Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Revived by fresh air and a caffeine buzz, Ellie emerged from the lift on the studio level, and made her way to a space larger than the one used for company class. Natural light streaming from a strip of window was reflected by a mirror opposite. The usual wall-mounted and portable barres were present. A small desk and straight-backed chair were placed at one side of the room. Drew Mason, in a loose, long-sleeved t-shirt and tights, sat stretching on the floor. Leah Sternberg’s frothy tulle calf-length practice tutu floated up and down as she performed a series of rélevés on pointe.
The accompanist, a middle-aged bearded fellow sporting a ponytail, was seated at a gleaming black Steinway. He greeted Ellie with a broad smile. “I’m Barry.” Lowering his voice, he added, “The one person in the building, apparently, who recognizes Stella Nue.”
“Ellie,” she said firmly. “Lowery.”
“I know. Rafe told me. You caused rather a stir in the ranks this morning. Without anybody realizing there was greater cause for amazement than your unconventional choice of footwear.”
She dropped her bag onto a chair. “Can I purchase your silence with complimentary tickets to one of my shows?”
“They’d be no use, I’m afraid. I spend my evenings pounding out popular tunes in a hotel piano bar. Never fear, your secret’s safe with me. But don’t expect it to remain one for very long.”
While waiting for Rafe, the dancers asked Ellie about her experience with Ballet Bruxelles and wondered what Mireille Charpentier was like.
“A swan forged from steel,” Ellie told them. “Unchanged from her time at City International, where she first coached me.”
Rafe came into the room. “Grand, everybody’s here.” When he placed a chair for Ellie, he asked his ballerina, “How’s that ankle?”
“Ready for anything.”
“Excellent. We’ll begin from Drew’s entrance.” He handed her a piece of paper. “After ignoring your pleas to remain, your husband Prince Gremin has departed. You pick up Onegin’s letter to read it again. You hear him outside the room, though you don’t see him yet. Drew, you’re upstage behind the scrim, crossing from one side to the other, searching for her. Not that fast. Do it again. Much better.” Turning to Leah, he said, “Before he enters, sit at the desk—defensive, preparing yourself to defy and deny him.”
Ellie watched them carry out Rafe’s directions.
“When he moves downstage, you do the same, without looking at him. Keep still as his arms encircle you and slide down your body. Drew, when you collapse at her feet, reach up—slowly—and take her hand. Hold tight, so she can’t escape. Barry, let’s have his entrance music, please.”
Even if a single piano didn’t do justice to the emotive score, for Ellie it was hardly less powerful than the orchestral version. It dragged her backwards through the years and a time when the steps and positions and had been imprinted on her mind and her body. She recalled all the physical manifestations of Tatiana’s agonized yearning for the man whose rejection had wounded her as an impressionable young girl. The frantic, flailing of the arms, each lift and toss, the gravity-defying jétés, reluctant yet passionate embraces.
She’d trained for a profession that depended on an acute memory and the ability to retain what she learned. In class, combinations had to be absorbed quickly and performed immediately. Through constant repetition, choreography and timing movement to music became second nature.
It doesn’t matter that I remember so much, she told herself. I won’t perform this role again.
She could also recall the fierce blast of applause whenever she remained alone on the stage, facing the audience, depleted and bereft. Numbed by exhaustion and grief, tears trickling down her face, struggling for breath, she’d gripped Rafe’s hand for the duration of a protracted curtain call.
His sing-song voice pulled her back to the studio.
“Dum, da, dum dee da. Leah, relax all your muscles as he carries you. You’re limp with longing and lust.” Rafe’s shoulders sagged. “You’re almost, almost succumbing to him. You’re a married woman now, not the innocent girl you were when you first fell in love with Onegin. You know exactly what he wants. And you want it just as much. Drew, show us exuberance and elation whenever she turns towards you. It’s proof, you believe, that you’ve won her.”
Ellie saw the sprung floor dip slightly when Drew landed with force after his tour en l’air.
“John Cranko’s choreography is sheer brilliance,” Rafe said, “deserving of accuracy and precision. We’ll take it again. Same place, Barry.”
After letting them go through the section once more, he glanced over at Ellie. “Any comments?”
“Leah, you were perfect when Drew tossed and caught you, but your feet wobbled slightly on the landing. To keep your balance, angle your body in a sequence.” She rose to demonstrate. “Head. Torso. Hips. And on the arabesques, use the extension of your arms and stretch your neck for maximum uplift. Like this. Exactly,” she approved after Leah copied her. “And when I tore up Onegin’s letter, I ripped it in time with the bass drum’s downbeats. When you shove the scraps into his hand, some of them will fall to the floor, and he’ll drop the rest. Don’t be nervous about slipping on them, because after that you won’t be on pointe.”
Leah nodded.
Rafe, solicitous of his dancers’ psyches, advised them to release all the angst of the climactic pas de deux on leaving the studio. “Don’t neglect self-care. You’re both on tonight.”
Before Leah left, she told Ellie, “I would’ve liked to see your Tatiana. Rafe says you were superb.”
“At City International,” she replied, “I was cast as her sister Olga. During that closing scene I always stood in the wings, watching. Wondering if I’d ever dance it myself.”
“So did I.”
“If you search online,” Rafe said, “you’ll find a video of us.”
That’s not all they’ll find, Ellie thought. Barry was correct, it wouldn’t be long before she was outed as Stella Nue.
“She never put a foot wrong,” Rafe went on. “I did, but I hope nobody else notices where.”
Before raising her water bottle to her lips, Leah said, “I hope you’ll come to tomorrow’s rehearsal. The bedroom scene. Tatiana’s dream.”
“Our happy pas de deux, we called it.” Ellie’s eyes found Rafe. “I’m convinced carrying me back and forth and up and down the stage forced you into retirement.”
“That’s my incentive to head for the gym and partner the weight machine,” Drew announced, holding a towel to his perspiring neck.
“I better grab some nosh before my Swanilda costume fitting. Not much,” Leah added, tapping her partner’s shoulder. “For your sake, I promise not to put on a single gram of weight.”
As soon as the pair departed, Rafe put his hand on his back and told Ellie, “Watching him lift and throw her about and catch her and drag her around brought on sympathy pains in my maimed spine. How was it for you?”
“I anticipated everything she did, from the biggest jump to the minutest gesture.”
“You tempt me to put your name on a cast list.”
He was joking, but she couldn’t muster a laugh. “Hell, no.”
“Burlesque’s loss could be ballet’s gain.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“We should heed our mums. They always know best.” He peered down at her and asked, “You didn’t mind coaching Leah?”
“You know I can’t resist a challenge. I wasn’t sure I could see Onegin again . Now I want a ticket.”
“You’ve got it. And another one for Coppelia, which closes out our season. A cheery contrast to Russian despair and remorse.” He took his phone from his pocket. “If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for our monthly managers’ and administrators’ lunch. Stop at the front desk to pick up a membership form for Friends of British Ballet Theatre. If you won’t let me put you in a ballet, you can make amends with a sizeable donation.”
“All right. But I want to be listed as Anonymous in the annual report. Can’t have your dancers complaining that I bought my way into company class.”
“You’ll be back tomorrow?”
“Definitely. To prove to everyone that I possess proper shoes.”
Leaving the annex with the membership brochure, she was determined to find her way to the tube stop without opening a map on her phone. Noticing a weary but cheerful family group laden with souvenirs from the London Zoo, she followed in their wake, correctly guessing that they were also bound for Regent’s Park station.
Dan, monitoring a Latimer London Estates investment committee meeting, heard his mobile ping. The chairman, assuming the company head was the source, encouraged him to read and respond as necessary. But the message came from Ellie Lowery, not Martin Latimer, and it was a dinner invitation. He’d refrained from contacting her, despite his increasing desire to do so. Her lengthy silence indicated that she required no further advice or assistance.
On the appointed evening, he put on a coat and tie before strolling over to Latimer House with a bottle of prosecco and a bouquet from the Latimer Row flower shop. Before Ellie answered his knock on the door, he heard a disconcerting burst of masculine laughter. He wasn’t her only guest. Masking his disappointment, he beamed at her.
Shiny gold flecks dotted her pale blue sheath, and a thick braid of hair was coiled atop her head.
“How thoughtful,” she said, accepting the bottle and the flowers. “I need your help luring Camille and George out of Zack’s way before he has a meltdown.”
Dan caught a whiff of jasmine as he followed her. To prevent further crowding, he halted in the kitchen doorway.
“Almost ready,” the man standing at the cooker reported. To Dan, he added, “Beef crown rib roast. Hope you’re not vegetarian. Or vegan.”
“I should’ve asked about that,” Ellie said on a contrite note. “Are you?”
“Not since a brief spell when I was an undergraduate.”
“Zack, our chef, created the menu.”
“I’m George, his husband,” said the other man. “Your server this evening.”
Camille held up her glass of red wine. “And I’m the sommelier. What’ll you have, Dan?”
“Same as you, please.”
“Prosecco for me,” Ellie declared. “It’s a superior one—with a cork. George, will you do the honors? I’ll put these flowers in water.”
Seeing Ellie’s lookalike dance partners, he detected dissimilarities that hadn’t been apparent when they were onstage. Although both men were tall and dark-haired, Zack had bright blue eyes, and George’s were brown.
Zack lifted his glass. “To Dan, who provided our Ellie with this spectacular apartment. George and I are emerald with envy.”
“I’ll melt if I stay here,” Ellie declared. “Dan, take this, please.” She handed over her prosecco and picked up the vase of flowers. “We should all leave Zack in peace.”
“No, no. You can’t steal my sous chefs,” he insisted. “George can carry the hors d’oeuvres tray to the parlor, but I want him to come back. Camille, you’re dicing mushrooms.”
When they were out of earshot, George murmured, “I’m getting a preview of my future existence. Did Ellie tell you about our bed and breakfast?”
“Not yet,” she said, setting the vase on a low table separating the sofa from the armchairs. “Return to your mate and do his bidding.”
“Yes, madam.” After a butler’s bow, he retreated.
“They raided the Fortnum’s food hall and the butcher shop in Latimer Row. Help yourself to smoked salmon. Truffle cheese and biscuits. Chutney.” She handed him one of the small plates stacked beside silver cutlery and napkins.
He eyed the book atop the pile on a side table. “Understanding the English. Is it helping?”
“I haven’t started. I’ll let you know when I finish. I was curious about whatever common attributes define Englishness. And how they’ve been preserved in an era of individualism and among a diverse and multicultural population.”
“For a start, there’s cricket. Real ale. A monarch as head of state. Grumbling about the weather—too wet, too warm, too anything. What was your friend saying about a B&B?”
After a single sip, she said, “The guys are about to become innkeepers in a lakeside town claiming to be the oldest summer resort in America. Two years ago, they purchased The Maples, a five-bedroom, five bath historical house on three acres. It has wide pine floors and fireplaces. Huge kitchen. And many more original features. There’s a nineteenth century barn, big enough for weddings and private events. Apple orchard, blueberry patch. It’s set back from Wolfeboro’s Main Street but within walking distance of restaurants and shops, the lake and the boat docks.”
“They won’t have time to miss performing.”
“True. The house was renovated to some extent, but its kitchen and the overall décor were dated. Between our tours, they zhuzhed it up and moved their collection of antique furniture from a storage unit. On Fourth of July weekend, the first guests arrive. They’re booked through the summer and filling up for foliage season, when the leaf-peepers show up. The mountains and ski resorts are close, so they’ll have wintertime customers as well. Best of all, from my perspective, their place is less than fifteen minutes from my summer cottage and on the same side of the lake. We’re almost neighbors.”
“You own a lake property?”
“Co-own with Cousin Phil, who teaches at the boarding school in Wolfeboro. Grandpa Lowery—the Irishman—left it to all his grandchildren. I bought out my brother and sister. Liam has permission to use it anytime he wants, whether or not I’m there, but he’s too tied to the pub to get away much. Marie is a medical researcher, living in a nifty upmarket Boston condominium with her partner. They also have a quaint little holiday home on Martha’s Vineyard and didn’t want or need a third house. A vintage one at that, requiring lots of annual maintenance.”
“I’ve been doing things all wrong,” Dan said. “I’m older than you. Gainfully employed and amply compensated. But I’m still renting. From my boss.”
“I’ve seen the street where you live. Most people would say you lucked out, big time.”
“When you’re not touring, or on your lake, where do you live?”
Her face lifted, revealing a smirk. “With my parents, in our Birchmont house—my home since I was two days old. After Daddo sold his company, they expanded it. I occupy the guest suite, with my own separate entrance and a tiny covered patio. It’s easier and far less costly than purchasing my own place.”
“Even though you could afford to have any number of houses, if you wanted to.”
She poked a thin salmon slice with the tines of her fork. “I found better uses for the assets I inherited from my husband and the money Stella Nue brings in. She turned out to be a massive earner. Touring and product licensing are extremely lucrative. My aunt and I and our financial advisers are constantly strategizing in order to keep the income stream flowing.”
Camille, overhearing this comment, said, “After my Montreal trip, I’m responsible for putting our plans into action. And because I won’t be traveling around the world any longer, I can adopt a cat.”
“Zack and George want a dog.” Smiling over at Dan, Ellie said, “Guess who wants a laid-back Golden Retriever. And who’s insisting on a fluffy, fashionable designer breed.”
“Lab for George. The fancy one for Zack.”
“The other way around. What news from the kitchen?” she asked her aunt.
“Decisions about plating and presentation are underway. Did you invite Dan to the Saturday show?”
“Not yet.” Smiling, she asked, “Are you interested in attending our grand finale? I’m happy to offer my comps to you and Lou and Kelly.”
“I’ll ask them and let you know.”
“And I hope you’ll stay afterwards, for Stella’s retirement party.”
“You always refer to her in the third person,” he commented.
“Because she’s a separate entity. A role I’ve been playing.”
“It’s that easy to compartmentalize?”
“I’ve done it all my life. I wasn’t just a ballet kid. I rode a pony and played softball and dove off the dock into the lake and paddled around the bay in my granddad’s canoe. I waited tables at The Shamrock and flipped burgers whenever Daddo was short-staffed.” Her greenish eyes landed on him speculatively. “I’ll bet you have different ways of being and doing, depending on where you are and who you’re with.”
He nodded. “Executive Dan, at Latimer London Estates. Countryside Dan, who goes fishing at the weekends.” Brother Dan, Brian’s visitor at Harding Hall, his care home. Son Dan, companion to his father, who was permanently and irrevocably estranged from the woman who abandoned them both.
George stepped into the room. Bowing, he uttered a formal announcement that the meal was served.
The salad was an artful creation, the beef was expertly roasted, the potatoes had been perfectly crisped, and the broccoli amandine was a triumph. Hardly any of Mayfair’s finest dining establishments, Dan declared, could have improved upon what Zack had produced, a compliment that momentarily deprived him of speech.
“I wanted to bake something splendid. But after a heavy meal, it’s obscene to present a multi-layered cake. Which, I assure you, I could’ve done.”
“I can attest to that,” George said. “My dance career would’ve lasted longer if I hadn’t packed on the pounds from his cooking.”
“Boo hoo.” Zack sawed the air with his hand, playing an invisible violin. “You’re exaggerating. Sven Eilert offered you a place in his company. You chose to work with Ellie instead of him.”
“No regrets. After hopping from continent to continent with her for the past three years, I can settle on the shore of Lake Winnipesaukee and cater to people who haven’t yet tired of living out of suitcases. Am I serving the dessert, or you?”
“Both of us.” Zack pointed at Ellie. “Stay where you are. We’ll clear the table.”
“That inn of theirs,” her aunt murmured, “will suck up a lot of their energy. They’re going to be busier than they realize. You, too,” she told Ellie. “Ballet class six mornings out of seven. Weekday afternoons at drama school. You’re the all work, no play type, Estelle Aurelie Lowery Colman.”
“Am not,” Ellie contradicted. Ignoring her instructions to stay seated and confirming her relative’s accusation, she gathered up floral-patterned bowls and saucers from the sideboard and arranged them at each place.
George returned, bearing a silver tray of macarons.
Zack followed, a silver bowl cradled between his gloved hands. “Passion fruit sorbet. My own creation.”
“You’re a marvel,” Dan declared.
“When investigating the contents of the kitchen cabinets, I found an ice cream maker. As soon as I saw the passion fruits at Fortnum and Mason, I knew exactly what to do. Peel and puree, make a simple syrup, blend and chill. Into the machine. Vroom, vroom. Voila!”
After the final course, they returned to the drawing room. George and Zack passed around miniature glasses of port.
Accepting hers, Ellie said, “Dan is a fly fisherman. An angler. If you want advice about attracting fishing enthusiasts to your inn, you should consult him.”
George’s brown eyes regarded him with curiosity. “We don’t know a thing about it.”
Zack added, “Our place is beside a lake and near lots of rivers and streams. There’s a sports shop in Wolfeboro that sells fishing licenses and all the equipment. We hope to provide lodging for their out-of-town clientele.”
“You’ll need to link up with experienced local fishing guides,” Dan said. “They’ll know what species are running in a given season and the best spots for casting.”
“It would be great to have another add-on to our excursion packages.”
“What’s included?” Dan asked.
“Boat trips around the lake. Driving tours through the White Mountains, in summer and during foliage season. Agricultural fairs. Farm visits for animal petting and hayrides and wandering in corn mazes.”
“Outlet shopping,” Camille added. “On rainy days.”
“If you ever come to New England,” George told Dan, “you’re staying with us.”
He should’ve answered, truthfully, that such a visit was unlikely. Instead, he heard himself say, “I definitely will.”