Distraction

Chapter Forty

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.