Page 6 of Stripped

Chapter 4

Pim sat in her grandfather's Kingsborough Gardens townhouse in Glasgow, thankful the solicitor and his close business associates had gone home for the night. The company had given her a few days off, canceling Sunday's show in Inverness. She had called her mother in Canada to let her know the arrangements, but she told Pim she had no intention of flying out for her ex-father-in-law's funeral.

"I'm sorry, Pim," her mother explained over the phone, earlier in the day. Her voice simmered with resentment. "You know Angus and I never got along, even when your father was alive. Nothing's changed. I would rather come and see you dance next month in New York when the company tours if we're available, than attend his funeral." She and her mother were never really close. Pim was sent off to the prestigious Royal Ballet School in London at age ten to study dance, only coming home on school breaks. When her father was killed in a horrible mugging in Edinburgh, she was just fourteen, and her mother, no longer tied down by marital duties, left to start a new life in Canada.

"I understand," Pim said, frowning at the phone. She couldn't help feeling hurt. She could use her support right now, but her mother had a new husband and a new family to occupy her time. "I'll manage." To her mother, Pim was nothing more than a burden her father had left her with when he died. She knew her mother was glad to be free from a man she never loved and more than happy to leave a city whose contemporary culture she never appreciated.

"I'm sure the lawyers will handle everything," she said.

"I suppose." Pim hung up. After her mother basically abandoned her, she started staying with her grandfather when she had time off school, spending holidays and summer breaks with him. They became close, as he was her only source of family. That was what made this especially hard. Now she had no one. A tear slid down her face, the pain of his loss overwhelming.

Her phone pinged, and she looked down at the screen. It was a message from Peter, her artistic director. I'm at your flat, but no one is answering. Just making sure you're all right.

She wasn't up for company and was glad she wasn't home. I'm at my grandfather's place. The solicitor just left.

He texted back. Let me know when you get back. You shouldn't be alone.

Peter had a reputationfor being a bit too friendly with his female dancers. Pim had been careful to avoid him at all costs, but with her having been given the role of principal dancer, he might expect certain things and she didn't have her grandfather here to protect her with his name or his pocketbook.

She sent one last textbefore turning her phone off. I have some work to finish up.

The solicitor had spent most of the afternoon in her grandfather's office, arranging the funeral. Her grandfather had been the CEO of many companies, ranging from offshore drilling to owning bars and restaurants. He was a central figure in Glasgow not only as a businessman, but also a philanthropist, and he had been known for generously supporting the arts and various charities as a celebrated patron. It was still hard to believe he fell over the rail. Despite his age, he was not a frail nor fragile man and he had always been steady on his feet. She wracked her brain trying to come up with an explanation that made sense, but none came to her. And the only possibility the police could offer was that it was a freak accident. She pulled the teabag from her cup and sat down at the large desk in his office. Now she was going to have to figure out how to go on without him. She knew death and she knew the pain and isolation that came with it. She pushed it down into the dark recess where her other grief dwelled. Right now, she needed to be strong. The funeral was in two days and she had to finish writing her eulogy. She wasn't sure what to say and the paper in front of her contained more doodles than words. For the moment, she decided to tackle the easy part first and started with a short biography of his life. It was the other part that eluded her. She wasn't sure how she could pay homage to the most important person in her life in a few paragraphs.

She put her pen down and stood up, stretching, as the joints in her hips and back cracked, relieving the pressure from sitting too long. The room was becoming dark as evening began to wrap the day in its velvety cloak. She needed to get back to her flat. She took her cup to the kitchen and put the few dishes that sat in the sink into the dishwasher, the emptiness of the large house only intensifying her loneliness. She turned off the kitchen light and set the alarm, shutting and locking the front door, then walked the short ten-minute stretch from Hyndland through Victoria Circus, to her flat on Belhaven Terrace. Her two-bedroom residence was located on the top floor of a Victorian townhouse, a gift from her grandfather when she signed with SNB. She took the stairs up to the third floor, glad of the exercise, but stopped short of her door. Peter was waiting in the hall for her, holding a bottle of wine.

"My darling girl," he said, coming over and hugging her. "I thought you might like a little distraction." He held up the bottle. "It's a very good vintage."

Her stomach dropped as she braced herself for the inevitable. "I thought I might go to the pub." She didn't want to be alone with him in her place. "Òran Mór has live music."

"Are you sure you're up for it?" he asked. She didn't miss the disappointment in his voice nor the bitter smile he plastered on his face as she derailed his plans.

"I've been inside all day. Honestly, I need a break from everything." She unlocked her door. "I just need to freshen up." He followed her in, his eyes browsing over the contemporary architecture and minimalist furniture, a combination of elegant simplicity and discreet luxury. He set the wine down on the kitchen counter. "Gift from Granddaddy?"

She stilled, looking over at him. The grief she felt came bubbling up. She pressed her lips together to hide the tremble. Of course, he knew she never would be able to afford it on her salary.

"Oh God. How insensitive of me," he said, running his hand down the side of her face. "I can hardly believe he's gone too, our dear benefactor."

She stepped back, trying to get ahold of her emotions. "I should change."

"Do you mind if I pour myself a glass?"

"No, please make yourself at home. There's a corkscrew in the drawer." She went into her bedroom and closed the door, taking a deep breath. Maybe getting out would do her some good. The reality of her grandfather's death, all at once, was crushing. She went to her closet and pulled out a black dress, changing into it. It was tight and short. She turned to look at the back in the mirror, pulling down the hem that hugged her thighs. The tattoo she'd gotten in her rebellious years when she wanted to quit dance stood out as it wove its way down her spine between her shoulder blades—three primroses intertwined, their stems turning into script that read, Behind every beautiful thing, there's some kind of pain. It was a Bob Dylan quote and it summed up what ballet had come to mean to her. She ran a brush through her long brown hair and applied some red lipstick. It would have to do; she didn't have it in her for anything else. She slipped on a pair of black high-heeled boots and grabbed her coat, steeling herself before she went out to the living room.

"There's my newest Étoile." He handed her a glass of the deep burgundy wine, kissing her cheek. "Here's to your grandfather."

Pim took a sip from her glass and set it down on the counter, frowning. Étoile, the highest form of French dancer. A star. It was a bittersweet compliment as it sat side by side with the end of a life. To reach the pinnacle in her career when no one she loved was there to celebrate it with her, left her empty. "We should get going before the pub gets too full."

Peter's eyebrow arched. "I doubt you would have any trouble getting in. You're Glasgow's prima ballerina now. And with how gorgeous you look, they would never turn you away. Finish your wine."

She felt her face grow warm but nevertheless picked up her glass and drained the contents. "There," she said. "Let's go." She picked up her keys, bolstered by the liquid courage. Maybe drowning her sorrows wouldn't be such a bad thing after all. She could numb the pain and dull her feelings. Old habits bubbled to the surface, reemerging along with the heartache.

Peter finished his glass. "I like this side of you, Pim. You should let it transcend into your dancing sometimes. Loosen up a little." He followed her out the door and down the stairs.

Òran Mór was a few blocks from her flat. It was one of the things that drew her to the area. The pub was originally a church before it was renovated into a thriving arts venue. It hosted two pubs, a nightclub, several restaurants and an auditorium. Its founding principle was 'Arts for All- All Year Round' and became a place that brought together the visual arts, theater and literature with local artists, actors and writers.

The crisp cool air was a relief as they walked along the pavement. Peter put his arm casually around her waist as they passed several other people out for the night. She tried not to tense. He had touched her many times before, all over, when he partnered her during rehearsal while demonstrating various moves. This was different, though; they weren't at the studio. At least the wine had started to take effect. She was going to need several more drinks to make it through this night.

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