Chapter 20
Chapter 20
She stared at the document on his desk, clause after clause of type that had organized her past life. “Anya would object.”
“It was her suggestion. ‘Let Eeley Lorry join company.’ You have a musicality that can’t be taught, she says. I concur.”
“She won’t want me when she finds out I was Stella Nue.”
“She’s known all along. I told her after your first morning in class. She doesn’t care.”
“Your board of directors might.”
“The hiring of artistic personnel is outside their purview. They only participate when we interview candidates for the executive staff.”
“I spent barely a year in the corps,” she reminded him. “My ensemble work is limited to small groupings. Dances at a Gathering, or the foreign princesses’ pas de six in Swan Lake.”
“I told you, love, I need soloists. Mireille sometimes cast you in principal roles, and I’m willing to do the same when I can. You’ve seen the next season’s schedule. Sylvia. Our Autumn Gala, to be performed at—wait for it—the Royal Albert Hall. The premiere of my Virtuosi , staged partly in the round. Paired with Les Sylphides.” He paused to let this sink in, his face impassive as he watched for her reaction.
Rafe, her longtime supporter and occasional savior, had morphed into her torturer. Turning down Sylphides was excruciating.
“Wouldn’t you like to dance for royalty?”
“I did.” She forced a smile. “According to rumor, a certain princely duke came incognito to one of my London burlesque gigs. The tabloids never found out.”
“I can guess who it was.” Placing his forefinger on the contract, he went on, “Naturally we’ll have weeks and weeks of Nutcracker, with multiple casts and understudies. Cinderella. At least two commissioned works, one of which goes to Prague next summer. A European tour—probably Giselle. Oh, when I have a spare hour or two, I study the original notation for Le Papillion. I want to create a restored version—before it occurs to Ratmansky to give it a go.” He folded his hands and rested them on the desk. “I’ve known hundreds of dancers, but none like you. You’re my unicorn. A rare combination of varied experience and untapped potential.”
“I’ve been on hiatus way too long,” she pointed out. “Professionals don’t come back after they go away.”
“They most certainly do. We grant time off to our people if they want to dance in West End musicals.”
“Months, maybe. Not years.”
“If you’re working this hard to dig up excuses, you must be tempted,” he said, with disconcerting accuracy. “Here’s an incentive. Join my merry band and the doomed affair we’ve put off will never, ever take place. Relationships between management and talent are prohibited.” His tone was no longer jocular when he continued, “Human emotion and physical attraction aren’t easily controlled, of course. That’s why we encourage transparency and communication. Last year a situation arose that necessitated placing one individual in a comparable position elsewhere. Whatever our dancers get up to amongst themselves is their private business. Unless it has a toxic effect on them or their colleagues.”
She’d observed the many ways he’d upended the harsh systems of control and repression and uneven power dynamics that had driven them from City International. Creating a healthy ballet company was no easy feat, and he’d achieved it.
He picked up the document. “Agreements must be finalized in the next fortnight. I need your answer soon.”
“Your faith in me means more than I can express, and I’m deeply grateful. But I can’t dance for you. It’s impossible.”
“You pride yourself on embracing challenges. I’m presenting you with a major one. Think it over. Talk to Anya. Marcus. Me.”
“I’m going to sign a different contract, very soon. My theatrical agent has completed negotiations with the Sovereign Theatre Group. At the start of your next season, I’ll be performing a major role in a new play.”
His eyes narrowed, deepening the creases at the corners. “What is it?”
“Fractures in the Heart. Written by Gilbert Cooke, son of Sir Francis. He describes it as the present-day version of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Two characters, Lyla and Randall, a young married couple. Me and Lucas Daltrey.”
“An Academy Award winner. That’s huge.” He placed his elbows on the desk and pressed his palms together. “I’m gutted. And sincerely chuffed for you. If we’d had this conversation sooner, and you were available, would you have accepted my offer?”
She owed him the truth. “Maybe. I can’t say. I really do hate letting you down. Especially since you don’t have a company school to draft from.”
“We’ll manage. A couple of girls in the corps are primed for promotion. The apprentice dancers can audition for those places.” He pulled a folder towards him and opened it. “We’ve updated the job prospectus for our development team members. Please consider joining us in that capacity. As a dancer who is also a donor, you understand and can articulate our mission and our needs. Declining government subsidies for the arts forces us to vigorously cultivate additional corporate sponsors and celebrity patrons. In addition to titans of industry, we’ve got a popular royal duchess and a handful of high-profile retired dancers.”
“I’m willing. Provided I can serve as a volunteer, without compensation. As my schedule allows.”
“Agreed.” He added, “It better not be necessary to point out that my motive for bringing you into the BBT fold isn’t wholly mercenary. We’re forever partners, Ellie.”
“I adore you, Rafe. Always have. Except those times you dropped me.”
“In rehearsal, love. Never during a performance.”
“That bungled fish dive was the worst. I warned you my leg was cramping.”
“Gravity is a powerful force. Next thing I knew, you were lying on the marley in a heap of white tulle. Uninjured,” he added emphatically.
She exited the building, moving slowly through the courtyard separating the annex from the Crescent Theatre. She felt dazed and off-balance, as though the red double-decker bus rolling past had careened into her.
How would I have answered Rafe, she asked herself, if I hadn’t committed to doing Gil’s play?
When she’d arrived that morning, she’d been content with her partly in, partly out status. Unlike the dancers in class, she didn’t pulse with energy and ambition. She’d liberated herself from the demands of coaches and répétiteurs and directors. She was no longer defined by critics, whose expectations of a dancer were rigid and specific. The equally strong biases of ballet fans didn’t affect her. She wasn’t relentlessly counting down the years towards retirement, aware that a valley of physical disintegration waited beyond the heights of achievement.
She relished London living and her Latimer House apartment. She had Gemma for her barre buddy. At drama school she’d acquired seven friends—eight, counting Maxi. She looked forward to performing her comic role in the one-act. She mentored Lisa, the Archway Cabaret stage kitten. In a few months, she’d appear in a debut drama in the West End.
Far more important, she had Dan. Someone to cherish, to laugh with, to love, whose companionship was essential to her wellbeing. Who provided her with an exhilarating and fulfilling sex life after a lengthy period of celibacy.
Taking advantage of BBT’s proximity to Regent’s Park, she crossed busy Marylebone Road, and followed the walkway to the Jubilee Gate, marking the Inner Circle that enclosed Queen Mary’s Garden. The roses adorning arbors and rope swags, and rising up trellises, were profusely in bloom. Many of them looked similar to the varieties Sir Terence Wheeler grew at Tayer Court. With her phone she took dozens of photographs to show Dan, thinking he could identify them, and posed a few selfies with a background of blossoms.
Aimlessly strolling down a paved path, she paused to listen to raised voices, stopping, starting, singing. Glancing at the nearest signpost, she saw that it pointed towards the Open Air Theatre. The rehearsal in process was a timely reminder of the decision made years ago, when she’d ceased to be a professional ballet dancer. She was an actress now, and learning to be a better one.
Because Dan had to attend a business dinner, she spent the evening by herself, searching the internet for advice on how best to remove the pervasive old book smell from Dame Alicia’s memoir. The next day was bright and dry, so she left it on the balcony. At a supermarket, she purchased a box of baking soda, sealing it and the book in an airtight container for the rest of the week. She repeated the same process with kitty litter. And she inserted dryer sheets among the pages to absorb any lingering odor that an average or a particularly sensitive nose might detect.
Because Ellie’s daily routine restricted her to Mayfair and Marylebone, the greater part of London was unknown territory. She was therefore pleased to visit unfamiliar South Kensington, where a variety of major and minor museums were located, to meet the curator preparing an exhibition on burlesque. In a vast space filled with garment rails, she was reunited with the multi-layered gown she’d worn—and removed—when portraying Swan of the Lake. She shared information about its inspiration and creation. She also recorded a brief descriptive track for the audio guide.
Afterwards, on the terrace, she claimed an unoccupied bench facing the central pond. Opening the phone app she used for video calls, she clicked Aunt Camille’s icon.
“The curatorial staff will send you a shortlist of other items they want,” Ellie announced. “Colorful ones. Fiery Bird, the red number with the floor length feather tail. Victorian Vixen. And Ondine.”
Camille’s lips moved. After a brief delay, the question came through. “I wish we’d known before shipping them over here.”
“I know. The curator will be in touch to work out details. He asked me to be the special guest for the press preview and opening reception, assuming I’d appear as Stella Nue. I told him that was a non-starter, and he agreed to introduce me as Ellie. How are my guys?”
“I saw Zack when he was in Concord picking up fabric to make tablecloths. They’re having a blast hosting their B&B guests and managing events. This weekend there’s a wedding by the lakeshore and a reception in the barn. A nationally known politician’s daughter. Lots of bigwigs to impress.”
“They will. I have to tell you about my latest vintage purchase, a real rarity. A 1950s Pierre Balmain cocktail dress, cream satin with sequin embellishment. A perfect fit, though I can’t imagine where I’d wear it. And get this—it’s called ‘Taglioni,’ after the famous ballerina. A museum in Paris has one just like it.”
“Send me a picture. Maybe our designer can draft a modified pattern to include in our evening wear line. That reminds me, the first batch of Stella Boutique sample dresses will be delivered before you get here. Last week I toured potential retail spaces in Boston—Newbury Street and Boylston.”
Pleased by this report, Ellie said, “Back Bay sounds good. Square footage?”
“That will depend on how much we’re prepared to pay. I’ve gathered quotes, and the accountant is working the numbers.”
“Thanks for everything.”
Camille laughed. “It’s a joint business venture, there’s a quid pro quo. I’m thinking I might convert Camille’s Closet in Concord to a Stella Boutique.”
“I approve. Let’s discuss it when I’m there.”
On Saturday morning, before leaving her bed, she heard the torrent lashing the windowpanes. Opening the curtains in the sitting room, she peered at the gloom obscuring her view of the street below. Pedestrians darted along the pavement, huddled beneath their umbrellas.
From Latimer House she speed-walked to the underground station, eager to escape the chilly air that was a dancer’s great enemy. She boarded a carriage filled with damp passengers wearing glum expressions and sidled down the aisle to an empty seat. Hefting her dance bag to her lap, she looked up at the tube map banner. Those intersecting colored lines represented the many routes she hadn’t yet taken. Later in the day, she’d experience some of them.
In the women’s changing room, everyone groused about the weather. Ellie was glad of her long-sleeved leotard and pink cardigan, and she wore sweatpants and leg warmers over her tights. As she and Gemma joined the others drifting in the direction of the studio, her thoughts returned to her conversation with Rafe.
These people she labored with each morning had the privilege of performing a broad repertoire of ballets, here in London and elsewhere in the world. During hiatus, they accepted invitations to appear with prestigious companies as guest artists. They could access the fully equipped gym in the physio suite and relied on the therapists and massage practitioners. The company dietitian and the mental health officer provided guidance and support as required. Each woman had an assigned cubbyhole in the shoe room, containing her preferred brand and style of pointe shoes, fashioned to her exact foot measurements.
Regret, Ellie reminded herself, was a destructive emotion.
She didn’t need the income or the benefits provided by a company contract. She could afford to purchase shoes and pay her masseuse. As a burlesque artist, she’d repeatedly circled the globe, performing for international audiences. Even though her name would never appear on Rafe’s cast lists, she was firmly embedded in this community. She’d organized the reading room. She attended strategy sessions with development office personnel. If asked to assist with coaching, she would.
Barry ambled into the room and sat on the padded bench at the grand piano.
If he plays a piece from Les Sylphides, she thought, I’m going to cry.
He didn’t. During barre exercises, he produced honky-tonk tunes. For the demonic combinations ballet master Marcus had devised, he provided a mash-up of peppy classical themes and numbers from popular stage musicals.
Her lunch date with the Archway Cabaret stage kitten would cheer her up. Nobody could be depressed around bubbly Lisa. And, Dan had pointed out, her journey would take her to a very different part of London than the gentrified one in which they resided.
The Central Line train carried her past unfamiliar stations like Notting Hill and Shepherd’s Bush. While traveling above ground, she viewed the urban landscape framed by a dingy, rain-spattered carriage window. At North Acton she hopped off and followed directions to the hamburger joint where Lisa worked the afternoon shift. On entering, the smell of grilled meat carried her back to her waitressing days at The Shamrock.
“Gosh, it’s grand seeing you,” Lisa greeted her. “But you def don’t look like Stella Nue. Different hair. No makeup or fake lashes. What’ll you have to eat?”
“Just a coffee. I had a green smoothie for what you’d call elevenses.”
Lisa lowered her voice. “They pour a proper brew at the caff. Awful mucky, what’s served here.”
As they walked down the block, she peppered Ellie with questions.
“How do you manage being in two plays at the same time?”
“I’m not. Our one-act performance will be over before the table read for Fractures in the Heart. Those rehearsals won’t begin till August, after I get back from the States.”
When they were seated at a copper-topped table, she asked about her friends at the Archway.
“We’re seeing lots of summer tourists, as well as the business blokes who bring their clients. A fortnight ago, I auditioned my act for the management and our promoter.”
“Was it the Queen of Sheba bit you told me about on the phone?”
“That’s right. She was brown like me. And I want to work on other regal characters.” The crinkles around Lisa’s eyes smoothed as her smile faded. “Classy ones, like yours. I noticed how still and quiet people were when they watched you, like they were under a spell. Respectful. Different to how they respond to the bump and grind acts.” Cocking her head, she said, “I’ve been researching about Cleopatra, too. Putting together her costume would be expensive.”
“You don’t need top of the line crystals to sparkle. But even under the lights, cheap fabric still looks cheap. Always do your shopping in person, it’s impossible to judge quality and color online. And find a skilled seamstress.”
“One of the girls told me about a woman who works from a simple sketch and can purchase materials at discount. I’ve been saving up.”
“Let me know what you need,” Ellie responded. “I’ll help.”
“Yeah? That’s awful kind. At the shoe shops I was spoilt for choice. I bought metallic sandals studded with fake gems.”
“Be sure to scuff and scratch the soles. You don’t want to slip when you’re sashaying.”
“Where did you learn so many tricks?”
“From experienced performers, who generously offered advice and encouragement. And warnings.”
In that respect, there was no difference between burlesque and ballet. The technique and traditions and history of classical dance had been perpetuated through the centuries, from performer to performer, generation to generation.