show.’

‘Well, strictly speaking, no,’ he said. ‘But given that your show for the ChiCi is on the same night they’re up against Pia and the Royal, there’s obviously going
to be an interest in the fact that you used to work for . . . well, the enemy, really.’

Sophie went rigid, alarm bells ringing madly. ‘I don’t see Pia as the enemy. Not at all.’

‘But if she fired you, you can’t be on friendly terms, can you?’

‘We’re not on any terms at all but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish her well.’

‘So you don’t feel any conflict of interest?’

‘Why would I? My loyalty is with the ChiCi. They’re my employers now. They’ve given me the opportunity to finally pursue the career I’ve always dreamt of.’

She’d done it. Brought the conversation back to neutral, bland territory.

‘Did you always want to be an artist?’ he asked.

‘Yes, since childhood,’ she smiled. ‘And my poor mother’s still got the wallpaper to prove it,’ she cracked.

He gave a laugh. ‘So how did your big break happen? How did you go from being the assistant of the company’s star dancer to the company’s resident artist? Did Pia put in a good
word for you, perhaps?’

Pia again? ‘No. Not at all. I don’t think she even clocked that I used to sketch when she was in rehearsals. I just did it as something to pass the time while I waited for her. No,
it was
Ava
who saw my work and showed it to the artistic director. She was the one who championed me.’

Russell nodded slowly, picking up the new allegiance.

‘Are you and Ava friends?’

‘Of course,’ she said proudly. Her talk with Ava at lunch a couple of weeks ago had gone well, and Ava had said that, as a personal favour to Sophie, she’d do her best to get
on better with Adam. And it seemed to have done the trick. She’d stopped picking on him in rehearsal, Adam’s morale was up and Baudrand was reassured that Adam was the right partner for
Ava after all. ‘I’ve been shadowing her every day for the past two months. I consider it a great honour to be allowed such close access to a dancer like Ava.’

‘That must be a pretty bitter pill for Pia to swallow, then, seeing you so close to Ava.’

‘I sincerely doubt she knows or cares,’ Sophie sighed. She wished to God he’d stop going on about Pia.

Russell picked up the defensiveness in her voice. It was no good. She was on high alert about anything to do with Pia and was clamming up. He put his mug down on the table and fixed her with his
eyes.

‘Have you eaten?’

‘Sorry?’ Sophie said, surprised.

‘Why don’t we go out somewhere and get something to eat?’ he shrugged. ‘I missed lunch today.’

‘Uh . . . no. Thanks for the offer, but I really need to get back to the studio. There’s only two weeks left. I’m on the countdown now.’

‘Aw, come on. You can stop for an hour, can’t you? A girl’s gotta eat,’ he grinned. ‘Come on, let me take you out. We can talk while we eat.’

Sophie looked at him. He really was ridiculously good-looking. Frankly, compared to him, it was Adam
who
? And she hadn’t had anything to eat yet today. That tube of fruit
pastilles for breakfast didn’t count.

‘Oh go on, then,’ she smiled, standing up. ‘But it’ll have to be a quick bite. Every hour really does matter at the moment.’

‘Of course. Whatever you say,’ he winked.

‘I’ll just get my coat.’

He was leaning against the door when she came back, hair freshly brushed, lips glossed.

‘No coat?’ he asked, one eyebrow arched.

‘Oh! I . . . I forgot that,’ Sophie stammered, hating the fact that it was now obvious she’d disappeared to make herself up for him. He must have women falling at his feet.

‘You don’t need one anyway. It’s gorgeous out there.’ She looked through the studio windows to the speedwell-blue sky and high-floating clouds. ‘In here too,’
he said lightly.

‘God, you’re joking, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘This flat’s a disaster zone. Strictly speaking, you should be wearing a hard hat.’

She seized her bag and rummaged through it, pretending to look for her keys. She was suddenly aware of him staring at her.

‘You’re very independent,’ he said quietly.

‘Am I?’ she said, keeping her eyes down.

‘Sure. Leaving Ireland at fifteen. Living alone here. I’m wondering who looks after you now? Strictly off the record, of course.’

‘Looks after me?’ she echoed.

‘Yes – you’re not wearing a wedding ring, so I assume you’re not married. Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘Uh, no. Not really. Shall we go?’ she said, moving over and putting her hand on the latch. Russell didn’t move, blocking the exit.

‘Not
really
? What does that mean?’

Sophie blushed. ‘There’s no one in particular, I mean.’

‘But there is someone,’ he persisted. ‘There’s someone on the scene.’

‘No, no, not really,’ she demurred, looking away.

‘Is he married?’

‘God, no!’

‘In the company?’

Sophie blushed. ‘No, really, he’s not . . . we’re not . . . it’s not a regular thing. I mean, that’s not to say I . . .’ She sighed and stared up at him,
frustrated by her ineloquence. ‘He’s in love with someone else. I’m not really on his radar.’

‘So he’s a damned fool, then,’ he said, taking a step closer to her until she could feel his suit brush against her. His face was inches from hers.

There was a hot silence.

‘You’ve got a very unorthodox interview technique, Mr Lerner,’ she whispered finally, her heart pounding wildly.

‘Actually, I stopped interviewing you quite a while ago,’ he replied, framing her face in his hands. ‘I was just trying to find out whether anyone was going to break my nose
for doing this to you.’ And he kissed her softly on the lips.

Sophie pulled back and looked into his golden-brown eyes.

‘Rest assured, your nose will be safe,’ she whispered, linking her arms around his neck and kissing him back.

Lunch led to drinks, which in turn seeped into dinner and Sophie forgot all about her strict schedule. Yes, she was high on tequila, but more than that she was high on
Russell’s attention. It felt glorious to be basking in the compliments of a handsome man after weeks of being forgotten and overlooked by Adam.

They were caught in a flash storm on the way back from the Chinese restaurant, four blocks away, and their clothes became so saturated that puddles of water collected at their feet as they
stopped and kissed every ten yards.

‘Get a room!’ a passing taxi driver shouted as they necked on the pavement outside Sophie’s apartment block, fat drops of water falling off the yellow-striped rain canopy and
down her back. But she didn’t care.

‘The man’s got a point,’ Russell grinned, breaking away from her. ‘Are you going to let me come up with you?’

Sophie bit her lip and shook her head. ‘I’ve not even known you a day yet,’ she protested, as his hands ran up and down her waist.

‘I know, but I’m at my best at night anyway.’

‘Oh really?’ she giggled. ‘Tell me, has that line worked for you before?’ she said, slapping his arm lightly.

He shrugged. ‘This is its debut? What do you think?’

Sophie looked at him grinning down at her, his hair sopping wet, his suit shapeless and clinging to him in the rain. ‘I’ll tell you what I think . . .’ she said, beginning to
back away from him. Slowly, she pulled her T-shirt over her head, watching the way his jaw dropped and his eyes widened at the sight of her. She wiggled her hips and shoulders like a couture model,
laughing drunkenly as horns tooted frantically at the sight of her in just her jeans and bra. Then suddenly she threw the T-shirt so that it landed on his head, and dashed into the building.
‘You can have me if you can catch me!’ she shrieked, darting into the building.

Russell was after her like a shot, but her legs were just as long as his, and she maintained the distance between them as they bounded up the stairs, three steps at a time. Screaming with
delight, she unhooked her bra at the third floor and dropped it over the banisters onto his head.

‘Get back here!’ he shouted, laughing helplessly and finding it difficult to run with a lacy bra as goggles and a raging hard-on. But she was already up to the fifth floor now.

‘Catch me if you can!’ she laughed. ‘Or I’m locking you out.’

That did it. With a new purpose, Russell found his sprint mode, locking his arms around Sophie’s waist just as she turned onto the landing of the eighth floor, making her squeal with
fright, surprise and delight.

‘You’re a minx,’ he laughed, burying his face in the nape of her neck, his hands wandering up to the tight swell of her small, pale and very cold breasts. He felt her
tense.

‘Adam!’

‘Sophie,’ he heard a male voice say.

Russell looked up. A dark-blond-haired man was sitting outside her door, holding a bottle of vodka. Even from what he could see of the muscular physique in the jeans and loose-weave grey
cashmere jumper, Russell could tell he was a dancer, but the Arts was Russell’s beat and he’d have recognized Adam Bridges in a gorilla costume. Instinctively, Russell closed his hands
around Sophie’s breasts, as much a gesture of possession as chivalry.

‘What are you doing here?’ Sophie gasped, breathless from the stairwell race.

Adam watched her little bosom heave in the man’s hands, her cheeks spotted pink with drink, exercise, passion and embarrassment, her copper curls having turned a sleek burnished Titian in
the wet. She looked beautiful, and incredibly sexy.

Feebly, he waved the vodka bottle. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had . . . company,’ he said finally.

Oh God, Sophie thought. Why now? He was eight hours too late.

Adam put the vodka bottle on the ground next to the door.

‘Sorry to intrude. I’ll see you around,’ he said.

‘No, Adam. Wait. I, uh . . .’ Sophie grabbed her T-shirt and wrapped it around her chest, bandeau-style. ‘Um, this is Russell Lerner,’ she said, desperately wondering why
she was bothering with prim manners at a time like this.

Adam’s eyebrow lifted fractionally at the mention of his name. The journalist? He was familiar with his byline. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said coolly, as Russell stepped
forward, offering his hand and seemingly oblivious to the fact that Sophie’s bra was still draped over his head like earmuffs.