Chapter 8
Chapter 8
By the time ballet master Marcus Baldwin dismissed class, the slight twinge at the base of Ellie’s spine had morphed into full-blown ache, and her thighs and calves vibrated from exertion. Discomfort while in motion was bearable. Standing on the tube station’s concrete platform was worse. She pawed at the interior of her carryall, desperate for ibuprofen. It wasn’t yet midday, but she was surrounded by people wearing Friday expressions, welcoming the weekend’s proximity. She longed to soothe her muscles with a soak and sweat in the bathtub but barely had time for a hasty shower.
She found Camille in the drawing room of the flat, stuffing tissue paper between the layers of shimmering, glittering Stella Nue costumes before sheathing them in plastic.
“You’d better tell me which of these I’m shipping to New Hampshire,” she said. “And how many you’ll keep here to donate to the fashion museum.”
“Can we discuss it later? I need to clean up.”
Camille surveyed the disarray. “I hope Gil Cooke isn’t coming here.”
“We’re meeting at the Sovereign Theatre, just off Shaftesbury Avenue.”
“One more question. Do I pack this?” Camille held up a white bustier embellished with faux pearls. “You could wear it under your black velvet jacket, with the black silk trousers.”
Shaking her head, Ellie said, “Your vision of my London residency is at odds with mine. I’m not anticipating many dress-up occasions. But leave it here, just in case.”
Before entering the shower, she examined her bare feet. Reddened areas of chafing on two toe knuckles looked like blisters starting—tomorrow she’d stick a piece of gel or moleskin over them. A broken and jagged toenail needed attention.
During too few blissful minutes under the water, she shampooed and rinsed her hair. When she finished with the blow dryer, she decided that she’d visit her London salon after her closing performance and have several inches hacked off.
Sir Francis Cooke’s image, clad in the martyred admiral’s uniform, adorned twin vertical banners hanging on either side of the Sovereign Theatre. Unobtrusive in size and structure, the building was dwarfed by the larger venues nearby, which boasted the most popular brand-name productions. Pushing the brass door handle, she approached the box office and told its occupant she was meeting Gilbert Cooke.
“Ms. Lowery? This is for you.” He handed her a lanyard with a badge marked VISITOR. “Step on through, he’s waiting in the auditorium.”
Ellie paused beneath the overhanging balcony and placed her hand on the curved wooden back of an aisle seat. “Hello.” Her voice rang out in the cavernous space.
Gil, seated in the dress circle, hopped up. “Spot on time. What do you think of this old place?”
“Very grand. Impressively historic. Worthy of Sir Francis Cooke and Lord Nelson. He’s getting raves—as expected.”
“This revival forces a reconsideration of the play, hardly a success when first presented. We hope the good reviews and positive press will help it compete against all the long-running musical extravaganzas and ensure an extended run. When would you like to see it? You can have a ticket to any evening performance or matinee.”
“I’ll let you know.”
She wondered if Dan Wheeler might enjoy a history play about England’s naval hero and his scandalous mistress Lady Hamilton. Her obligation to him was immense, and she hadn’t yet figured out how else to repay him for placing her in Latimer House. He’d apparently enjoyed the dinner party. He and his office colleague and her partner were included on her guest list for Saturday night’s finale and champagne reception. She wondered whether A Bequest to the Nation, starring an actor knighted by the late queen for services to the theatre, recipient of multiple Academy Awards and BAFTAs, would appeal to him more than Onegin. He might regard a ballet performance as more of a penance than a privilege.
“The stage is Father’s true home. He accepts film work for the money, and because it ensures a full theatre when he’s appearing in a play.”
“You’ve got a staff badge,” she noted. “You’re an employee?”
“Front of house assistant. Thirty hours a week, on contract. Would you like to sit in the royal box?”
A narrow stairway took them to the Royal Circle. He led her through a discreet door into the private lounge, carpeted in dark blue, containing damask covered chairs and sofas. A velvet and gold-fringed curtain separated the space from the royal box.
Gil moved a gilded chair close to the balustrade. “Try it.”
Her view of the stage and its safety curtain was partly obstructed, but she could see the rows of chairs below and a portion of the upper tiers. “I can now say I’ve sat where a royal person does.” Had she and Gil ever spent time together when Harry wasn’t present? She didn’t think so.
“Before long, you’ll take your place on the boards,” he said, sitting next to her. “You were right to turn down the cinema roles you’ve been offered.”
“How did you know about those?” She’d never spoken about them to an interviewer.
“Father receives film industry newsletters and shares them with me. But why study at Muriel Baker’s academy? She’s too infirm to teach, although I daresay they roll her out occasionally to pontificate to the students.”
“I wanted an all-ages adult program. Most places I investigated cater to children and teens.”
“You’re no neophyte. You had major roles at a summer theatre.”
She drew a quick breath. “Much Ado. I was Beatrice to Harry’s Benedick. And Stanley Kowalski’s wife in Streetcar.”
Stella for star.
“What, I wonder, would he say about your career of undressing for voyeuristic audiences?”
Disregarding his question, she said, “Tell me about your play.”
“ Fractures in the Heart is a two-hander, a drama in two acts, about a twenty-something couple from different backgrounds. He’s British, she’s a Yank. Their marriage is failing. They rushed into it without knowing one another well. They have trust issues. And diverging aspirations.” His gaze veered away from her and towards the safety curtain. “My current draft is entered in a competition sponsored by a new play festival and will have a public reading. I paid an additional fee to receive critiques from the judges and feedback from the actors.”
“I hope it does well. I’d love to read it.”
“You will. After I make any suggested alterations.”
“What’s your father’s opinion of it?”
“He’s rather cross about there being no meaty role for him.”
“Next time,” she said brightly.
“That’s what I told him.”
“It’s a huge achievement. He must be proud.”
Gil made a face. “He respects the hard work I’ve put in, on this script and all that came before. But that can’t negate his regret that I was a dismal failure as an actor.”
“What happens after the festival?”
“My agent and my father will recommend my revised script to the Sovereign Theatre Group managers. At the moment the producer is scrambling to recast next season’s first play, because the Hollywood actress who would’ve starred suddenly turned up pregnant and withdrew. Financing was contingent on her participation.” He cocked his head. “When there’s a table read for the management here, I want you as Lyla. The wife.”
“Sure, if the timing works.” A reading, she knew, was an ephemeral event early in the process, a baby step on the winding path towards production. “I promise I’ll be here on your opening night.”
“Indeed, you will. On that stage.”
His response startled her. “It’s too soon to audition. For anything.”
“You might not have to.”
Even if he did manage to insert his play into the Sovereign’s upcoming season, he wouldn’t be responsible for casting.
“You danced dramatic parts in ballets. You played leads opposite Harry.” Gil lowered his head, breaking eye contact. “Your very public life as Stella Nue is an act, isn’t it? On Sunday morning, when you wake up, you’ll be one person. Ellie Lowery.”
“And Colman,” she murmured. Her gaze shifted to her left hand, where the gold wedding band used to be.
After lunch on Friday, Camille set out across Green Park for Buckingham Palace and the current exhibition at the King’s Gallery. Within minutes of her departure, Ellie’s masseuse arrived with her collection of ointments and oils, and set up her portable table in the study.
“You’ll think I say this to all my clients,” the woman commented midway through the session, “but you’re the best to work on. Well-defined muscles. No flinching. Not squeamish about nudity, either.”
Ellie laughed.
“Hold still. What’s so funny?”
“I’m famous—or infamous—for removing my clothes, with hundreds of people watching.” Closing her eyes, she tried not to wince as Ingrid’s industrious fingers manipulated the ball of each foot and every toe. She was startled to hear the click of the door lock. “We’re in here,” she called, surprised that Camille had returned so soon.
“Hello,” an unfamiliar female voice responded.
Ellie sat up, holding the towel against her chest.
The woman who returned her gaze had dark, curling hair and a warm smile. “I’m Hannah.”
“Ellie.”
“Dan didn’t warn you I was coming?”
“He said you might.”
“I promise I won’t get in your way. Carry on. We can get acquainted later.”
“Who’s that?” her masseuse whispered.
“My landlady. She and her husband own this place.”
“Fine gaff they’ve got. Lucky you.”
When Ingrid finished, Ellie climbed down from the table and put on her robe. She tapped her credit card against the payment pad, making sure to add a generous tip.
“Ta. You can hydrate yourself but wait at least an hour before showering or having a bath.”
“I know.”
“If I didn’t remind you, I wouldn’t be doing my job. See you on Tuesday.”
Ellie accompanied Ingrid to the elevator and pressed the button for her.
She went to the kitchen to remove her water bottle chilling in the fridge.
Hannah joined her and announced, “I’m popping over to the greengrocers. Can I bring you anything?”
“We’re already well-stocked. Camille—my aunt—is a regular at the Latimer Row shops. Help yourself to whatever you see that you like.”
Watching slender, petite Hannah study the shelves of refrigerator and cupboards, Ellie noted that they were of equal height. “Were you a dancer?”
The curly head turned in her direction. “Not me. Why?”
“Your body structure is ideal for ballet.” After a pause, she said, “Sorry, that was way too personal.”
“I’m flattered you think so. If you don’t mind, I’ll tuck into this yogurt. Maybe toss in strawberries and a little granola. I’m famished and won’t see food again for hours. Business dinners start with several rounds of drinks, and it could be eight o’clock before somebody suggests ordering. Will you join me in a bite?”
Ellie waved her bottle. “This is all I need. I’ll graze before heading to the Archway Cabaret for tonight’s show.”
“I have to know more.” Hannah spooned lemon curd yogurt into a bowl. “Let’s go to the terrace. You’re fine as you are, nobody will see us. If they could, they’d never guess that’s your dressing gown. It’s gorgeous.”
Tightening the belt at her waist, Ellie said, “I bought it on Rodeo Drive, during awards season. We weren’t introduced, but I saw you at the Academy Awards after-party I attended.”
Hannah looked up. “Nobody told me Stella Nue was there.” Slicing a berry, she added, “Acorn Films wasn’t in contention. We were in schmoozing mode, talking up our next release, a between-the-wars semi-tragedy set in Vienna. It deserves as many nominations—and statuettes—as Forsaken Fortune won . But it’ll be up against all the apocalyptic and dystopian special effects productions with box office clout. We might have a shot at the costuming award. Not to mention Critics Choice. And the BAFTAs.”
“Forsaken Fortune was a lovely movie. The kind that stays with you. I saw it at the independent cinema in Concord.”
“Massachusetts?”
“New Hampshire.”
“I’m a Mainer, from Falmouth. So is Dad—his family have lived there forever. My mother’s English and Welsh. Dan told Martin you’re a New Englander, too, but I wasn’t privy to any details. During pre-production, there’s a limit to the amount of information I can take in.”
Following her to the terrace, Ellie belatedly recalled her aristocratic status. Based on their conversation thus far, Hannah hadn’t fully assimilated into that rarified realm of privilege.
Hannah was lifting a spoonful of her concoction to her mouth when Big Ben’s chime, located somewhere on her person, rang out faintly. “Better take this.” She pulled her cellphone from her pocket and held it to her ear. “I didn’t expect to hear from you yet. Everything okay?” Listening, she scrunched her face. “Put him on. Hello, Richie-roo. Mummy misses you.” She went quiet again. “When Ariel chased it, did she catch it? Oh. I see. Well, that is exciting. Please hand Daddy’s mobile back to him.” She rose and moved to the terrace railing. “Martin, did our son witness the murder of the ‘wittle wabbit?’”
“Yikes,” Ellie murmured.
“That’s a relief. Help him understand he cannot keep it as a pet. That’s illegal. Tell him it must go to the wildlife sanctuary in Little Milver. You can both take it there. The staff will foster it until it’s mature enough for release. Do whatever you can to make this a learning experience. I’ll talk to you tonight. It might be late.”
She returned to the table and laid her phone on the glass surface.
“Is the rabbit okay?”
“Fortunately, yes. Richard is in no way deprived of animal companionship. We have two dogs, plus the estate manager’s, as well as any number of barn cats. And our horses.”
“Sounds like you chose the right time for a London meeting.”
“Meetings,” Hannah corrected. “Tonight’s social gathering is a warm-up for tomorrow’s main event. I don’t mind getting away from Stanwell House occasionally. I adore our staff—they’re family. But I do sometimes yearn to make myself a grilled cheese sandwich like Grammy Jane taught me, without feeling like I’m intruding into the cook’s territory.”
“I know what you mean. Whenever I’m on an overseas tour, I get a mad craving for a Blarney Burger.” Hearing herself, she clarified, “Shamrock Burger.”
“I love me a Blarney Burger.”
“My dad invented it.”
“He’s a genius. What’s a Shamrock Burger?”
“Essentially the same, with tweaks. For legal reasons, Daddo had to rename and alter his masterpiece after selling his regional restaurants to a much bigger company. He and my brother own a pub in Birchmont. My hometown.”
“I was one of his best customers,” Hannah told her. “In Portland. In Boston. Just talking about the Blarney makes me want one in the worst way.”
With a conspiratorial grin, Ellie announced, “I know how to make it. A Shamrock, I mean.”
“You’re rapidly becoming my new best friend. Satisfy my craving, and I’ll put you in one of my movies. Pinkie swear.” Hannah held up her hand.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Yours isn’t my only offer.”
“I bet.”
“I turned down plenty of blink-and-you’ll-miss me roles. Strippers, obviously. Call girls. A slutty casino worker in a heist movie who ends up dead. The smart-ass chick on the production line who sleeps with the factory owner and gets shipped out of town so his wife won’t find out.”
“Yuck.”
“I won’t name the famous producing team that approached me about an animated series about a burlesque star based on Stella Nue. My image would be used, but somebody else would do the voice. Nobody knows what I sound like, they said, so authenticity didn’t matter. Their version of my alter ego would’ve had a breathy, Marilyn Monroe quality.”
“Of course. Was it greenlighted?”
“A rival production company swooped in and swallowed up their studio, so the project was shelved. Thank goodness. Tomorrow, Stella Nue hangs up her G-string forever. On Monday, Ellie Lowery starts drama classes at the Muriel Baker School of Dramatic Arts.”
After absorbing this revelation, Hannah announced. “I’m prepared to barter whatever I can for that burger. I’ve got loads of contacts—agents, producers, directors. Here and in the States. On the West Coast. And I don’t mean Cornwall.”
“I might have an acting gig lined up, sort of. A playwright acquaintance invited me to take the lead female role at a table read of his debut work. He’s Sir Francis Cooke’s son. I’ve known Gil since we were teenagers at the Juilliard School in New York.”
“I’ve never met him, but I know his dad. Sir Francis won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in Forsaken Fortune and received an Emmy nomination for the sequel, Tender Treasure.”
“I met him. A lifetime ago.” When Harry and Gil were in Pygmalion. If she hadn’t been preoccupied with planning an elopement, memories of the celebrated English stage and film actor might be clearer. “I’m not allowed to shower till a half-hour after Ingrid leaves. It might take that long to organize my stage case. It’s a mess.”
“I’m free tomorrow night,” Hannah said. “How do I get a ticket to your last show?”
“Let me take care of it. I reserved a table for Dan Wheeler, and Lou from his office and her wife. You can sit with them.”