Distraction

Chapter Twenty-Four

Saturday night. He could've done anything, gone anywhere. He could've got drunk, got stoned, rang Miss fucking Haverton and got laid. Instead, Patrick had chosen to visit Miss Olivia Wilde and now he sat willing her to speak. What the hell was wrong with him being English? And what was with the secrecy over being a ballerina?

Libby opened her mouth, no doubt to voice her usual none of your business response, but instead she ate a forkful of potatoes, never dropping her eye contact with him. What was going on behind those pretty grey eyes?

'I grew up in Brize Norton.' She took a sharp breath, as if the admission shocked her. 'It's honestly not that interesting.'

Oh, it is. 'Go on.'

'My mum was a senior officer in the RAF, my dad god-knows what for the MOD. I learned not to bother asking.'

'Brothers or sisters?'

'Two brothers, Lucas and Connor, but they're ten years younger than me, so I was an only child for ages. Originally, I wanted to fly planes, like Mum used to, so she taught me to toughen up. Judo, kick-boxing, generally how to take someone down-'

'Like Andy?'

She laughed a little. 'Like Andy. But she didn't want me to grow up a tomboy, so she picked girly hobbies. Horse-riding, Brownies, piano lessons and ballet. I was eight when I saw my first ballet. The Nutcracker. I took one look at the Sugar Plum Fairy and decided to be a ballerina not a fighter pilot when I grew up. I worked hard, took it seriously and got into the Royal Ballet School.'

'Is that where Zoe went too?'

'We met on the first day and we've been best friends ever since. God, I missed her when she left London, but we stayed friends. She went to university and I turned professional. I joined the corps of the English National Ballet.' She sipped her wine, smiling at the ceiling. 'It was like some kind of fairy tale and I was starring in it. They paid me to dance and by the time I was twenty-two I was a senior soloist, well on my way to being a principle.'

'What happened?'

She dug into her steak, her frown deepening, but she wasn't crying and after several mouthfuls she carried on. 'One day, we were rehearsing and my dance partner... he dropped me. I landed badly and fractured my ankle in three places.'

'Ah, the ankle that hurt when I mowed you down. Surely they pinned it?'

'Yes, but it was never the same. When you're in a company, you work hard. Class, rehearsals, performances. It adds up to eight hours dancing a day.'

'Jesus. So you quit?'

'For about a year, I tried so hard to keep going, refusing to admit it was killing me, but the black cloud on the horizon kept getting bigger and bigger. In my last ballet, I was a cygnet in Swan Lake. My ankle was agony plus I had a broken metatarsal and two stress fractures in my right shin.'

'You danced with a broken foot?'

'I had to. I wasn't letting some corps wannabe ready to steal my place.'

'You're certifiable.'

She laughed. Finally. 'One night, I'd taken so many painkillers, my head was fuzzy and I missed my cue. I mean, ninety-eight percent of the audience wouldn't have known, but I buggered it up and I have the DVD to prove it. I'd rather not dance than be second best, so I quit. One day, I was understudy for Odette, the next I wasn't a dancer anymore.'

'But why just abandon your whole life?'

'Because I was Olivia Wilde, the ballerina. I doubt I would've been the next Darcey Bussell, but that kind of talk got bandied around me at school. But oh look, I'm not a principal ballerina. I failed.' She forced a smile. 'I don't do failure very well.'