Chapter Forty

The camera flashes startled her, but Libby maintained her cool smile as Paolo helped her from the taxi. Several photographers yelled to him, asking for her name. He obliged, but told them nothing more. Together they headed toward the burly doormen, Libby striding out on her highest black heels.

'You look beautiful. A real star,' Paolo whispered. 'You sure you don't want to be fabulous in London with me and go to all the best parties?'

She laughed, in her element. Here, she didn't worry about not having real world curves like Zoe and Grace. Here, she walked amongst neurotic models and size zero actresses. Here, Libby blended in. Tomorrow, the cannier journalists would discover Olivia Wilde was a ballerina, a ballerina who hadn't danced for three years. Her anonymity would be over and she'd become known as the Broken Ballerina.

Inside the Kensington art gallery, Libby and Paolo drifted around, studying the bizarre paintings and even more bizarre sculptures. Just about everyone they met air-kissed and hugged him. This was Paolo, her destitute ex-boyfriend, who'd lived in more squats than he'd held down real jobs. Now he wore a cutting edge suit and Italian leather shoes. She missed his threadbare jeans and Converse boots.

'Some art, I just don't get,' Libby said, frowning at a three dimensional, upside down papier-mache representation of Van Gogh's sunflowers. 'So which is Dani, the artist?'

'He's the woman with the red beehive by the bar.'

Libby giggled. 'A transvestite. Awesome. I'm so glad your art is recognisable.'

With his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist, they looked like the cosy couple they intended. Both had little to lose from any newspaper inches.

'You really do look beautiful,' Paolo said, kissing her shoulder.

'Thank you.'

She felt it. The silk top she'd once appropriated from Zoe's wardrobe and faux leather jeans had become her favourite outfit. When she and Patrick got down and dirty in the hallway, he'd admitted that in Oscar's, it'd taken all his self-control not to reach out and touch her, just to see if her breasts felt as good as they looked.

Libby crossed her ankles, trying to banish memories of the mind-blowing sex as she stared at a painting of a lilac pony galloping through a turquoise sea.

'Now, that I...' she said, glancing around, but Paolo was chatting to some guy in a kaftan.

Abandoned, she took a glass of mineral water off a passing waiter and wandered over to a trio of peach cows munching yellow grass. Cute, but the lilac horse rocked more. She glanced to the price tags. Seven grand for the cows? Five for the lilac horse? Crikey. Maybe she should take up dodgy arts and crafts. Two vast, snub-nosed pigs peered down at her, one lime green, the other sea-blue.

'Lucy, did you see here?' said a low Irish voice behind her. 'Do they not remind you of Portia and Prudence, Tabitha's old Kune Kune's?'

Libby turned. Seamus Doyle, he'd come. He stood with his head tipped to the side. Lucinda Doyle threw her head back, cooing over the painting, begging Seamus to buy it for Tabitha's birthday. If that woman had it in her to murder Maggie, Libby would eat her faux-leather jeans. Lucinda seemed more likely to drown someone in well-meaning hugs. Libby had to talk to Seamus. He was the last key person who knew Maggie.

'They're cute, but I prefer the lilac pony,' Libby said smiling at the pigs.

'Ah now, you've a cold, cold heart if it can't be melted by a couple of porcine beauties like these.' Seamus Doyle laughed, his eyes twinkling.

Libby couldn't help comparing him to Patrick - both tall, good-looking and both unwilling to offer their hearts to their broken ballerinas.

'Libby?' Paolo offered her a glass of wine.

She held up her water. 'I have to dance tomorrow.'

'It's Paolo de Luca, isn't it?' Seamus held out his hand. 'A pleasure to meet you, sir.'

Paolo smiled, shaking hands. 'This is my good friend, Olivia Wilde.'

'Friend?' Seamus tipped his head studying Libby before turning back to Paolo. 'Ah now, it's a shameful thing, but, Mr de Luca, do you have the time to say a hello to my wife? She's your biggest fan.'

Libby poked Paolo who dutifully gave Lucinda his biggest smile.

'So, Ms Wilde...' Seamus led her to the next series of Dani's art works. 'Are you really a friend of Mr de Luca?'

She nodded.

He laughed and not at the vast profanities painted with fingerprints. 'Do you know what I'm thinking?'

She raised her eyebrows.

'That you'd be his muse, the elusive Broken Ballerina.'

Libby glanced around, ensuring no one heard. 'What makes you say that?'

'You carry yourself with the grace of a ballerina. Or is that just a coincidence?'

She shook her head. 'But please don't tell. Not yet.'

He nodded.

'Actually, I have a confession, my own shameful thing.' She mimicked his accent, making him laugh. 'I'm living in Gosthwaite, in Margaret Keeley's old house.'

'Are you now.' He visibly stiffened, focussing on the WHORE painting in front of them. 'They say Dani did this with the fingerprints of underage prostitutes. The world's a dark place.'

Libby persevered, turning away from the disturbingly small prints. 'My best-friend, Zoe, is Maggie's great niece. I was a huge fan of Maggie's, not that I ever saw her dance, but I understand you knew her.'

Seamus' black eyes had all the compassion of coal as he turned to her. 'Please excuse me, Miss Wilde, I'd hate my wife to take up too much of your friend's time.'

He strode away.

Arse.

It'd changed. Everything had changed. Okay, the buildings were the same, many of the people were the same, but the staff had changed, the way they did things changed. Libby wandered through the halls of Markova House, air-kissing old friends, smiling at familiar but less well-known faces. Nothing was the same.

She toured the school, watching rows of determined girls point their toes with precision. Few of Jane's students were of the same calibre, but Libby suspected they had more fun. Not that the students here seemed unhappy, they just... well, they wouldn't be allowed to plait the teacher's hair between classes.

After she'd assisted in two classes, calling instruction in one, her nerves grew. Her own class approached. She hadn't attended a professional class for over three years and surely, she'd embarrass herself in front of the other dancers, sixty percent of who, she didn't know and the other forty percent resented her return. The threat of a newbie stealing your place was horrific, but the idea of some has-been rocking up... that was incomprehensible.

I'm here to teach, not dance. Right now, it doesn't matter what they think.

Taking slow, steady breaths, she laced up her ballet shoes and removed her warm up layers, trying to ignore the suspicious and sneering glances of the girls around her. They were scared of her past, but aware of her failure. She was the girl who quit. Libby stood up, arching onto her toes, relishing the stretch. But that wasn't who she was now. This girl didn't quit.

I was a senior soloist, I should've been a principle, but I'll do as my parents' taught me. I'll hold my head high and Just Bloody Do It.

This was like the Fell Race. She wouldn't just finish, she'd come first, she'd be the best. Libby sailed through class, the moves as familiar as brushing her teeth, and when she performed thirty-two immaculate fouettés even the ballet mistress cracked a smile. Libby had suspected so, but now she knew - Jane's formidable lessons were as good as any Libby had endured in the company.

Triumphant and breathless, Libby relaxed from her final arabesque only to realise the legendary Tamara Rojo watched from the doorway. Crikey. Her idol offered a brief smile before slipping out of the room. Tamara Rojo had watched her dance.

Carlos, her old coach, applauded slowly. 'I am surprised you are not creaking with rust.'

'I've been taking class with Jane Knight. She was a principal with the Royal Ballet.'

'Yes, she called me.' Carlos tapped his forehead. 'But you 'ave something new, Olivia. You've changed. Technically, you were always perfect, now you 'ave what you lacked back then. Now, you 'ave emotion. I think you be in love.'

'I be heartbroken maybe.'

He laughed, clutching both hands to his chest. 'Ah, you can't know what it is to love 'til you 'ave loved and lost.'

'I'd rather be an ice maiden,' she said, not meaning it. Oh, to sit and eat dinner with Patrick, to simply sit, eat and talk.

'What do you want to do, Olivia?'

What did she want to do? Have steak and dauphinoise with Patrick, knocking back red wine and laughing in the garden, or punish herself for hours every day, just to dance in the Coliseum again? Both ideas were far-fetched, but only one seemed remotely possible.

'Teach,' she said, raising her chin, 'and dance, as a guest soloist.'

Carlos laughed. 'But only prima ballerinas get that luxury. We'd all-'

'I'm the Broken Ballerina.'

He pursed his lips. 'Ylena supposed as much.'

'Paolo de Luca's a friend. We're using the painting's notoriety to our advantage. For a few months at least, I'll be a name. You could sell tickets on my name.'

'For a few month's at least.' Carlos placed his arm around her shoulders, keeping their chat private from the next class tripp-trapping in on satin toes. 'It's a lot to ask. You ran away.'

'At the end of the season. I didn't let anyone down. So?'

'So?

'So can I teach and be a guest soloist?'

'Si.' Carlos kissed her cheeks. 'We start with class, we find you a role and then we send you to the school. Welcome back, carino. You need to speak to Annabelle in HR. She sort the terms. And get your blog updated. You had fans. Get them back. And maybe we should ask Jane Knight to come here too.'

'Thank you, Carlos.'

She was back.

Oh, it wouldn't be her old world of touring and guest appearances, there'd be no more duets with Ferdinand Aosta or Mikhail Cheung, but it'd be working with a professional company - hours of punishing routine, driving focus and unrelenting pressure. Exactly what she needed to stop wishing she could be eating steak and dauphinoise with Patrick.

With her coat buttoned up and scarf tightly wrapped around her neck, she wandered through a snow covered Hyde Park. There'd be no more fell running, no more horse-riding - no more Robbie, no more Jane, no more Patrick. Tears tumbled down her cheeks as she typed out a text.

I got the job so you can relax. I won't be around to ruin your idyllic rural life.

Her phone rang.

'Look,' she said, beyond weary. 'I can't-'

'Miss Wilde? Seamus Doyle here. Now, how do you fancy brunch with an aging, but seldom drunk Irishman?'

*

Christmas had started out pretty poor, but steadily it'd turned to rat shit. Patrick had finally pulled Libby, but what happens? She runs off to London to be a bloody ballet dancer.

I got the job so you can relax. I won't be around to ruin your idyllic rural life.

Fucking marvellous. Patrick leant on the bar, nursing the remainder of his third pint.

'You seen this?' Grace asked, dropping a copy of the Daily Mail on the bar.

Oh yes, he'd seen it. The paper lay open at a page showing several celebrities at an art exhibition in some glitzy gallery. The fourth photo was of Libby and Paolo. In the skimpy silk top and black leather trousers, she smiled at the camera oozing class amongst a page of tarted up wannabes. Her hand held Paolo's. The sight made him want to be sick.

'How did you do it, Gracey? How did you come to work every day and listen to me bang on about...'

'Who you banged at the weekend?'

He hung his head, ashamed. 'Sorry.'

She leant on the bar, her face sympathetic. 'Hey, at the end of the day, you've been a good friend.'

He touched fists with her and drained the rest of his pint. 'I'm still sorry.'

'Your drinking buddies are here.' Grace nodded behind him. 'Oh shit.'

Patrick turned, just in time to see Robbie's fist flying towards him. The pain shot through Patrick's jaw as he fell backwards, toppled off his stool. Grace yelled, Robbie shouted, Scott apologised, but Patrick lay there, knowing he deserved it and more.

'What the hell was I thinking,' Robbie yelled, 'asking you to keep an eye on her? I should've kept you a million miles from her. She's off-limits. Forever.'

Patrick closed his eyes.

'You three have some messed up loyalties,' Grace said. 'Robbie, she's not your bloody property.'

Robbie pulled away from Scott's grasp. 'She's handed in her notice. She's moving to London.'

'She ran away, just like you said she would.' Patrick sighed.

'I said I'd kill you if you broke her heart.'

'And I said I'd let you,' Patrick rubbed his chin. 'But not here.'

Scott held out a hand, pulling him up. 'We need a kickabout. Grace, got a bottle of something and a ball?'

'For you, gorgeous,' she said, adding a wink, 'anything.'

Swigging from a bottle of Glenfiddich, Patrick walked up to the penalty spot on the village playing field. Robbie's turn in goal and he was good, but Patrick was the master. For the first time in three days, the first time since the snowball war, he found himself laughing. Thank Christ for friends. Not that it would last. Scott's team-building exercises were always followed by a harsh truth session and meticulous action plans. Patrick would've already balked, but Scott had never failed him yet.

Patrick hammered the ball into the left corner of the tattered net while Robbie was falling to the right. Goal! Three pints and way too much Glenfiddich prevented any modesty on Patrick's part. He ran to the side of the pitch, sinking to his knees and raising his arms to an imaginary, screaming crowd. He'd scored the winning penalty for England - or against them for Scotland. Come the World Cup, his allegiance always wavered.

Scott sat next to him, taking the bottle. 'So you can kick a football, but Johnny Wilkinson you ain't, my son.'

Patrick smiled, faux punching his friend, but Robbie was on his way over, his jaw twitching with repressed animosity.

'What happened?' Scott asked, quietly.

'She ran away like Rob said she would. I had to tell her on Christmas morning-'

'After you shagged her?' Scott's eyebrows shot up and he thumped Patrick's shoulder. 'You idiot. Stuff like that you have to tell them before you shag them. If they've already had sex, they feel used. Didn't you listen to Rob's master classes?'

Quite frankly, no. Robbie gained all his knowledge from Cosmopolitan and chick lit books. His aim was a noble one - to understand what girls wanted, but Patrick had been a teenager. Once he'd learned about overblown romantic gestures, he'd found he needed little else from Robbie's master classes. A playlist of nauseating tracks had Melody Lawson eager to give up her virginity and relieve him of his. After that, he'd never looked back.

'I could fucking kill you,' Robbie said.

'You'll never let her go, will you?' Patrick asked.

'Don't you dare.' Robbie shook his head. 'Don't you fucking dare. I love that girl and I've had to watch-'

'You love her?' Patrick's head reeled.

Robbie swore at the starlit sky.

'Then why did you get Vanessa back?'

'Because Libby doesn't want a second-hand life.' Robbie sat down. 'If Libby had wanted... I'd never have gone to Grassington, but it was the right thing. I love Van more and let's face it, Libby's always chosen you. She chose you when she went out for a drink. She chose you when she told you about the ballet.'

Had she?

'But this isn't just about me, ' Patrick said, pushing his hair back. 'Because of the painting, she's got a chance to be a ballerina again.'

Robbie groaned. 'Of course it's about you. She doesn't want to go back to that life. Tell her to come back. It's what she wants. She's been second best to Andy's ex-wife. She's been second best to my wife. Tell her to hell with the ultimatum and then you bloody well put her first.'

Patrick shook his head. 'But I can't put Libby first, there's my job-'

'Don't tell me you can't risk your job for her,' Robbie said, his voice rising. 'She'll never let you down, or fuck around. She's perfect and you know it.'

Patrick dug his toe into the still semi-frozen turf. 'But...'

'Is this about Nicole?' Scott asked.

Just under three years ago, Patrick had broken up with her after she'd suggested they should get married. A week later, he'd arrived home to find her lying in the bath, the steaming water red with her blood.

'Does Libby know about her?' Scott asked.

'Yes, but not what happened,' Patrick mumbled. 'I can't go through that again.'

'Libby isn't Nicole,' Robbie said, sighing.

No, she wasn't, but she still always wanted more, just like Nicole. 'I know.'

Robbie picked at the grass. 'I just want her to be happy. She's perfect for you.'

Patrick could barely nod. Robbie really was letting go. 'It still doesn't get around the fact that she won't let me lose my job.'

'No, it doesn't,' Scott agreed.

Patrick looked to his captain, hoping for a miracle. 'Ideas?'

'Cut the apron strings and open your own practice,' Scott suggested. 'It's not as if your clients wouldn't go with you and you have the savings, don't you?'

Patrick nodded. 'But it'd be in competition with my parents.' And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt them more.

'Then we need to get Wray off your back.' Scott's brow furrowed in thought. 'We're going to need some leverage. When's Libby coming back?'

Patrick shrugged. What if she didn't? But flanked by his brothers in arms, he had hope on his side.

Back at the Alfred an hour later, while Scott and Robbie played pool, Patrick took out his phone, staring at it for five minutes before he had the nerve to ring her. Sadly, she didn't answer any of his three attempts. In the end, he opted for a message.

- How's London? U hate it, don't u?

- What do you want?

- Did u tell ne journos ur the BB?

- No. Why?

- Leverage. Don't tell ne1 nethng. And come home.

- Why?

- U know y.

- Hot. Cold.

- What you doing?

- Paolo's drawing me. Nude.

- Liar. But thnx 4 the mental image.

- Bite me.

- Happily. What r u wearing?

- OMG, have you been drinking?

Patrick sent her a photo of the table in the Alfred strewn with empty pint glasses and the near empty bottle of Glenfiddich.

- Boys night out with Scott and Robbie. They're fixing everything. Promise you won't fuck Paolo?

- Lay off the whisky, you idiot.

- Promise?

- Promise. What would happen if there was no ultimatum?

- U'd be here

- Would we go out properly?

- Define properly

- Holding hands in public, meeting your parents, going out for dinner, walks

- Sounds tolerable

- Tolerable?

- Libs, u r amazing. Pretty. Funny. Want to be with you all the time. Sorry about the other day. U freaked me out.

- I freaked you out? You're the one who snuck into my house and put me to bed

- :) come back and I'll put u to bed every nite.

- Hot. Cold.

- Libs, when I split up with Nicole she tried to kill herself. Slit her wrists in the bath.

- Oh

- But you were right. I'm the one scarred for life. And scared.

- I'm not Nicole.

- I know. I miss you.

- You're drunk. You're letting your self-indulgent hedonistic side come out. Then tomorrow, you'll back off again. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Leave me alone.

Sod it, he rang her again, his heart hammering. Maybe he should do what Robbie would do and tell her he loved her. The call went straight to voicemail.

Fuck.

*

Walking into the Dorchester wearing faux-leather jeans and ludicrously high heels on a Saturday morning wasn't weird. Telling the Maitre d' she was meeting Seamus Doyle, even that wasn't weird. And sauntering down the Dorchester's famed Promenade and slipping off her coat to reveal Paolo's Artists Do It In Oils t-shirt, that wasn't remotely weird.

What was weird was the amount of people gawping at her. Libby's heart rate rose, her eyes widening in panic as a woman whipped out her phone, blatantly snapping her. It was worse than when she was in the paper as a prostitute. Who knew the Broken Ballerina would be so popular? Three journalists had already set up camp outside Paolo's flat.

'Mr Doyle?' The Maitre d' smiled. 'Perhaps you and Miss Wilde would be more comfortable in a private dining area.'

'Jesus man, then they'd really talk.' Seamus laughed. 'Libby, sit yourself down. Now then, I imagine you're not a big eater, but they do a damned fine breakfast here.'

She sat down, relaxing. 'Actually, I didn't eat much yesterday. I'm starving. Do they do bacon sandwiches?'

'It's the goddamn Dorchester. They do what the feck you like. Tea?'

She nodded, glancing around at the sumptuous hall as Seamus poured the tea. 'Beautiful place.'

'Writing here is an indulgence of mine. I plan to tell the world I'm writing a poem about you. You can be my muse.'

Libby laughed. 'A muse, me?'

'You're Paolo de Luca's, aren't you?'

Flattered by the odd concept, Libby focused on the matter at hand. 'Is that why you asked me here, to be your muse?'

'I want to apologise for being rude at the gallery. My wife knows about Maggie, but years ago, we agreed I'd never leave and Lucinda would never hear of it again.' He tipped his head to the side, studying her. 'Did you never meet Maggie?'

Libby shook her head. 'Was it hard, enduring a secret relationship like that?'

'Hard, the only thing hard was that bloody siren of a woman. Ah Jesus, I worshipped her, but Maggie was too rich for my soul, too intoxicating, too demanding. I couldn't live with her, but I couldn't live without her.'

'Was she very beautiful? I've only ever seen photos of her dancing.'

Seamus plucked a photograph from his wallet. It showed him and Maggie at a black tie event. Maggie wore a long red gown, her dark eyes gazing up at Seamus with undisguised adoration. They both looked to be in their thirties. Libby stroked Maggie's dark, glossy hair.

Hello, Maggie. So this is you.

'When was this?' she asked.

'Twenty-five years ago. For a year or so, I left Lucinda. Maggie and I lived in a cottage by Grasmere. We tried so hard to make it work, for the sake of...'

Libby frowned at the photo, at the twinkling below Maggie's ear. 'For the sake of...'

'Our daughter.'

Libby's head shot up. 'Maggie had a daughter?'

He nodded.

'But why didn't she inherit the house?'

Seamus glanced away. 'She did.'

'Zoe?' Libby's hands shook. 'Zoe's Maggie's daughter?'

'And mine. I haven't seen her since she was one. Maggie had her adopted.'

'That's why you wanted to meet me.'

'How is she?'

Fucked up. 'Does she know? I mean she's never... oh god.' Libby closed her eyes, remembering Zoe lying comatose last winter. 'She knows, doesn't she? I thought she was upset after the flat was burgled. Zoe needs control. Maggie... We needed new passports but Zoe couldn't find her birth certificate and we had to cancel our skiing holiday. I thought she flipped out because she'd lost control of her life. But I guess she'd found out Maggie was her mother.'

Seamus' eyes again filled with tears. 'Just after her first birthday, I left. I went back to Lucinda. Tabitha would be six. Maggie said she couldn't bear to look at Zoe. She reminded her of me. So she spoke to her niece. Her and her husband desperately wanted a child. It seemed the perfect solution.'

'It might've been if Maggie hadn't made her come to Gosthwaite each summer.'

'The girl could dance. Maggie wanted her to be a star.'

But, Zoe never had the inner strength to be a star. Libby couldn't stop staring at the strand of diamonds twinkling under Maggie's earlobe.

'Seamus, Maggie's earrings in this photo-'

'A gift from me, on the day Zoe was born. I said they'd be an heirloom, to be passed from mother to daughter.'

Libby grabbed her coat and the photo, sprinting down the Promenade, ignoring Seamus calling after her. The earrings were the same ones Libby had worn the day Zoe learned Maggie had died. The earrings Zoe said had been a birthday present from the Dick.

What have you done, Zoe?