Chapter 23
Chapter 23
During a break between meetings, Dan visited the Jewelry Quarter in the Lanes of Brighton, seeking a present for Ellie. Unsure whether she would be pleased or alarmed if he gave her a ring, he considered the necklaces and bracelets on display in the narrow alleyways. In one shop window, he spied three vertically stacked aquamarines—her birthstone—attached to a thin gold chain. The clerk who presented it for his examination described it as a journey pendant.
“What’s the significance?” he asked.
“Anything you want,” the man replied. “Milestones in a career or a relationship. Maybe the gemstones symbolize past, present, and future.”
“I’ll take it.”
Signal problems on the Brighton to London railway line delayed his return. He reached the city quite late, hungry, and in a foul mood. Trusting that Ellie could improve it, he rang her. No appetite, she said, blaming an attack of nerves. She wanted to stay in and study her script for tomorrow’s read-through. And she needed to finish her packing.
“Should we meet for lunch? After devoting the entire weekend to a work event, I’m taking a personal day.”
“I should be free by noontime. We can eat here. I want to use up as much fresh food as I can. You get whatever is left in the fridge and freezer.”
Moments after he rang off, his mobile chirped. Dad, still in residence at the club, suggested a visit to the nearby shop that sold country sports equipment and clothing.
“I’m considering replacing my waders. And I need a reel of floating fly line. Join me for breakfast. We’ll walk over together.”
The next morning, Dan responded to queries about his Brighton activities, waiting to raise the subject that was uppermost in his mind. Eventually he got his chance.
“Tell me about the British Ballet reception.”
“Rafe Lawrence and the board president took turns reporting on the successes of the season and provided a preview of the next. They gave an update on fundraising progress and urged generosity from existing contributors. Pamela enjoyed her conversations with the principal dancers.”
“And with Ellie, presumably.”
Dad laid his cutlery across his plate with precision. “She was instrumental in providing me with a copy of Dame Alicia Markova’s memoir. Personally signed. Did you know about it?”
“Only that she had a present for you. She didn’t tell me what it was.” Before he could continue his interrogation, two waiters arrived to clear their table.
A short time later, as they stood before a wall of fly reels, Dan said, “What else did you and Ellie talk about? Besides the book.”
“Nothing of significance.”
He moved to the rod and reel cases and pretended to be interested in a black nylon model with reinforced end caps. He didn’t want it, didn’t need it.
Dad wasn’t tempted by the waders. “We’re expecting a spell of fine weather to the west,” he told Dan after purchasing his fly line. “You should spend the weekend at Tayer Court.”
He might as well. Ellie would be thousands of miles away. “If Sandra prepares a picnic lunch, we can take it to Harding Hall.”
“Brian does enjoy being outdoors,” his father commented.
Returning to his flat, Dan successfully fought the urge to check in with his office staff, opting to do laundry and make space in his refrigerator for the perishables Ellie had offered. That, and a treadmill session, kept him busy. Aware that her script reading would wrap up soon, he decided to stroll to the theatre to meet her.
Many years ago, during a family day in London—ostensibly for holiday shopping—his parents had taken him and his brothers to the Sovereign, surprising them with tickets to the matinee performance of a Christmas pantomime. Oll, the university scholar, practically had to be dragged inside and looked ready to bolt from the auditorium at any moment. The Dame broke through his pretense of boredom with a particularly saucy entendre, and he laughed himself into a choking fit. Brian, who hadn’t understood the naughtiest jokes, enjoyed the physical stunts and unfolding chaos.
Banners on either side of the entrance portico were imprinted with Sir Francis Cooke’s image in naval uniform, one arm tucked inside his coat. Dan was reading the enthusiastically positive review quotes plastered on the wall beneath the awning when the door opened and a bearded man stalked down the shallow front steps.
After a brief glance at Dan, he inserted a cigarette between his lips and lit it.
“Did you attend the table read?” Dan asked.
“I had to,” the fellow answered. “I wrote the blasted thing. Gil Cooke.” He pointed his cigarette at the oversized portrait overhead. “Son of.”
“I’m Dan Wheeler.”
Gil turned his head. “You drove Ellie to a flooded village. In Somerset, wasn’t it?”
“And to my family home in Gloucestershire.” Watching Gil exhale a thick plume of smoke, he added, “She’s starting her acting career in the best way possible. Creating the Lyla role. Sharing the stage with Lucas Daltrey. Just what her late husband would’ve wanted for her.”
“God knows why,” Gil muttered. “He was madly competitive.”
“You knew him?”
“Lived with him. We were roommates at the Juilliard School in New York City.”
Startled, Dan said, “Ellie didn’t mention that you were his friend.”
“A grossly inaccurate description. What’s she told you about Harry Colman?”
“Not a lot,” he admitted.
“Understandable.”
To you, perhaps, Dan thought.
“He was utterly self-absorbed and spoiled rotten. Domineering, demanding. Jealous, too. Didn’t want me anywhere near her, he made that abundantly clear. And he felt threatened by Rafe Lawrence, the dancer. He even resented the gays. How he persuaded her to elope, I can’t say, but that disaster of a marriage wouldn’t have lasted. He insisted that she give up ballet, he was that controlling. Her nightmare ended when he smashed his car into an unfortunate motorist.”
“Ellie did say he wasn’t at fault.”
Gil shrugged. “His parents are rich and influential enough to have the accident records sealed. I’m doubtful they’d do it for Ellie’s sake, to shield her from the facts. They barely tolerated her.” Frowning, he said, “Unless you want to trigger memories of the trauma she endured, don’t ever inquire about them. Or him.”
Stunned by so many unpleasant revelations, Dan asked if she was inside the theatre.
“She left. Right before everything went to hell. I don’t smoke any more, but I bummed this cigarette from the assistant director. I hoped it would calm me. Now I’m tempted to buy a full packet.” Gil crushed the stub against the side of the building to snuff it. Without another word, he stalked off.
Dan turned and walked in the opposite direction.
He wished Ellie had been the one to disclose the most profoundly painful aspects of her history. From the outset of their acquaintance, she’d spoken frankly about professional challenges, fostering his assumption that her various career shifts had been in reaction to losing a spouse, a form of grief therapy. Gil’s discourse pointed to drastically different motivations. After years of marital horrors, followed by a period as a ballet dancer in Brussels, she’d created an alternate identity as Stella Nue. Did her desire to become an actress rise from her need to prove to herself that she was as talented as her husband had been? Or was it a form of posthumous revenge against an abusive spouse?
His trek from Shaftesbury Avenue to Latimer Row had brought him to Wincott & Sons, where Martin Latimer used to lark about serving cheese to customers—including the one he’d eventually married. There was no point picking out a bouquet for Ellie from the bucket outside the florist’s shop. She was leaving London tomorrow.
Walking on, he resolved not to mar their final hours together questioning her about Henry Lionel Matthew Colman. The Fourth.
He revised his plan for the necklace and aquamarine journey pendant he’d purchased in Brighton. Instead of presenting it as a bon voyage gift, it would be her welcome back present.
Not since childhood had Ellie gone three months without filling a suitcase. Her process of travel preparation, refined over her years on the road and in the skies, was so deeply ingrained that it required very little thought or advance planning. Because she’d return to Latimer House, she was leaving most of her clothes in the wardrobe. Anything and everything she needed could be found in her closets at the lake cottage and in her parents’ Birchmont residence. After she inserted her favorite dance slippers and two pairs of pointe shoes among electronic necessities and essential toiletries, enough space remained in her carry-on bag for the small gifts purchased for people back home.
When her phone pinged with a message alert, she was disappointed to find that Gil was the sender. He was in the lobby and needed to speak with her—urgently. She texted Lorcan the porter and asked him to direct Mr. Cooke to the penthouse.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again until August,” she said when Gil entered the flat.
“I bring bad news.” His breath was flavored with tobacco. “An unimaginably terrible thing has happened.”
Recognizing this as a moment of crisis, Ellie asked if he’d like a cup of tea.
“You must have something stronger.”
She offered him the choice of wine, whisky, gin, or vodka.
“Whisky, please. Neat.”
Unwilling to subject him to the disarray in the kitchen, she pointed towards the drawing room. “Second doorway on the left. I’ll join you in a minute.”
When she did, he was standing at a window. “Impressive digs.”
She handed him the glass of amber liquid. “Is there a problem with the play?”
“Got it in one. After you and Lucas left the rehearsal room, the Sovereign Group bosses dropped a bombshell. They’re pulling Fractures in the Heart from the primary site and transferring us to their Ormond Stage. A fringe venue where they stick new and experimental works. Adjacent to St. James’s Square. Not,” he added grimly, “in the theatre district.”
From her perspective, that was a plus. The alternate space would be less cavernous and intimidating than the Sovereign, therefore more comfortable for a neophyte actress. And the location was a five-minute walk from Latimer House. Aware that he expected sympathy, she said, “I’m sorry about the change. I know how disappointed you must be.”
“I’m absolutely furious. My script won top prize at the play festival. It’s stage ready. We have a director and dream cast. I’ll ask Father to intervene, though I can’t say whether it will do us any good.”
“Keep me posted.” On a brighter note, she added, “Lucas was amazing today. He’s a perfect Randall.”
“His participation is nothing short of miraculous. Lucky for us that Caroline had a baby a few months ago. He wanted a project close to home.”
“He talked about having an intimacy director for the fights and the final scene. Will we?” She hoped so. Shedding clothes on the burlesque stage was no preparation for climbing into bed with a famous sex symbol.
“Talk to Joan Wadsworth. It’s her decision.”
Hearing a characteristic knock on the door, she said, “Here’s Dan. He’s taking all the food that would spoil while I’m gone.”
Gil handed her the empty glass. With a smile, he added, “I never got the chance to say what a brilliant Lyla you are.”
“I wasn’t sure. Joan wanted us to read the text without actually acting it,” she said on her way to the door.
To her surprise, her invited guest addressed the uninvited one by name. Confused, she glanced from Dan to Gil. “You know each other?”
“We had a brief encounter,” Dan said. “At the theatre.”
“I’m off to seek Father’s advice,” Gil told her. “Thanks for the drink.”
Ellie walked him to the door. “This change might be for the best.”
“I’m not optimistic. Though I suppose if all the Ormond performances sell out, there’s a chance of moving to the Sovereign later in the season. I mean to start that conversation. And I’ll be counting the days till you’re back.” When his lips brushed her cheek, the stubble beard grazed her jaw.
She found Dan in the kitchen, surveying the chaos.
“Poor Gil,” she said. “The only nepo baby drama student at Juilliard who didn’t seem to belong there. He was always so self-conscious, assuming everybody expected him to be as brilliant an actor as Sir Francis. He shared a dorm room with Harry. At some point they lost touch with each other. I can’t remember if he was still in New York when—” She swallowed. “I don’t think he was at the funeral.” On her way to the refrigerator, she said, “I promised to feed you lunch. I’m going to cobble together a couple of sandwiches. How did everything go in Brighton?”
“My main presentation was well received. I moderated a managers’ panel. Others were responsible for the onboarding activities for recent hires. Lou is familiar with the town and arranged the evening activities. She must have kept the attendees well entertained. They yawned throughout the Saturday and Sunday morning sessions.”
“After the Friday night gala, Saturday morning class was a hard slog.” Removing a block of cheese from its compartment, she added, “Rafe took me to dinner at the Wolseley, to cheer us both up. He gets gloomy at the end of the season, even a successful one. And I was feeling low.” She yanked a leaf from the head of lettuce. “Guess why.”
“Dad.” His fingers caught a loose lock of her hair. “Let’s not spend these precious hours together talking about him. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be at Heathrow.”
“Fair enough. We’ll do whatever you like.”
“Romantic dinner at the bistro. If that’s not enough of a mood boost, we can watch a screwball comedy.”
She smiled. “I bet you’ve got other ideas.”
“Only one. The best of all.”