Free Prima Donna by Karen Swan Page A

universe, her cheeks burning at Pia’s tactlessness. She knew that technically Pia was her boss, that theirs
was a working relationship. But Sophie also knew that she was closer to Pia than any other person in the world. They spent more time in each other’s company than they did with any other
person, lovers included; they laughed at the same jokes (well, nearly always); hell, they even shared clothes. Yes, Pia insisted on pulling rank and she was so unbelievably self-centred that she
probably didn’t know Sophie’s birthday, the colour of her eyes or what she was wearing on any given day. But she did need her, and not just to pick up her dry-cleaning. They were both
walking wounded, and Sophie had recognized it in Pia instantly. She knew, even if Pia did not, that the only people they had in the world were each other.
    Sophie stood like a maypole for a few moments–as people laughed and drank and danced around her – before making a furious beeline for the bar. Well, to hell with her! Pia had made
her leave Adam still in her bed to come and stand here in this hideous dress. Why
should
she slink off now? It wasn’t like anyone was looking at her anyway. She was entitled to just
as good a time as anyone else. And the drink was free.
    Blinking back the tears, Sophie ordered a dirty martini, downing it in one.
    She ordered another.
    She was on her third when a man pulled up a bar stool next to her.
    ‘May I join you?’ he asked. ‘I couldn’t help but notice that you are drinking alone. And a woman like you should never have to do that.’
    Sophie smiled sarcastically. He was gorgeous, but it was an embarrassingly cheesy chat-up line. He had to be one of the grooms – shaggy brown hair, tanned, muscular forearms, liquid brown
eyes. It looked like her wish at the match had come true.
    ‘I saw you earlier, at the match,’ he said, his eyes glittering. ‘My name’s Alonso. What’s yours?’
    ‘Sophie,’ she grinned, as though she’d said something really naughty, the alcohol swimming around her bloodstream.
    ‘Sophie,’ he repeated, as though hearing the name for the first time. ‘A very pretty name for a very pretty girl.’
    ‘Ha!’ Sophie snorted, before she could stop herself. It looked like all the clichés really were true.
    ‘But yes,’ Alonso frowned. ‘You don’t think so?’ He tucked a ringlet behind her ear so that he could see her more clearly. ‘I don’t meet many girls who
look like you. They’re all fake:
fake
blonde, with
fake
tits and
fake
tans,’ he said sneeringly. ‘You’re so tall, so elegant, so mysterious
– you look like . . . like you grew up in fields in the rain.’
    Sophie spluttered with surprise. ‘I did,’ she cried earnestly. ‘I’m Irish. I spent most of my childhood messing about on my mother’s family’s dairy
farm.’
    ‘See? That is why I am drawn to you. In Argentina, I too grew up on a cattle farm. Cows.’ He shrugged. ‘We share cows.’
    ‘Cows!’ Sophie laughed and held up her glass for a toast. ‘To cows, then.’
    ‘To cows.’
    Tanner Ludgrove turned the handle and stepped into the shiny black lorry to a fanfare of whinnies and snuffles.
    ‘Hello, you lot,’ he said gruffly, as the six ponies all pushed their heads out of their stalls, eager for an apple or a pat. He inhaled the aroma of leather and manure – the
best smell in the world – and listened to the sound of their hooves turfing up the fresh hay. The farrier had done his job and they had all been newly shod, the cleated shoes they used in the
snow taken off already. They wouldn’t be needing those for another year now.
    His favourite pony, Amos, bent his head down for a comforting rub. Tanner smiled and put his arm beneath the horse’s head, patting the far cheek. They both knew the journey that lay ahead.
They had done it together several times over the years now – the thirty-hour drive back to England through the Alps, micro-managed and planned down to the