Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Her short journey to the deserted lobby allowed no preparation time for an unexpected encounter with an individual from her distant past. Sandy-haired and lean, he was more impeccably dressed than he’d been during their student days. He hadn’t worn glasses then, and she couldn’t decide whether they made him look nerdy or professorial. He’d grown a moustache and a scruffy beard, like a male dancer returning to work from a lengthy hiatus. She preferred clean-shaven men, but his whiskers suited him.
“Hello, Gil.”
“Ellie.” As he kissed her cheek, his stubble rasped her skin.
“Thanks for coming. I hope you enjoyed the show.”
She recalled none of his history after he left Juilliard and had no idea when he’d returned to London. Had he attended Harry’s funeral?
Memories of that day were fragmented, either piercingly clear or hazy.
A spray of white lilies and fern fronds had been spread over casket lid. Unable to look for more than a moment, she’d fixed her gaze on the enormous floral arrangements packed in between the communion rail and the altar of the Colmans’ church. The minister who baptized an infant Harry had spoken in a refined, British-flavored accent. She learned things about her husband that he’d never told her. A female cousin described amusing incidents from summers in the Hamptons, drawing faint laughter from the congregation. His high school drama teacher was overcome with emotion, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief as he regretted the loss of an exceptional and promising talent.
“I dropped off a note on your first night but couldn’t stay. Father was waiting for me at the Garrick Club.”
She didn’t admit that anonymous messages annoyed her, or that she’d thrown his away. “How is he?”
“He’s rehearsing the revival of Rattigan’s A Bequest to the Nation at the Sovereign Theatre. He plays Admiral Lord Nelson, our famous naval hero.”
She’d met Sir Francis Cooke when he crossed the Pond to witness Gil’s performance as Freddy Eynsford-Hill in Shaw’s Pygmalion. Harry had played Professor Higgins. Brilliantly.
“When you’re not so knackered, I’d like to discuss your foray into stage acting.”
“You know about that?”
“Last year, at the start of your farewell tour, you mentioned it in an interview. Here’s my card.”
Reading the small print, she said in surprise, “You’re a playwright.”
“My true calling, as I belatedly discovered. My failure to inherit Sir Francis Cooke’s talents persuaded me to follow a different professional path. With better hours but worse pay.”
“I’ll phone you,” she told him, and meant it.
“Soon,” he insisted, leaning in for another kiss. It landed at the outer edge of her mouth.
Her aunt appeared, necessitating introductions. Gil accompanied them to the limousine and opened the passenger door for them, pre-empting their driver.
As the car proceeded through Mayfair traffic to the calmer environs of Latimer House, Camille asked, “How well did you know him?”
“We saw each other constantly. He and Harry shared a dorm room. More than once, he barged in when we were—when we weren’t studying. Poor Gil, he was so embarrassed. We did try to find him a girlfriend, so he wouldn’t feel like a third wheel, but never succeeded. He liked hanging out with us.”
“Did he and Harry compete for parts?”
“We were all competitive, dancers and drama students, within our respective disciplines. Hard work, high hopes. I sort of related to Gil, and empathized with him. Both of us felt the pressure of living up to parental expectations. He wanted to fit in but didn’t. Not at the school, not in New York. It was nice seeing him again. I hope he’ll find success with the play he’s written.”
Overnight, her subconscious carried her to the Lakes Region summer stock theatre where she and Harry had played lovers and spouses. He was feeding her lines, with an audience present. Terrified of making a mistake, she parroted the words. She was wearing the wrong costume. None of their props was in the correct location, and the stage furniture was poorly arranged. Like every dream about a performance, this one morphed into a full-blown nightmare, and she forced herself into wakefulness to escape it.
In the aftermath of his death, Harry had often appeared in her dreams. Lately, she’d seldom seen him.
Shaken and sad, she got up from the sleigh bed. After a quick shower she poured a cup of coffee and put together a simple breakfast of yogurt and diced figs. Camille helped her assemble a selection of nibbles that would energize her through a strenuous morning.
Ellie placed her empty bowl and orange juice glass in the dishwasher. “How will you spend the day?”
“My accountant and I have a video call to review my tax return before the filing date. No matter where we are in the world, Uncle Sam demands his due.”
Ellie picked up her bag, checked her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror in the vestibule, and exited the flat, ready to strive and stretch and soar and sweat. At Piccadilly Circus station she boarded the Bakerloo train for Regent’s Park. At her stop, she followed the signs for the Way Out and squeezed into the crowded lift.
The historic Crescent Theatre, located on the south side of Regent’s Park, housed British Ballet Theatre. At the time of Ellie’s prior visit, early in Rafe’s tenure, he’d given her a tour, showing off results of the costly renovation that revived its faded grandeur. The stage, he’d boasted, had the best sprung floor in the entire dance universe, as though that fact might tempt her to audition for his company.
She headed for the multi-level modern annex, containing administrative offices, rehearsal spaces, orchestra room, on-site wardrobe storage, music library, scenery construction shop, physio suite, and more. At reception she received directions to the space reserved for morning class. She stepped into an elevator large enough to accommodate fully half the corps de ballet. After its doors closed, she switched off her phone and tucked it into her bag.
From the studio doorway, she scoped out the spacious square room. Two barres, upper and lower, were permanently affixed to three of the mirrored walls, and rows of moveable ones stood in the center. Her nostrils were assailed by the aroma she’d encountered from childhood to adulthood, everywhere in the world: stale perspiration. Unfamiliar with the principals’ and soloists’ preferred locations, she faced the usual problem of finding a place to work.
Spotting an apparent vacancy, she removed her thin warm-up jacket and draped it over the bottom rail. Thousands of damp palms had smoothed and darkened the top one. She pulled her loose shirt over her head and stripped off the drawstring garments, revealing a figure that differed from the typically androgynous ballet girl. The top portion of her black leotard—best for hiding inevitable sweat patches—was designed for the well-endowed dancer, with broad straps and extra spandex layers for bust support. A curving bosom and the slight flare of her hips made her lean torso appear disproportionately slim, and she accentuated her small waist by tying on a filmy black chiffon skirt. Black tights, cropped at the calf, exposed the lower portion of her legs before she pulled on her leg warmers. To ensure optimal traction, she’d scuffed the split leather soles of her soft canvas slippers with a serrated kitchen knife.
After a quick check to make sure her bun was well-secured, she balled up the discarded garments and jammed them into her bag. She shoved it against the wall, leaving plenty of open area for footwork.
The long mirror reflected dozens of contorted bodies. As in every professional class, Ellie was surrounded by attractive faces and spare, muscled physiques. Although the majority of dancers were white, the company was ethnically mixed. She detected foreign accents and languages. Two men were speaking French. One blonde, whose English carried a Russian or Polish inflection, chattered with a brunette who must be German or Austrian. Joining the communal warm-up, she completed a series of hip and hamstring stretches and splits. She sat on the floor and used her stretch bands to pull on each big toe, then the smaller ones, an exercise that reinforced balance. Bending over, she touched her nose to her knees, feeling the morning pinch in her back muscles. She rolled her head to loosen her neck. Holding her right calf, she lifted her leg high and pulled it inwards until it was parallel with her torso. She performed the same movement on the left side.
She exchanged a nod and a half-smile with the girl closest to her, who had earbuds in. Making friends wasn’t a priority, but she didn’t want to offend anyone. The young male dancer on her other side stared so intently at his reflection that she didn’t bother to engage.
Rafe breezed into the room. Spotting her, he came over to offer a casual greeting before he approached Semerova. From the way he bobbed his leonine head in her direction, Ellie deduced that she was the subject of their dialogue.
Don’t stay, she silently pleaded and exhaled her relief when his panther-like stride carried him from the studio.
The ballet mistress ended her consultation with the pianist and clapped her hands. “We begin now.”
Ellie eased into the predictable pattern of basic exercises she and everyone else in the room had learned long ago. Pliés. Ports de bras. Tendu to front, side, and back—slow tempo, then fast. Rondes de jambes á terre, petits battements, battements frappés, grands battements . Semerova’s narrow hands and bony fingers marked the movements, and gradually she added complexity to her combinations.
Ellie held her spine straight while maintaining a looseness in her shoulders. A glimpse at her reflection showed that her breasts jutted out over her flat, toned midriff. Her butt, a mass of muscle, curved outward more than those of other girls.
Semerova circulated through the room, often trilling “la la la” in time with the piano. Pausing at the blonde girl next to Ellie, she gave a correction. “Too stiff arms, Gemma. Loose and light. Ah, better.”
She regarded Ellie, her expression blank. “Friend of Rafe. Danced for Mirielle. Knows Sven also.”
Responding, Ellie suspected, would be a breach of etiquette. If she nodded affirmation, she’d miss a beat—or more. Her eyes didn’t move from the girl in front, whose pale blue leo was already marked with damp blotches.
During the brief break that preceded center work, the men moved the portable barres against the wall. The dancers shed outer clothing. The girls sat down to remove their slippers and tie on their pointe shoes.
After a quick swig from her water bottle, Ellie unzipped her bag’s outer compartment. Empty. As panic escalated, she rummaged deeper into the jumble of t-shirts, leggings, lambswool, and toe guards. At the bottom she found the turquoise shoes she’d worn in Ondine Undone. Her lowly status as stranger was about to plummet to unimagined depths. She would forever be infamous as Bosomy Chick Who Wore Colored Pointe Shoes.
At least, she consoled herself, they’re fully broken in.
Head high, conscious of the disdainful glances directed at her feet, she followed the blonde who had worked beside her at the barre.
“Bold choice.”
“Unintentional. Morning mix-up.” She plucked at her leotard, fused to her lower spine by perspiration. “I’m Ellie.”
“Gemma Banks. Are you a late-season hire?”
“No. Rafe invited me to attend class. We’ve known each other forever. He partnered me in New York. Brussels. Elsewhere.”
“Gosh, you’ve had quite a career. Principal?”
“First soloist. The kind who gets to dance the big roles.” Shaking her head, Ellie admitted, “I never stayed anywhere long enough to officially move up the ladder.”
Gemma’s shoes were appropriately pink, supple yet supportive, with neat white stitching around the toe boxes.
Semerova gave instructions for center work—arabesque, promenade, pas de basque , repeat. Ellie, in the second group, was relieved that she had a chance to study the combination before performing it. She just managed to keep up the pace during a series of jumps and arabesques performed to the strains of the Act Three polonaise from Sleeping Beauty. During a sequence of diagonal pirouettes, she wobbled on the first one and messed up her timing.
“New girl in silly shoes, do again with next group. Back row.”
She redeemed herself with the glissades and échappés, without expecting—or receiving—acknowledgment. The session wrapped up with a series of grands jetés, the exuberant leaps she most enjoyed and executed satisfactorily. It was heaven, dancing on a shock-absorbing floor again after the Archway’s unrelenting wood.
When class ended, nobody lingered. Everyone had some place to go—a rehearsal, the canteen, the physio room. Ellie, unsure of her status with regard to the women’s changing room, gathered up her things.
Anya Semerova beckoned, her gesture reminiscent of the commanding Myrthe, Queen of the Wilis, in Giselle.
“Your name.”
“Ellie Lowery.”
“Why you are here, Eeley? If for keeping fit, better to join barre class in gym to exercise.”
“No artistry. No challenge.”
“I see. And for this I am to have you as a distraction every morning?”
“I’ll stay in the back row. You don’t have to coach me or give corrections. I’m not auditioning.”
“Never again come with those bad color shoes. Is clear?”
On a grateful sigh, she replied, “Very.”
“I improve you, but to no purpose. You are how old?”
“I just turned twenty-nine.”
“In the prime. Is sad.” Anya’s gaze shifted to the door, where Rafe was watching. “Great waste,” she added, in a carrying tone, directed at him.
Ellie ignored the faint flutter of an ambition she’d buried years ago. She reminded herself that she sought the pure pleasure of movement, and the cathartic rigor and discipline that ballet demanded.
“What a fab bag,” Gemma told her as they were packing up. “I’ve never seen that type.”
“Designed for tennis players,” she explained. “My brother gave it to me years ago. Lots of space, and plenty of separate compartments for shoes and water bottle and more.”
Rafe greeted her with a grin. “You survived, I see. Makes me wonder if Anya’s doing her job.”
“I’m on the verge of collapse,” she confessed.
“Care to observe a rehearsal? I’m coaching Leah Sternberg and Drew Mason in Onegin. The final pas de deux. We’d welcome your input. You danced Tatiana superbly. Reckon you could again.”
“I doubt that. But we’ll always have Monte Carlo,” she murmured.
He’d drawn to the surface memories of portraying the heroine in one of the most dramatic and emotional ballets in the repertoire. Tatiana’s story arc accurately reflected her own journey from dreamy, besotted girl to mature woman capable of relinquishing a deeply ingrained love. Ellie knew every note of the score. Sometimes, to help herself fall asleep, she played back the music in her mind.
Her yearning to hear it again convinced her to stay. “At the moment, I’m desperate for coffee. Tell me where to find you.”
“Studio A, our largest, at the far end of this corridor. It matches the dimensions of the Crescent Theatre stage. We start in a quarter of an hour.”