Chapter 22
Chapter 22
Counting the rows of seats in the auditorium of the Muriel Baker School of Dramatic Arts, Dan calculated the occupancy rate at one hundred. The stage, slightly raised above the floor, had a projecting apron. Dad, who was in town, had declined to join him. Ellie’s ballet company friends and the Archway Cabaret ladies had their own performances tonight. She’d claimed to be untroubled by the absence of supporters, but he regretted it on her behalf.
The student showcase consisted of three productions. A group of adult players presented the opening scene in King Lear, in which the aged monarch distributed his three kingdoms. It was followed by a manic dining room romp borrowed from Fawlty Towers, performed by smaller contingent of teenagers.
When the blue cloth curtain parted once more, the stage was set with folding Chinese screens, several chairs, and a cheval mirror. A dark-haired young man marched out of the wings, brandishing a paper in one hand and holding an Oscar in the other.
“Come, ladies and gentlemen, I’m not amused by this delay.” He called out a series of names. Facing the audience, he declared, “Oh, what a stubborn race are actors!”
Two male players entered. One sported a trilby on his head and a false goatee was plastered to his chin.
Ellie moved in from the opposite side, also clutching an Academy Award statuette. The green sequins covering her gown sparkled and shimmered as she moved. “Here I am. What do you want us to do? What is your idea?” She spoke with an English accent, and her inflection was soft and whispery.
“We must rehearse before His Majesty arrives.”
Pouting, she replied, “But, Luke, we haven’t memorized our parts.”
“Silence, Caro.”
Tossing her head, she replied, “Marriage changes people. You didn’t speak to me like that before we said our vows.” Her retort drew chuckles from the audience.
Dan perceived that Ellie impersonated film star Caroline Bryden, and the fellow glaring at her portrayed Lucas Daltrey. The chap in the hat was obviously spoofing noted thespian Sir Francis Cooke.
Another male character joined them. An oversized press badge was stuck to his trench coat and he gripped a microphone. “You present a new piece tonight? For our king?” he asked, replicating a well-known newsman’s Northern Irish twang.
“We do,” Cooke responded.
“When do you begin?”
“None of your damn business.” Daltrey swatted at the mic. Turning to his fellow actors, he declared, “I am going mad. This stupid wretch comes cross-examining me when I have other matters to attend to.”
An Asian girl said plaintively to the reporter, “Sir, we need to rehearse.”
“I’m not preventing you. Go ahead. Do what you have to do.”
Daltrey, an impatient edge to his tone, said, “These ladies prefer that no one observe them when practicing. Be off! Such impertinence.” Beckoning to the man in the hat, he said, “Now, Frank—”
“Sir Frank,” the actor retorted, prompting a roar of amusement from the spectators.
“You will enter from stage left, with a distinguished air, hat tilted to one side, humming a tune.”
The players traded barbs and criticisms, ridiculing each other for their tics and stage tricks. Embedded in the banter were sharp and accurate observations about audience tastes and the perils of overacting. At the conclusion, they received a spontaneous standing ovation from family members and friends and the academy staff. The curtains came together and opened to reveal the beaming cast, bowing and waving. The director introduced their class instructor and invited everyone to mingle with the performers and sample treats and beverages on the tables in the hallway.
Dan had to wait his turn to speak to Ellie.
“Cheeky,” he told her. “Better not tell your Fractures in the Heart co-star—or his wife—what you’ve been up to. Is your playwright aware of how his dad was mocked?”
“We hope none of them ever hear about it. Tomorrow, after the final acting for the camera session, we receive our certificates. All of us. According to Maxi, that’s unusual. No dropouts. No incompletes. Our entire gang plans to keep in touch.” Placing her hand on his jacket lapel, she added, “It helped a lot, knowing you were here.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I’m proud of you.”
She ducked her auburn head as though embarrassed by his praise. “I could kiss you for saying that.”
“Please do.”
He wanted all the kisses he could get before his talented ballerina-burlesque star-actress left London for her faraway homeland.
A luxury hotel’s grand ballroom was an ideal setting for the British Ballet Theatre dancers. In their evening attire, Ellie’s studio companions were different creatures than the ones she saw each morning. Most of the girls wore their hair long, as she did, and had adorned themselves with necklaces and bracelets that would be out of place—and potentially hazardous—in class or rehearsals. They admired her diamond drop earrings, a costly souvenir purchased in Brussels to mark her final days as Stella Nue. She was introduced to the spouses or domestic partners or significant others who shared their non-working lives. Barre buddy Gemma came with her boyfriend. Drew Mason was accompanied by his fiancée. Principal dancer Leah Sternberg had a husband.
Ellie watched Rafe, dashing in his tuxedo, circulate through the throng of donors and subscribers and sponsors. He shook hands and exchanged greetings and posed for selfies, valiantly doing his part to keep the company coffers full.
Anya Semerova sat at a round table with Marcus Baldwin, assigned the task of keeping her company. Ellie, having never encountered her outside of the studio or the annex hallways, decided to join them.
“What will you do,” she asked the older woman, “during summer break?”
“Teach. I coach young dancers at fine academy near London.”
“They’re lucky to train with you.”
“You have plans also, Eeley?”
“I’m going home, to New Hampshire. My mom and her sister have a ballet school, and I usually spend a week substituting for whichever one scheduled a vacation. And I’ll sign up for a barre class in the town near my lake cottage.”
“On day you come to us, I see lyrical moving but loss of technique. Now, very much better. Not to accept soloist place is sad.”
“My mother would say the same. If I told her.”
“Mireille Charpentier, like Rafe, must regret to lose you. Is excellent company, Ballet Bruxelles.” Anya reached for her beaded handbag. “I go for taxicab. Tomorrow morning, I can know which people stay too late here.”
Ellie was debating whether to get another glass of wine or to approach Sir Terence Wheeler. His statuesque date solved her dilemma by accosting her and introducing herself.
“Your dress is exquisite,” Pamela Ames said. “The ballerinas always look so beautiful at these affairs. And the male dancers are divinely handsome.”
Ellie regarded Sir Terence. His eyes were the same blueish gray as his son’s, beneath identically shaped brows. “You received the book?”
He nodded. “I did, thank you. A charming addition to my collection.”
“I discovered it while setting up the new reading room at BBT. Rafe wanted you to have it. With his compliments, as I said in my note.”
Pamela patted his coat sleeve. “Terry, I want to tell Mr. Mason and Ms. Sternberg how impressed we were with their performances in Onegin.”
Ellie suspected this separation was pre-arranged, to enable a private conversation. She was prepared for it. “Dan was sorry he couldn’t be here tonight.”
“Do you often see him?”
His question stung. He’d seen Dan kissing her. He must know more about their relationship than he was letting on. “Daily,” she replied. And nightly.
“You must be aware of what happened shortly after he left university.”
“The boating accident. On the river.”
“It deprived him of the older brother who was his closest friend. Brian survived, but emerged from a coma with life-altering impairment. While we struggled to accept the consequences, my wife—my former wife—decided to leave us.”
“Nine years ago, when I was twenty, I experienced a sudden life change. I became a widow.”
“Dan told me.”
“I sought solace—and sanity—in creative work. I didn’t want another relationship. Or care that I had so little time for one to develop. So please don’t equate my years in burlesque with promiscuity or drugs or sordid activity of any kind.” She shouldn’t have to say this. It was demeaning.
“I never have done. Dan says you’ll soon be returning to the States. How long will you be there?”
“Six weeks.”
“That seems sufficiently long for the two of you to gain some objectivity about your situation. As you probably know, your nationality will hinder your professional prospects in this country. British theatrical producers are only interested in American actresses who possess credits for Broadway performances or have achieved considerable fame from films or on television.”
She did know, but optimistically assumed that agent Cait could secure her a role in another play. Or, if the part was worth considering, a movie or a series. In reality, as Sir Terence was pointing out, future employment—if any—would most likely originate on the opposite side of the Atlantic.
“Pamela and I wish you every success in your play. And all other endeavors.”
She’d never had much faith in Dan’s firm belief that time and familiarity would dissolve Sir Terence’s bias against her. All her doubts were justified. Everything he’d said confirmed it.
She searched the ballroom for Rafe. She needed him. Accepting a champagne glass from a passing waiter, she kept her eyes on her friend’s curly head. The moment he stepped away from one of the board members, she waylaid him.
“Enjoying yourself, love?”
“I was,” she said, with heavy emphasis on the second word.
“Is Sir Terence unwilling to increase his annual donation?”
“I forgot to ask. I did give you credit for the gift of the Markova book.”
He peered down at her. “You can’t cry here. Come with me.” Placing a hand in the small of her back, he guided her to the seating area in the lobby. “What’s wrong?”
Ellie blinked several times in an attempt to force back her tears. “Love trouble.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s the problem. It’s Dan Wheeler, Sir Terence’s son. We met the day I arrived in London. He arranged for my apartment rental. We had a few casual meet-ups. He took me on a road trip to the West Country. Now we’re a couple. But his father isn’t a fan. Of me. Or us.”
“Why ever not?”
“Stella Nue. Taking off my clothes in cabarets and arenas. And because I haven’t told Dan how I was treated by the Colmans, before and during my marriage to their precious son, he has no idea how wounded I am. Déjà vu.”
“Merde.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Dan’s dad doesn’t only object to my supposedly lurid past. I’m not just a stripper. I’m an American. And an actress. Thoroughly unsuitable for a scion of the landed gentry.”
“Not according to established history. For centuries, British royals and aristocrats have been involved with ladies of the stage.”
“He says I’ll never get a job over here, after Fractures in the Heart.”
“I’ve got the perfect solution.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Dance for me. Join my eminently respectable company. There’s no better way to clean up your sleazy reputation.” When she glared up at him, he released her and leaned back. “That last bit was a joke.”
“I shouldn’t have laid all this on you. Not tonight.”
“I’m glad you did. I’m feeling low myself. End-of-season blues. Let’s commiserate over drinks and dinner. If lover boy can spare you, we’ll dine out in style before you depart these shores.”
“He’s out of town till Sunday.”
“Tomorrow? You choose the restaurant. I’m paying. And I won’t even mention that you’re a thousand times richer than I’ll ever be.”