The Favorites: A Novel(70)

“What are you doing?”

The voice interrupting my tantrum was female, harsh and smoky.

With a Russian accent.





Chapter 47





Veronika Volkova gave the ruined flower at my feet a bemused glance.

“I think it is dead,” she said. “But do not let me interrupt.”

This was the first time I’d ever actually spoken to Veronika. She wasn’t what I expected. Up close, a mischievous glint warmed those famous ice blue eyes.

She was still terrifying, though—and draped, as always, in her signature sable coat. Any other woman would’ve looked like a spoiled socialite. Not Veronika. She wore that fur as if she’d skinned the animals with her own hands.

“If you are finished,” she said, “the press conference will begin soon. Yelena and Dmitri remain in first place, of course.”

“Thanks for the update,” I said, trying to move past her.

Veronika held her ground in the middle of the hallway. “Though I am sure the press will still have many questions to ask of you and Mr. Rocha.” She sniffed. “Trust the French to privilege sex over substance.”

I glared. I felt like a rabbit staring down a wolf. “We didn’t ask for any of this.”

She waved a hand. Her fingernails were painted a subtle nude shade but filed sharp as claws. “Save it for your adoring public. I know how Sheila operates.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Sheila Lin has the personal phone number of every photographer from Hollywood to Hong Kong.” Veronika leaned close enough to give me a whiff of her perfume—strong and floral, with notes of bitter wintry spices. “And they always take her calls.”

I scoffed. She was only trying to psych me out, set me against my coach.

My coach, who wasn’t there. Who had saddled us with lackluster, ill-fitting programs this season. Who told us to ignore the paparazzi, no matter how relentless they became. No matter how quickly they seemed to find us, even after we changed our practice schedule, even after we moved to a new apartment. They always knew precisely where we’d be.

“Do not look so shocked.” Veronika buffed her nails on her sable lapel. “Surely by now you must know how the game is played, Katarina Shaw.”

I’d thought I knew. But Sheila was playing on a whole other level.

“When they no longer want to take your picture and ask you about your love life,” Veronika said, “that is when you should worry.”

She walked away, hips swaying as if she had a hundred suitors staring longingly after her, and she didn’t give a damn about any of them. When Heath passed by her on his way to find me, she flashed him a smile. He flinched like he was afraid she might lunge.

“Are you all right?” He looked at the smashed rose petals, then back down the hall; Veronika had turned the corner toward the press room. “Why were you talking to—”

“Do you trust me?”

Heath seemed startled by the question. But he answered without hesitation.

“Of course I do.”

“Good.” I grinned and took his hand. “Because we can still win this thing.”





Veronika Volkova: I do not know what happened.

Ellis Dean: Something happened. They were different skaters in the free.

Katarina Shaw and Heath Rocha stand beside the boards as their names are announced at the 2006 Grand Prix event in Paris. They step onto the ice hand in hand, looking only at each other.

Kirk Lockwood: Even before they skated out, you could see the electricity.

Katarina and Heath take their opening pose. Katarina gazes up, arms overhead like a ballerina in fifth position. Heath reaches out as if beckoning to her. Though they’re no longer touching or making eye contact, they still seem connected, an invisible cord stretching taut between them. Their music begins: the fifth movement of Mozart’s Serenade No. 10 in B-Flat Major.

Kirk Lockwood: I remember being surprised when I heard they were doing something classical. I figured Sheila already had that piece in mind for Kat and her son before they split.

Francesca Gaskell: No one had seen the program outside of practice. I saw them skate it a bunch of times at the Academy, though, and believe me: it was nothing like that.

More footage from the free dance: the choreography is formal, but the way Katarina and Heath perform it makes even the most balletic movements carnal. Anytime they’re in close proximity, it looks as if they’re on the verge of kissing. Anytime they separate, they look desperate to hold each other. With every glance, every touch, every step, they convey longing and desire.

Jane Currer: Ice dance can have a certain sensuality to it, yes. Many programs express the beauty of the love between a man and a woman. But what Ms. Shaw and Mr. Rocha were doing bordered on vulgarity. It was impossible to watch them without picturing…

Producer (Offscreen): Picturing what?

Jane Currer: Well, you know.

Another interview with Lee Shaw, now in a brightly lit television studio. “Come on, man,” he says, scowling with disgust. “I don’t wanna think about my little sister that way.”

Ellis Dean: That program wasn’t figure skating, it was foreplay. Only Shaw and Rocha could make Mozart that filthy.

Garrett Lin: I don’t think they planned it. They just got caught up in the moment.