Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Ellie tapped her credit card against the taxicab’s contactless pay device. Bidding her driver a cheery farewell, she darted through the drizzle to the café entrance. When she joined her lunch companion, seated in the least populated section, he rose and kissed each of her cheeks.
“Here’s a sight to brighten a dreary day,” he declared. “The beautiful burlesque star formerly known as Rafe’s Waif.”
She reached up to smooth his windblown brown curls, noticing the strands of gray that had appeared since their prior reunion. “Wonderful to see you. Last year when I was here, you were far away in—where?”
“Bali.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Don’t ever travel halfway across the globe to save a relationship. I got myself a magnificent beach tan. Like the lady, it vanished.”
“Her loss.” She removed her glasses. Unfolding her napkin, she used it to wipe raindrops from the lenses.
After they ordered food, he asked, “How is the Beast of Ballet Bruxelles?”
“Unchanged. The day after I arrived, I treated her to dinner at a brasserie near the Jardin Botanique. I ordered a seafood salad with framboise vinaigrette dressing, and she still complained that I was eating too much. I didn’t need to ask if I could attend morning class. She ordered me to.”
“On YouTube, there’s a video clip of us in Sleeping Beauty, and every time I check I find that the viewer count has gone way, way up. We left City International ages ago, and during that time our Act Three pas de deux has become legendary. I wonder if Mireille knows how popular it is?”
Ellie grinned back at him. “I’ll never forget those coaching sessions. ‘Foreplay, foreplay. Zay are not flirting. Puss in Boots is wanting sex. White Cat makes him crazy for it.’”
“‘Zay leave zee stage to fuck. Zay come back happy and purring in zee Polacca.’ It’s a miracle we got through those scenes without laughing.”
“She also wanted to know if I’d be interested in returning as a demi-soloist, although she would require a remedial period of intense preparation. I almost face-planted in my salad.”
“And you declined?”
“No en arrière moves for me. It wasn’t a realistic option. On my night off, I went to a performance and found out which coryphées had been promoted, and saw how well the veterans were holding up . ”
“Did you see anyone in Brussels worth stealing from her?”
“Do your own scouting,” she shot back. “I’m no ballet spy.”
“You’re welcome to join class at BBT. Have you met Anya Semerova?”
“Never. I’ve seen her on film. Everybody has.”
“I’ll introduce you, properly and deferentially. She resembles a fragile fairy but can be just as intimidating as Mireille. Our quintessentially English dancers are adapting—somewhat—to her preference for the Vaganova technique. I’m curious to see what she thinks of you, with your mixed-up training. The Cecchetti qualities you got from your mother. And at Juilliard and CIB, you were immersed in the Balanchine style so many American teachers perpetuate.”
“I’m uniquely me, I suppose. I looked at the schedule for the last weeks of your season. Tell me about the new work you’ve choreographed. Is it abstract?”
“Yes.” With obvious regret, he said, “I’m restrained about incorporating contemporary pieces. ‘Not too much of that modern muck,’ one of our board members tells me. The Day Dream is inspired by Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem of that name, set to Scarlatti’s Sonata in F minor. Our dramaturg and I are finalizing Virtuosi, which we’ll debut at the Autumn Gala. A short narrative ballet about Frederic Chopin’s affair with Georges Sand, and the relationship between Franz Liszt and Countess Marie d’Agoult. Four dancers. Music by the two composers. Very classical in style. I’ll present it on a double bill. With Les Sylphides.”
The ballet she loved best, as he knew. “A perfect combination.”
“We’re starting Onegin rehearsals.” His voice dropped when he said, “Stirs up so many memories. Monte Carlo. And our last night performing it in Brussels.”
“Don’t go there,” she warned.
“Your retirement was voluntary.” He wagged his shaggy head. “Advancing age and an injury-prone body forced me out.”
“Since coming back to England, you’ve done great things. One of the world’s premier ballet companies made you artistic director. As choreographer, you’ll have lasting influence. Like Ratmansky and Wheeldon and Peck and Forsythe.”
“Flatterer.”
“It’s the absolute truth. Don’t pretend you’re unaware.”
“Enough about me. I’m interested in your latest endeavor. I don’t see why you need a training program when you’ve got professional acting credits already.”
“I lucked into the roles of Stella Kowalski in Streetcar Named Desire and Beatrice in Much Ado about Nothing. There’s a lot more to learn than a couple of shows in a summer stock company could teach me. That’s why I chose a London drama academy with a broad curriculum.”
“When do you begin?”
“Next month. It’s an eight-week course. Improvisation, voice and diction, and movement. There are sections on character development and scene study. Performing for the camera, audition technique, and safeguarding issues. We’ll also rehearse a one-act play and present it to staff and students and invited guests.”
“Is there a graduation ceremony, like Harry had at Juilliard? Will you receive a diploma?”
She felt the smile leave her face, and her breath stilled. “A certificate. To add to the accumulated ballet competition awards at my parents’ house.” She hadn’t finished high school or earned a college degree.
He laid his cutlery across his plate. “I suppose you’ll return to New York.”
Shaking her head, she replied, “I’ve set my sights on Boston and environs, where there are several well-established theatre companies. I’d be near my sister. And not far from our parents. And just a couple of hours away from the lake cottage.”
“Stay here, love. With all the other American actors who have invaded the West End theatres.”
“They’re movie stars,” she said dismissively. “Or have a string of Broadway credits.”
He plucked a credit card from his wallet. “Afraid I really must dash. Full cast stage rehearsal for Day Dream. Piano only. Come along and watch.”
“Wish I could, but I’m booked for a photo shoot. Professional hairdresser and makeup artist. Fashion stylist. The works.”
“Then I’ll look for you at morning class. Ten o’clock, every day but Sunday.”
“I’d better visit Freed.”
“You’ve given up your cheater shoes?”
“No. That’s an outdated term. Mindens are ubiquitous, have been for years. I’ll be shopping for tights and practice skirts. And a leo. Or three.”
“I look forward seeing you extravagantly kitted out tomorrow.”
“I wish. I’ll be on a television studio set, answering questions about stripping and being a sex object. I’ll deflect by describing my version of burlesque as an extension of my dance career. Anyway, this is apartment search week. Somebody’s working on it for me, and I’ll have to check out whatever he finds.”
Outside the café, they walked away in opposite directions. The showers had subsided, so Ellie didn’t put up her raincoat hood. After weaving through the shiny black Seven Dials bollards, dotted with raindrops, she paused to check the map she’d downloaded to her phone. Turn on Monmouth Street, follow it to the corner of St. Martin’s Lane and Cecil Court.
Her partnership with Rafe Lawrence had started in Manhattan and ended in Brussels.
In addition to dancing White Cat to his Puss in Boots in New York, they’d been paired for the Peasant Pas de Deux in Giselle— her well-developed bosom wasn’t such a liability when portraying a village girl. After his promotion to principal, their onstage encounters were fleeting. When he performed Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake, she was either cast in the first act pas de trois or in the third act as the Polish princess. At Ballet Bruxelles, far less hierarchical, they often performed together, and she had joined him at galas elsewhere in Europe. Seated in a railway compartment, rattling across international borders, or huddled in airport lounges, they had shared artistic angst and personal anxieties, disappointments, and dreams. Until early onset osteoarthritis and a dodgy spinal disc pushed the celebrated danseur into the premature retirement that forced consideration of administrative positions.
Ellie’s stroll through the city revived her strong affinity for London. Its vibrancy and international flavor had long appealed to her, and as she passed pedestrians conversing in various languages, she wondered whether they were residents or tourists. In New York, living within the bubble imposed by her strict CIB work schedule, she’d had little available time for exploring or expanding her limited geographical range. With Harry guiding her from place to place, she’d never had to learn the intricacies of the street layout or the subway system. For Sunday lunch they ate dim sum in Soho or went to the oyster bar or a Blarney Burger. When his parents left Long Island to spend time at their city apartment, she and Harry dined with them at restaurants far fancier than the ones they frequented.
Her brief but productive shopping spree at Freed of London provided her with footless tights, wrap skirts in several lengths and pastel colors, and a pale blue knit warm-up top with long sleeves. The sales assistant was placing the purchases in a carrier bag when Ellie’s cellphone buzzed for an incoming text from Dan Wheeler, property bro.
Good news—perfect flat found. Need to discuss. When can we meet?
Busy 2day & 2moro, she responded. Sunday best 4 me. You?
Yes.
Coffee my suite 9 am?
Good. Need to see govt issue id. Will explain.
Ok.
His mention of flat, singular, startled her. She was expecting a collection of internet links for available properties that met her specifications.
She halted near the door and texted back. Can u send web listing?
Sorry, no. Doesn’t exist.
Baffled, she exited the shop. She was close to Leicester Square underground station where she could board a Piccadilly line train for Green Park station. There was just enough time to race to the Ritz, drop off her Freed bag, and order a taxi to deliver her to the photographer’s studio. The stylist, she hoped, had accommodated her request for classic casual attire and elegant couture gowns rather than revealing lingerie or a showgirl costume. And she counted on the professional makeup artist to save her the hassle of fixing her face for tonight’s show at the Archway.