Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Moonglow penetrated the clouds muddling the sky, but the stars were outshone by the streetlamps and the brightly lit buildings that lined the busy thoroughfare. The Pink Full Moon, they called it back in New Hampshire, where Ellie had learned the traditional names and associated lore for each month. An April shower had darkened the pavement and created shallow puddles churned by cars, taxis, and buses.
The breeze felt deliciously cool against her bare face. Before leaving the club, she’d washed away thick makeup and plucked off her false eyelashes and arranged her hair in a casual semblance of a ballet bun. Pearl studs replaced the pink rhinestone earrings she’d worn on stage. She hoped her navy trouser suit was sufficient camouflage, because she’d forgotten to put on her non-prescription eyeglasses before handing off her stage case to Camille. They must be buried in the jumble of items she carried to and from the theatre: cosmetics, pastie tape, sewing supplies, tiny plastic pouches of colored sequins and crystals for costume repairs, hair products and accessories, pill case, and more.
She reached into her pocket for her vibrating cellphone and moved beneath a hotel awning to prevent pedestrians from colliding with her. “Hi, Mom. Shouldn’t you be in the studio?”
“Not yet. Renée is leading the little ones through their barre exercises. How was your opening?”
“Stella’s last stand is a total love fest. I’ve come full circle, to the site of my debut overseas gig.”
“Your dad and I ordered flowers. I hope they reached you before showtime.”
“They’re gorgeous and the perfect shade of pink. I used them in my final Rose Adagio—never to be repeated.”
The flow of traffic had slowed to a crawl, and horns blared.
“What’s going on? Where are you?”
“On Piccadilly. Walking to the Ritz.”
“You’re supposed to have a limo.”
Like members of her entourage, her relatives were obsessed with the perks conveyed by her star status. “I let Camille and the guys take it. Don’t worry, I’m incognito. I’ll call tomorrow and tell you everything. Give Daddo a kiss for me.”
There was no need to join the steady stream of pedestrians moving along the hotel’s iconic covered walkway. The entrance was located on the Arlington Street side, where fluttering blue flags bracketed the blue awning.
Before she set foot on the carpeted steps, the top-hatted doorman beamed at her, saying, “Lovely flowers you’ve got there, m’lady.” Saving her the trouble of navigating the central revolving door, he pulled open the one near where he stood.
“Good evening, Mrs. Colman,” the night clerk greeted her when she paused at the reception desk. “How may we assist?”
“I planned to walk from here to Seven Dials tomorrow, until I saw showery intervals in the forecast. Would it take long to go by taxi?”
“That depends on the time of day.”
“It’s a lunch meeting.”
“I should think you’d have a ten-minute journey, approximately, barring delays for roadworks. Shall we arrange a cab for a particular time?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting for my friend to confirm.”
“You can ring in the morning and let us know. Anything else we can do for you?”
She placed her roses on the curved desktop. “I could use a vase.”
“Certainly, Madam. One of our staff will locate one and deliver the flowers to your suite.”
After thanking him, she said, “My aunt is meeting me in the bar. Is it still open?”
“Until half past eleven. Plenty of time to enjoy yourselves.”
As she stepped around the circular table in the center of the rotunda, she admired the enormous and very fragrant arrangement of mixed, long-stemmed flowers. The chosen location for the traditional post-performance assessment was supremely Art Deco in style, with glossy gold-accented wood walls and smoky Lalique glass bas relief panels. She scanned the room, seeking a vacant two-top, a term she’d learned waitressing at her dad’s restaurant. Couples had claimed them all. The larger table with four chairs was too near the door for her liking but preferable to perching on a barstool.
A server in a pristine white jacket and black trousers presented the drinks menu, but she already knew what she wanted. Her cocktail, an icy combination of gin, ginger syrup, ginger ale, and crushed mint, arrived in a tall glass. Although she rarely drank spirits, first nights were sufficient cause—especially her final first night. She savored the mix of flavors as she waited for the alcohol to decrease the level of post-show adrenalin.
“Hello, Stella.”
She glanced up. A man was leering down at her.
“I saw your show. Genius. Absolute genius.” He pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat, smiling in the suggestive, close-lipped way she knew so well. “What luck to find you here.”
“I’m waiting for someone,” she stated crisply, hoping he’d take the hint. Was this the mysterious author of the note she’d discarded? The best way to avoid these unwelcome encounters was to hide out in her hotel room, a drastic measure that prevented her from living a semblance of a normal life during a tour.
“Last time you came to London, you put on quite an extravaganza at the O2. Supporting acts, lots of showgirls, a full orchestra. The place was packed. Why aren’t you booked in over there?”
Feeling a hand press on her shoulder, she stiffened.
“My sincere apologies for turning up so late,” intoned a male voice, distinctly British.
Double ambush.
The fellow seated across from her got up. “I was telling Stella how much I enjoyed her performance tonight.” He made a speedy exit.
Meeting the intruder’s gaze, she said calmly, “I could’ve handled him myself.”
“That’s what I told my work colleague. But she and her partner insisted that I come over and rescue you.”
His reply eased Ellie’s wrath, as did his confidence in her ability to ward off a nuisance. “Thanks. To all of you.”
“Since we arrived, they’ve been glued to their mobiles, trawling the internet for information about you. Fangirling. Ignoring me. We were also at the Archway Cabaret. Second seating.”
Why would any right-minded female ignore him? He was gorgeous. His hair was very dark brown, but the low light prevented her from determining the precise color of his eyes. Blue, maybe, with a grayish tinge.
She waved her hand towards the three vacant chairs. “Join me. You can scare off predators until my official chaperone arrives.” After he accepted the invitation, she told him. “Tell your friends that only my website and social media accounts, managed by trusted individuals, are accurate sources. Most of what they’ll find online either contains the slightest fragment of truth, or none at all. I’m sure they’ve stumbled on fake photos with my head stuck on a different woman’s nude body.”
“That must be frustrating.”
“My most faithful and passionately supportive followers are vigilant about reporting deepfakes and refuting the misleading gossip. Many of them are young women who uphold me as a model of femininity and feminism—which aren’t mutually exclusive. They read or listen to every interview. They buy the merchandise. They stand in line to get my autograph. I love them for it.”
“Lou and Kelly neglected to inform me that the famous Stella Nue is also a ballerina. I daresay you’ve had extensive training.”
“From the time I could stand up.” Over the years, she’d edited down the history of her ballet years to the essential facts. “My mother and one of her sisters danced professionally in Montreal and later established their own studio in New Hampshire. I was their pupil, before being accepted into the dance program at Juilliard. I had to drop out when I aced my audition for City International Ballet. After a very brief stint as an apprentice, I joined the corps. I was still a teenager when they promoted me to soloist.” Despite being undesirably curvy. Skipping past the excruciating body-shaming saga, she concluded, “Eventually, I left.”
She wouldn’t, she couldn’t, mention Harry.
“For a career in burlesque?”
Ellie shook her head. “Not then. Somebody I trusted had fled to Ballet Bruxelles. When one of their soloists left on her maternity break, he recommended me to the artistic director, who had been a répétiteur at CIB. Eventually she offered me a season contract, and I had the chance to take on major roles. Rafe became a huge star, invited to perform as a guest artist with European companies, in full length ballets or at galas. Whenever he could, he took me with him.”
“You performed with Rafe Lawrence?”
“My former partner. Dance partner,” she clarified, in case he jumped to a wrong conclusion. “We’ve known each other nearly a decade, and for five of those years I was his work wife. Lawrence and Lowery, dancing our way across Europe. In those days I was billed as Ellie Lowery, my real name. One of them.” Within the ballet company, she’d often been referred to as Rafe’s Waif.
“I’m Daniel Wheeler. Dan.”
The waiter stopped at their table and asked if they wanted anything else from the bar.
“Whisky for me, please. What will you have, Ellie?”
“Another Ginger Rogers.” She didn’t care that it would subdue her habitual reluctance to engage with a stranger. Handsome Dan appeared to be genuinely interested in her backstory, and she was curious about him.
“What prompted you to give up what sounds like quite a successful ballet career for burlesque?”
She was grateful for the waiter’s timely return. The presentation and placement of their drinks gave her a chance to frame her response to the familiar question. “I like change. And challenges.” She smiled. “After I pulled George and Zack into my act, I went back on pointe, just in a different way. We’ve had a lot of fun.”
“So why pack it in now?” he asked.
“We’re ready. Even more so after our grueling year-long farewell tour. Europe. Australia. New Zealand. Japan. Thirty North American cities. We’ve just completed our final set of full cast shows, in Paris. For sentimental reasons, I tacked on the Archway gig.” She stabbed the ice cube remnants with her straw. “I’m not abandoning show business. I’ve enrolled in the stage acting program at the Muriel Baker School of Dramatic Arts, near Regent’s Park.”
“Buck up,” he muttered. “Fangirls approaching.”
“We have to leave now,” the tall, spiky-haired female announced. “Our train doesn’t have a twenty-four-hour service on Thursdays.” To Ellie, she said, “I’m Lou. This is Kelly.”
“We loved the show,” the shorter woman told her. “Especially your act.”
“I’m so glad.” After the women were out of earshot, Ellie asked, “Whose idea was it to go to the Archway, yours or theirs?”
“Lou’s. On my birthday I was in Liverpool giving a conference presentation, and ever since she’s been going on about how I missed having a party. I didn’t care. But when we both received a promotion, she insisted we had to celebrate everything.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“Property management. At the executive level.” Staring into his whisky glass, he added, “My father is a devoted supporter of the arts. Classical music is his primary interest, but his generosity extends to dance companies as well.”
“British Ballet Theatre?” she asked. When he affirmed it, she told him, “Tomorrow I’m meeting Rafe, their artistic director, for lunch. Before I get insanely busy with publicity stuff. And apartment hunting.”
For several seconds he regarded her without speaking. “My role at Latimer London Estates requires knowledge of the rental market. What are your requirements?”
“Safety, security, privacy. I won’t consider anything on the ground floor or basement level. Otherwise, I just want the basics. Fully-equipped kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, bathroom with shower and tub. Clean. Reasonably attractive décor. Plenty of windows to let in the light. Price isn’t a consideration.”
“Obviously not. This is an expensive, world-class hotel. Do you seek a long-term or a short let?”
“However you define immediately until the end of June.”
“Any specific location?”
“This area would be ideal, because I know it best. Or Marylebone. I’d like access to green space.”
“I’ll have someone on staff research current listings. By end of business tomorrow, I can provide some recommendations.”
“That would be fantastic.”
“I’m happy to review them with you, if you care to stop at our office in Latimer Row. Unlike Lou, I’ve got an incredibly short commute. Two flights of stairs.”
A fleeting grin revealed that two of his bottom teeth were slightly misaligned, the one physical imperfection she’d detected. Hers were more obvious: black Irish eyebrows that contrasted with her russet hair and the permanent crook in her little finger, broken in a childhood softball game. Too much bust for ballet.
“You work from home?”
“Almost. I live above the shop. My employer owns all the buildings on both sides of the street. I pay him a peppercorn rent for the privilege of occupying the upper story flat.” He removed his cellphone from his inside jacket pocket, and after swiping, he presented it to her. “Add your details to my contacts.”
She passed her device to him. “You can do the same.” As she pressed digits, she said, “Mine’s a New Hampshire number. I’m including my email, if you need to attach images or a document.”
She was shoving her phone into her jacket pocket when a flash of color attracted her attention. If the bar’s occupants were asked which of them was the celebrity, Ellie had no doubt that the woman in the magenta dress and matching eyeglasses would be the choice. She introduced Dan to her aunt, explaining about his offer to assist their property search.
“One less London checklist item for me,” Camille said. “The Ritz is an expense we’re willing to bear temporarily, not indefinitely. Ellie prefers to meet journalists in a private hotel suite instead of a restaurant or pub, where she’ll draw attention.”
“Aunt Camille is my tour manager.”
“Not for long.” The older woman told the hovering waiter, “Cosmopolitan, please.”
“Another for you, sir?”
“I’ve reached my limit. Just the bill.”
“We’ll pay,” Ellie said. “You’re about to do us an enormous favor.”
“Even if I delegate the task?” He placed both palms on the surface of the table. “Flats located in desirable areas are in high demand and get snapped up quickly. Will either of you be available for viewings at short notice?”
“Not before the weekend,” Camille told him. “Ellie’s schedule is packed. Fashion shoot. Media availabilities—television breakfast show, newspaper interviews. Where she goes, I go.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Watching him depart, Ellie was impressed by the grace of his stride. Not exactly balletic, but he didn’t display the awkwardness that some long-limbed men possessed. He could be a male model—runway and print—with that combination of smooth gait and striking features. Or a movie star. His voice was also good, crisp yet sonorous, and he spoke with the classiest sort of English accent.
“Since when do you let a strange man cozy up to you in a bar?”
To avoid her aunt’s penetrating gaze, she drew circles on the table’s surface with her straw. “He’s a hero. When one of those assertive Stella fans was pestering me, Dan came over and displaced him.”
“I’m sure he had an ulterior motive.”
“Possibly.”
“Probably.” After a pause, Camille added, “You don’t seem to mind.”
“Maybe not,” she admitted.
“High time you emerged from your shell. I suspect your Mr. Wheeler would be happy to coax you out of it.”
For Ellie, the prospect was equally comforting and terrifying. “Time will tell.” Her tone was cheerless when she added, “Better a businessman than an actor. Never again.”
“You’re tempting fate. Never is a dangerous word.”
She didn’t respond to the warning. “I’m supposed to decide on the routines for our second week of shows. Thoughts?”
Camille sampled her cocktail before replying. “At this late hour, I’m past the point of giving advice or making decisions. This drink isn’t helping. Let’s discuss it in the morning over coffee. Our minds will be clearer when the caffeine kicks in.”