Chapter 21
Chapter 21
The South Bank bistro was packed with other couples attending performances at Royal Festival Hall and the National Theatre complex, or British Film Institute screenings. Ellie, satisfied that Dame Alicia Markova’s memoir was purified, asked Dan where she should send a parcel to his dad, without stating what it would contain.
“He’s in Birmingham, monitoring a court case, but he’s coming to town soon to spend time with Pamela. If you drop it off at the club, they’ll hold it for his arrival.”
“Every time I walk past, I wonder what’s going on inside. The window shades are always down.”
“Nothing shocking or, frankly, terribly interesting. Apart from being entitled to wear the club tie, I don’t have a great deal in common with other members. They rehash social events or parliamentary debates. Discuss investments and property prices and the vagaries of the stock market. While drinking and dining.” With a nod and smile for the waiter, he tapped his credit card on the payment machine and waited for it to spit out the receipt.
On their way to the cinema, they passed a poster for Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
“When the play was revived on Broadway,” Ellie said, “I was dancing Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and couldn’t go.” Harry went without her. “I’ve heard it’s intense.”
While the opening scene unfolded, she twined her fingers with Dan’s. She seldom saw couples their age holding hands in public places, but in the dark auditorium nobody would notice. She was simultaneously fascinated and repelled by the raging dysfunction on display, as Martha and George flung insults at each other and drew Nick and Honey into the venomous symbiosis of their relationship. It was possible, she discovered, to sympathetically portray appalling and unlikeable characters.
As the closing credits rolled, Dan asked, “Did you enjoy it?”
“It was emotionally exhausting. But I saw how compelling performances can be, even when they don’t depend on the actors being charming or attractive. Isn’t the tube station in the opposite direction?”
“After a show, I always take a taxi home, and usually find one closer to the National Theatre.” They paused at the crosswalk and waited for the pedestrian signal. “I have a very personal question to ask.”
She eyed his profile. “Okay.”
“What’s your weight?”
“I’m not sure how to answer. At the doctor’s office, the scale measured kilograms. Her nurse translated that into stone. I had to request another conversion to find out how many pounds.” She recited each of the three numbers. “Why do you want to know?”
“You showed me photos of Rafe and other male dancers hoisting you incredibly high. It occurs to me that if I could pick you up from time to time, I wouldn’t need to use the machines at my gym as often.”
“Seriously?”
“I want to try it tonight. Your place or mine?”
“Yours. Shorter distance to the bedroom. Not so far to carry me.”
“I’m not so sure about the carrying part.”
“In my experience, one follows the other. You’ll have to follow my instructions so you don’t injure yourself.”
Latimer Row was dimly lit, and the windows of the shop fronts were barred or obscured by drawn shades. Patrons departed the corner restaurant and staff were clearing and wiping down outdoor tables. Dan pressed the keypad beside the unmarked exterior door, entering the code he’d shared with Ellie. They ascended the two flights of stairs. As soon as they reached the flat, she slipped off her high heels.
Rising onto her toes, she reached up and placed an arm around his shoulder. “Now.”
He swept her off her feet. “Lighter than I expected.” Dipping her down, he added in a teasing tone, “Somewhat.” He crossed the sitting room, angling his body so they would both fit in the narrow hallway.
On their wedding night, Harry had struggled when lugging her from the hotel elevator to their room. Tipsy from the bottle of champagne provided by the bar, they had laughed all the way down the corridor, the hem of her white tulle gown brushing the carpeted floor. Aware that a fall could severely damage an ankle or a foot, she clung to him.
Go away, Harry, she chided. Leave us alone.
Dan eased her to the carpet and stepped away. “Was it good for you?”
“Very.” She swept her right foot to the side, swirled it behind and pulled it up against her left kneecap to propel herself into a facsimile of a pirouette. Letting herself lose her balance, she tumbled backwards onto the duvet. “Your much-deserved reward awaits.”
Her hands moved to his belt and pulled him closer so she could unfasten it. Desperate to meld herself to him, she hurriedly removed his shirt and trousers. He proceeded gradually, slowly unbuttoning her blouse, trailing kisses down her bare chest. She pressed her mouth to his, embracing him with her arms and legs. Their pas de deux began, sweeping away all thoughts of past or future. In this bed, the only stage that mattered to her, he was the perfect partner. But she wasn’t giving a performance. She was entirely, intensely herself.
In the morning, her highly regulated internal clock jerked her awake. On the other side of the bathroom door, the shower was running. Propping her head both pillows, she heaved a sigh of deepest delight.
Dan strode into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his lower body. “Are you aware that you point your toes when you’re sleeping?”
“No.” Gazing at him, she commented, “And did you know, for a man who isn’t a dancer you have really good shoulders? A nice butt. And great knees.”
“Knees?” He came over to kiss her. “Coffee will soon be ready.”
She used his shampoo and her toothbrush. Instead of putting on the outfit she’d worn last night, she covered herself with Dan’s bathrobe. He’d offered to make space in a dresser drawer or the wardrobe. With Latimer House so near, it wasn’t necessary.
When she joined him in the kitchen, she accepted the mug of steaming brew. Her fingers pressed an avocado’s dimpled flesh, testing the firmness. “I’ll make my favorite breakfast, if you have whole wheat bread and a couple of eggs for frying.”
While eating her version of avocado toast, they watched a Sunday morning chat show. The presenters and their guests spouted inanities that alternated between amusing and mildly offensive.
As raindrops struck the windows, Ellie said, “After a thoroughly wet week, I was hoping my one free day would be sunny. I’m starved for grass and trees and romping dogs.”
“This weather is the reason wise and wealthy humans created museums,” he replied. “And why London’s got so many of them. We could visit the National Gallery. There’s a room filled with French impressionists where you can see the ballerinas Degas painted. We can hunt for all the famous dancers on display at the National Portrait Gallery. And have lunch in the café.”
“I like everything about that plan.”
In the downstairs vestibule he picked up the umbrella leaning against the wall. They walked briskly in the direction of Latimer House and darted into the residents’ lobby.
The weekend porter transferred his focus from his phone and pointed to the padded envelope on his deck. “For you, Miss Lowery. The gentleman who delivered it said he tried ringing before he came but got no answer.”
She’d silenced her phone the night before, somewhere between the bistro and the cinema, and never switched it back on. Powering it up, she found several messages—text and voice—from Gil Cooke. Picking up the parcel, she said, “My script.”
“Would you rather stay here and read it?” Dan asked.
“That can wait for some other rainy day. This one belongs to you.”
During her Monday morning trek to the tube station, Ellie stopped at the imposing brick edifice that housed Dan’s club. She pressed a bell beside the door, summoning a uniformed porter, and handed over the repurposed envelope Gil had sent her, now addressed to Sir Terence Wheeler. In addition to the autographed copy of Markova Remembers, it contained a note she’d penned on a sheet of the personalized stationery she’d ordered from Smythson of Bond Street.
Last night she’d read Fractures in the Heart. Through the interactions of his conflicted characters, Lyla and Randall, Gil exposed their disillusionment. Dialogue and action revealed the destructive effects of distrust, possessiveness, and envy. Ellie recalled the emotional drain of performing ballet heroines victimized and betrayed by men they loved—Tatiana, Giselle, Odette. She hoped she could leave Lyla’s despondency and fury in the rehearsal room and on the stage. She didn’t want her character’s angst following her home or invading her subconscious
Impromptu, the updated and altered version of Molière’s satirical comedy, was a fun and lighthearted contrast to Gil’s play. To create her impression of movie star Caroline Bryden, Ellie had studied interviews conducted on television programs and award ceremony red carpets. This afternoon the academy’s diction coach would help her perfect the breathy intonation and cut-glass accent that she practiced in the shower and anytime she was alone in her flat. She hadn’t tried it out on Dan, or told him her character’s identity. She wanted to surprise him.
After a class supervised by hard-driving Marcus, Ellie visited the development office.
“We’re putting together the final list of attendees for the end of season reception for the company and our contributors,” the administrative assistant told her. “I need the name of your plus-one. Preferably somebody willing to make a substantial donation.”
“I’m sure I can persuade the person I’m inviting.” The names on the printout were listed in alphabetical order, and near the bottom she found Sir Terence Wheeler and Ms. Pamela Ames.
Before walking over to the drama school for rehearsal, she phoned Dan to inform him of the time and the venue, one of the many hotels on Piccadilly.
“My dad will be your only Wheeler, I’m afraid. Martin postponed the managers’ retreat because he was so busy with the flooding in Somerset, and he rescheduled it for the same weekend as your event. And because he can’t get away, I’m in charge. We’ll be meeting in Brighton, for three damn days. Lou and I are scrambling to prepare.”
“Oh, no.” She didn’t try to contain her disappointment.
“My penance for leaving you dateless will be a generous financial contribution to the Friends’ Fund of British Ballet Theatre. And I’ll bring back some Brighton Rock for you.”
“What’s that?”
“A big, hard . . . stick of candy.”
She snickered. “My present location isn’t suitable for phone sex.”
“Nor mine. Not with Lou hovering. Dinner tonight? I could pick up sushi.”
“Perfect.”
With more than an hour before she was due at rehearsal, she went shopping. From her experience of events similar to the Friends of British Ballet Theatre annual reception, she knew the female dancers would wear items loaned by top designers who wanted to get their creations into press photos. A flashy Stella Nue style garment wasn’t suitable. Her treasured Balmain cocktail dress was gorgeous, but a vintage item was perhaps too eccentric a choice.
She wandered the streets of Marylebone until she spotted an array of sophisticated formal gowns in an atelier’s old-fashioned bow window. Going inside, she told the shop assistant which one she wanted to try on. A sleeveless column of off-white silk organza, it had an overskirt of transparent crape embellished with a constellation of pale sequins that drifted from hip to hem. Even though it was too large and loose and made for a much taller person, she purchased it. The assistant escorted her to a back room to meet the creator, who pinned it for alterations.
During their run-through of the one-act, she and her castmates showed off their celebrity impersonations. The director frequently halted the action, waiting for the players to stop laughing at each other.
“Let’s form an improv troupe,” Declan suggested. “The Muriel Baker Comedy Players.”
Valerie held up a hand. “I’m in.”
“All right, people,” their director said, hands on her hips. “Focus. Dress rehearsal is next week. Start bringing the costumes you’ve chosen. After we finish, I’ll have Maxi unlock the prop room so you can look around for items your characters will need.”
Graeme faced Ellie. “We should use our award statuettes like dueling swords. En garde!”
Backing away in mock dread, she replied, “If Lucas and Caroline ever find out what we’re doing, they’ll sue us for defamation.”