Prima Donna (31 page)

Jonty smiled at her and sighed. ‘Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets,’ he said, kissing the top of her head. He knew Tanner would be pissed off with him for not backing him up in
front of Pia, but he couldn’t resist his wife’s pleas. Her rewards were greater than his.

Pia shot a victorious smile at Tanner.

‘Well, I’m so glad that’s settled,’ she crowed. ‘The dress code’s white tie, by the way.’

‘Great. Bagsy I wear Dad’s,’ Jonty said to Tanner.

Tanner just shrugged. ‘You’re welcome to it. I’ll be damned if I’m going.’

‘I’ll be damned if you’re invited,’ Pia shot back.

‘So you must be in wall-to-wall rehearsals now,’ Lulie said, changing the subject.

‘Yes, Pia’s been training very hard for it,’ Will replied, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He was eager to get Pia out of there. ‘The Royal Ballet arrives in three
weeks.’

‘Exactly how do you train for a ballet performance with a leg in plaster?’ Tanner asked drily.

‘Slowly,’ Pia said, not liking the laughter in his voice. ‘The plaster’s coming off in two weeks.’

‘Right. And then you’ll be able to perform barely a fortnight after that, will you?’

‘Yes.’ Pia blinked nervously. The schedule was a sore point. She scarcely believed it was possible herself. Had it not been for this stupid dance-off and all the media hype,
she’d have pushed it back. She was aching to get back on the stage and under the spotlights but, physically, she didn’t feel anywhere near ready. Though she knew the ballet by heart
now, her confidence was still low and the press, whipped into a frenzy by her rivalry with Ava Petrova, were backing the Russian. Everyone was. Everyone except Will. As the day of the debut was
drawing nearer, her instincts were telling her to back out, that it was too soon, but the scale of the project made it impossible now. She felt trapped but she couldn’t let him down. Not
after everything he’d done.

‘Hmm, maybe I should go and watch after all, then. It should be a riot watching you with egg on your face.’

‘Egg on my face?’ Pia looked baffled.

‘It’s an English expression. It means—’

‘I can guess what it means, thank you,’ she snapped. ‘You think I’m going to look an idiot. That I’ll fail.’

‘It certainly sounds too soon,’ he said.

‘And that’s your expert opinion, is it?’ Her cheeks had pinked.

‘In as much as I train polo ponies for a living and know what it takes to get them to match fitness. Athletes are much the same. Rest and timing are every bit as important as training. A
horse simply couldn’t come back from injury in the time frame you’re working in.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. Most horses would need another couple of weeks before they got back on
pointe
,’ she said sarcastically, and everyone laughed. ‘Your
argument is flawed. I am nothing like a horse—’

‘Well, I agree, it’s not a fair comparison to the horse,’ Tanner interrupted.

Pia gasped, her hands balled into little fists.

‘Don’t sink to his level,’ Will said calmly, as Pia reddened further. She hated this man. He was chippy, belligerent, aggressive. He just kept on coming at her with his snide
remarks and put-downs. How he could share DNA with the amiable Jonty, she didn’t know.

Will pulled her up to standing.

‘Thanks for the hospitality, Jonty,’ he said. ‘Good to meet you, Lulie. We look forward to seeing you at the gala.’

‘Well, before then, I hope,’ Lulie replied. ‘You’ll come to our wedding reception the night before?’

‘It’s a date,’ Will said. He shot a withering stare at Tanner, before holding the door open for Pia and walking quickly behind her. He didn’t want anyone ogling her
retreating arse.

They settled into the car and Will leant over to kiss her, but she was rigid with tension.

‘Just forget about him,’ he said, pulling back to look at her furious little figure. ‘He’s an idiot. He’s probably only being so hideous to you because he fancies
you like mad and knows you’re mine.’

Pia arched an eyebrow at his assumptive possession of her.

‘Okay, well, more mine than his anyway,’ he corrected, grinning. He sat back and turned on the ignition. ‘Did he behave himself in my absence? Was his derision of you entirely
for my benefit?’ he asked, shifting the car into gear. He was desperate to know what had been said while he’d been riding.

‘Well, he was pretty quiet until you got back. I was mainly chatting with Jonty and Lulie,’ Pia said, relaxing back in her seat.

They rolled out of the yard and up the gravel drive. It was worn bare in certain areas now and there were large potholes that required full-on swerving if you weren’t to lose a wheel. The
whole drive needed to be redone – a costly project. He noticed that the beech hedging was bosky and becoming strangled with bindweed too. Had Tanner also had to cut back on the gardener?

‘By the way, what’s your dog called?’ Pia asked as they zoomed past the dandelion meadows.

‘What dog?’

‘The dog that was with you when you pulled me out of the lake.’

Will looked at her.

‘I remember it barking,’ she shrugged. ‘Why haven’t I seen it at the house?’

There was a long pause as Will racked his brains for an answer.

‘Oh, that dog,’ he said finally. ‘She’s . . . she’s in kennels at the moment.’

‘Why?’

‘Well . . . she’s in season. I’ll end up with every dog in the neighbourhood camped out on the doorstep if I keep her here. She’ll be back in a few weeks.’

‘Oh,’ Pia said, looking out of the window. ‘What’s her name?’

Pause. ‘Custard.’

‘Custard? That’s not a dog’s name.’

‘It is to the English,’ he shrugged. ‘We actively cultivate a sense of the ridiculous.’

‘That’s for sure,’ Pia mumbled.

He roared up his own immaculately maintained drive and turned off the ignition. Mrs Bremar opened the door and helped Pia inside. Will broke off from them in the hall, as Pia bottom-shuffled up
the stairs.

‘I’ll come and see you in a bit,’ he said, heading towards the study. ‘I just need to pick up some calls.’ And he shut the door behind him, speed-dialling Emma and
giving her the strangest set of orders yet.

The sudden sound of the buzzer made her jump, and Sophie looked over crossly at the door. Like an obedient pet, it immediately went quiet.

She resumed the flicking brushwork she was using to delineate Ava’s shoulder line, the rest of her body absolutely still, her lips pursed in concentration, wisps of her hair fluttering in
the breeze coming through the open studio roof.

The buzzer intruded insolently again, and she gave a startled jerk.

‘Oh for Chrissakes,’ she muttered, throwing down her brush and wiping her hands messily over her white boiler suit. It was made from a strange perforated paper and designed for
professional decorators and DIY enthusiasts to pull on over their clothes, though she only ever pulled hers on nude, when she fell out of bed in the mornings. It had cost only $5 at the hardware
store, and was so rigid with paint smudges and stains it could practically stand up on its own. ‘If that’s someone trying to sell me a sodding bible . . .’

‘What?’ she shouted irritably into the intercom.

‘Is that Sophie?’

‘Yes,’ she snapped.

‘It’s Russell Lerner.’

‘Who?’

‘From the
Chicago Tribune
Arts section. We spoke on the phone.’

Sophie was silent for a long moment. O. M. G.

‘Miss O’Farrell, are you there?’ the voice crackled.

‘Uh, yes, yes, I uh . . .’ Panicking, she glanced around her apartment – the unmade bed, the mugs stacked up in the sink, the towering pizza boxes, dirty knickers on the floor.
She’d completely forgotten about the interview. Baudrand had insisted upon it, delighting in the opportunity to fan the hype further. His campaign to win the battle against the Royal –
and most pertinently against Pia – was beginning to assume epic proportions, and he was adamant that Sophie had to play her part. Besides, he’d said, the higher the profile of the gala
night, the higher her new profile in the art world. She didn’t want Pia eclipsing her from all the way across the Atlantic, did she?

‘Come up,’ she said, buzzing him in, and sprinting to the bathroom to check her appearance in the mirror.

‘Bugger,’ she said, trying to wipe black paint off her eye but managing only to spread it further. ‘Oh, great, now I look like a panda,’ she muttered, abandoning the
black eye in favour of pulling the duvet up the bed. She was just hiding the mugs in the washing machine when there was a rap at the door. She was out of time.

‘Hi,’ she said, smiling apologetically as she opened the door. ‘Oh!’

Russell Lerner smiled back at her. She hadn’t expected him to be so good-looking. Well, she hadn’t expected him at all of course, but . . . well, wow! Her eyes and smile widened. He
was tall, really tall, even by her lofty standards. Six foot four at least, and she liked the look of every last inch showcased in a dark grey suit and pink check open-necked shirt. He was boasting
a five o’clock shadow, even though it was only two in the afternoon, and had light brown wavy hair, brown eyes and an astonishingly pink mouth whose bottom lip protruded, just so, and
appealingly. ‘No, really, the pleasure’s all mine,’ she said, offering her hand.

Russell laughed and took it, just as Sophie realized he hadn’t yet said it was a pleasure to meet her. She blushed scarlet.

‘Well, that’s broken the ice. May I come in?’ he smiled.

Sophie nodded. ‘I have to confess I completely forgot you were coming. I’m so sorry about the state of the apartment. It’s just disgusting. And as for the state of me . . . oh
God, you’re not going to photograph me today, are you?’ she said, peering down the corridor for a lurking photographer. She looked down at her shapeless boiler suit. With horror, she
saw she could see her bush through the papery fabric. She looked up at him in alarm but Russell’s eyes were travelling over the room, not her.

‘No. Not today,’ he smiled, amused.

‘Uh . . . uh . . .’ She was desperate for him not to look at her. ‘Why don’t you just take a seat on the sofa over there and I’ll quickly change out of these work
clothes?’ she said, skittering to the bathroom.

Ripping off the boiler suit – quite literally – she pulled on some clean knickers and wriggled into her skinniest jeans and a fawn-and-white-striped long-sleeved T-shirt draped over
the side of the bath. She managed to scrub the paint off her face with make-up remover – although she’d have used turps if she’d had to – and quickly squeezed some juicy
gloss onto her lips. She appraised herself in the mirror. The newly clean eye was now red and slightly swollen, like she had a dust allergy, but at least the hair was behaving itself today. It
would have to do.

Russell was standing in the studio when she came out, holding a canvas of Ava in
arabesque penchée
in his hands.

‘Oh no, no, no, I’m sorry,’ she cried, rushing over and grabbing it from him. ‘You can’t see these yet. They’re not finished.’ Hurriedly, she grabbed a
dust cloth and threw it over the easels, standing with her arms outstretched, rather overdramatically barring his way.

Russell put his hands in his pockets and stared at her, smiling. ‘That’s a shame. From that brief glimpse, I was going to say they’re really good.’

She dropped her arms and shrugged apologetically. ‘I . . . I’m not used to people seeing my work. No one’s seen these yet. Not even Monsieur Baudrand.’

Russell nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Yuh, sure,’ he said, as she led him towards the kitchenette, eager to be away from the studio. ‘What’ve you got?’

She opened her single wall cupboard. ‘Tea, coffee – only instant, I’m afraid, or uh . . .’ She checked the fridge. ‘Shit, I’m out of milk,’ she
muttered. She racked her brain. ‘I could make you . . . uh . . . a hot Ribena,’ she shrugged.

‘Hot Ribena?’ he laughed.

Sophie bit her lip. ‘It’s good on cold days,’ she said defensively.

‘Well, then, I don’t think I’ll be able to consider myself to have lived till I’ve had one.’

‘Oh good,’ she sighed, relieved. ‘I’ll join you.’

Sophie bustled around, filling up the kettle and trying to find clean mugs. The only options were an ancient Snoopy mug and a Wonderbra mug Pia had given her from one of her goody bags, in which
the hot tea/coffee/Ribena magically made the model’s dress disappear and stripped her down to her underwear. Even she despaired.

‘You live here on your own?’ Russell asked, watching her.

Sophie grimaced. ‘Unfortunately. Of course, what I really need is a wife who can take care of this place and feed me at regular intervals while I paint.’

‘The pressure must really be on, huh?’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘Are you nervous?’

‘Beyond terrified. I don’t know how I got talked into doing this. It wasn’t like I even asked for any of this to happen,’ she said, pouring the Ribena, before realizing
how ungrateful she sounded. ‘Not that I’m not completely grateful for the opportunity I’ve been given,’ she corrected. ‘I know there are thousands of artists
struggling out there for a break like this. It’s a dream come true to have been offered a show with such a high profile.’

He smiled patiently at her PR spiel.

‘That’s for sure. Even when it was just Ava headlining the ballet it was a big deal locally. But with Pia weighing in with her rival production in Europe it’s given you an
international platform. You must capitalize upon it. The two biggest divas in ballet have done you the most enormous favour.’

Sophie handed him the mug with Snoopy on it and they sat down on the sofa.

He took a sip of the Ribena. ‘Mmm, this is good.’

‘Really?’

He nodded. Sophie watched him sitting there, so relaxed. He didn’t move to take out a notepad or pens. ‘Aren’t you going to use a tape recorder or something?’

‘No need,’ Russell smiled. ‘It all goes in here,’ he said, indicating his head. ‘I love your accent, by the way. Is it Scottish?’

‘No, Irish. My family are from a small village called Fennor in Eire. It’s near Waterford.’