Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Relying on her raincoat hood for protection, Ellie scuttled towards the Sovereign Theatre. To avoid a tide of pedestrians and umbrellas in Shaftesbury Avenue, she diverted to a side street hoping she wouldn’t get confused and be late for her meeting. She came to a sudden stop when she noticed a gleaming green sign above a fast-food restaurant.
She was still beaming when she entered the lobby, where Gil Cooke waited for her.
“Are you hungry?” she asked him.
Startled by her greeting, he said, “Starting to be.”
“Come with me.”
“I’ll fetch my brolly.”
“You won’t need it. The rain has almost stopped. And we aren’t going far. Are you vegetarian?”
“Not currently.”
As she retraced her steps, he offered a monologue on the rudeness of audience members who were incapable of switching off their mobiles during performances. When the eatery was in sight, she pointed at the sign.
“Blarney Burger has arrived in Britain.”
“What’s so thrilling about one more beefburger joint?”
“My father created it.”
“Right. That’s why Harry liked going there. Do you get free food?”
“I wish. When Daddo sold his company, he didn’t include that clause in the transfer document. Londoners probably assume it’s an Irish chain, not American.”
She wished Dan were with her instead of Gil, because he’d understand—and probably share—her delight. Pushing the door open, she gazed raptly at the illuminated menu board behind the counter. “Wow, major product expansion. For the sake of authenticity, I recommend the regular Blarney, but suit yourself. My treat.”
“Oh, very well,” he said grudgingly. “Are you having chips?”
“You can. What to drink?”
He studied the menu board. “Limeade.”
“Two Blarneys, please. One order of Shannon Spuds. Two Galway Gulps.”
Gil followed her to a green chair with shamrock-shaped back and placed their tray on the table’s green laminate surface. She detected no significant differences between this franchise and the one closest to the Manhattan apartment where she and Harry had lived.
After sampling her burger, she opined, “A reasonable facsimile of the original product.” She reached for one of his chips to try it. “These potatoes were deep fried in a different sort of oil than they use at home. And they’re saltier.” She picked up her cup.
“How long has Cait Murray represented you?”
Speaking around the paper straw between her lips, she said, “Since last week.”
He wagged his sandy head. “I told you I’d help you get an agent.”
“I saved you the trouble,” she said blithely. “More accurately, Hannah did.”
“Hannah?”
“Ballard. The film and television producer. I stayed with her and her husband for part of the bank holiday weekend.”
“The director of Fractures in the Heart, Joan Wadsworth, plans to cast Lucas Daltrey as Randall. Cait Murray represents him.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “She gets points for discretion. When she mentioned a client of hers was under consideration, she wouldn’t say who.”
“Father gave him an early version of the script. They worked together on Forsaken Fortune and Tender Treasure. They became even better acquainted when appearing at film festivals and awards ceremonies.”
To redirect him from the settled issue of her agent, she asked, “When do I get your script?”
“In approximately a fortnight. The final version is being printed and bound.” He shoved aside his empty burger wrapper. “On Saturday evening, the British Film Institute is showing Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Useful preparation for Fractures. I’ll get two tickets.”
That night belonged to Dan. “I’m not free,” she said, striving for an apologetic tone. “But I’ll be sure to see it.”
“You haven’t told me when your drama class will perform one-acts. I want to be there.”
Inviting him to the showcase was impossible. His notoriously pompous parent was being mercilessly mimicked by Archie. And she couldn’t expose him to Graeme’s hilariously overblown version of the sexy, smoldering actor destined to be Ellie’s co-star—whose actress wife she portrayed.
“It’s not a large auditorium, and three classes will be presenting plays,” she replied before taking another bite of her burger.
The most gratifying proof of acceptance at BBT was being assigned a locker in the women’s changing room. She used it to store street clothes, an extra water bottle, and her least presentable leg warmers. Arriving early on Thursday morning, due to speedy connections on the underground system, she added a pair of pointe shoes that weren’t quite dead. After changing into leotard and tights, she made her way to the studio.
The bearded and ponytailed pianist was seated at the shining black baby grand. “Rafe says you danced with him.”
“Whenever a better partner wasn’t available.”
Barry returned her grin. “Same sense of humor. No wonder you two get on so well.”
“We have a long, shared history of tears and laughs. And venting.”
“Favorite role?”
“Tatiana was the most demanding, technically and dramatically. The best kind of challenge. And I usually had Rafe as my Onegin. Swanilda in Coppelia is fun, she’s such a genuine girl, and wonderfully feisty. As I recently told someone, flying through the air to Chopin’s D major mazurka, in Les Sylphides, was the pinnacle of happiness. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy my Swan Lake parts—the Act One pas de trois and the Polish princess. I was Drosselmeyer’s mechanical doll at the Christmas party in The Nutcracker, and the shepherdess in the Land of the Sweets. In Sleeping Beauty, I’ve been a fairy at Aurora’s christening and White Cat at her wedding.”
“Bold and bouncy characters.”
“That’s right,” she said airily. “I’ve always been a showgirl, even before my career in burlesque.”
Company members ambled into the studio on turned-out penguin feet. Anya arrived, sporting her usual black tunic and loose, wide-legged trousers. People removed earbuds and placed phones, foot rollers, stretch bands, and massage balls in dance bags.
At Rafe’s entrance, everyone at the barre perked up. He greeted Anya and clapped Barry’s shoulder before turning a chair backwards and sitting down.
Gemma, hastily inserting her feet into her split-sole slippers, muttered, “What’s he doing here?”
“No idea,” Ellie replied as she tied a sheer blue chiffon wrap skirt over her tights. “He either finished his paperwork or ran out of millionaires to solicit for donations.” She unfurled her striped leg warmers and sheathed each of her lower limbs to the thigh. Readjusting a hairpin, she asked, “What are you rehearsing today?”
“Coppelia. One more time in Studio A before moving onto the theatre stage.”
“We begin now,” Anya called. “Please be ready.”
Ellie faced the mirror, placing her fingers on the wooden rail, and pulled in a long, deep breath to center herself. They began with head rolls and port de bras, feet in first position followed by second position, and the addition of tendu à la arrière. Ellie’s hands, in unison with those of her fellow dancers, darted back and forth and sideways as Anya sketched instructions for a combination involving petits battements.
Barry began with a slowed down version of the Chopin piece she’d referenced earlier. Fighting her impulse to smile at him, she copied the other dancers’ intent and focused expressions. Before beginning center work, people reached for their water bottles and discarded outer layers of clothing. Ellie took up her usual position in the back row of the second group and watched Rafe watching everyone else. During petit allegro, one of his heels tapped the studio floor, keeping time. He must long to join the dancers leaping diagonally across the springy floor. She wished he could show them his buoyant pas de chat and astonishing entrechat huit.
When the last group finished grand allegro and the music stopped, Rafe clapped—for the dancers first, then for Anya and Barry. “Thank you, everyone. Excellent energy. I hope it carries you through your busy day and evening. Marcus wants his Coppelia villagers in Studio A half an hour from now. Don’t be late.”
Ellie hadn’t reached the door when he beckoned. She recognized his mimed gesture as the same one he’d used as Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake.
“Let’s talk.”
“When?”
“Right now. If convenient.”
“I’ve got an hour to kill.” She needn’t reveal her appointment at a Harley Street women’s clinic for a consultation about birth control.
She went with him, keeping her gaze fixed between his shoulder blades so she wouldn’t see how the rest of the group reacted to her being singled out by the boss. Instead of taking her to the elevator, he led her to a narrow hallway and a room with empty bookcases and many cardboard boxes.
She wrinkled her nose. “Smells like the painters just left.”
“Welcome to our future library and reading room. The cartons contain our collection of memoirs written by dancers, or ghostwritten for them, and biographies. Bound music scores. A ballet notation archive, mostly Benesh with Labanotation mixed in. My entire staff is busy planning the summer tour and making decisions about the upcoming season. I can’t spare anybody to sort the contents and organize them by subject. You’re a booklover. Here’s a task I hope you’re willing to take on.”
“Does every item have to be catalogued?”
“No. I envision a simple sign-out system. After the materials are shelved, we’ll bring in a sofa and some chairs and tables and reading lamps.”
“It can be an extra stop on your public tours.” She set down her dance bag.
“I’m not asking you to start now. Wait till the paint fumes dissipate.”
“I can’t resist digging into a box or two. I might find something interesting to take home.”
“Help yourself.” Pausing in the doorway, he turned to say, “Let me know if you turn up anything of value. Sergeyev’s handwritten notes on the Petipa ballets. Or a long-lost libretto.”
She lifted the unsealed flaps of an unlabeled box. It contained several long-forgotten but familiar titles. Like most young dancers, she’d devoured ballerina biographies for inspiration, undeterred by tales of struggle and setbacks. Over time her interest had extended to the history and development of the art. She picked up a volume to study the color photograph of an elegant, middle-aged woman. Opening it, she studied the curling handwritten signature, underlined, beneath the author’s name on the title page. After she examined images of a dark-haired juvenile dancer in various costumes, and countless representations of an acclaimed and iconic Giselle, she closed the book and picked up her bag.
The elevator carried her to the administrative office on an upper floor.
Rafe stood at his assistant’s desk, reviewing documents being passed to him. “Giving up so soon?”
“I did discover a treasure in your trove.” She held up Markova Remembers. “Autographed. May I have it, please? I promise to get a replacement copy in a secondhand shop or online, though it won’t be autographed like this one. I’d like to give it to Sir Terence Wheeler.”
“You know him?”
“We met in Gloucestershire.” She’d had no opportunity to inform him about her romance with Dan. “His son arranged my rental apartment in Mayfair.”
“Wheeler is on our donor list, and we have hopes of persuading him to join our board. Kindly inform him that Dame Alicia’s memoir comes to him with compliments from me and BBT.”
“I will.”
With his trademark wink, Rafe added, “This seems like an optimal moment for another proposition. Alison, hold my calls.”
Ellie followed him into his office. While he pawed through a file cabinet, she looked at the wall posters advertising the company’s past performances, before and since he became its artistic director.
“Here it is.” He pulled out a single sheet of paper. “The elements of our standard employment contract. At the end of this season, one of our female soloists leaves us for Staatsballett in Berlin. Another, whose husband accepted a job in Edinburgh, will transfer to Scottish National. I’ve got two openings. I’m hoping you’ll agree to fill one.”