Prima Donna (52 page)

Pia came to a stop outside a concrete lump that rose inelegantly among the ice-cream-coloured Italianate villas that so characterized the Bulgarian city. Sophie raised her eyebrows at the
insalubrious address and looked around, wondering where the deluxe boutique hotel must be hiding. After all, the organizers had put
her
up in the five-star Musala Palace Hotel and she was
only the competition artist.

‘Well, I never thought I’d say this but you’re a surprisingly good driver,’ Sophie said, climbing off the back of the bike.

‘See? I told you. Formal tuition’s overrated,’ Pia shrugged, pulling off her helmet and the wig with it. Her hair fell like snow, settling in thick clouds around her
shoulders.

‘What?’ Sophie shrieked. ‘You mean you
haven’t
had any lessons? Are you even insured?’

A group of teenage boys across the street stopped and stared. They had recognized Pia – her hair alone signalled that she was a star. She saw them get out their mobiles.

‘Quick. This way,’ Pia said, tucking her helmet under her arm and breaking into a trot, heading down the street away from the hotel. Sophie followed, struggling with her folio and
the helmet.

They went two hundred yards before Pia darted into a side alley. She ran down it and then shot left again, doubling back on herself. They had come round to the back of the hotel. A
tradesmen’s entrance was there, and the door was open as crates of beer were being unloaded.

Pia shoved her helmet back on her head. Sophie followed suit, convinced they looked like something out of
The Italian Job
. The men stopped unloading as the girls trotted past, Pia
holding her hand up cheerily, and Sophie was unable to stop herself from bursting into laughter at the sight of Pia, in baby pink shorts and long johns, pretending to be a courier.

They found a stairwell and bounded up it. Sophie expected they’d have to climb to the top, but Pia stopped at the second floor. Poking her helmeted head round the corner into the corridor,
she checked the coast was clear.

‘It’s okay,’ she said, taking off the helmet and shaking herself out again. ‘There’s no one around.’

Pia opened the door to her room and Sophie gasped at the sight. The view from her window was . . . a brick wall.

She turned around, aghast. ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ she whispered, taking in the ply headboard and blue polyester eiderdown. ‘Why aren’t you in the
penthouse? In fact, this hotel can’t even have a penthouse. What is it? Three-star?’

‘If that! But no one will think to look for me here,’ she said gleefully. ‘They all think I’m at the Musala Palace. I doubt anyone staying there has had a full
night’s sleep for a week there’re so many journalists camped outside. I certainly hope Ava hasn’t,’ she sniggered. ‘Besides, I’m here to dance. What does it
matter what the view is outside the window? I only come back here to sleep.’

‘Christ, you really have changed,’ Sophie said, shaking her head.

‘More than you know,’ Pia mumbled, grabbing two cans of Diet Coke from her tote. She held one up for Sophie. ‘Want one?’

Sophie’s stomach turned at the thought. She clapped her hand over it. ‘No, thanks. Big night last night.’

‘Water, then? There’s no minibar here so it’ll have to be from the tap, I’m afraid.’

Sophie scrunched her face at the thought of that too and shook her head. ‘I’m good.’

Pia flopped down on the bed. ‘That’s always been your problem,’ she said, opening the can. But their run through the alleys had shaken up the contents, and as she released the
ring pull Coke spurted out, as from a hydrant, and drenched her.

Sophie burst out laughing again, smacking her thighs with hilarity. Pia sat up spluttering and looking . . . well, looking just like Sophie usually did. For once, the boot was on the other foot,
and the more Sophie tried to stop giggling the harder she laughed. She collapsed onto the bed while Pia looked at her and blinked hard several times – Coke dripping off the end of her nose
– before she burst out laughing too.

The sound of their shrieks echoed down the corridors, and no one would ever have guessed that they belonged to the diva Pia Soto and the acclaimed new artist Sophie O’Farrell. It just
sounded like two friends on a city break.

Sophie clutched her sides as her giggles abated. ‘Oh God,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.’

‘Me neither,’ Pia said, getting the hiccups. ‘In fact, I’m not sure I’ve
ever
laughed like that.’

‘Well, that’s just sad,’ Sophie said, looking across at her.

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ Pia said quietly.

They lapsed into silence and Pia took a sip from the almost-empty can.

‘How’s your ankle?’ Sophie asked, looking at Pia’s feet.

Pia waggled it carelessly. ‘Great. I’ve been lucky.’

‘I doubt it’s come down to luck,’ Sophie countered. ‘I can well imagine how hard you must have worked to get yourself back. I bet you were a nightmare patient while the
cast was on. Glad I wasn’t around to see it,’ she added sardonically.

Pia turned to her, as if to say something.

‘Thank God for Will Silk, hey?’ Sophie continued. ‘Didn’t he turn out to be a knight in shining armour?’

Pia sat back and hesitated before answering. ‘Not really.’

‘Oh?’ Sophie frowned and looked at her. ‘Oh no! Tell me you’ve at least thanked him for what he did for you,’ she said sternly.

Pia didn’t answer. She was lost in another memory of withheld thanks.

‘Pia?’

‘Huh?’ She glanced up. Sophie was sitting up, looking cross. ‘I said, did you thank him for what he did for you?’

‘Not in the way that he wanted, no,’ Pia said slowly. ‘He wasn’t quite the hero that he seemed, you know.’

‘Oh don’t tell me. He secretly wanted to go to bed with you,’ Sophie said sarcastically. ‘That can hardly have been a surprise, Pia.’

‘That wasn’t, no,’ Pia said, staring at her feet. ‘The fact that the accident was his fault was, though.’

‘Huh? What do you mean?’

‘Oh it’s a long story,’ Pia sighed, not wanting to let Sophie know that Alonso’s seduction of her had been on the boss’s orders. That would hardly boost her ego.
‘I’m not saying it was entirely his fault. It wasn’t like he pushed me in front of the horse, but he wasn’t blameless either. Tanner was right: there was a clear thread of
culpability.’

‘Who’s Tanner?’

Pia looked up, startled to realize that Sophie hadn’t met him, nor even heard of him.

‘Just a guy,’ she said quietly, biting back that he was the real hero. What did it matter now? ‘But forget about Will’s role in the fiasco. It doesn’t excuse the
fact that I completely overreacted. I was jealous of you with Alonso, and then when I . . . I thought I’d never dance again, I was frightened and I took it out on you. I was a total
bitch.’

Sophie’s mouth dropped open.

‘In fact, I’m amazed you’re even talking to me.’

Sophie stared at her for a moment, then reached over and pinched her arm. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Which planet have you come from?’

Pia giggled, thankful for the light relief. ‘I’m trying to say I’m sorry.’

Sophie clapped her hand to her forehead and slid down the bed. ‘Oh God, now I know I’m having an extra-terrestrial experience!’

Pia giggled harder as she watched Sophie goof about. She looked different somehow. Her hair had lost the frizz and she’d put on a bit of weight, but it wasn’t that. Her demeanour was
different. She’d lost that meek docility that had made her seem perpetually on the point of apologizing, and in its place there was a quiet resolve. Success had been good for her. Pia
realized suddenly that Sophie had thrived in her absence, while Pia had floundered in Sophie’s.

‘So you forgive me, then?’

‘I suppose so. But I’m not coming back to work for you,’ Sophie replied flatly.

‘I wasn’t going to ask you to,’ Pia countered. ‘I think we’re far better off as friends.’

There was a brief pause. ‘Did you just say the f-word?’ Sophie gasped in mock surprise.

‘Besides, the art world’s need is greater than mine. I heard your exhibition did well,’ she said lightly, making no reference to the dance-off that had accompanied it.

Sophie looked up in surprise. ‘Uh, yes. It did okay, thanks,’ she replied modestly.

‘I heard it did better than that,’ Pia smiled. ‘I even shelled out myself.’

‘You did?’ Sophie gasped.

‘Of course,’ she shrugged. ‘As soon as I saw what you’d been doing all that time, I had to have something.’

‘Which one did you get?’

‘I bought seven.’

‘Seven?’

‘All of me, of course,’ Pia said, arching her eyebrows, a twinkle in her eyes.

‘Of course,’ Sophie grinned.

‘My favourite is that one showing me before curtain-up . . .’ She looked at Sophie. ‘Did you change the tutu?’

Sophie nodded. ‘I thought it had a more . . . romantic feeling to it.’

‘Thought so . . . You were right.’

‘Why’d you like that one so much? I’d have thought you’d prefer the one of you in
penché
in
Giselle
.’

Pia shrugged. ‘Yes, but . . . the other one makes me think of my brother.’

There was a short pause. ‘I didn’t know you have a brother,’ Sophie said.

Pia kept her eyes down. ‘Used to. He’s . . . he’s . . . well, you know . . . dead.’ She fiddled with her fingers. ‘I always feel most connected to him in those few
minutes before curtain-up. I dance for him. He’s the reason I do it. He’s the reason I
can
do it.’

Sophie sat back against the headboard. So there was the answer to the question she’d been asking herself, and which Ava had correctly guessed: ‘. . . she is like that because she is
haunted by something, and she only ever gets away from it when she dances . . .’

Pia broke the silence first. ‘And to think I used to assume you were just hanging around with my bowl, waiting for me to throw up,’ Pia said mocking herself. ‘How self-absorbed
was I not to notice the masterpieces in front of me?’

‘They’re not . . . they’re just . . . You weren’t self-absorbed. You were preparing to perform. Blocking out the rest of the world is how you get up on that
stage.’

There was a pause. ‘No. I was just self-absorbed,’ Pia said.

Sophie chuckled lightly at Pia’s new self-awareness. Pia picked up a bulging suit carrier. ‘Come on. We’d better get back. The performances start in an hour and I’m
fourth on.’

‘Why’ve you got your costume here?’ Sophie asked, spying some frothy wisps through the carrier’s plastic window. ‘Shouldn’t it be left in your dressing
room?’ she frowned.

‘With Ava Petrova lurking about?’ she asked, opening the door. ‘Not likely. I wouldn’t trust her not to cover it with jam.’

‘Or drop maggots into it . . .’ Sophie giggled as they stepped into the hallway.

‘Or stick pins in the crotch . . .’

Pia locked the door and linked her arm through Sophie’s as they walked down the corridor, giggling like schoolgirls. ‘Or sprinkle it with itching powder . . .’

‘No wig?’ Sophie asked, as they approached the theatre. Pia had put her shades on, even though the sun had set.

Pia shook her head. ‘No. I have to be me now,’ she said, stiffening as the photographers caught sight of her and turned as one, like a shoal of fish. ‘It’s time to face
the music.’

Flashbulbs popped like flares in their faces and as Sophie froze, unable to see where to go, Pia calmly grabbed her elbow and pushed her through the scrum. A security man held the door open for
them, and they fell in together.

The atmosphere backstage instantly felt different to the usual curtain-up vibe.

‘What’s different?’ she asked, looking around. Ladders and old set boards were propped up against the walls, as usual. Stage crew, dressed all in black and looking like
roadies, dashed behind the scenes, refilling the rosin trays and shimmying across the lighting rigs overhead.

‘No orchestra,’ Pia said, leading the way to her dressing room. Junior dancers pressed themselves to the wall as she passed. ‘All the music’s on disc. Everyone has to
bring their own.’

They descended a stone staircase into the basement. Dancers were standing in pairs, catching up on the previous night’s exploits, and they stopped talking as Pia approached. A contracted
hush fell over the corridor and Pia turned back to Sophie knowingly.

‘I guess that means Ava’s already here,’ she said loudly. She knew full well that everyone was expecting her to fly at the rival who was so stealthily eclipsing her.

They stepped into the dressing room and Sophie shut the door behind her. It was small and airless, with only a ventilation grille in the wall, and was harshly lit by the bulbs framing the
mirror. Though Pia had been wily enough to keep her costumes with her, her maquillage was already positioned across the dressing table and her dozens of shoes – mostly pink, a few white and
some black – were lined up in a row on a shelf.

Sophie looked around, astonished. The lack of flowers was stark. There was no ballet company behind Pia, no family, no friends, clearly no lover either. She was the competition’s wild
card, and was here alone, with just her ghosts for company.

She felt a sudden rush of protectiveness for her friend. For all her prima donna behaviour, Pia had been but a pawn in a bigger game. Ava, Baudrand, and seemingly even Will, had all played her,
exploiting her injury, her talent, her fame, to their own advantage.

She watched as Pia settled into her familiar rituals, lighting some Diptyque Figue candles before applying her make-up – the heavy base that caked her skin, the elongated eye shape of
Maria Callas – and spraying her lustrous mane into rigid sleekness.

‘What are you dancing tonight?’ Sophie asked, perching on a tub chair and fishing in her bag for a mint. She had a terrible metallic taste in her mouth that she couldn’t
shift.

‘Variation of Odette, Act II first; then variation of Aurora Act I.’

‘Can I see your costumes?’

‘Sure, they’re in the bag,’ Pia said.

Sophie unzipped the hanging bag and let the frothy meringues spill out. The
Swan Lake
costume for the first solo was breathtaking. It was stiffly starched with the tulle layers so
precisely cut and moulded that they fanned out like an open umbrella, bobbing gently as one skin, the perimeter as sharp as a shell. But it was the bodice that made Sophie gasp: the usual design of
velvet embroidered with Swarovski crystals had been replaced by scissored feathers, and the traditional sculpted headdress had been replaced by a neck collar of softest swan down.