Chapter 11
Chapter 11
“B rian’s the youngest,” Dan began. “I’m the middle one. Oliver was older than me.”
A change in Ellie’s expression told him she’d noted his use of past tense.
“Immediately after we graduated, my mates and I traveled to France. It was meant to be a brief trip. My parents had planned a celebration like the one Oll had when he took his university degree. Grandparents. Cousins. Friends of the family.” All these years later, and after everything that happened, he recalled everyone who had been invited. “It never took place. Because of the accident.”
Hearing his staccato sentences, he reached for his glass and drank, hoping to ease the constriction in his throat.
“Oll and Brian were paddling a canoe on the River Severn, not many miles from our home. The wind came up, as it often does. They took on a lot of water and capsized. A nearby motor craft sped over. The men on board rescued Brian, after he’d been submerged for several minutes. They couldn’t find Oll. Although he was a strong swimmer, it was spring tide, when the current is at its most powerful. Before nightfall, searchers recovered his body.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ellie whispered.
“As a result of oxygen deprivation, Brian suffers from frontal lobe hypoxia, a form of brain damage. From the day he was discharged from hospital, he’s lived at a residential care home near Thornbury. Close to Tayer Court, our family home.”
He spared her the gruesome aftermath. Oll’s funeral. Dad’s stoicism in the face of tragedy, seeking solace in roses and classical music. His mother’s inability to cope, her abbreviated journey through grief counseling, leading to her abrupt desertion and eventual remarriage. His own resolve to stick by his father and to be as present as possible for Brian.
“Does your brother remember what happened to him?” Ellie asked.
“He’s severely impaired.” Mustering a semblance of smile, he admitted, “Probably not a good candidate for therapeutic dance classes.” He stared over the terrace railing at a panorama of buildings and rooftops, gilded by the sun’s slanting rays. “My apologies for dampening spirits on this most pleasant occasion. Let’s talk about that new baby.”
Picking up the cue, Ellie asked Hannah, “What is the age difference between this son or daughter and your little boy?”
“About three and a half years. Richard was born in March.”
Ellie glanced at Dan. “Like us.”
“If you don’t have plans this weekend, you ought to come down to Somerset and experience our annual Milver Vale Flower Fete—the subject of my lengthy phone conversation. You wouldn’t be our only celebrity, because hordes of them live in or near Bruton. Plus all the poshos scattered about the countryside. You and Dan will stay with us at Stanwell House.”
“This,” said Dan, “is where she informs you that it’s got twenty bedrooms.”
“What’s it like?” Ellie asked. “The fete, not the house. I saw it on the screen, and my tv.”
“Not much different from any New England agricultural fair. There’s a gymkhana and a costumed pet parade with prizes. A rubber duck race on the river. Marquees for food and drink. Games and competitions. You don’t have to make up your mind now. If you’re able to join us, let me know, and I’ll send you train info.” Hannah turned to Dan. “Or you two could drive down. Together.”
“Indeed.” He’d been undecided about going but was perfectly willing to chauffeur Ellie. While she was at Stanwell, he could run up to Harding Hall to visit Brian and stop at Tayer Court to see Dad.
“Our vicar is doing her part,” Hannah added, “saying special prayers to keep the rain at bay.”
Dan hoped Ellie would accept the invitation. For him, driving her to Stanwell House—a two-hour journey, each way—was a most appealing prospect.
“I hope it wasn’t a mistake, encouraging Dan to tell you about Brian,” Hannah commented over an early breakfast.
“He didn’t seem to mind,” Ellie pointed out. “And it helps, knowing a little about his past.”
“Where and how you did you meet him? You’ve never said.”
“At the Ritz, where I stayed during my first week in London. After my opening performance I went to the Rivoli Bar to wait for Camille. Dan and Lou and Kelly were seated at another table, although I didn’t know they’d seen my show. A man who had also been in the audience came on to me. Happens all the time. I’m used to it. Dan rescued me, pretending he was my date. We chatted. I mentioned I’d soon be apartment hunting, and he said he has connections in real estate. He offered to show this place to me and my aunt. We loved it on sight.”
“I’m glad. I’ve enjoyed having you for a flat mate.”
“You’re easier to live with than my lazy, messy roomie at Juilliard. Harry accused me of marrying him just to get away from her.”
“Did you two have a big wedding?”
“We eloped to New Jersey. After his parents calmed down, they insisted on a fancy afternoon reception at their East Hampton house. Nearly all the guests were their friends, or people Harry knew from various schools. My family flew down from New Hampshire. I was Cupid in Don Quixote that night, so Mom and Daddo went back with us to the city so they could see me dance.”
“What was he like, your Harry?”
“Handsome and talented and super smart and very rich. I was the envy of everyone at Juilliard, girls and boys. Why’s he with her, they all wondered, when he could have anybody? The meanest ones said it to my face.”
“That was jealousy talking. You’re a total babe.”
Staring down at the remaining strawberries in her bowl, Ellie said, “Tell me what else I should know about Dan.”
“He used to be in the legal department at Martin’s firm, negotiating and writing up contracts. Because he wanted a change and more responsibility, he requested a transfer to management. He gets headhunted so often that he was pushed up the ladder to a directorship. He can be a calming influence on Martin, who tends to get overly excited when exploring business opportunities. Dan and his dad, Sir Terence, are incredibly close.”
“His father has a title?”
“He’s a baronet. Who married an earl’s daughter. After the accident, they divorced. According to Martin, Lady Lucinda Wheeler ran off with her therapist’s brother to the wilds of Scotland.”
“Grief changes people,” Ellie acknowledged. “In unexpected ways.”
“It does. But if, God forbid, my child was brain injured and institutionalized, I wouldn’t desert him. Lady Lucinda Whatever-her-name-is-now didn’t stop being a mother to two surviving sons. Dan doesn’t talk about her. Neither does Terry.” Hannah gathered up her plate and cutlery. “I’d better prepare for my marathon meeting. Will you be here when I come back for my luggage?”
“I’m in drama class till four-thirty.”
“Here’s a piece of parting advice that I hope you don’t mind. If you’re interested in a man, it’s important to share significant events from your past sooner than later. Something I learned the hard way with Martin. If the full truth comes out at the wrong time, it’s seriously damaging.”
“I know that.”
“Dan carries burdens lightly and silently. I wouldn’t call him a loner, but he hasn’t many friends and divides his time between work and family—what’s left of it. He and Terry take fishing trips. They’re members of the same gentlemen’s club. Which, my husband says, consists of chaps who dine and drink together while they share investment tips and rehash their schooldays. He needs someone to add excitement to his well-ordered, predictable existence.”
“And you believe I’m that person.”
“I’ve said enough. You’ve got ballet class, and I’m already behind schedule. Come to Stanwell for our fete, if you can. If you can’t, keep in touch.”
Ellie followed her halfway down the hall. “I’m leaving London at the end of June, you know.”
Turning, Hannah said, “Even so, you have the freedom, the flexibility, and the financial resources to live anywhere you want to.”
That didn’t mean she was willing to stay in a city without any employment and a small number of friends, gambling on the chance of making a love connection.
When she exited Latimer House, her bag was stuffed with necessities that would carry her through the day. Her loose tunic and cropped trousers matched the recommended attire for drama class. She boarded her underground train, and while the wheels beneath her zoomed along tracks, she considered Hannah’s advice to reveal her complete history to Dan. Laying out the details of her marriage, she concluded, could serve no positive purpose at this early and uncertain stage of their relationship. When the door of her carriage opened with a pneumatic gasp, she flowed with the crowd towards the Way Out sign.
She’d been provided with an unassigned locker in a dim corner of the women’s communal changing room. She stripped off her street clothes and changed into her leotard and tights. Anya was leading class, which banished thoughts of Dan and everything else. The slow, soothing cadences rising from Barry’s piano eased Ellie into a state of concentration. During grande allegro, completing each revolving tour and soaring across the floor in the final jeté, she felt invincible.
“Is better, Eeley Lorry,” Anya intoned from the front of the room. “Straight back, soft arms, quick feet.”
Despite a firm faith in her talent, she possessed the chronic perfectionism common to everyone present. She was gratified by Anya’s rare praise, yet dreaded stirring hard feelings among the other dancers. Or worse, an antipathy that would poison her pleasure in being here.
“You did a good class,” commented Gemma, while they sat on the cool floor untying the ribbons of their pointe shoes. “One of these days you’ll get recruited.”
“No way.” Ellie raised her bottle for a mouthful of coconut water and flexed her feet and calves. “Transformation time.” Standing up, she slung her bag over her shoulder and padded from the room on taped feet, pulling out hairpins on her way to the dressing room.
She claimed an available sink and turned on the taps. When the basin was sufficiently full of tepid water, she plunged her head in. Squeezing a blob of shampoo from a travel-sized bottle, she washed away the sweat. She removed tights and leotard to clean the rest of her body. After drying off with a fresh towel and applying deodorant, she slipped on her underwear and covered it with the thigh-length tunic and drawstring trousers. She was plugging in her portable hairdryer with British plug when dancers not scheduled for rehearsal drifted in.
Clean and refreshed, she crossed busy Marylebone Road and mapped her way to a café in Regent’s Park. There she found several dancers who obviously favored the offerings here over those of the company canteen. They waved her to their table. Accepting their invitation with a nod, she joined the queue for coffee. While waiting her turn, she scrolled through a daunting flow of texts and decided none required an immediate response. She made note of the fact that Gil Cooke had returned from the play festival he attended over the weekend, and wanted to meet up as soon as possible.
The BBT group, a mix of soloists and corps members, asked probing questions to determine her professional experience. They laughingly referred to her initial pointe shoe mishap. She listened as they aired opinions of casting decisions, shared their workout routines, and exchanged familiar complaints about juggling work demands and personal schedules. Nobody said anything negative about Rafe or anyone on his staff, either because they were reasonably satisfied with management, or because they thought she was his spy. Before long they began to scatter, departing for a rehearsal or a coaching session, or an appointment in the company gym or physio suite. Ballet dancers, like athletes, spent hours on body conditioning and cross-training for the strength and stamina that was as necessary as technique. Exercise regimens were developed to lengthen muscles rather than bulk them up.
With more time to kill, Ellie explored the portion of the park. She found Queen Mary’s Garden, a sizeable area of arbors and borders where the roses were heavily budded and many were already blooming. She looked forward to seeing the flowers when all of them opened to reveal their full glory.
Ellie located Weymouth Street more easily than she’d expected to. She meandered slowly along the side street towards the modernist building that housed the Muriel Baker School of Dramatic Arts.
The nervous flutter within her ribcage carried her back to the day she started at City International Ballet. Harry skipped his morning class at Juilliard to go with her. All these years later, she could remember him walking beside her, swinging her well-worn duffel by its shoulder strap.
Today, carrying a different bag, she arrived by herself.
But oh, he was there, inside her head. Saying all the things he would if he were physically present.
Not now, Harry.
Impatient to begin the next phase of her professional life, she pushed the door open and stepped up to the reception desk. The staff person on duty directed her to an upstairs room, smaller than a dance studio and lacking barres and mirrored walls.
“I’m Maxi,” a middle-aged Black woman told her. “Your instructor.”
“Ellie Lowery.”
Maxi checked her list for the name and made a mark beside it. “Seven to go. Half female, half male. Various ages and ethnicities. One American—you—and a Canadian. According to your application, you’ve worked professionally.”
“In ballet. And a short summer stock season. Two plays.” She doubted her career as an internationally renowned burlesque artist was pertinent.
When the full group was assembled, they received name badges and were invited to give self-introductions.
“Pay attention,” Maxi told them. “This is a memory exercise.”
The students described prior stage experience—plays at school or with amateur dramatics societies in their borough or city or town or village. Ellie drastically edited her performance history—stressing dance, briefly mentioning summer theatre without naming her lead roles, and again eliminating burlesque. Maxi listened carefully and made notes. When everyone had spoken, she stressed that each person’s individuality and uniqueness would be valued throughout their training. Class participants were expected to be supportive of each other rather than competitive. She reviewed the information provided in their enrollment packets and took questions.
“Do you teach all our classes?” asked Simrat, who had self-identified as Punjabi.
“A different instructor is in charge of the acting for the camera segment. We bring in talent agents and stage directors to discuss audition technique and professional issues. Yes, Ellie?”
“Who directs the play?”
“That’s decided later, after the group reaches consensus on the material. You’ll be given scripts to consider. A member of staff will be assigned to lead your rehearsals. I’ll attend as I’m able to mark your progress. Right. Let’s begin, shall we? Time to stretch those muscles. And vocal cords.”
After a ninety-minute class using flexors and tendons her companions probably never heard of, Ellie joined them in raising both arms towards the ceiling, extending her neck, rotating her shoulders, bending to touch her toes, and more. Unlike her morning activity at the barre, this warm-up included facial exercises. And lots of vocalizing. She joined her cohorts in sounding out vowels while pushing the breath out through her diaphragm. They leaned over and grunted. Through pursed lips, they made popping noises. They repeated tongue-twisters. Everyone laughed, infectiously and uproariously, the most effective ice breaker of all.
Maxi put them through a simple improvisation exercise. When they finished, she dismissed them for a ten-minute break. They returned to find she’d arranged the chairs in a circle for a group discussion. After inviting each person to name a favorite actor, actress, play, and film, she collected the name badges.
Passing out blank sheets and pencils, she said, “I’d like you to write down the name of each colleague, starting with yourself and moving in a clockwise direction. When you hand in your paper, you may go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ellie studied the group and without hesitation wrote in the names in alphabetical order: Ellie, Rose, Archie, Val, Declan, Graeme, Simrat, Tony. She rose and hoisted her bag to her shoulder.
Simrat, following her down the stairs, said, “Feel like I’ve known those people for weeks instead of hours. But goodness me, I’m exhausted. I’ll need a liter of strong coffee to stay awake at work.”
“What’s your job?”
“Call center manager for a firm in Leytonstone. I was working daytime hours, but when I said I wanted to start drama studies they switched me to the evening shift. My boss says if I’m cast in a play, he’ll put me back to morning or afternoons, or move me to half time. I’ve worked there forever, and they don’t want to lose me.” The younger girl flicked back the black braid trailing down her shoulder. “I need to eat something before clocking in.”
“See you tomorrow.”
They passed through the door and went in different directions. Ellie set out for Welbeck Street, where several hotels were located and she could probably hail a taxicab. The tube might be quicker, but not by much, and she’d have to cram herself into a stifling carriage with a multitude of passengers.
“Ellie!”
Thinking a male classmate was calling her, she spun around.
It was Gil Cooke.