Chapter 31
Chapter 31
“R eady for your close up?” Ellie asked Gemma as they sat on the studio floor, unpacking their dance bags. “On World Ballet Day, everybody gets their fleeting moment of fame.”
“Last year, my mum complained that she didn’t see me often enough.”
“The producer will have studied our website to pick out principals and soloists. If there’s a camera pointed in your direction and its red light is on, don’t wobble.”
This wasn’t her first time participating in the annual televised celebration of their art. For twenty-four hours, dance companies around the globe wear appearing in real-time broadcasts of their morning class and rehearsals. Live and pre-recorded backstage tours rounded out the content. Interviewers would speak with selected personnel—artistic directors and their dancers, choreographers and costumers, set designers and builders, rehearsal pianists and conductors, sound and light technicians.
“What do you think about my leo?” Gemma asked anxiously. “Too much?”
“Not if you’re trying to be noticed.” Ellie stood up to pull the black warm-up trousers over her tights, positioning the elasticized waistband just below her midriff.
“You could’ve made an effort,” her colleague complained.
“It’s not a fashion show. Viewers want to see what we look like on a normal working day.”
“Which this definitely is not.”
According to the document all British Ballet Theatre employees received via email, class would be delayed by fifteen minutes. The technicians and camera and microphone operators were in position. Anya stood at the piano while a woman pinned a wireless lavaliere mic to her blouse and searched for a place to stow the power pack.
“Take it off,” the producer called. “She’ll create static when moving around. The boom can pick up whatever she says. Mr. Piano Man, give us a tune so we can check Ms. Semerova’s levels when she’s talking.”
Barry pounded his keyboard, producing a crescendo of chords. Anya counted to twenty. The woman, crouched in a corner, removed her headphones and held up her thumbs.
“Will your mother be watching?” Gemma asked Ellie.
“If she gets up before dawn. The replay will be online till the end of time. She and my aunt will make their students study it.”
“In a fortnight your whole family will be here for the gala. You must be excited.”
Mom and Daddo, her sister and brother, and both aunts were arriving two days before Thanksgiving and would be eating their turkey dinner at her flat. She’d ordered a large bird from the Latimer Row butcher and would rely on Daddo and Liam to roast it and delegate preparation of the side dishes and desserts. The following night, they would witness her performance in Les Sylphides.
Marie the scientist would want to visit the Science Museum and the adjacent Natural History Museum. Mom and Aunt Renée had made an appointment with Drew to discuss his possible participation in their academy’s summer intensive. Camille, familiar with London, was capable of entertaining herself. Liam and Daddo intended to check out authentic Irish pubs, after stopping by that Blarney Burger outpost near Shaftesbury Avenue. They had also expressed interest in a sightseeing cruise on the Thames, from Westminster to Greenwich.
Ellie dipped into a grand plié, carefully aligning her hips to prevent overworking the flexors.
Rafe and the director of publicity stood just outside the studio. They were armed with handheld microphones and would offer a brief on-camera intro before the switchover to the studio feed.
“Remember, people,” the producer called, “don’t be distracted by our monitors or the camera. Pretend we’re not here.”
“Easy for him to say,” Gemma muttered.
“Quiet on the set. Places, everyone.”
As soon as class ended, viewers of the BBT livestream were treated to an interview with ballet master Marcus, who offered a preview of the season and the Continental summer tour and all the preparations it entailed. This was followed by a recorded segment in the wardrobe department and a demonstration of how a sylph’s Romantic era tutu was constructed.
After watching the monitor for a few minutes, Ellie zipped up her bag and left the studio. She took the elevator to the ground floor to meet with the company’s mental health practitioner.
Without naming Gil or his profession, she described his years-long stalking campaign, his dishonesty, and his attempt to hobble her. She recounted many of the details but not the location of their final encounter.
“This person exhibits the classic traits of pathological narcissism,” the woman told her. “Lack of empathy. A sense of entitlement. Absence of remorse. Egocentric. Manipulative. Dominating. Your independent nature undermined his need to control. He acted out whenever you exerted your autonomy—starting a relationship with another man, signing with an agent someone else recommended, accepting the BBT contract. And there’s an overt, longstanding sexual component to his fixation.”
Like Sir Terry, the therapist recommended seeking legal remedies if Gil contacted her or doorstepped her. She provided a print-out with information on narcissistic personality disorder and encouraged her to return whenever she needed to talk.
“Emotions from a traumatic incident can resurface. You’ve probably had recurrences of the feelings you experienced at the time of your husband’s death.”
Ellie nodded. “And the physical sensations.”
Her pulses raced when she let herself remember the heart-stopping phone call from the hospital. She felt dizzy reliving the longest car ride of her life, when Cousin Phil had driven her to the medical center. Her memory of the doctor solemnly informing her that nothing could’ve been done for Harry produced tremors.
She climbed a stairway to the dressing room section for soloists and principals. Her practice tutu, a facsimile of the one she would wear in the performance, was formed by layers of calf-length white tulle. Carrying her dance bag, she crossed the bridge connecting the annex to the theatre for a Les Sylphides stage rehearsal. While waiting for the film crew to complete their preparations, she chatted to Drew and sipped from her water bottle.
“It’s almost time to go live,” the director informed them. “Rafe, you and Ms. Semerova will face the camera. After a quick explanation of what’s about to happen, introduce the dancers.”
Ellie’s damaged foot was fully functional, and ibuprofen blotted the residual ache. Because this pas de deux had many hops and jumps and arabesques, she was thankful when Drew released her hand so she could begin the final bourée en courir into the wings.
When Barry, down in the pit, stopped playing, she returned to the stage to hear Anya’s comments.
“Eeley, is good how you keep hands light and curved arms. Make shoulders stay down more for arabesques. In lifts, tilt face away from partner so audience will see. In this, smiling much is okay. And remember, audience will be on three sides, not just in front of you.”
The cameraman moved in closer for Rafe’s brief remarks about choreographer Michael Fokine and why Les Sylphides was referred to as a ballet blanc. When he handed the microphone to Ellie, she described the ballet as a favorite and said she looked forward to performing it for the gala. She passed the mic to Drew, who told her he’d be careful where he placed his hands so he wouldn’t crush the delicate little fairy wings that would be attached to her back.
“You survived,” said Gemma, when Ellie joined her in the crowded staff canteen.
“Apparently.” She pried the lid off a yogurt cup. “What’s next for you?”
“Walking the dog. Leah has vouchers from the new Pilates studio on Marylebone High Street, so we’ll go there to schedule a trial class. We’re both on tonight, in Sylvia. Have you checked the casting board? They’ve posted Nutcracker.”
“I saw it.”
“What parts did you get?”
“First cast, Columbine doll. Sugar Plum, third cast. You?”
“Second cast, mirliton pas de deux . Columbine, fourth cast. Clara’s friend, first cast. They bring in pupils from a Camden Town dance school for the party scene. I used to be one of them. We were in awe of the professionals and terrified of making mistakes. As you’ll see, the current crop of kids is fearless. And rambunctious.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
When Ellie finished her snack, she tossed the empty container into the recycling bin. This corridor, which led to the staff and artists’ entrance, was off-limits to the television people. The desk attendant offered a cheery farewell as Ellie pressed the door’s metal bar. On the other side, she sucked in deep breaths of fresh October air and squinted from exposure to the afternoon glare. As usual, her sunglasses case had sunk to the bottom of her bag. She placed it on the brick retaining wall and scrounged around, teeth gritted in frustration.
“Ellie.”
Dan sat on the bench directly across from her.
Her heart, which had settled in to a normal rhythm after her exertions, pounded against her ribcage. “This must be what the staff therapist meant by the term doorstepping. Why are you here?”
“Last night Dad messaged me with information about World Ballet Day. I skived off work so I could watch, only nobody would let me inside this building, or the theatre. I sat here and watched your rehearsal on my phone. And stayed, hoping I’d get a chance to tell you how magnificent you were.”
She managed to produce a faint smile. “Thanks. Nothing like what you saw at the Archway, right?”
He maintained his sober expression. “And I need to apologize. For my colossal mistake.”
Borrowing the phrase her therapist repeatedly used, she said, “Tell me more about that.”
“From the moment you left me in the Rivoli Bar, I’ve been utterly wretched. And damned lonely.”
“Me, too. Apology accepted.” She sat beside him and released her bag’s strap. “You wanted me to believe our work schedules were the reason you gave up on us. But you started having doubts and second thoughts after the boat trip, didn’t you? Because I told you about Harry, and how happy we were.”
“Yes.”
“Here’s something I didn’t tell you. That day was the ninth anniversary of his death. I chose to spend it with you. I was thinking about our future, not my past. I never would’ve mentioned Harry if I hadn’t been so enraged by Gil’s lies about him. I owed it to my husband, to all of us, to refute them. I wish you’d told me then how it made you feel.”
“Many months ago, trying to define Englishness for you, I mentioned cricket and kings. But I left out another characteristic—our chronic tendency to repress or withhold emotion. I was relieved that you hadn’t been tyrannized, like your character in the play. I was also very much afraid you could never care about me in the way you did for the special person you lost.”
“I can’t. I don’t. You’re totally different. Harry liked gin. You prefer whisky. He was a New Yorker. You’re British. He eloped with the teenaged ballet girl. You met a burlesque performer who wanted to be an actress.”
“Unlike him, I didn’t immediately realize you were my dream girl. Probably because you were a world-famous performer, swanning around the stage and taking off your clothes. I didn’t dare hope I’d ever become acquainted with the alluring Stella Nue. Or imagine I’d meet her within an hour of leaving the show.”
“When you joined me in the bar that night, I felt a spark. Camille knows. She said you offered to assist my apartment search because you had an ulterior motive. I told her I wouldn’t mind if you did. By closing night, I was hoping you’d ask me out.”
He ran his fingers along her neck and traced her shoulder. “I messed things up so badly. Dad said I should’ve admitted my concerns instead of making assumptions.”
She stared at him. “He did?”
“More than once. He regrets his behavior, too. I assured him I’d put things right. In fact, I was planning a dramatic, ostentatious gesture. I meant to turn up on the night of your gala performance, with an armful of roses, and ask you to forgive me for being a such an idiot.”
“Like a reconciliation scene from one of your black and white movies.” Covering his hand with hers, she said, “No need to go to all that trouble. You’re here, that’s what’s important. And you’ll be at the Royal Albert Hall. I had lots of reasons for joining BBT, but the one nobody knows about is my secret longing for you to see me dance in ballets.”
“I just did.” He held up his phone.
“That was a rehearsal, it doesn’t count. I’ve already assigned all my comps to my family—my parents and brother and sister and two aunts are coming over. I’ll ask Rafe if I can have some of his seats, if you agree to an exchange. Tickets to the gala, in return for a favor. A really big one.”
“Go on.”
“My flat has enough bedrooms for Mom and Daddo and Liam and Marie, but not for Camille and Renée. Could the aunts use yours? Having all the family close would be so convenient.”
“Certainly. I’ll stay at the club.”
“Oh, no.” Hooking her arm through his, she said, “You’ll be rooming with me.”