Page 9 of Stripped

"At least let me drive you," he said, following her.

"I don't get in cars with creepy men," she shouted back at him. "Leave me the fuck alone."

* * *

Pim picked up her pace until she got to Hillhead Station, where she caught the outer circle of 'Clockwork Orange', Glasgow's infamous subway line. It was named for its orange and white cars. She swiped her smartcard at the terminal gate before finding a seat in the underground train car. The subway doors slid shut and she slowly let out her breath. He hadn't followed her.

The cheery voice of the subway driver came over the intercom, announcing, "The next station isKelvinbridge," with endless enthusiasm for a Monday morning. It usually made her smile, but not today.

She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. The thought of her grandfather being murdered brought up all the anxiety and dread of her own father's death. Two murders in one family? The sound of the policeman's voice telling her mother of her father's death echoed in her mind. He had been bludgeoned with a lead pipe and on his death certificate, under cause, it read fractured skull. They never caught the killer. She took a new pair of pointe shoes from her bag and quickly sewed elastic and ribbons on them, a skill she had become a pro at when she started going through a pair of shoes in a day. She ripped out the insoles and, taking a pair of industrial snippers, popped the shank up, removed the nail in the heel, and cut the thick, hardened cardboard in half, in essence, de-shanking three quarters of the shoe.

The accusations the man had spouted were disturbing. Peter wouldn't drug her and if her grandfather had been in danger, surely, he would have told her. She hurried to finish, cutting the satin off the outside tip of the toe. She sliced it several times with a box cutter to rough up the edge, then she squeezed the box until she felt it crack. Caught up in her own thoughts, she almost missed the witty announcer call out Bridge Street. That was her exit. She put her shoes away in her bag and walked the short distance to where she caught the bus that would take her the rest of the way.

Scottish National Ballet was housed in the Tramway Arts Center, on the Southside of Glasgow. Pim entered the modern, purpose-built ballet center, making her way up to the second floor toward the dressing rooms. Voices could be heard coming from the one assigned to the women. She entered and stopped short when she saw her locker. Someone had painted a black X across the outside of it. The other girls in the room went silent. Pim set her bag down and clenched her jaw to prevent the tears that threatened from coming.

"It was like that when we got here, Pim," one of the dancers said.

"It's fine," she said, changing into her tights and leotard.

"We didn't think you would be back today or we would have cleaned it up."

"I'm just back for class." She put on a pair of knit legwarmer pants. Actually, she wasn't surprised. Between being named a soloist and getting the starring role in Swan Lake, she was bound to piss someone off. The worst thing she could do was react; she needed to let it roll off her back. She closed the door to her locker and made her way upstairs to the studio. Windows lined the top of one of the white walls and the weak morning sun came through in shadowy streaks. She sat down to put on her pointe shoes.

Niall Leonard, the aging ballet master, came over to her. "I didn't expect to see you today, Rosy."

She smiled up at him. "I'm just here for class. I can't stay in my flat all day."

"How are you holding up?" He wiped his watery nose with a handkerchief. She knew he'd had a soft spot for her ever since she came to the company.

"I'll do," she said, biting her lip to fight off the tears that welled up in her eyes.

"Aye, well, take it easy today." He was her favorite teacher. In his younger years, he had danced for the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo and if you caught him in the right mood, he would regale you with stories of famous dancers and old-world glamour.

When all of the company arrived, Pim found her place at the barre. "Are you okay?" her partner Paul mouthed to her from his spot.

She nodded. The pianist began to play and class officially started. This was what she needed, the comfort of this non-negotiable ritual. Ninety minutes, to calm her mind and block out the events from the weekend while she warmed up her body and prepared for the turmoil of the upcoming day. The slow movement of Beethoven wound down and the accompanist began to play an upbeat tune.

Mr. Leonard bellowed over the music, "Épaulment. Épaulment. Watch your shoulders, ladies." Their legs moved in and out with fast controlled movements as they finished with tendus.

The door to the studio crashed opened and Zoya Petrov, the ballet mistress, charged in angrily. "What's she doing in class?" she shrieked at Niall.

"Who?" the ballet master asked, looking around.

"Pim."

The pianist stopped playing.

"Pim, come here," Zoya continued to squeal in her thick Russian accent.

Pim looked around before making her way over to the woman.

"You're supposed to be on bereavement leave."

"I just came in to take class."

"You need to leave," the woman spat.

"Why?" she asked. "Peter said it would be all right."