The Olive Tree (39 page)

‘Should I go?’

‘Helena, this is a prince to rival any fairy-tale ballet story. Of course you must go!’

So, reluctantly, she had accepted the invitation. And it had been . . .
fine
.

They had seen each other a few times since – he far more eager than she to make it as often as her schedule would allow. Friedrich really did seem too good to be true – handsome,
cultured, rich and totally devoted to her.

‘What more could any woman ask for? I just do not understand you, Helena.’ Fabio had rolled his eyes at her obvious lack of enthusiasm when he asked how the relationship was
going.

Nothing
, Helena had thought to herself.

It was as if, she mused now as she hung the necklace around her throat and saw how it fitted snugly between her collarbones, she had lost the ability to
feel
.

‘You are my very own Grace Kelly,’ Friedrich had said to her the last time he’d seen her, as he kissed her fingertips over the dinner table. ‘I want to make you my
princess.’

Then he had formally requested the pleasure of her company at the Gala New Year’s Eve Ball, which was to be held at the iconic Hofburg Palace. ‘I wish to show you off to
everyone,’ he’d said.

Although she hardly felt in a party mood, she had thought it would be ungracious to refuse, particularly as she knew it was one of the most highly anticipated events in the Viennese social
calendar. And at least it meant she would not be sitting alone sobbing as the New Year bells chimed out across the city.

After accepting the invitation to the ball, Helena had realised she had nothing suitable to wear for such an occasion, so she’d explained the situation to Klara, her trusted dresser at the
theatre. Klara, in true fairy godmother style, had whisked her off to Wardrobe, where they had found her an exquisite strapless pale-pink ball gown. In which she really did look like a
princess.

Helena glanced at it now, hanging sheathed in protective polythene on the rail, ready – after some minor adjustments – for her to take home with her after tonight’s
performance. As if on cue, Klara herself bustled into the dressing room, carrying the fluttering layers of white tulle, chiffon and sequins that made up Helena’s stage costume for this
evening.

‘Come now, Frau Beaumont, you must get ready, we have little time,’ she commanded in her heavily accented English.

She proceeded to style Helena’s hair into a high bun, adding small pearl and diamanté clips that would shimmer and sparkle under the lights. Then she sprayed it with enough
hairspray to withstand a nuclear attack before helping Helena into the costume, taking great care not to mark it with her heavy stage make-up. Her beady eyes fell on the open velvet box sitting on
the dressing table.

‘This is a gift?’ she said, indicating the box.

‘Yes.’

‘Who from?’

‘A friend.’

‘You mean the Prince?’

Helena nodded, embarrassed.

‘There is no need to be shy. You are a lovely woman. And I know he takes you to the ball tomorrow night. This necklace will look perfect with your dress.’

‘Yes, I suppose it will.’

‘And I have been thinking, Frau Beaumont. Tomorrow I will come to your apartment and help you in the preparations,’ Klara announced, as though it was a
fait accompli
.

‘Really, there’s absolutely no need,’ protested Helena.

‘But how will you fasten the dress without my help? There are many small pearl buttons at the back. And I can also fashion the hairstyle that will make you look your best.’

Helena capitulated, knowing from experience that resistance against Klara was futile. ‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’

There was no time for further conversation as Klara tutted fretfully at the five-minute bell, administering a further misting of hairspray as Helena rose from the chair to inspect herself in the
full-length mirror. The exquisite costume, with its delicately beaded bodice and flowing white skirts, epitomised the ethereal qualities of the character she would inhabit in a few minutes’
time.

‘You are ready,’ said Klara, admiring her handiwork too, as ‘Beginners’ was called over the intercom. ‘Good luck,’ she added as Helena left the dressing
room.

Two hours later, Fabio led Helena forward amid the thunderous applause that signalled the end of what they both knew had been a magical performance. The audience rose to their
feet with much stamping and cheering as the two of them took bow after bow and bouquets were flung onto the boards of the stage.

After the curtain fell for the final time, Helena made her way back to her dressing room. The adrenaline was still flowing round her body and despite her current offstage problems, she was still
on a high. Almost immediately, there was a knock at the door, heralding the arrival of what she knew would be a steady stream of visitors dropping by to congratulate her.

A handsome face, framed by pale blond hair, appeared round the door.

‘I do hope I am not disturbing you,’ he said.

‘Not at all. Please, Friedrich, come in.’

Helena walked forward to greet her guest, thinking how very distinguished he looked in his white tie and tails, with a scarlet sash bearing his family crest draped across his broad chest.
Friedrich took her hand and kissed it.

‘Words cannot express how enchanting I found your performance tonight. You are truly the embodiment of a fairy-tale sylph. And I see that you received my flowers,’ he added,
indicating the roses.

‘They’re stunning. And the necklace is beautiful too, Friedrich, but really, it’s far too generous—’

‘Hush, my dear Helena. It is no more than you deserve. Please, I should be most dismayed if I thought it did not please you. And I am very much hoping that you will wear my gift to the
ball.’

‘Then all I can say is that I will, and thank you.’

‘The only thanks I need is to have you on my arm as we walk into the Hofburg Palace tomorrow evening.’

Helena was about to reply when there came another knock at the door.

‘So, I will take my leave for now, Helena – and look forward to a wonderful New Year’s Eve.’ With that, Friedrich bowed deeply and left the room, as a crowd of
well-wishers surged inside and swarmed around her.

Eventually, everyone departed the dressing room, leaving Helena alone. The adrenaline that had propelled her through the evening had now left her body and she felt weak and deflated. Once Klara
had helped her out of the costume and she’d removed her stage make-up, she changed into her jeans and sweater, shrugged on her coat and snow boots then left the theatre.

The following day, Helena met Fabio for a New Year’s Eve lunch at Griechenbeisl.

‘
Cara
.’ He rose to greet her as the waiter showed her to the table. ‘Come, sit, and let us celebrate the success of last night’s performance.’ He pulled a
bottle of champagne from the ice bucket that was already waiting, and poured out two glasses.

‘Here’s to us! And to the New Year!’ he toasted as he chinked his glass against hers. ‘I have already read the reviews of
La Sylphide
in the morning papers, and
they are superb. They say you are a star rising to the celestial firmament. Now, when we premiere our new ballet, they will know more than ever that we are a force to be reckoned with. We are on
our way to the top, Helena, I know it.’

Helena tried to mirror Fabio’s obvious euphoria, but was unable to manage more than a weak smile.

‘And apart from your triumph on the stage last night, you are to attend the ball at the Hofburg Palace this evening with the dashing Prince. Are you not excited,
cara
? It must be
every woman’s, and man’s’ – he chuckled – ‘dream to have such a night.’

‘Fabio, you must understand that I can’t just . . . switch off from what happened.’

‘Pffft!’ He flapped his hand dismissively. ‘You are talking still about that scoundrel, Alexander. Of course I understand how much he hurt you,
cara
, but it is time to
forget him and live your life. I thought the Prince pleased you?’

‘I . . . he does, I suppose, but . . . I’m not sure if I’m ready.’

‘Maybe it is simply because you are exhausted.’ He leant forward across the table and examined her face more closely. ‘You look pale, Helena, and you have not even taken a sip
of your champagne. Are you sure you are not sick?’

‘No, no, I’m not . . . it’s just that . . . I’m tired, that’s all.’ She bit her lip as her voice trailed off.

‘Then as soon as we have finished lunch, I call a taxi to take you back to your apartment. You must have some rest, so that you are prepared for the ball. I want you to enjoy yourself for
a change, Helena.’

‘Yes, you’re right.’ She managed a tight smile to reassure him. ‘I’ll be fine after a nap.’

Fabio shot her a suspicious glance, but refrained from further comment and changed the subject, quizzing her instead about her gown for the ball, then as usual regaling her with titbits of
gossip about other members of the ballet company. When their food arrived, she felt his keen eyes assessing her as she barely touched it.

It was as if
, Helena thought,
he already knew
.

Having got through lunch, she went home and did as Fabio had ordered her and lay down on her bed. Try as she might to get some sleep, her brain was whirring and her stomach
churning. She found herself trying to calculate yet again if it was really possible, or whether she was simply panicking.

Shortly after her first physical encounter with Alexander, she had been thrust into the maelstrom of the ballet season and, like most ballerinas, had taken the Pill continually
without the usual one-week break, in order to prevent the monthly bleeding. This was regarded as an essential practice for performing onstage.

Consequently, she had no clear idea of when she had last bled ‘normally’.

But then . . . there was the nausea, the heavy feeling in her stomach, the exhaustion – symptoms that she remembered only too well from last time . . .

Eventually Helena gave up trying to rest, and rose from the bed. She’d procrastinated time and time again, but there was only one way to find out and put her mind at rest.

Realising that the pharmacy on the next street would almost certainly be closing early today, she threw on her coat, grabbed her purse and ran out of the apartment. After she’d bought what
she needed she walked back home, her heart sinking as she saw Klara already waiting for her outside the front entrance to her building.

Damn!
‘Sorry to keep you waiting in the cold, Klara,’ she said. ‘I ran out of . . . toothpaste.’

Klara pursed her lips as Helena unlocked the front door. ‘We must make a start if you are to be ready in time.’

Back in the apartment, as Klara chattered constantly about the evening ahead, Helena zoned out, merely nodding at what she thought were appropriate junctures, her mind still occupied
elsewhere.

I was mad to accept the invitation to the ball. I’m leading Friedrich on . . . What on earth will I do if . . . ?

By the time she was finally ready to Klara’s satisfaction, Helena could stand the tension no longer and stood up. Retreating to the bathroom, she locked the door and went to the cabinet,
where she had hastily hidden the test away earlier. She drew out the contents of the packet, her heart thumping against her ribs as she stared at it miserably and began to peel off the plastic
wrapper.

Then she froze as she heard the door buzzer, followed almost immediately by loud knocking on the bathroom door.

‘Frau Beaumont! Your car has arrived! Your prince is waiting for you!’ called Klara.

‘Coming!’ Helena hesitated for a moment, then stuffed the white stick into her jewelled evening bag before she left the bathroom.

Klara was waiting for her outside, holding out a gossamer-fine silk wrap in one hand and a pair of long satin opera gloves in the other. After helping Helena on with the gloves and draping the
wrap around her slender bare shoulders, she stood back as she surveyed her charge. The fitted silk bodice of the blush-pink dress was artfully cut to reveal Helena’s flawless
décolletage, then cinched around her tiny waist before cascading into voluminous, floating skirts made up of layers of delicate chiffon. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head, wispy
tendrils curling around her face, and the diamond necklace sparkled like tiny shards of ice at her narrow throat.

‘You look beautiful.’ Klara gave a satisfied sigh. ‘Now,
liebling
, you must go and greet your prince.’ She shooed Helena out of the front door of the apartment and
towards the lift.

‘Have a wonderful night!’ she called as the doors closed.

Friedrich, looking svelte in full evening dress, was waiting for her in the lobby and let out an audible gasp as Helena emerged from the lift and walked towards him. He took her gloved hands in
his and held her at arm’s length for a few moments as his eyes swept over her, before drawing her to him and kissing her gently on both cheeks. ‘You are radiant, my Helena,’ he
whispered. ‘I will be the envy of every man at the ball.’ Then he offered her his arm, and they walked together out to the waiting limousine.

The lightest sprinkling of snow was falling as the imposing curved facade of the Hofburg Palace came into view, aglow with lights. They drove beneath the high ceremonial arch
and into a huge lamp-lit inner courtyard, where a red carpet was laid over the cobblestones leading up to the entrance. The car drew to a halt and Helena stepped out, taking Friedrich’s
proffered hand as he led her inside and up a grand staircase into a sumptuous palace stateroom, where a champagne reception was already in full swing.

Helena accepted a glass from a waiter and took a sip to try and calm her jangling nerves. She was going to need Dutch – and every other nationality’s – courage to get her
through the evening. She was greeted with deference by an endless stream of other guests, all eager to offer congratulations on her performances at the Opera House and to greet the prince by her
side.