Sparks Fly with the Billionaire

And she was in the ring. Allie.

Her act included three ponies, two camels and two dogs. The animals were putty in her hands. The dogs were identical Jack Russell terriers, nondescript, ordinary, but with tricks that turned them into the extraordinary. She flitted among her animals—her pets, he thought, for there was no hint of coercion here. She was a pink and gold butterfly, whispering into ears, touching noses, smiling and praising, and, he thought, they’d do anything for her.

He understood why. The audience was mesmerised, and so was he.

She had the camels lying down, the ponies jumping over the camels, the dogs jumping over the ponies, and then the dogs were riding the ponies as the ponies jumped the camels. The dogs’ tails were wagging like rotor blades and their excitement was infectious.

Allie rode one of the camels while the ponies weaved in and out of the camels’ legs, and the little dogs weaved through and through the ponies’ legs. The dogs practically beamed as they followed her every whispered command.

Matt thought of stories of old, of animal cruelty in circuses, and he looked at these bouncing dogs, the camels benignly following instructions as if they were doing Allie a personal favour, at the ponies prancing around the dogs—and he looked at the girl who knew them from the inside out and he thought … he thought …

He thought suddenly that he’d better think nothing.

This was a lady in pink spangles. She was the granddaughter of a client. Where were his thoughts taking him? Wherever, they’d better get back where they belonged right now.

He didn’t get involved. Not personally. The appalling sudden deaths of his parents and his sister had smashed something inside him so deep, so huge, that he’d spent the rest of his life forming armour against ever feeling that sort of hurt again.

He’d looked at Allie’s face as she’d seen her grandfather collapse and he’d seen a glimpse of that hurt. It should be reinforcing that armour, yet here he was, looking at a girl in pink spangles …

And then, thankfully, she was gone. The clowns swooped in again, making a game of the pan and shovel they needed—the camels were clearly not house trained—and the show was ready to move on.

He needed to focus on his next introduction.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen …’ he said, and the circus proceeded.

Interval.

Since when did standing in a circus ring make you sweat? He felt wiped. He headed out through the pink and gold curtains—and was struck by the sheer incongruity of the difference between front and behind the curtains.

The ring was all gold and glitter—a fantasy. Back here was industry. Men and women were half in and out of costumes, hauling steel rods and ropes and shackles, lining up equipment so it could be carried out neatly as needed.

Allie was back in her boots again, heaving like the best of the men. She had a denim jacket over her sequins.

‘Time for you to change, Allie, love,’ a very large lady yelled. ‘Fizz’s selling popcorn instead of Bella. We’re cool. Allie, dressing room, now.’

‘Someone give Mathew the words for the next half,’ Allie yelled and shoved the last iron bar into place and disappeared.

He watched her go and he felt the slight change in atmosphere among the women and men behind the scenes.

She was the boss, he thought.

Henry was the boss.

Henry was seventy-six years old.

Matt had thought he was coming to deal with an elderly ringmaster, to tell him it was time to close down. It seemed, however, that now he’d be dealing with Allie, and something told him dealing with Allie would be a very different proposition altogether.

He pretty much had things down pat by the second half.

He introduced acts. He was also there as general pick-up guy—and also … set-up guy for the clowns?

‘The gag’s on page three of the cheat sheet,’ Fizz had growled at him at half-time. ‘Henry sets it up for us so you’ll need to do it. It’ll be weird you reading it but it’s the best we can do.’

Right now the Exotic Yan Yan—Jenny Higgs, wife of Bernardo, or Bernie Higgs, according to the staff sheet he’d read ‘… fresh from the wilds of the remotest parts of Tukanizstan’— was there such a place?—was doing impossible things with her body. She was bending over backwards—like really backwards. Her head was touching her heels! Matt was appalled and fascinated—and for some weird reason he was thinking he was glad it wasn’t Allie doing the contorting.

He glanced ahead at the feed lines for the gag and thought … he could do this better if he stopped looking at the Exotic Yan Yan.

And he could do this better if he stopped thinking about Allie?

Do it. He read it twice, three times and he had it.

Yan Yan unknotted and disappeared to thunderous applause. Out came the clowns. It was time to take centre stage himself.

Deep breath. Remember the first line.

‘Fluffy, I have a present for you,’ he called in a Here Kitty, nice Kitty voice, and set the clipboard down, preparing—against all odds—to play the ham. ‘It’s your birthday, Fluffy, and I’ve bought you a lovely big cannon.’

‘A cannon?’ Fluffy squeaked, somersaulting with astonishment.

The clowns responded with practised gusto and foolishness as the great fake cannon was wheeled in. The joke went seamlessly, water went everywhere and the audience roared their appreciation.

Exit stage left, two dripping clowns with cannon.

Matt headed back to the sidelines for his clipboard as the ropes and pulleys and shackles were heading out at a run.

Allie, dressed now in brilliant hot pink, with her trademark tiger stripes making her look spectacular, was in the wings and she was staring at him with incredulity.

‘You memorised it?’

‘I had time.’

‘You had two minutes.’

‘Plenty of time,’ he said and felt a little smug. Banker Makes Good. He motioned to the bars, ropes, pulleys and shackles, set up in well drilled order. ‘Let’s get this show moving.’ He picked up his clipboard and strode out again.

And then Allie was flying in from the outer, twisting and clinging to a rope that looked like the sort of rope you’d hang over a river. She swung to the middle, seized another rope, changed direction—and swung herself up to a bar far up in the high reaches of the big top.

There was a guy up there waiting, steadying her.

It was his turn again.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, hold onto your hats. From the wilds of outer Mongolia, from the great, wild warrior hunting grounds of the Eastern nations, ladies and gentlemen, the great Valentino, to be catcher for our very own Mischka. Watch with bated breath while Mischka places life and limb in his hands and see if he lets her down.’

He didn’t let her down.

Mathew had watched this act when he was six years old and he’d been convinced the spangly lady would fall at any moment. In fact he’d remembered hiding under his seat, peeping through his hands, afraid to come out until the gorgeous creature flying through the air was safely on the ground.

He didn’t watch with quite the same sense of dread now. For a start, he’d seen how big, quiet and competent ‘Valentino’—alias Greg—was. He was six feet eight at least, and pure muscle. He hung upside down and swung back and forth, steady and unfaltering, as Allie somersaulted and dived.