Prima Donna (7 page)

As they jingled down the central boulevard they rounded a corner, and the cosmopolitan spectacle on the frozen lake suddenly hove into view.

Sophie gasped. Pia just nodded appreciatively. It was exactly as she’d hoped. All of Europe’s flashiest and trashiest were here – and they were here to party. Champagne, snow
and Argentinian boys. It was just what she needed.

The sleigh drew to a gentle, silent stop by the grandstands and Sophie reached in her purse to pay. Pia hopped down, being instantly enfolded in a throng of ardent fans all clamouring for
autographs.

The PR for Cartier rushed over, ecstatic to see Pia looking so exotic and so here.

‘Miss Soto, we are so delighted you have been able to join us. Please, come through to the VIP area, won’t you?’

They were ushered through with great ceremony – even Sophie in her ski goggles – and taken to a roped-off area where a magnificent ice sculpture of a polo player and pony was
discreetly and regretfully melting. Glasses of champagne were thrust into their hands and Pia was taken over to air-kiss the MD of Cartier and his wife.

Sophie walked over to the ropes and scanned around to make sure no seasoned enemies were hovering within striking distance. Pia’s indiscriminate seductions and outspoken comments over the
past few years had not only made her a tabloid target but also precious few friends. The woman really was an island.

A hundred yards away, on the pitch, the packed snow was being swept for the final time; the seats in the bleachers were already full and announcements were being made over the loudspeakers in
French, English, Italian and German.

Alongside a corner of the pitch, by the gleaming state-of-the-art horse boxes, Sophie could see the ponies saddled up and tethered, grooms milling about and making final checks, the players
strapping on their knee pads and helmets. It was annoying how good they looked in their kits, satisfying the clichés with aplomb.

‘Are you a fan?’ a thickly accented voice enquired behind her. Russian, she thought.

Sophie turned around. A tiny man in a cravat was staring at her. His hair was thinning on top, and he was holding a walking cane in one hand, a
Glühwein
in the other.

‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged ruefully. ‘I’ve never seen a snow-polo match before. Or a grass one either actually.’ She paused. ‘I’m not really
here. I’m just with—’

The man stared at her. ‘Well, you look here to me.’

Sophie smiled politely. ‘My name’s Sophie O’Farrell.’ She held out a hand.

He took it without smiling. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss O’Farrell. Please, allow me to acquaint you a little with the basic rules of the game, else you will never know what it is
you’re actually seeing. The first thing you should know about polo – of any variety – is that when a goal is scored, the direction of play switches round . . .’

Sophie tried to keep up, but as he baffled her with chukkas and ROWs she came to the conclusion that polo was a more intricate game than just horseback hockey. Besides, he spoke with a
devastating monotone that seemed to be the verbal equivalent of a legal document. Why, oh why, couldn’t he be a handsome groom instead, with smouldering eyes and hot hands?

From the corner of her eye, she could see Pia revelling in glory, greeting met-once celebrities like old friends and being feted by some of the teams’ patrons, who were standing in a
gaggle around her as the photographers snapped away, eager to try to catch her with her next conquest. Word was already out about her split with Andy Connor.

She tried to tune back in to what her companion was saying, but found the short man staring at her.

‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry, what did you say?’

‘I asked whether you knew the beautiful woman over there. Why is everyone flocking around her?’

Sophie shrugged, amazed to have found someone oblivious to Pia’s star. ‘That’s Pia Soto. Pretty much the most famous ballerina in the world.’

‘Then why is she here, and not dancing?’

‘She’s got a bit of time off, so why not?’ she said mildly. She had the feeling he wouldn’t be impressed to hear she’d been suspended for running out of a
performance to model lingerie at a fashion show.

He was silent for a couple of beats as he continued to stare at Pia.

‘She is very beautiful,’ he said finally.

‘Yes.’

‘But a whore.’

Sophie’s mouth dropped open. She replayed the conversation in her head. Surely she had misheard? Or he’d misunderstood?

‘I’m sorry,
what
did you say?’

‘I said she is a money-grabbing whore. She sells herself to the advertisers, does she not? She is not interested in the art of ballet. In its spirit. She’s in it for the
money.’

Sophie tipped her head to the side, her heart pounding. ‘Commercial success doesn’t make Pia Soto a
whore
,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Her brilliance on the stage
speaks for itself. Why should her fortunes as a businesswoman undermine her standing as an artist? She has nothing whatever to apologize for.’

The man cracked a tight, joyless smile. ‘She is fortunate to have such a loyal ally for her personal assistant,’ he said finally.

Sophie sniffed, as offended as if he’d called her a whore. ‘And what is it
you
do?’ she asked tightly.

The man looked straight at her and blinked slowly. ‘I’m a broker,’ he said, just as the half-time bell rang loudly. He looked towards the pitch and watched the grooms take the
tired ponies back towards the stalls. ‘I must go now,’ he said. ‘But we shall meet again.’ And he tipped his head politely before disappearing into the crowd.

With spectators roaring around her, Sophie stared after him, completely shaken. Not by his strange assurance that they would meet again. But because she’d never told him she was
Pia’s PA.

Sophie pushed through the crowd, trying to stem her rising panic. Pia was so far away now. The fourth chukka had started already and everyone was trying to get near to Pia to
monopolize her attention. She could only pinpoint her thanks to the extravagant fur turban that was blocking the view of everyone standing behind her.

‘Excuse me,
excusez-moi
,’ she mumbled, accidentally treading on toes and knocking drinks. She couldn’t see the ghastly little Russian anywhere but, then again, he was
so short . . .

She made her way over to Pia, who was standing talking to Sharon Stone.

Pia laughed at the sight of her as she approached. ‘You look like Rudolph,’ she giggled. Sophie crossed her eyes and saw that the tip of her nose was glowing like a lighthouse
beacon. Pia, on the other hand, had developed an appealing pink flush that kissed her cheeks like an orgasmic glow.

‘Just came to see how you were getting on,’ Sophie smiled, nodding to Ms Stone as she left to find more celebrated company.

‘Yes fine,’ Pia murmured, raising the binoculars to her eyes and watching the game. ‘I think Cartier are angling to sign me.’

‘Really?’

‘Mmm. But we’ll see.’

Sophie nodded, casting her eyes around at the guests in the VIP area. The Russian seemed to have gone. ‘So where is he?’ she asked, shivering.

‘Who?’ Pia asked, her own eyes firmly on the players.

‘The dreadful man.’

‘Tch, I don’t know,’ she said dismissively, although she could see perfectly well that far from being just another well-heeled supporter, Will Silk was wearing the number three
patron’s shirt for the Black Harbour team. The winning side.

Sophie chewed on her lip, wondering how to broach the subject of her chilling encounter.

‘Look, Pia, there’s something I think I should tell you.’

‘Mmm?’ She was engrossed in the action on the pitch – not the game, the players. And, specifically, the number one Black Harbour player: Argentinian, thighs of steel, and
high-goal with a nine handicap.

‘There was a strange man here earlier. He was very aggressive about you.’

Pia shrugged carelessly. ‘I find the men who are most rude and aggressive are the ones who don’t have a cat in hell’s chance of sleeping with me.’

‘Well, uh, that . . . that
could
explain it . . .’ Sophie stammered. Pia’s ego always took some negotiating. ‘He just made me feel uneasy. Like he targeted me
deliberately.’

‘Yes. To get to me. A balletomaniac, most likely.’

‘A what?’

‘You’ve heard of balletomanes, surely?’ Pia said, sweeping the pitch with the binoculars. ‘Historically, they were rich men – patrons – who paid for the
privilege of backstage access and the opportunity to strike up relationships with the dancers.’ She looked at Sophie slyly. ‘You can probably imagine that some of them paid for a bit
more than that.’

Sophie’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Pia drawled, bringing the binoculars back up again. ‘And they’re still alive and well today, I can assure you. There’s nothing a rich man loves more than
a ballerina in his pocket. God knows, everyone’s always trying to buy me,’ she said darkly, watching Will Silk score a goal.

Eight thousand people roared at once and Sophie felt the hair on her arms stand on end. And not just because of the crowd’s party spirit. This man wasn’t even a fan, much less a
balletomane.

‘I just feel that I didn’t meet him randomly,’ Sophie persevered. She felt spooked.

Pia lowered the binoculars, her eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.

Sophie shrugged. ‘I can’t explain it exactly. It’s just that he pretended not to know who you were, but then said something that showed he knew
exactly
who you were.
Plus, he knew I was your PA – even though
I
never told him.’

Pia’s eyes dimmed and Sophie could tell she was beginning to listen. She had taken her security seriously ever since a fan had broken into her apartment and jerked off on her bed a year
previously. She’d got a restraining order, keeping the man from getting within one hundred feet of her, but that hadn’t stopped him from continuing to watch her at a distance outside
the stage doors. Intimidating her. Harassing her.

The snow was falling thickly now, like feathers in a pillow fight, and Pia’s eyelashes were becoming laden with fat flakes. She looked like some knock-kneed space-age Paco Rabanne model in
white mascara, but she was oblivious, just staring out into the middle distance as if trying to discern where the earth stopped and the sky began.

Sophie instantly regretted her candour. For all Pia’s ruthless independence, beneath it all she was as fragile as glass. Sophie knew that. What had she been thinking? She should have kept
her suspicions to herself. Frightening Pia wasn’t going to help her.

‘You know, actually – thinking about it – he probably saw us arrive together,’ she backtracked. ‘I’m overreacting. You’re right, it’s just another
fan.’

She cast her hands in the air and rolled her eyes, the snow bouncing off her curls like water flying off a retriever fresh from the river. But Pia didn’t reply. She had begun to
shiver.

‘Come on,’ Sophie said, touching her arm lightly. ‘Let’s get you back to the hotel. We don’t want you getting too cold out here. Besides, it’s getting
slippery, and please God, don’t fall. Badlands would have me shot.’

Pia let herself be led away like a lame racehorse, eyes down, her sparkle extinguished. She wanted to get the hell out of here. Nothing put her out of the party mood like the threat that someone
was gunning for her.

Still, the red leather boxes stacked up in the safe did a heroic job of putting Pia back in the party spirit again. It was like Aladdin’s cave in there, with
Cartier’s best winking at her, wooing her, seducing her – making her gasp and thrill like a new lover.

Like a baby sister, Sophie sat on the floor and watched as Pia decided to ditch the diamonds and opt for emeralds instead.

‘This town’s ruled by ice,’ she proclaimed grandly, clasping a collar to her neck. ‘I
dare
to be different.’

Within fifteen minutes, Cartier had sent up a new selection of pieces for her and she settled on some maharani-style drop earrings and a bracelet to go with the white satin corseted Dolce dress
she had chosen. Hand-painted with butterflies the colours of irises and pansies, the dress squeezed her possessively, the skirt puddling extravagantly at her feet.

‘You could get married in that dress,’ Sophie sighed, her elbows resting on her knees, hands cupping her chin.

‘Hrrmph, I don’t think so,’ Pia snorted.

‘What do you mean?’ Sophie asked, shocked. ‘No to the dress? Or no to marriage?’ Sophie already knew in minute detail exactly how her own wedding was going to be.
Everything had been decided since the age of seven: her mother’s dress, the tiny stone windswept chapel at the top of farmer McGinty’s field, sweet peas in her hair, her father . . .
She stopped herself. The groom wasn’t the only variable in the big day now.

‘Both,’ Pia said, eyeing herself critically in the mirror. ‘This is too long. You need to cut it.’

‘What?’ Sophie asked, eyes bulging. Oh please no . . .

‘Yes! Cut the skirt,’ she repeated with conviction.

‘But . . . but the dress is only borrowed,’ Sophie stammered. ‘It’s a five-thousand-dollar dress. It came up from the store. They’ll need it back
tomorrow.’

‘They can afford to swallow five grand. The publicity I’ll give them in it, they’ll recoup it twenty times over. It’ll sell out worldwide once the papers show me wearing
it.’

Sophie knew she was right – she spent a large part of her day elucidating the fashion press on Pia’s latest ‘looks’ – but that didn’t make it okay.
Reluctantly, she rang the store and haltingly – not just because of the language barrier – explained what Pia wanted to do.

‘They’re offering to send up a seamstress to do it for you,’ she said, holding the phone to her shoulder. ‘She can be here in five minutes.’

Pia shook her head. ‘
Non
. I want you to do it.’

Sophie swallowed. ‘Did you hear that?’ she said into the phone to the store manager, ever more mortified. ‘Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm. Yes.
Merci
. Thank you . . .’ She
turned her back to Pia. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’ she whispered into the receiver before putting the phone down.