Prima Donna (55 page)

His eyes scanned the saccharine text. UNICEF had appointed her as one of their goodwill ambassadors and she was in Rio, bringing the international spotlight onto the appalling misery endured by
the street children there.

He remembered, word for word, the statistics she had thrown at him that night in Brazil during their
chat
– Christ, he hated himself for having said that to her. He knew how
personal this crusade was for her. Did anyone else? Did Paolo? He scrutinized the pictures, trying to locate him in the background, but he could find no trace of the weasel. There was no mention of
him in the copy either.

He got up angrily and threw the magazine in the bin. Why was he putting himself through this? What was the point of looking at it? Of looking at her? He was never going to see her again.
He’d made his decision. He’d chosen the business and his employees and his father’s honour over her. They were good reasons, sound reasons, for letting her go. He had to live with
it.

He stalked around the room a few times, eyeing the trashed magazine like an unexploded bomb. He stopped and stared at it, hands on hips, then reached down and pulled it back out. He unrolled it
and smoothed the pages flat, just as the first wafts of blackening pastry floated into the room.

‘Shit!’ he said, dropping it onto the ottoman and racing back through to the kitchen. Forgetting to grab a teacloth, he snatched the pie from the jaws of doom and threw it across the
table. ‘Ow! Bugger! Goddamn!’ he cried as his fingers burnt on the baking tray. He darted over to the sink and ran cold water over them.

Biscuit watched his agitation quietly from her favourite corner of the room. ‘That’s all
her
fault,’ Tanner muttered darkly to her, as his fingers went numb.
‘She’s not even here and she’s causing trouble.’

Biscuit gave a sympathetic whine and rested her head on her paws, her eyes fixed faithfully on her doleful master.

There was a quick rap at the kitchen door and Tanner looked up in surprise. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He opened the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello,’ said a voice with an Irish brogue. ‘I’m looking for Sophie O’Farrell.’

Tanner peered more closely into the gloom. The thunderclouds had knocked out all the vestigial sunset and it was black as pitch out there, the rain stinging like barbs.

Slowly his eyes adjusted and he saw a man standing there, in just jeans, a T-shirt and a thin jersey.

‘God, man, you’ll catch your death!’ Tanner exclaimed, sounding just like his father.

‘There wasn’t a bus service from the town,’ the man shrugged nonchalantly.

‘Well, no, there wouldn’t be,’ Tanner replied. ‘Have you just walked three miles in this rain dressed like that?’

The man nodded, not interested in talking about the weather. ‘Is she here?’

Tanner shook his head. ‘No, sorry. There’s no one of that name here. I’ve never even heard of her.’

The man’s shoulders slumped and he looked away. ‘I see.’

‘What made you think she was here?’

‘She used to work for a woman called Pia Soto.’

‘Pia?’

‘Yes. You know her, then?’

‘Well, yes, sort of . . .’ He trailed off. It was a long story and he couldn’t leave the poor fellow out in the rain while he told it. Besides, his curiosity had been pricked.
Even just the opportunity to talk about Pia was too tempting to pass up. ‘Look, you’d better come in. You can’t stand out there in this weather,’ Tanner said, opening the
door wide.

‘Thanks.’

The man came in and Tanner instantly saw he was drenched.

‘Christ, you’re really soaked. You’ll get pneumonia. You’d better get warm by the Aga. I’ll go and get a towel.’

He went up the back stairs and grabbed a towel from the airing cupboard. The man pulled it tightly round his shoulders but he was still shivering uncontrollably.

‘Take a seat,’ Tanner said, pulling his chair nearer the Aga. The man flopped down gratefully. ‘What’s your name?’ Tanner asked, leaning against the dresser. He was
intrigued to know this stranger’s connection to Pia.

‘Tony. Tony Byrne. Thanks for all this.’

Tanner shrugged. ‘Can’t leave a fellow to drown,’ he smiled. ‘I’m Tanner Ludgrove.’ The chap nodded politely but he looked devastated. ‘So tell me why
you’re walking around the Dorset countryside looking for some girl in the driving rain.’

‘Sophie’s my girlfriend.’

‘She Irish too?’

‘Yes, but she’d been away for a long time. She’s been home only a few months.’

‘And you say she knew Pia?’

‘She worked for her for a few years, until about six months ago.’

‘Around the time of Pia’s accident?’

‘I think so. I don’t know if they lost touch with each other but I’ve got no other leads at all on Sophie’s whereabouts – no other clues about her life outside
Ireland. All I know is that the village cabbie took her to Dublin airport, a three-hour drive away. Her sister said she’d worked with Pia, so I thought she might know where she is.
She’s my last chance.’

Tanner nodded. Poor bloke. He really was clutching at straws, playing detective like this.

‘But who told you to look for Pia here? I hardly know the woman,’ Tanner said, realizing even as he uttered the words that quite possibly he was one of the only people in the world
who did.

‘I read in some press clippings online that she lived here while she was recovering from an injury.’

‘Ah, well, that explains it,’ Tanner nodded grimly. ‘You’ve come to the wrong house. She was next door, at Plumbridge House. This is the farm. She was involved with Will
Silk at the time, but they’ve split now. I don’t think he’s been in touch with her for several months. I doubt he’d know her whereabouts.’

Tony slumped further back into the chair, despondent at the bad news. Tanner watched him. His lips were bluish and he was still shivering.

‘Listen, have you eaten?’ Tanner asked, walking over to the table and picking up the cooling pie. ‘I was just about to eat.’

‘Oh no, really, I should get out of your way,’ Tony said, standing up and shrugging the towel off his shoulders. ‘I’d better head off.’

‘Well, wait a minute. Don’t tell me you’re going to walk back to the village in that rain. Have you even got anywhere to stay?’

‘It’s fine.’

Tanner was unconvinced. ‘No. I don’t think it is,’ he said. ‘Your colour’s bad. Sit down and eat with me. You can stay here tonight.’

Tony opened his mouth but Tanner held his hand up. ‘Don’t argue. You’ll end up with double pneumonia if you go back out in this, and there’s no hotel for miles. I
don’t want to be responsible for you being found collapsed in the lane tomorrow morning. You’re not going to find her tonight in these conditions anyway.’

Tony hesitated, then sank back down again. He knew Tanner was right. ‘Okay. Well, thanks. I really appreciate it.’

‘No worries. Go upstairs and in the bedroom directly opposite at the top you’ll find some of my brother’s clothes in the wardrobe there. They should fit you. You look around
the same build. Change into something dry while I plate up.’

‘Thanks.’

Biscuit assumed the position around the Aga, hoovering up stray crumbs as Tanner served up the pie. Tony came down a few minutes later in dry jeans and a T-shirt.

‘Thanks so much again for all this. I feel better already,’ he said, pulling a chunky ribbed fisherman’s jersey over his head.

Tanner put the plates on the table and straightened up. He froze.

‘What?’ Tony asked, stalling, as his head poked through the top. ‘What’s wrong? Have I taken the wrong things? Shit, did I go into the wrong room?’

There was a long silence, and Tony immediately wondered what he’d walked into here.

‘It’s not that,’ Tanner mumbled, shaking his head slowly. He blinked and chewed his lip. ‘I think I’d better pour us both a drink.’

Sophie dropped her bag heavily on the floor, wincing as she heard the coffee cup she’d bought (she couldn’t deal with any more polystyrene) break into two. She felt
drained.

She yawned noisily, wishing to goodness she could stomach a coffee. Hot Ribena was going to be scant help today. The night before she’d been working past midnight at the super-gala of
former laureates, and now she could scarcely keep her eyes open – not, she knew, that sleeping would provide any rest. Every night she woke up, breathless and sweating, as the memories of
Tony joined the other ghosts of her past.

Sinking into her seat, she offered up a silent prayer of thanks that they were now in the second round and the lowest-scoring hundred dancers had been culled from the competition. Her job was
going to get easier with every passing day now and by Wednesday night she could finally get out of here.

‘Hey!’ a low voice said, and she looked up to find Pia vaulting off the stage towards her. The early birds in the audience gasped with excitement. She was still dressed in her
off-duty kit – a cranberry toga-tunic and black leggings – even though she was due onstage in half an hour, just before Ava. The organizers had locked on to the two primas’ game
of behaving like adults – although everyone knew it was just a game of course – and skirting around each other with frustrating success, and Sophie wouldn’t have been surprised if
the judges had eliminated the rest of the field between them in order to place their performances together. They were determined to get them face to face.

‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready?’ Sophie whispered, just as her phone rang. ‘Oh hang on a sec.’ She pressed the connect button. ‘Hello?’

Pia watched her grow pale and turn away slightly.

‘Well, is there no other time available? . . . Yes, I understand that but I organized this a fortnight ago . . . No, I can’t do that!’ she said, getting agitated. She took a
deep breath. ‘I’m flying out the day after . . . But my schedule is . . . Uh-huh . . . I see . . . Well, I guess I’ll have to, then . . . All right, yes, thank you.’ She
hung up and gave Pia a tiny smile.

‘Everything okay?’ Pia asked, her head tipped to the side in concern. She realized suddenly, as she took in Sophie’s appearance, how dreadful she looked. Her skin looked grey
and she had dark circles beneath her eyes. She clearly wasn’t sleeping well. Probably the stress of covering such a prestigious event, Pia mused. Alongside the actual competition, there was a
whole raft of cultural events, including an international symposium with members of the jury, distinguished ballet figures and VIPs; a photo exhibition; a sculpture exhibition; and Sophie’s
big exhibition: ‘Ballet in Fine Art’. Following the sell-out success of the Chicago exhibition, she was headlining it and Pia knew she was securing her professional reputation out
here.

‘Absolutely,’ Sophie said, scribbling some details down on a Post-it hidden beneath the paper on her easel. ‘Just the . . . uh, airline messing me about.’ She let the
paper obscure the Post-it again and sat back in her chair. She gave a heavy sigh and tried to smile. ‘Why aren’t you getting ready anyway?’

Pia shrugged. ‘Just wanted to let you know the eagle has landed.’

‘Oh? You got hold of him, then.’

‘We’re meeting tonight for dinner.’

Will had proved to be a surprisingly elusive catch. Unlike Ava’s dressing room, with the festival of flowers spilling from it, Pia’s room had remained starkly barren. Not a bouquet,
nor magnum, nor even a congratulatory note had arrived from him or anyone (not even Signore Alvisio, she’d fretted) and she had begun to seriously doubt that he was in Varna to win her back.
Her calls to his hotel suite had gone unreturned, and of course she couldn’t approach him in front of the judges. It had been almost impossible to catch him alone and the days were beginning
to rack up.

It had been only when he had dropped in to watch one of the master classes at the academy – which ran concurrently with the competition – that she had had a chance to speak to him.
Everything had gone well from there. It was clear from the defiance in his eyes that he had been deliberately playing a different game to their previous encounters, but she had only needed to stand
three feet from him – sweating and breathless – to intoxicate him and make his pride fall away. He’d readily agreed to her suggestion of dinner.

‘That’s great! I told you he was just trying not to be desperate. He knows you well enough to know that’s the kiss-of-death with you.’

Pia shrugged. ‘I guess.’

‘Where are you meeting him?’

‘He’s going to pick me up from my dressing room later. We obviously can’t be seen together so he’s going to come back after everyone’s gone.’

‘Have you worked out what you’re going to say to him yet?’

‘Not really. I’ll just play it by ear.’ She looked around and saw that the auditorium was filling up quickly. ‘Anyway, I’ll keep you posted. I’d better go
before the autograph hunters get me. Wish me luck.’

‘Good luck,’ Sophie said. ‘Not that you need it.’

‘We all need luck, Sophie,’ Pia called over her shoulder as she skittered away like a gazelle.

Pia watched from the wings and felt the familiar ice creep up her bones. She shook her arms and legs like a rag doll, trying to keep warm and soft, and stretched her neck,
pressing each ear down to her shoulders. It was the start of the second week of the competition and it was from here that things really began to hot up. She couldn’t afford any mistakes
now.

It was too late to secure Will’s support for this, the second round, but so long as she danced her sublime best it would be almost impossible for Baudrand to mark her down without raising
eyebrows. She couldn’t give him – or Ava – any ammunition.

The dancer on stage before her ran off, giving her a cursory nod of luck as she passed. Pia bent down and rolled off her red leg warmers. She was on the countdown now. Two minutes . . .

‘Yes, you wouldn’t want to make that mistake twice,’ a reed-thin voice piped behind her. ‘Looking back, that was the beginning of the end, wasn’t it?’

Pia stiffened but didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to.

‘Why are you out of your cage?’ she said quietly, fixing a benign look upon her face. ‘You’re not on for another twenty minutes.’