Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Although Dan frequented the Rivoli Bar and had attended functions in the William Kent Room, he’d never visited a Ritz Hotel guest. The opulence of Ellie’s deluxe suite was breathtaking. Its windows overlooked Green Park and framed an expanse of treetops.
“I’m not convinced it’s worth the fortune we’re paying for the privilege,” she acknowledged, offering him the cup of coffee her aunt had poured.
In her oversized gray top and black leggings, with her auburn hair tied back in a loose ponytail, she was a stark—and attractive—contrast with her elegant surroundings. Her curving brows appeared to be naturally dark, and so were her lashes. She had greenish eyes.
Sitting across from him, she said, “Tell us about this mysterious flat you’ve discovered.”
“It belongs to my employer, Martin Latimer. That’s what he prefers to be called, but in fact he’s the Marquess of Milverston. His ancestors owned Latimer House. Like most private aristocratic mansions, it was sold and demolished between the wars and replaced by a multi-level building. He’s the landlord. And he inherited a huge, five-bedroomed flat on the top floor. Modern kitchen. Two sitting rooms, formal and informal. A terrace balcony with view.”
“I said we’re not overly concerned about cost, but it must be astronomical. You’ve described the floor space of a whole house. In Mayfair.”
“Martin is willing to forgo market price. He’ll be satisfied with a thousand pounds.”
“A week?” Camille asked.
Before he could reply, Ellie said, “Done.”
“Per calendar month.”
Her rosy lips parted in disbelief. “Is that what you called a peppercorn rent?”
“Correct. Martin and his wife and toddler son live on his Somerset estate, and they don’t come to London as often as they used to. Hannah might need to stay overnight in order to attend meetings, but she says your presence wouldn’t be problematic for her. If you don’t mind hers.”
Ellie shook her head. “Not at all.”
“Your requested safety features include a separate residents’ entrance, on-duty day and night porters in the lobby, security cameras, smoke alarms, and fire suppression system. Your prospective neighbors are quite respectable. Some are undeniably posh. Round the corner you have the Latimer Row shops and restaurants. And the numerous amenities that Piccadilly offers, which you know about. You’d be situated about halfway between the Green Park and Oxford Circus underground stations. If you wish to proceed, I’ll conduct a basic background check. May I please see your passports? And driving licenses, if you’ve got them.”
Camille went to the adjoining room.
Ellie stepped around a portable ballet barre to reach the designer handbag on the window seat. She extracted three passports and placed them on the table. Two had blue covers: one embossed with the American eagle, and another was stamped with a coat of arms. The third was burgundy, adorned with the Irish harp.
“I thought only spies required multiple identities,” he commented.
“I was born in the United States. Through my mother, I qualified for Canadian citizenship. And Irish, because Grandpa Lowery emigrated from County Clare to Boston.” She handed over a pair of laminated cards.
Camille returned and placed her trio of passports beside the silver coffee service. “When traveling internationally, we have multiple options for entry. The Canada papers are especially useful for other Commonwealth countries.”
He returned his attention to a certificate of birth card for Estelle Aurelie Lowery. “Like me, you have a March birthday.” Noting a discrepancy, he held up the driving license. “Here, and on your passports, you’re listed as Estelle Colman.”
“My husband’s surname. Professionally, I’ve always used Lowery.”
His cursory data gathering hadn’t provided information about a spouse. Were they divorced? She didn’t wear a wedding band.
Noting the direction of his gaze, she murmured, “He’s deceased.”
“I’m so sorry.” After a pause, Dan commented, “He must’ve been quite young.”
“Twenty-three. An automobile collision. The other driver, who was intoxicated, survived with minor injuries.”
His personal experience of sudden, shocking loss made him sensitive to hers. Out of consideration for her feelings, he shifted his gaze to Camille Martel. “Are you the aunt who was also a ballerina?”
“Not me. Never. I’ve got very flat feet,” Camille said. “When Charlotte and Renée established their dance school, I was their office manager, handling enrollments and accounts receivable, doing publicity, and ordering supplies. I work for Ellie, when she’s touring. I also have a small local business of my own.”
“Camille’s Closet is a clothing consignment store,” Ellie told him.
“I’m primarily responsible for developing a Stella Nue line of reproduction vintage clothing,” Camille added. “We’re sourcing fabrics domestically, and the garments will be constructed in a renovated factory building in New Hampshire. We’re ready to establish official Stella boutiques in select cities, starting with Boston. And eventually New York and Beverly Hills. Perhaps Chicago and Atlanta.”
When he returned their passports, Ellie asked, “Are we approved?”
“All that remains is for you to inspect the premises to see whether they suit. If so, we’ll need to determine the mode and timing of payments, whether weekly or monthly. If you choose direct deposit, my office can provide a routing number to your bankers in the States.”
“Add the dollars-to-pounds conversion fee to my rent. I insist.”
“I’ll inform the billing department. Would you like to see the place this morning?”
“The sooner the better.”
Dan’s assertion that Latimer House was an easy stroll from the Ritz was confirmed. Its pale stone facade contrasted with the older, heavier Victorian architecture that prevailed on the adjacent street. At ground level, separate entrances served office employees and the occupants of the flats on the upper floors, which had decorative bow windows.
Dan introduced Ellie to the doorman as Ms. Lowery, adding, “Her grandfather is an Irishman.”
“Born in County Clare, between Limerick and Ennis,” Ellie clarified. “He emigrated to Boston in the United States.”
“I’m from Galway,” Lorcan declared with pride.
“These ladies are interested in becoming Martin’s tenants,” Dan explained before leading them to an elevator.
Ellie’s expectations for the Latimer apartment were high, and nothing about it disappointed her. In the spacious drawing room, damask-draped windows on two sides let in plenty of light. It was furnished with an eclectic mix of antiques and modern pieces. The colors of the Persian rug beneath her feet remained bright despite its apparent age. Heavy gold frames surrounded large landscape paintings and the mirror over a fireplace. Family photographs representing several generations filled the wide space between the pair of porcelain vases on the mantel. The dining room contained a mahogany table with eight chairs, a crystal chandelier above, and a sideboard.
Studying the kitchen cabinetry and sleek, ultra-modern appliances, Camille commented, “Very nice.”
The room Dan referred to as the study was a cozy retreat with sofa and armchairs arranged in front of a widescreen television. A corner desk supported a computer. Framed travel and concert posters decorated the walls.
“The extra bedrooms are along this corridor,” he said, showing them the way. “How does this one suit you?” he asked Ellie.
She admired the graceful sleigh bed, part of a matching set that included a dressing table and a tallboy. The ensuite bathroom was luxuriously appointed.
Camille expressed her approval of the room across the hall.
“I’m unaccustomed to showing residential property,” Dan admitted. “Typically, it’s office or commercial space. But I’ve been here often, and I’ll do my best to answer any questions.”
“How soon can we take possession?” Ellie asked.
“You may rock up here at any convenient time.”
She turned to Camille. “We’re booked at the Ritz for a full week, right?”
Her aunt nodded. “I’ll inquire about the cancellation policy.”
“Shall I inform Martin that you’re taking the flat?” Dan asked.
“Please do. Though I can’t believe he’s willing to let complete strangers live here.”
“Stella Nue is not just anyone,” he replied in his calm fashion. “My cursory vetting process confirmed the existence of your mother’s dance academy. And your father founded the Blarney Burger restaurants.”
“Daddo’s local burger joint was so popular that he built it into a regional chain. The conglomerate that bought him out established franchises all over the country. Instead of retiring on the proceeds of the sale, he opened another Irish pub—my brother Liam is co-owner and manager. They can’t legally use the Blarney Burger name, so their signature menu item is the Shamrock Burger.”
“The bun is different,” Camille said. “Patrick and Liam use toasted slices of Irish batch loaf.”
“Sounds tasty.” Dan tossed his key fob and caught it. “Our contracts department will draft a letting agreement for your review, and we can make adjustments. It’s not an absolute requirement, but if you’re interested in a short-term insurance policy, I can provide details.”
“I am, if it ensures peace of mind for your boss. And you. Nobody will come here except George and Zack. I’m not planning any raucous parties or raves during my residency.”
“If you do, I want an invitation.”
“As soon as we’re settled,” Camille told him, “you’ll be our first dinner guest.”
“I accept,” he said promptly. “Am I being cheeky if I request your best approximation of a Shamrock Burger?”
On Thursday afternoon, Ellie returned to the Archway Cabaret for a pickup rehearsal with Zack and George before embarking on their second group of shows. In recent days, her act had often faded from her thoughts, and she needed to redirect her focus.
After moving from the Ritz to the penthouse flat, she and Camille spent their days, rain or shine, exploring the shops of Latimer Row and its environs, stocking up on food and wine. Even before receiving the elegant floral arrangement from Martin Latimer, designed and delivered by the florist housed in one of his many historic buildings, they already felt at home.
She was using the plastic tweezer to pull a false eyelash from its compartment when George barged into her dressing room. “How’s the best boss in showbiz?”
“Almost ready.” After applying the eyelash glue, she asked, “Where’s your other half?”
“My nuttier half, you mean. He’s taking pains with his hair, and I was tired of being asked to comment. I’ll know he’s satisfied when he posts his selfie.” Crossing to the clothes rail, he examined her costumes. “I dread doing what he calls your pirate peel. Our puffy shirts are a hazard. Every time we wear them, I’m afraid a flouncy cuff or neck ruffle will snag on your spangles or catch in your belt buckle.” George shuddered.
“I bet you’ve got enough time to convert them to tearaways. I have sewing supplies in my bag. The audience would love seeing your pecs. You won’t need those shirts after tonight.”
“Don’t make me. Please.” He placed his palms together beseechingly. “We’d be out of sync with the music. Say, when will we see that fancy penthouse apartment Camille told us about?”
“Soon. If Zack promises to be civilized. I can’t have him snooping through his lordship’s desk drawers or her ladyship’s wardrobe.”
Their comedic Treasure Chest routine, one of George’s early choreographic efforts, was always a crowd-pleaser, and its final presentation was no exception. Returning to her dressing room, Ellie pried off her doubloon pasties and replaced them with a pair shaped like scallop shells to match the aquatic theme of her forthcoming act. In Ondine Undone, she personified a water nymph, emerging from the sea to dance with mortal men.
She reached into her bag’s external compartment and dug out pointe shoes dyed to match her diaphanous teal-colored costume. After acquiring them from a Berlin shop recommended by a friend at the Staatsballett, she’d worn them there and in Brussels and in Paris. Recalling their enduring stiffness, she decided more breaking in was required. She placed a foot on each toe box, pressing down as hard as she could. When the stage kitten delivered the transparent frilled shirt, black beaded corset, and red velvet tearaway trousers that made up her pirate queen costume, Ellie was smashing a shoe against the concrete floor.
“What did it do to piss you off?” Lisa asked.
“Standard practice.” Ellie bent the sole back and forth to test its pliability before squirting hand sanitizer inside the toe boxes. “The alcohol content loosens the glue. Normally I’d rub it on the outside but can’t risk diluting the color.” She would miss the suede platform and shock absorbing interior of her Gaynor Mindens.
Thank goodness for silicone toe shields, she thought on her way to the stage. And the softening properties of antibiotic gel.
Twirling about, weaving between Zack and George, she wasn’t entirely pleased with the precision of her footwork. Her Ondine costume, layers of pastel chiffon secured by satin ribbons, was the most comfortable to dance in. It was also the simplest to remove, which she did until she wore nothing but the shell-shaped pasties and scallop modesty patch.
After the curtain call, she retreated to her dressing room. Shoving the teal pointe shoes into her show bag, she was thankful she’d never wear them again.
The usual clamor and chatter from the adjacent dressing room had died down. On a weeknight, cast members with day jobs didn’t linger, neither did those who had children. The showgirls who could sleep in tomorrow would head to the nearest pub, as a group or with a date. They had invited Ellie to join them, but she wanted to rest up for morning class at British Ballet Theatre.
Camille popped her head around the door frame. “If you want to leave by the front door, the lobby has been cleared. Except for some English guy claiming he was Harry’s roommate at Juilliard.”
Ellie put down her hairbrush. “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”