Precious Things by Kelly Doust Page B

Pearl’s childhood? Or her whole life! All the ups and downs, all the firsts, all the years that followed and the moments to be cherished . . . She felt a pain in her chest even imagining it. Maggie took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know how much I’ll be able to find out. But I’ll do my best.’
    Francesca let out a shaky breath and smoothed her hand down the front of her elegant black palazzo pants. ‘I would be so grateful if you could. It would mean a lot to me.’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Maggie, taking the woman’s arm. Maggie could feel the woman shaking through the tips of her fingers. ‘Zac . . . Zac?’ she called, wondering if she needed help. She led Francesca through to the kitchenette and placed her upon a carved gilt Louis XV side chair. The woman looked so at home, sitting on that chair, that Maggie marvelled at how two beauties could be put together like that and just sing. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? Strong and sweet, I think . . .’
    â€˜Here, boss!’ said Zac, lumbering into the kitchenette, but she gently pushed him outside so they could give Francesca a moment – she was looking very pale, Maggie thought.
    â€˜There was someone else to see you just a moment ago, too,’ Zac said. ‘But he left – Michael something or other.’
    â€˜Masterson?’ Maggie asked, noting the butterflies starting up in her belly. What was he doing here?
    â€˜Said he was passing by and wondered if he could take you to lunch, but I told him you have that meeting with Bonningham. Who is he, then?’ Zac asked, and Maggie hoped he hadn’t noticed the flush creeping up her cheeks.
    â€˜Oh, potential client – I’m meeting him next week,’ Maggie said quickly. ‘Must be urgent, although I can’t quite think why.’
    Maggie pushed her hair back from her face and smiled brightly, her mind racing. So Michael was stopping by for a visit, was he? That was very strange.
    What an odd, unsettling sort of day.

CHAPTER FIVE
    LEXI: Paris, 1926
    Lexi flung back her head, spine arching like a bow, arms open to the heavens. Luminescent in the searing heat of the spotlights, the sweep of gold-dust along her eyelids glittered. Tendons quivered. She closed her eyes to the canvas big top, and waited.
    There was a moment of silence. Then the roar. The applause fell on her like a monsoon, violent and warm.
    A wave of relief washed over her. Addictive, as always. Tension leached through her soles into the packed earth, and Lexi felt herself become engulfed by the catcalls and wolf whistles. The orchestra started up again. She relaxed her pose, ever so slightly.
    I still have it in me .
    Her best days weren’t behind her. Not yet.
    Folding gracefully in two, Lexi took a low, languid bow. Her thigh muscles shuddered in warning. Registering the front row on her way down, a palm brushed her foot as the other arced up above her head.Several women eyed her, looking hard to impress. The children, some as young as three, proved less difficult, their mouths forming a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. The men watched her as well, but with something akin to hunger. One threw a single-stemmed rose at her feet. Only because he can’t see me up close , Lexi thought, backing away towards the far end of the ring, towards the slit in the folds of the velvet curtain.
    The ground shook, rumbling with the stomping of several thousand pairs of feet. Lexi waved her hand above her head and gifted the audience with her brightest smile yet, perspiration stinging her eyes. Rutherford swept the curtain aside and entered the ring, standing next to her.
    â€˜Mesdames et messieurs, I think you’ll agree that was simply astounding. Our star of the show!’ Even with a megaphone, Rutherford shouted to be heard above the noise of the crowd and the building drum roll. His cheeks flushed red. ‘Lexi Dömötör – trapeze artist