Prima Donna by Karen Swan Read Free Book Online Page A

Petrova was the only other ballerina of her generation who was ever even suggested as a possible rival in this frame, but for once Pia felt she had the edge. The brilliant execution that
usually won Ava first prize in competitions was only a starting point for becoming an Assoluta; the other defining criteria, which were less easy to pin down or possess and which had elevated Pia
as the bigger box-office draw – exquisite grace, fluidity of line, ethereal lightness and joyous spirit – were hers in abundance. This was going to be the year she achieved greatness
– she just knew it.
    There was a knock at the door and the waiter came through, carrying her breakfast. Pia was standing with her back to him, one leg resting gently on the
barre
, her body bent over in a
stretch.
    ‘Tell them to close the gym,’ she muttered, not bothering to turn around. ‘I need a session. And arrange for a masseur back here in two hours.’
    ‘
Oui, madame
,’ said the waiter, backing out of the room quickly. She was naked except for a lilac thong, and if she unfolded herself from that position, he wouldn’t be
capable of carrying trays for a while.
    Wolfing down the toast, she pulled out a pale lime leotard, pink footless tights rolled up to her knees, some ragged leg warmers and a cropped cashmere jumper. She pulled her hair into a rough
bun and made her way down to the gym, barefoot. She shared the lift with a fur-clad, over-tanned couple in their sixties who held their Shih Tzu that little bit closer and kept their eyes firmly
glued to the ceiling, clearly convinced they were sharing space with a vagrant.
    The gym had been closed by the time she got there, and a buff gym instructor stepped forward from an adjacent office as she walked past.
    ‘
Bonjour, madame
, I am Monsieur Dillion, the manager of the gym. Is there any way I can be of assistance to you?’
    Pia walked into the gym and scrutinized it. Free weights, fixed weights, ergo machines, running machines, bikes, spinners, yoga mats, floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It had the lot. Off to the side
was a separate Pilates room with pulleys and tables ready assembled. She nodded appreciatively.
    ‘This looks fine, Monsieur Dillion. Privacy is all I need now. Thank you.’ And she walked away from him, grabbing a towel and going straight towards the Pilates room. She started up
MTV on the monitors in the gym and sat down at the Reformer – a machine rigged with pulleys and weights that looked like a medieval torture device – and embarked upon an advanced and
rigorous stretching and lifting routine. She felt the bass from the TVs vibrate through the glass walls as her muscles began to quickly warm, then burn.
    But forty-five minutes later, she was still going, the back of her leotard wet with sweat, her hair hanging damply. She had progressed onto the Cadillac machine and groans of effort escaped her
intermittently, but stopping – pausing even – didn’t cross her mind. She was still only just getting started.
    She opened the door into the gym and felt the blast of music hit her as she came out of the Pilates room. Cups of tea would no doubt be vibrating across the tables in the lobby upstairs, but she
didn’t turn it down. She moved over to the free weights and began curling, dipping, crunching and pressing, exercising and exhausting the muscles in turn over the course of another hour,
until eventually, slowing at last, she lay back on the yoga mats and began to stretch her muscles more deeply.
    Lying on her back, eyes shut, her ankle resting placidly by her ear, she felt a blast of air waft over her. She shivered and looked over. The door was swooshing shut.
    She lifted her head and saw a man putting his towel on a running machine. He grabbed a remote by the water cooler and turned the volume down on the TVs, switching over to CNN.
    Indignant, Pia brought her leg back down and curled up. With her elbows on her knees she tipped her head to the side and stared at