Boh stood silently as he critiqued her then asked coolly, “Shall I try it again?”
“What else are we here for? Of course, try again.”
She moved across the floor, her port de bras moving in graceful arcs, her feet moving swiftly across the floor, fast and staccato in the style made famous by the ballet’s choreographer August Bournonville. Boh knew this ballet better than most of the others, having loved it since she was a child. She loved being the fairy, the sylph, and so her body bent and curved to every note of the music. This time she played the mime earnestly, reaching out with her love across the forest where the fairies dwelled, proclaiming her love for James, the hapless hero of the ballet. Vladimir, Boh’s fellow principal, played James, moving with her, and Boh lost herself in the movements.
As she played out La Sylphide’s dying moments, her focus shifted back into the room and she saw Pilot Scamo watching her.
“Okay, stop.” Kristof was rubbing his head and glaring at Nelly. “Is there some reason for this intrusion? How is she—” he gestured rudely towards Boh, “—going to get any better if we keep being interrupted?”
Nelly didn’t rise to the bait. “I told you about this earlier, Kris. Were you listening?”
But he wasn’t listening now; he was staring at Pilot, who gazed back coolly. “Well, if it isn’t Scamo.” He said his name with accompanying jazz hands, mocking Pilot. Pilot’s eyes looked dangerous and Boh shivered, but he didn’t take the bait. Pilot’s eyes met hers and softened and his mouth hitched up on one side.
“Miss Dali,” he said, his tone respectful and admiring, “looked exquisite to me.”
Boh flushed with pleasure and then a snigger went through the class until Kristof glared at them.
Kristof rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”
“We’d like to talk to Boh, please. In private.”
“And it couldn’t wait until after my class?”
“Obviously not.” Nelly’s voice took on a dangerous note and Kristof stared her down for a moment, obviously deciding whether to argue his case. Eventually he gave a sharp nod of the head to Boh, who stepped out gracefully of the troupe and came towards them, gathering her bag and towel, shooting an apologetic look at the rest of her class.
Outside, Nelly introduced them. “Boheme Dali, meet Pilot Scamo. Not that he needs introducing.”
“And after what I saw this morning, neither do you, Miss Dali.” He shook her hand and smiled at her.
“It’s Boh, please.” Her voice was quiet and soft, musical. Nelly grinned at them both, obviously noticing the forming connection between them.
“Pilot,” he said and Nelly patted his back.
“I’ll leave you two alone to talk. Pilot has a very interesting proposition for you, Boh.”
She disappeared and Pilot smiled at Boh. “Shall we take a walk? I don’t much feel like having an audience.” He nodded inside the dance studio where Kristof was watching them and Boh nodded, rolling her eyes.
“Good idea. I know somewhere we can go for some privacy.”
She took him down to the bottom of the building and out of the kitchen area to a small courtyard. “No one comes down here much unless it’s to smoke, but class is in session so we should have some privacy.” She shivered a little at the cold breeze.
“Here.” Pilot shrugged out of his jacket and put it around her shoulders. She smiled at him gratefully.
“Thank you.” They sat down at one of the picnic benches. “It really is an honor to meet you, sir.”
Pilot grinned. “My dad was ‘sir,’ Boh, I’m just Pilot. And likewise. Nelly told me you were special and I believe she underplayed that statement. You move like—” he cast around for the word, “—like water, like air … Boh, Nell mentioned a proposition and here it is. I’m scheduled to work with the Quilla Chen Foundation for an exhibit at MOMA in six weeks. Before this morning, I had nothing. No juices were getting to my brain, no inspiration, no nothing. Then I saw you dance.”
Boh’s face was flaming red. Pilot Scamo was inspired … by her? No way. No freakin’ way. Pilot’s name was known all over the world and he’d photographed some of the world’s most beautiful women—Serena’s jibe about him sleeping with supermodels came back to her.
“Mr. Scamo—”
“Pilot.”
“Pilot—what exactly is it that you’re asking me to do?” If this was a line to get her into bed—God help her but this gorgeous man wouldn’t need a line—she would have to revise her good opinion of him.
“Work with me on this project. Obviously, we’ll need a theme, and my ideas are at the very early stages. I’m sure you’ve seen the many, many ballet portraits that have been done already; photographers like Karolina Kuras or Alexander Yakovlev have produced some stunning work. So we need an original angle. I’d like to work with you and figure something out.”
“In six weeks?”
Pilot nodded. “In six weeks we’d have to come up with a theme, get the costumes, find the settings.” He smiled suddenly, a wide, boyish smile, and Boh felt her belly quiver with desire. Working closely together with this man for six weeks? Yes, please …
“I’m in.” She found herself saying and was reward by an even bigger, even sexier smile.
“Fantastic.”
They swapped contact details and Boh smiled shyly at him. “I guess we’re going to have to start right away.”
“I guess so.” His eyes dropped to her mouth for a split second and then he looked away, a faint spot of pink appearing on each of his cheeks. Boh realized he didn’t want to look like a creep, but there was no denying the attraction between them. Still, this man was a professional and so was she.
But, at least, she thought later, after she’d said goodbye, I have a new friend. Ha, her body said to her, when was the last time you got wet over a friend?
Shut up. But she grinned to herself as she made her way back up to Kristof’s class, feeling lighter than air at the thought of spending the next six weeks with Pilot Scamo.
Chapter Five
Pilot’s good mood lasted until he got back to his apartment and saw his doorman shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Mister Scamo,” he said, “I’m sorry. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’s waiting upstairs.”
Pilot sighed. “It’s not your fault, Ben. It’s okay.”
Eugenie was sitting outside his apartment door and Pilot was grateful that he had never given in to her request for a key. “Why?” he had asked when Eugenie suggested it, “We’re divorced, Genie.”
She saw him now and held her hands out to him so he helped her up. She didn’t let go of his hands, instead pressing them around her waist. “Darling.”
Pilot gently extracted himself. “Genie, what are you doing here?”
Eugenie huffed. “Well, if you don’t want to see me.”
God, it was going to be one of those days. She really was the queen of passive-aggressiveness. “I’m working, Genie. As I said, what is it that you want?”
“To see you, obviously.” She stroked a hand down his face and it was all Pilot could do not to jerk his head away. He’d been there before and knew what the consequences of that would be. The half-moon scar next to right eye was evidence of Genie’s rage when she was slighted. “I miss you, Pilot. More than you know.”
Ah, Genie Ploy number three, he thought. The regretful ex. “Genie, you’ve been calling me nonstop and as I said, I’m working. You know what it’s like when I have a project on.”
He was hoping to keep the argument out in the hallway, but as one of his neighbors edged along the corridor, curious, and not being shy about it, Pilot opened his door and stepped back to allow Eugenie to enter. Damn it. He had been successfully keeping her away from his new life until now.
Genie walked into his apartment and smiled. “Ah, typical Pilot. Unorganized mess.”
He shrugged. Eugenie liked everything in its place all the time; Pilot wanted his home to look lived in by a human, not
an automaton. His walls were lined with bookshelves stuffed to the gills, his couch was old and battered and incredibly comfortable, his record player was on the floor with a stack of vinyl next to it. On the coffee table, a collection of mugs had varying degrees of old coffee or tea; a half-empty bottle of scotch, a notebook with ideas.
But Genie was wrong—Pilot knew where every single piece of his life fit in this place—it was his haven and he hated that she was in it, judging it, sneering at it.
“Like I said, many times now, I’m working, so—” He made a motion for her to say what she had to say. Genie half-smiled. She was looking even thinner these days. Always slim, when he had met her she had been a healthy weight but as the years went on, she lost her appetite for anything but vodka and cocaine, and when Pilot had left her, her addictions had only gotten worse. Now she looked to be under 100 pounds.
Of course, Genie herself didn’t mind the weight loss at all. In her circle of Upper East Side friends, she was the thinnest, could fit into the sample sizes of all the best fashion designers, and reveled in her addictions. Apart from cocaine, Adderall, and the occasional speedball, she would start every day using meth. Her fragile, brittle blonde beauty was already beginning to crack at the seams. Pilot would have felt sorry for her but her cruelty made him feel numb to her downfall.
“My darling,” she came toward him now and he couldn’t help but back up a few paces. She noticed and anger flashed in her eyes, but she struggled and smiled. “Don’t be scared of me, my darling. Pilot, after everything, the life we built, the love we had, don’t you think we deserve more than this, this sad little divorce?”
“We’ve discussed this before, Genie, when you weren’t high. We both know it’s over. It has been for years. Maybe, it should never have even started.”
Genie ignored him. “We never tried for children because of your career, and so now, I think it’s time.”
Oh God, she really was on one of her diatribes. Pilot rubbed his face. How am I going to get her out of my apartment without her losing her shit on me—again?
“Genie, I have a meeting I have to get to. Go home, sober up, and you’ll realize the nonsense you’re talking. We’re divorced. No children. Not from me.”
He took her shoulders and steered her out of the apartment, feeling how bony and frail her body felt. “Goodbye, Genie.” The last he saw of her, her mouth was flapping uselessly, like a goldfish as she blinked in astonishment at her speedy banishment.
He shut the door quickly and leaned back against it. It wasn’t that he was afraid of her—he was more afraid of the repercussions if she attacked him again. He was three times her weight and size—if he fought back and hurt her, he knew which side the police would come down on and it wouldn’t be his. Plus, her family had connections. The Ratcliffe-Morgans were old money, not the ‘nouveau riche’ of men like his father, a self-made billionaire, and during their marriage, Eugenie had made it very cleared that his money was inferior. She hated that he made no attempt to battle the prenup, that he wasn’t interested in money at all. It gave her one less thing to hold over him.
Now, his buzz from earlier destroyed, Pilot grabbed his bag and dug out the Polaroids, wanting to get back some of the excitement he had felt. He flicked through the photographs and found the ones of Boh. A warmth replaced the anxiety in his stomach. He snagged his phone from his jacket and sent her a message.
Really excited to be working with you, Boh. Pilot.
He hadn’t expected her to reply so quickly and when he saw her message, he smiled.
You too! I’ve just been on the Internet to research some stuff—you are the king of Pinterest! Looking forward to starting work. B.
Sweet. Pilot glanced at the clock. Just after six p.m. He hesitated for a moment then typed in another message. Have you eaten yet?
Not yet, I just got out of rehearsal.
Pilot drew in a deep breath. Was this inappropriate? Ah, to hell with it.
Feel like grabbing a burger and getting started?
He counted the second before she replied. Sounds good. Where should I meet you?
Pilot couldn’t help the victorious “Yes” that escaped his lips.
Chapter Six
“The seasons.”
“Been done.”
“Um … the elements?”
“Also done.”
“Dang it.” Boh shoved another bite of burger into her mouth and screwed up her face. Pilot grinned at her, a blob of mustard on the side of his own mouth. Without thinking, she reached over and swept it off with her finger. Immediately getting that it was a very intimate thing to do to someone she didn’t know, she flushed, but Pilot just smiled and thanked her.
To cover her embarrassment, she made a joke of it. “I did contemplate leaving it there and letting you walk out of here, but I thought it was too early in our working relationship to do that.”
Pilot laughed—God, his smile was intoxicating. “Well, I’m glad you thought so … because now I can tell you about the ketchup on your cheek.”
Boh’s eyes widened, and she scrubbed furiously at both of her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater. She checked but there was no ketchup on the fabric. Pilot gave her his best cheesy grin.
“Kidding.”
Boh giggled. Over the last hour, she had learned that Pilot had the same goofy sense of humor that she did, and although she had been nervous when they first met up, now she was having a great time. They’d talked about the project and now Pilot had his notebook out in front of him.
“I thought we could just spitball ideas until we come up with a theme,” he’d said after they’d ordered their food. They were at Bubby’s on Hudson Street, and Boh was eating the most sublime burger she’d ever tasted, a mid-rare burger with fries. She’d skipped lunch—well, she’d been forced to skip lunch when Kristof made her make up for missing so much of his class—and now she was ravenous.
It didn’t hurt that her view was so pleasant. Pilot, dressed in a dark navy sweater, his hair wild about his head, a dark five-o-clock shadow on his handsome face, was talking about themes and they were trying to think of something original.
“How about a ballerina in urban decay settings?”
Boh considered. “I do like that idea, but there’s also a growing trend of urban ballet and I wonder if we could run into trouble there.”
Pilot was tapping into his phone. “Yeah, you’re right and of course, it’s—”
“Already been done?”
Pilot chuckled. “Yep. Damn, I thought we had this.”
Boh smiled shyly at him. “Come on, we’ve barely started. So, no elements, seasons, city dumps …”
Pilot laughed. “And, please, God, no star signs.”
“Amen to that.” Boh stuck a French fry into her mouth. He was so easy to be with.
Pilot studied her. “What’s Kristof’s workshop about?”
“Sex and Death is the theme. He’s pushing to do the murder scene in The Lesson as part of the performance. Celine and Liz are fighting him.”
“I don’t know the ballet.”
Boh leaned forward, in her element talking about her art, her passion. “The Lesson is the story of a teacher and his pupil. He’s obsessed with her and during one particular lesson, he becomes more and more aroused by her performance until finally he snaps and stabs her to death.”
Pilot grimaced. “Delightful.”
Boh laughed. “Actually, when performed in the context of obsessive love, it is quite beautiful. The idea of being so in love with someone that you’d hurt them is something a lot of ballets cover. Mayerling, for example.” She saw the strange look pass over his face. “What is it?”
He shook his head. “It’s just … the reality of that kind of relationship. There’s nothing romantic about it.”
She wondered who had hurt this beautiful man but didn’t feel she could ask him directly. “Are you married, Pilot?”
“Divorced. Happily so.”
Boh studied her fi
ngernails. “Girlfriend?”
He didn’t answer for a moment and she looked up to find him smiling at her, his eyes soft. “No, no girlfriend. You?”
She shook her head. Pilot leaned forward and gently brushed his lips against hers then drew back, his eyes searching hers. “Was that okay?”
Boh was having a hard job catching her breath. “More than okay,” she whispered, and Pilot chuckled and kissed her again.
“You realize,” he murmured against her lips, “that I’m just relieving you of ketchup and mustard. You have it all over your face.”
They kissed again, and Boh’s palms cupped her face, stroking the soft skin above his beard. Ask me to come home with you and I will, she silently asked him, shocking herself, but he made no attempt to try to talk her into his bed and she found herself warming to him. Yes, there was damage there, she thought, but Pilot Scamo was different to most men. She felt, in her bones, that he didn’t want to take from her and that was new to her.
They talked some more but couldn’t find an idea. “Let’s call it a night,” he said. “You look bushed. Can I drive you home?”
She got into his comfortable Mercedes and noted how worn it looked. Worn but comfortable, like an old friend. She knew nothing about cars, but the fact that he wasn’t prissy about his made her smile. He saw her expression. “What?”
She told him and he laughed. “Yeah, she’s just an old jalopy, really, but she’s been very faithful to me.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure?”
“You come from money?”
Pilot nodded. “I can say that, yes, but there was a time before my dad made his money that I remember very well. Fifty-cent noodles from the bodega and cereal for dinner. My mom, she’s a tenured professor at Columbia, but back then she was working her way up, plus bringing up a teenager and a baby, while Dad was working all hours at his company.”
“What work did he do?”
“Really want to know?” Pilot gave her a grin, and she chuckled.
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