Chapter 10
Chapter 10
On Sunday morning, Ellie stood on damp pavement and handed her aunt’s luggage to the uniformed driver, who was loading each piece into a minivan.
Camille, eyes on her phone, said, “I texted George to let him know I’m on my way. I hope there’s enough room in the vehicle for the extra suitcase Zack bought for all his purchases. I’m sure he’ll moan about our early departure.”
“Remind him that he’ll have several hours to enjoy the luxuries of the first-class passengers’ lounge. Wish I’d had a chance to tell them goodbye.”
“You’ll see them this summer when you’re at the lake. Don’t forget to contact the man in the fashion museum’s Theatre and Performance Department.”
“Tomorrow,” she promised.
“I couldn’t provide professional quality photographs of your swan costume, just the ones I took on my phone when you had your fitting, and a few before you went onstage last night. I’ve got the design sketches at home—I’ll scan and send them to him. His conservators will clean and preserve the garment. Oh, he also asked about the pannier gown you wore in L’Ancienne Regime during your tour before this one. Tell him to contact Vogue about reproducing the pictures from their fashion spread. If he wants that one for his collection, I’ll remove it and your wig and accessories from storage and ship them over here.”
“Stop being a manager. You’re supposed to take a break from business.”
“That’ll be easier when I’m in Montreal.”
“Give my love to Grand-mère and Tante Sylvie.”
“I will. Au revoir, chérie.”
After a hug and exchange of kisses, Camille stepped up into the van, and the driver slid the door panel into place. Ellie watched until the vehicle turned the corner and vanished from view. From this moment, her relationship with her aunt and her dance partners had shifted. They would reunite two months from now, in New Hampshire, under different circumstances and with altered perspectives.
Back in the flat, she passed the den where Hannah sat at the desk, phone clutched to her ear, scribbling notes. She set down her pen and pinched her fingers together leaving an inch of space, indicating that her call would end soon.
The suitcases filled with Ellie’s stage costumes and assorted paraphernalia had vanished, headed for the cargo hold of a Boston-bound jetliner. Opening the tall wardrobe that held her civilian clothes, she pondered what to wear during the week ahead. A directive received from the Muriel Baker School of Dramatic Arts recommended comfortable, non-restrictive garments and soft, flat-soled shoes for classes. She pulled out several lightweight linen tops and experimentally paired them with casual cropped trousers. Her footwear collection was limited to ballet shoes, two pairs of stiletto heels, and the GaitGuard sneakers she wore when trotting around the city.
Hearing Hannah’s knuckles tapping the doorframe, she looked around.
“After that conversation, I need a run to clear my head. And burn off some calories before eating a Shamrock Burger. When I get back, I’ll whip up Eton mess for dessert.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to Selfridges this afternoon to look for shoes. And I’ve got a hair appointment.”
“Do you have the ingredients for tonight’s feast?”
“Of course.”
Wincott & Sons in Latimer Row had supplied the requisite Irish cheddar. She’d purchased batch loaf at the bakery and Irish butter from a supermarket. At the greengrocer’s, she picked up spuds and tomatoes and mushrooms and leafy salad greens. Without a deep fryer, she couldn’t produce French fries—chips, in Brit-speak. She’d substitute oven-crisped potatoes seasoned with garlic and sea salt, a specialty of Zack’s.
Beneath a gray-clouded sky, she walked towards Oxford Street. The Berkeley Square nightingale was silent, unwilling to compete with the combined roar of cars, taxis, motorbikes, and commercial vehicles. Davies Street was a mixture of historic and modern architecture and high-end boutiques. Claridge’s Hotel loomed at the intersection with Brook Street. Focused on its intricate brickwork facade, she didn’t immediately notice that she was in danger of colliding with two men approaching the bar entrance.
The younger one was an American movie star she’d met in Hollywood, at the same Oscar party where she’d spotted Hannah Ballard. He’d concluded their brief dialogue by suggesting that she accompany him to his room at the Beverly Hills Hotel for a nightcap—and no doubt more. The man with him must be his agent, or a producer. Neither of them recognized her. The actor didn’t respond to her smile, unwilling to be accosted by a glasses-wearing female with windblown hair, whose lips shone with pale pink gloss instead of Stella Nue’s vibrant signature crimson. Amused, she knew he would’ve been offended if she hadn’t recognized him. If she pursued him into the bar and declared her identity, he would assume she was belatedly accepting his invitation to get physical.
Selfridges, a combination of the United Nations and the Tower of Babel, teemed with shoppers clutching bright yellow carrier bags. Ellie maneuvered through an endless stream of humanity to the directory at the escalator. Wandering the shoe galleries on an upper level, she saw nothing in the designer boutiques that met her specific but simple requirements—comfortable, flexible flats with soft soles. She was telling herself she’d have better luck at a discount store when her eyes lighted on pale pebbled leather loafers with a rubber sole and an attractively pointed toe. They were on sale. She hailed a shop assistant and stated her European size.
“We should have it in stock,” he replied. “Small sizes don’t sell out as quick as medium.”
He returned with a cardboard box. “Your lucky day.” Removing the lid, he brushed aside the tissue and pulled out the stretchers. She pulled off her GaitGuards, glad that her sports socks concealed feet that had spent nearly two decades in pointe shoes.
“How’s the fit?” he asked.
“Perfect. Where have these been all my life? Cushiony, with good arch support. Although I wish they were dark, so scuffs and dirt wouldn’t show.”
“The black ones aren’t ever marked down, they’re too popular.”
“Doesn’t matter. I want them.”
She left with two pairs, pleased to have spent less than a hundred pounds.
The hair salon receptionist guided her to a cubicle, saying, “It’s been an age since you visited us. Jeremy’s ready for you.”
The stylist greeted her as though she was his long-lost friend rather than a client he saw once a year. “Delighted to see you again, angel. But oh, dear. That color!”
“I know,” she said, settling into his chair. “A month ago, it was worse.”
Pulling at a strand, he shook his head. “At least it’s temporary and will fade. So, shampoo, cut and blow-dry?”
“Yes, please.”
“How much are we taking off?”
“Lots. But please leave enough for—for an updo.”
She’d almost said ballet bun.
Ellie paused at the mirror in the foyer. Her hair swept down past her shoulder blades and the ends were even. Before leaving Selfridges, she’d taken advantage of a cancellation at a beauty kiosk and let a makeup artist work on her.
“You’re stunning,” Hannah told her. “Dan’s going to be knocked out.”
“I didn’t spiff myself up for him.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” She hoped her emphatic reply was convincing. Hannah’s smirk raised doubts.
“Can I be your sous chef?”
“And steal my dad’s secrets? Thanks, but no thanks.”
She changed into a casual top and cropped trousers with a drawstring, no different than she’d wear to The Shamrock. She didn’t want Dan assuming, as Hannah did, that she was trying to entice him. It might scare him off. Her readiness to enter a relationship—with the right person—was new and untested. Though possibly not for much longer.
When Rafe was between marriages, she’d sometimes imagined sleeping with him. She hadn’t, from reluctance to take advantage of his vulnerability, and her dread of being swayed by grief into a bad decision. From countless rehearsals and performances, their bodies were well-attuned and intimately acquainted. He was a considerate and sensitive dance partner, which she guessed would carry over from studio and stage to bed. But their platonic friendship was so essential to her wellbeing that she wouldn’t jeopardize it. Mutual understanding of this reality was the basis of a longstanding joke about the torrid affair that would never happen.
Her desire for a meaningful relationship didn’t stem from loneliness, or because she felt incomplete without a significant other. Until she found one, she would to some extent feel defined by past events. There hadn’t been space for romance during the busy globetrotting years. She certainly wasn’t interested in hooking up with an algorithmically selected stranger from a matchmaking app. Or any danseur or staff member at British Ballet Theatre. Mutual attraction was a requisite. The perfect person would want to be with Ellie Lowery Colman, not Stella Nue.
Distinguished, droll, devastatingly handsome Dan Wheeler matched all her criteria.
When she let him into the flat, she kissed his cheek before accepting the wine bottle he’d brought. The fleeting contact of her mouth and his smoothly shaved skin caused a lightheaded sensation. When he reciprocated, the ankles that adequately supported her entire weight when she balanced on pointe felt decidedly wobbly. After supplying him with a drink, she led him to the drawing room. She remained, chatting with him and Hannah for a few minutes before returning to the kitchen to prepare the main component.
In her effort to recreate a pub atmosphere, she served dinner on the terrace. Rejecting the silver cutlery and crystal glassware as inappropriate, she’d arranged the table on the terrace with simple white stoneware and plain cloth table mats.
The meal received positive reviews.
“That was hands-down the world’s best hamburger,” Hannah gushed.
“I’ve no point of comparison,” Dan said. “But it’s a rave from me as well.”
Gratified by their appreciation, she defied all efforts to extract the recipe. “Daddo made everyone in the family sign a non-disclosure agreement.” She reached for the serving tongs and added more crispy potatoes to her plate.
“Look at you,” Hannah said, “going for seconds. Don’t dancers live on nuts and berries?”
“Food is our fuel,” Ellie said. “Protein, carbs—we need plenty. I don’t have rehearsals or performances, so I’m not burning maximum calories. And nobody’s lifting and carrying me. But in class, during the grand allegro, I’m supposed to soar high off the ground.” She passed the platter to Dan.
“I’m saving room for Lady Milverston’s excellent Eton mess.”
“I keep forgetting she’s a ladyship,” Ellie admitted.
“So do I,” Hannah said.
“Shall I refill your wineglass?” Dan held out the bottle of malbec he’d provided.
She tapped her glass. “Alcohol free for me.”
“How is it?” Ellie wondered.
“Better than I expected.” Hannah fidgeted with her napkin. “As Rosalind from Forsaken Fortune would say, I’m with child. Around six weeks is my best guess. Every time I droop and turn green making breakfast, Martin presses me to see the doctor. When I get home, I will. His mother knows, but we aren’t saying anything to Richard till I start to show. Neither of you can breathe a word about it.”
Ellie counted on her fingers. “A Christmas baby.”
Hannah nodded. “Close. Unless it’s late. From a work perspective, the timing is ideal. Film production slows down during the holidays. Caring for a newborn during awards season, which seems to arrive ever earlier and last longer each year, will be a complication. My perfect excuse to stay home and give it a miss. Liz Gregorio can represent Acorn. She enjoys all the hoopla. Me, not so much.”
Ellie didn’t let them help her clear the table. When she rejoined them, they were monitoring the sunset and commenting on its brilliance.
Dan held his glass in Ellie’s direction. “To your first day of theatre school.”
“And another week of ballet class,” Hannah added. “That’s a tough schedule.”
Ellie said, “Not so bad. I’ve been way busier.”
“How do you mean?” Dan asked her.
“Daddo didn’t want us turning into spoiled rich kids after he sold Blarney Burger. When he opened The Shamrock, he put us to work. Liam bussed tables till he was old enough to serve at the bar. Marie, our nerd, used her analytic skills as junior bookkeeper. I waitressed. And cooked, if I had to. In addition to school and my dance lessons.”
Hannah chimed in, saying, “I helped out in my dad’s vet practice. I was a production assistant on Mum’s horticulture shows for public television.”
With a glance at Dan, Ellie said, “I doubt you can match our woeful tales of lowly servitude.”
“On the contrary. I spent my youth weeding and deadheading and raking, and received a pittance for it. My dad is a passionate gardener with an extensive collection of roses and other plants.” Smiling, he added, “Would the two of you care to join me for dinner tomorrow at the bistro in Latimer Row?”
“I won’t be here,” Hannah said. “I leave for Stanwell in the afternoon.”
Regretfully, Ellie told him, “My foundation’s Board of Directors scheduled their quarterly meeting to accommodate the time difference. They’re in New York.”
Dan set down his empty wineglass. “What’s your mission?”
“Scholarships. For young dancers who need assistance paying for classes or summer intensives. And we started a program that supports people training to work with special needs dance students—all genders, all ages, all ethnicities. Neurodiverse or autistic, Aspergers or Down Syndrome. They all benefit from physical therapy and exercise. Pupils can apply for financial support grants to cover tuition and fees, if needed.”
Her companions exchanged glances.
“Have you told her about your brother?” Hannah asked Dan.
“No.”
“You should.”