Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Ellie’s cellphone ringtone, the Swan Lake theme, dragged her towards consciousness. “Good morning,” she greeted Dan drowsily.
“I woke you.”
“I don’t mind. Where are you?”
“Tayer Court. I had to make sure you didn’t change your mind. Do you still want me to climb the spiral stairs?”
She eased her legs over the edge of the bed. “Yes.”
“I’ve had breakfast but I need to pack up and say goodbye to Dad. He’s already outside, somewhere in the gardens.”
Ellie hurried to the bathroom and stripped off her silk top and shorts. She tentatively twisted the shower faucets and checked the temperature before stepping inside. If only, she thought, hot water could melt her concerns about Sir Terence Wheeler. She detected in him the same detachment she’d noticed in early encounters with Henry and Lana Colman, her in-laws.
She yanked a warm towel off the heated bar to dry herself and wrapped another around her head. Moving cautiously across the smooth tiles, she removed the complimentary bathrobe from its hook beside the wardrobe and put it on. Additional garments would be superfluous.
Except for the portions of her anatomy covered by sequined pasties and a G-string, she’d exposed her entire body to Dan at the Archway Cabaret. But he’d been seated at a distance, and the spotlight had washed out any and all flaws. She directed a self-conscious glance at her bare feet, studying the rough calluses that had sprouted on pressure points and the prominent veins pushing through the taut skin.
It occurred to her that Dan might be just as anxious about undressing and showing her all that was beneath his clothing.
He knows I’ve spent my working life with male dancers. Men who have ideally proportioned physiques, lean and muscled and buffed and toned. Gym rats, all of them, constantly working out in order to maintain the strength and stamina required by their profession.
Don’t you dare compare me to them, Harry used to say, before heading to the pricey health club where he worked out twice a week.
To appease his actor’s vanity, she always replied, I never compare them to you.
She located a hairdryer on a shelf inside the wooden wardrobe and turned on the highest setting before aiming it at her head. Trawling through her cosmetic bag, she took out her compact and applied a dusting of face powder to cover her post-shower flush.
I was way more chill, she remembered, before Harry and I had sex the first time.
To quiet the rumbling of her stomach, she ate a portion of the pear she’d brought from Tayer Court yesterday and a whole energy bar. Surging adrenaline wasn’t stimulating enough, so for reinforcement she brewed a quick espresso in the machine. Then she brushed her teeth. Twice. And popped a breath mint into her mouth.
What made me think I’m ready for this, she wondered.
Thinking. That’s the problem.
Don’t think.
Calf stretches required no concentration, only the ability to move and to count. Holding onto the desk chair, she rose on the ball of her foot and lowered her heel into the pale, patterned carpet. When she completed thirty stretches on each leg, she performed pliés, aware of her uncovered crotch and the absence of leotard or tights.
When she heard a heavy tread on stone steps, she felt her heartbeat accelerate. Before Dan could knock, she opened the door.
“It’s a long journey to reach the lady at the top of the tower. And what appears to be the world’s largest bed. You’ve no idea how much I wanted to stay with you last night. I hope you understand why I didn’t.”
“Your father. He doesn’t approve of me.” She sank onto the blue velvet bench at the end of the bed, and her hands fluttered as she searched for words. “He’s a Sir. You graduated from a famous Oxford university and work at an important company in London. Your boss is a lord. I’m an American from a working-class family. No high school or college diploma, just some ballet school certificates and competition prizes. I’ve spent my life in show business. From his perspective, I’m a package filled with complications.”
“Whatever they are, none of them matter to me.”
Not yet, she thought. “He probably hopes I’m a passing fancy.”
“If so, we’ll convince him that you aren’t. Here’s proof.” He placed a piece of paper on the desktop. “The code for the lock of my flat’s outer door.” Setting a key on top of it, he said, “This opens the inner door. Thanks to Martin, I’ve got yours, though I’d never let myself in without permission. If you don’t feel ready for this step, you can say so.”
Moved by his action, and his concern for her feelings, she said, “I worried I might be rushing you.”
He knelt in front of her, slipping his hands inside the robe. “Have you ever received, altogether unexpectedly, something you wanted but hadn’t begun looking for?”
“Yes. This.” She released a hum of pleasure as his fingers moved across her back. When she rose, he caressed her bottom, her thighs. Her legs, strengthened by years of ballet training, felt insubstantial. A surge of desire rendered her powerless, but not for long. Her hands, she discovered, responded to her will. They moved swiftly along the front of his shirt, unfastening each button. Pressing her face against his bare chest, her cheek grazed soft hairs.
Taking a sealed condom from his trouser pocked, he placed it in her hand.
They shed the rest of their clothes and pulled back the duvet. He eased her onto the smooth sheets. Before their bare bodies merged, her lips met his. Together they created a tempo that built up to a crescendo, and drew from her a cry of rapture and release.
The highly efficient Hannah wasted no time connecting Ellie with a recommended talent agent, which led to an interview in a Soho office. Deciding they were compatible and equally frank about stating their expectations, she and Cait Murray met a second time at a French brasserie near the Piccadilly Circus underground station.
“I won’t let you participate in a table read until you’ve signed a contract.” For emphasis, Cait parked her coffee cup in its saucer with a clatter of porcelain. “You’re a professional. The Sovereign Theatre Group must compensate you appropriately. Regardless of how many years you’ve known the playwright, you don’t owe him any favors.”
“I haven’t even seen his script,” Ellie told her.
“I know someone who has.” Cait swept the curtain of inky black hair behind one ear. “Another client of mine, a major star, was approached about the husband role. For reasons I don’t understand, he’s keen to do this play. Because I’m negotiating his deal, I can ensure that you receive equal pay. And billing.” After a glance at her phone, she said, “My assistant. We’ve received the release letter I requested from your New York managers, designating me as your representative for stage work over here. Your aunt provided electronic copies of pay slips from the Archway Cabaret for the dates you performed—those earnings fulfill the requirements for union membership. We can submit that application on your behalf and will be in touch when it’s ready for a signature.”
Ellie commented, “I’ve never known my business affairs to be taken care of with such dizzying speed.”
“I respond quickly,” Cait replied, “when an internationally famous burlesque star hands me a casting offer for the debut play by Sir Francis Cooke’s son.” She stared through the lenses of her black-rimmed glasses. “Am I responsible for your ballet contracts?”
“There won’t be any. Attending company class is the extent of my involvement with BBT. A lifelong habit, not a career plan.”
“You must have been quite good, though, to dance in New York and Brussels and Berlin and Monte Carlo.”
“Lack of talent was never a problem,” she acknowledged.
“What, then?”
She hesitated. “My chest. I refused to take drastic measures—reduction surgery—to conform. European companies don’t have such strict physical requirements. It’s sort of funny that in ballet, I had too much bust. As a burlesque performer, I sometimes wished for more.”
“Don’t we all. I believe we’ve covered everything, for the time being. Oh—one more thing. Do not invite me to your little drama academy play.”
Ellie laughed. “No way. It would unnerve me. And my classmates.”
The following evening when Dan joined her for supper, she recounted portions of this conversation, leaving out references to her bodily proportions. She did give him an opportunity to demonstrate his appreciation of them.
After he was gone, she texted her mother an invitation to an overdue video chat.
“How long do we have?” she asked when the oval face framed by wavy, silver-streaked brown hair popped onto her screen.
“Almost none. Your Daddo is making a quick supper because I have to be back at the studio in half an hour. We’re rehearsing spring recital and reached the point when Renée predicts it will never come together. In private, that is. Only to me. Not when the students and dance moms can hear. We have a couple of dance dads, too. And more boys than usual.”
“I wonder why.”
Mom’s shoulders rose and sank in her Québécois shrug. “Who knows? According to some of our teachers, lockdown practice videos by male ballet dancers generated curiosity or interest. If they stay, we’ll need a good partnering instructor. I did ask George and Zack, but they declined—too busy with their inn.”
“How many of the senior pupils are doing summer intensives?”
“All the ones who applied. Some received scholarships for places in Boston or New York. That’s the extent of my news.” After a pause, her mother said, “Isn’t it time you told me about the man who helped you get your apartment? Camille says he looks like a movie star. Which one?”
“Basically, any who matches your preferred version of tall, dark, and handsome.”
“Are you serious about him?”
“Getting there,” she answered. “We spent the holiday weekend in the country, with friends. And I met his father.”
“I wondered if you and Rafe might . . . ”
“Never. Anyway, we’re not spending quality time together. He’s too busy proving himself to be the best artistic director in the ballet universe.”
“When you do see him, ask if any of his répétiteurs can come to Birchmont next summer. Renée and I want to launch an intensive here. Less costly for participants than what major dance companies offer, but an equally high level of instruction.”
“If you want Semerova, I doubt you can get her.”
“We don’t need Anya. We’re looking for the right man to train and inspire our boys, and who won’t terrify our girls. It’s no problem finding a ballerina, especially if she’s on the cusp of retirement, or recently unemployed. We can draw on our contacts in Montreal or Boston. Before I go, tell me about your drama school.”
“My group is deciding which one-act to perform for the showcase. I had lunch with my new agent today. She’ll negotiate for me if I agree to do Gil Cooke’s play. Tomorrow, I’m taking Dan to the first night of Onegin. I told you about coaching Leah Sternberg.”
“It’s you who should be Tatiana Larina, ma chérie. Dancing is acting, And reacting. Why not put off becoming an actress? Mireille wanted you to rejoin her company. I know Rafe would hire you.”
Ellie expected to hear this refrain at some point in every conversation. Her mom and her aunt had refined her natural talent and developed her technique, preparing her for a career in which standards for performance and appearance were rigorously applied. The combination of their training and her determination to succeed ensured a speedy and relatively smooth transition from student to apprentice to coryphée to soloist. And though they had accepted her decision to exchange pointe shoes for pasties, they hadn’t surrendered hope that her departure from the ballet stage was temporary.
“There’s not a company on the planet that would have me, after my years slumming in burlesque. Give Daddo my love. And Renée. Camille, too, if you see her. I’ll get in touch with my sibs and arrange a family get-together for later this summer. At the lake.”
When she and Dan entered the grandiose Crescent Theatre lobby the following night, she recalled her childhood visits to the ballet and the thrill of anticipation. As soon as she settled into a green velvet chair in the dress circle, her thoughts flew to the dancers. Those who appeared in the first act would have left their dressing rooms to warm up on the stage or at backstage barres in the wings. Men adjusted dance belts. Women flexed their feet, checking that pointe shoe ribbons weren’t loose or constricting. Everyone awaited the welcoming applause as the conductor took his place, and the overture’s opening notes.
Ellie looked forward to witnessing a fresh production of a favorite ballet but couldn’t subdue her envy of Leah Sternberg. Tatiana was a cherished and meaningful role.
Dan calmly paged through the printed program he’d purchased. When he offered it to her, she said, “I’ll read it later. When I’m able to concentrate.” She kept her fingers curled around her handbag strap so he wouldn’t see how they trembled.
The charming and lively beginning of the ballet offered no hint of the conflicts and drama that would ensue. Olga and Lensky expressed their love in a lyrical pas de deux. Tatiana, introduced to the dashing and aloof Eugene Onegin, was instantly smitten. In her bedroom dream sequence, she imagined him as amorous and passionate. Drew supported Leah’s exuberant arabesques, lifted her high, sweeping her across the stage. In the party scene, she effectively rendered Tatiana’s response to Onegin’s rejection, and the desperate attempt to avert a fatal duel.
Dancing is acting. The truth of Mom’s reminder had never been more obvious or profound.
As the stage went dark, Dan leaned close and whispered, “You used to do all that?”
Recalling the beautiful ballroom pas de deux, and the passionate finale’s physically demanding choreography, she answered, “And so much more.”
Ellie sipped a glass of Cava and watched Dan dice artichoke hearts. He’d invited her to his flat for a Spanish dinner, and paella was the main course.
“When I moved in,” he told her, “I decided the décor didn’t exactly match my taste. I picked up the antique partners’ desk when working in Bristol. I changed the armchairs and sofa. Dad gave me the Persian rug. Isobel Latimer, Martin’s mother, painted the watercolors of Tayer Court and Latimer Row. It’s safe to wander about. My cleaner was here today.”
Ellie, curious about his reading tastes, studied the spines of the volumes that filled the floor-to-ceiling bookcase.
“Take whatever you want,” he said.
She bypassed the novels, most of them by British authors she didn’t know. Examining a book on film history, she asked, “What are we seeing tonight?”
“I found a site where we can stream Lady of Burlesque. My expectations of the plot aren’t high, but Barbara Stanwyck is well worth watching.”
She followed a short corridor, past a powder room, and peered into each of two bedrooms. The one above the streetscape had a wooden floor and just enough space for the easy chair, treadmill, and single bed. It retained the sash windows of other facades along Latimer Row. Dan’s room, across the hall, was larger. Fully carpeted, it held a double bed with padded headboard, a chest, and tall wardrobe. The windows were south-facing, with Roman shades. A large building blocked a view that was probably similar to what she could see from her penthouse balcony. The one-way avenue below was lined with art galleries and offices, indicating optimal quiet during the night hours. She assumed she’d find out later.
After dinner they snuggled on the sofa to laugh and kiss during the scenes without Barbara Stanwyck. When her character, the tough and salty Dixie, ordered a champagne cocktail in a bar scene, Dan paused the video. Using her phone, Ellie found a recipe and read it out while he pulled bottles from his liquor cabinet and took a mini-bottle of bubbly from the fridge.
Pointing at the box of demerara sugar cubes, she said, “I thought only restaurants had them.”
“For Dad, who stops by for tea when he’s in town, though he stays at the club. Next time, you’ll join us there for dinner.”
“To be perfectly honest, I’d rather not be subjected to another interrogation about why I abandoned ballet for what he clearly regards as a sleazy profession.”
“He can’t help equating burlesque with the Soho dives where drunks manhandled the showgirls, though I doubt he visited any of them. I explained the artistic aspect. And mentioned your interviews with veteran performers that you did for your school research paper.”
“What did he say?”
“That you should’ve written about Dame Alicia Markova instead.”
She doubted Sir Terence had intended that as a joke.
They carried their champagne flutes to the sofa. Before restarting the film, Dan looked at her and said, “I’d love to keep you here till morning, but I know you’ve got class. Any chance of a sleepover at the weekend?”
“Saturday night. I could be all yours on Sunday as well.”
“Yes, please.” He pulled her against his torso. “We’ve exchanged keys. Might as well stash toothbrushes in our respective flats.”
“Gosh, you move fast, Daniel Wheeler.” She didn’t mind at all.
In the afternoon, Maxi pointed out to her assembled students that they’d reached the deadline to choose their one act-play for the showcase.
“I’ll be in the teachers’ lounge. When you’ve reached consensus, send someone to get me.”
Breaking the silence, Simrat suggested, “Show of hands?”
“Not before discussion,” Graeme insisted.
“I don’t have anything else to add.” Val twisted a strand of blonde hair.
Archie straddled an armless chair. “Option one, the church where a wedding and funeral are booked on the same morning. It’s farcical and fun, but there’s no substance to the characters.”
“Right,” Tony agreed. “And even though Molière’s play is translated to modern language, its setting is historic. Nobody’s heard of all those dead French actors and actresses being ridiculed. Maybe not Molière either.”
“What if we reimagined it?” Archie suggested. “Turn it into a royal command performance for the current monarch. We can impersonate celebrities. We could do actors and television presenters and cookery show chefs.”
“And a football player,” Declan added. “Identifiable by the team jersey.”
Simrat smiled. “That’s a genius plan.”
“We could throw in references to all the places where famous people hang out,” said Rose, excitedly. “The Savoy Hotel. Number Eight Hertford Street.”
“The upper-class departures lounge at Heathrow.” Ellie had spent many an hour there. “I think we just arrived at consensus.”
Simrat turned to her. “I see you as Caroline Bryden. Similar hair. And coloring.”
“Her accent is so posh. I’m not sure I’d be able to recreate it.”
“It only takes a little extra work with our voice coach. If Graeme practices his smolder, he’ll be a perfect Lucas Daltrey. You’ll both carry your Oscar statues. Declan, who’s your favorite footballer? Tony, what famous Canadian will you be?”
“One of our comedians, I suppose. Nobody in this country would recognize an ice hockey player.”
Archie stuck his nose in the air. “I’m Francis Cooke. Sir Francis, to you.”
Everyone laughed.
“I’ll find Maxi,” Val offered. “We’re going to blow her mind.”
Despite her misgivings about accurately portraying an actress in possession of an Academy Award, Ellie was in a buoyant mood during her tube journey to Piccadilly Circus. On her way to Latimer Row, she stopped in the chemist’s shop to purchase a toothbrush. After discreetly concealing it in a gift bag, she went directly to Dan’s office building and asked the receptionist to deliver it to Mr. Wheeler.