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
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
Similar Books
