Chapter 29
Chapter 29
The week before Fractures in the Heart transferred to the Ormond Stage, Ellie detected a faint glimmer of light at the end of the depressingly long tunnel of preparation. Gil accompanied the production team on a tour of the green room and dressing rooms and props storage area. One side of the stage was arranged as a sitting room, separated from the bedroom by a divider with a doorway opening.
While Joan and the stage manager conferred in the wings, Gil sidled up to Ellie. Over the summer he’d shortened his sandy hair and let his stubble beard grow out, and kept both neatly trimmed. “There’s an exciting development to report. I can’t tell the others yet, only you. Media interest and the surge in advance bookings did what Father and I couldn’t. The Sovereign board is strongly in favor moving Fractures to the big theatre next spring. Don’t worry, we’re not recasting.”
“In my case, you’ll have to. I can’t continue as Lyla.”
“No false modesty. You’re giving a great performance.”
“I’ve signed a contract with British Ballet Theatre. Tomorrow I start rehearsing Les Sylphides.”
“I don’t believe it.”
She reached into her shoulder bag, pushing aside packets of gel blister pads and a roll of toe wrap tape and a paperback until she felt the slick plastic of her employee identification badge. “For real,” she said, holding it up.
“But why?”
“Lots of reasons. I’ve known Rafe Lawrence since I was in the corps de ballet. He used to partner me.”
“I know. Are you sleeping with him?”
“No!” She was so shocked by the question that she didn’t immediately realize how offensive it was.
“You used to.”
“Never.” She’d only considered it when clawing her way up from her pit of grief, after he’d extricated himself from his second mistake of a marriage.
“That’s the impression I got in Bruges, when I saw the two you together onstage.”
She choked on her indrawn breath. “Saw us? In what?”
“An unsubtle and overblown version of the Eugene Onegin opera.”
His scathing description of a beloved ballet nettled her. “It’s regarded as a masterpiece.”
“I can’t tell you the title of the one I saw in Amsterdam. Its score was unmistakably a Bach composition.”
“Tribute.” Had he stalked her all over Europe, or just through the Low Countries? She didn’t want to know. She wondered if he’d also witnessed any of her Stella Nue shows before her arrival at the Archway Cabaret. The possibility that he’d repeatedly watched her disrobe was revolting. “You could’ve told me that you attended Ballet Bruxelles performances.”
“Didn’t seem important.”
Another misleading statement. He hadn’t wanted her to know. Because he knew perfectly well that she’d think it was creepy.
After closing night, she consoled herself, I won’t have to see him again. Ever.
To her relief, his name never came up during her evening with Lucas and his wife Caroline at their Hampstead townhouse. She felt comfortable enough to confess how they had been caricatured in her drama class play. Unfazed by her admission, they declared that their visibility since the release of Forsaken Fortune and its sequel had desensitized them to ridicule. They’d been targeted by every comedian on each side of the Atlantic, and most scathingly, in a Saturday evening sketch show on American television.
The next morning Ellie went straight from class to her Les Sylphides soloists’ rehearsal. She and Gemma Banks and two other young women joined Drew Mason in the studio, with Anya and Rafe coaching them and a beaming Barry at the piano. The process was as exhilarating as it was arduous, and the familiar strains of Chopin’s nocturne fed her soul and infused her body. Every note was embedded in her brain, and though five years had passed since she’d last performed Michel Fokine’s delicate choreography, she discovered the durability of muscle memory. Drew’s hands on her waist, raising her off the ground, felt novel but also natural.
Rafe, characteristically upbeat, declared it to be a promising start.
Anya approached Ellie to give helpful guidance about the timing of her bourrées. “Tomorrow, we repeat section.”
The women of the corps drifted in to observe while waiting for their session with Marcus. The staging required them to be omnipresent, alternating between movement and still poses to form picturesque tableaux.
When Ellie removed the pointe shoes and protective padding from her hardworking feet, she stuffed them into her GaitGuard sneakers and trotted over to the Regent’s Park station. Her own image stared back at her from the Fractures posters, wearing the same lost expression she sometimes faced in her bathroom mirror. Glamorous, sexy Stella Nue was replaced by pensive Lyla.
Returning to her temporary residence, she showered and ate a late lunch. She had time to nap or read until time to walk over to the Ormond Stage. Instead, she powered on her laptop to review photographs of the two prospective properties she’d visited. She then read everything her internet search produced about the character and care of a moyen-klein poodle.
Going to the theatre, she avoided Latimer Row, the most direct route. If she passed Dan’s building, he might see her from his office window and assume that she wanted him to.
The eve of the press preview was fraught. After a problematic run-through, everyone assembled for production notes, tossing off the overused adage that a glitchy tech week ensured an error-free first night. Ellie and Lucas collapsed onto the sofa of the living room set, and their understudies settled in the armchairs. The tension was as palpable as the exhaustion.
When Joan, admirably calm, completed her commentary, she asked the playwright if he had anything to add.
“I know it’s awfully late for a blocking change,” Gil said. “The one I have in mind for Ellie is simple.” He turned to her. “Come over here, and I’ll demonstrate.”
She got up.
“Watch us, Lucas. You’re facing each other, like this, when you say, ‘I won’t apologize.’ Pause. Turn. ‘Unless you do.’ Ellie, when I walk towards the bedroom, you follow. Try to stop me. Get physical.”
When she was close enough to grab his arm, he backed up. The hard heel of his shoe pounded the bridge of her foot, crunching the toes.
From Ballet to Burlesque to the Boards and Back
In the spring, when I interviewed the diminutive auburn-haired beauty in her luxurious suite at the Ritz, she was the glamorous international burlesque star Stella Nue. Today, gracing a table in a Mayfair restaurant, she’s Ellie Lowery, professional ballerina—and debut London actress. She appears as Lyla Carrigan in the new drama Fractures in the Heart , which opened this week at the Ormond Stage. Recently recruited by British Ballet as a soloist, she’s currently rehearsing Les Sylphides for the company’s highly anticipated Autumn Gala.
She thrives on variety.
“I received my initial dance training from my mother and her sister,” she explains. “When I was married to an actor [the late Harry Colman, her Juilliard schoolmate], we performed together. I wrote a student thesis about burlesque and years later developed my own act.”
Throughout the twists and turns and career shifts, the twenty-nine-year-old Lowery has consistently excelled in her endeavors.
The swan costume she wore at the Archway Cabaret is on permanent display at the fashion museum, and several others can be viewed as part of a new exhibition. Lola LaFlamme, one of Lowery’s many former burlesque colleagues at the opening reception, credited her as an inspiration and a mentor.
According to playwright Gilbert Cooke, son of Oscar-winner Sir Francis, she was his only choice to portray the conflicted wife in his tale of a splintering marriage.
“Lyla is complex,” Lowery says, “and Ellie’s portrayal of her character’s weaknesses and strengths is brilliant. As the possessive and self-absorbed Randall, Lucas [Daltrey, her co-star in the two-hander] goes well beyond the cliché version of a jealous husband.”
What is it like, co-starring with a heartthrob who also possesses an Academy Award and major acting honors? Lowery concedes that in the run up to rehearsals, it was a daunting prospect.
“I can honestly say that working together has been a privilege and a pleasure, and I’ve learned a great deal from our onstage collaboration. Becoming acquainted with Caroline [Bryden, Daltrey’s wife, mother of their infant son] was a bonus. When reading press accounts of their whirlwind romance and secret marriage, I never imagined I’d someday regard them as friends.”
What of her own love life? When asked if a special someone waits for her to exit the stage each evening, she laughs softly.
“If I described my schedule in detail, you’d understand why not. I spend all day dancing. Every night I’m at the Ormond Stage, being Lyla.”
Dan read through the final paragraphs a second time before turning the page of his newspaper. There she was again, in an advert, curled on bed in a fetal position with a frowning Lucas Daltrey stretched out beside her. They were surrounded by glowing and exclamatory review quotes printed in bold type.
She was inescapable. He encountered her image in social media promotions, on the posters lining the walls of tube station escalators, and in larger versions hanging in the tunnels. At Green Park, someone had placed a red heart sticker on the face he used to kiss.
Tonight, for the first time since her abrupt departure from the Rivoli Bar, he would see the real Ellie. She didn’t know he had a ticket for opening night, because an envelope containing five of them for various dates had been dropped off at the office. He gave a pair to her fangirls Lou and Kelly, one to his secretary, and left another two at the club for his father and Pamela.
Ellie and Lucas Daltrey proved their unmistakable chemistry from the first minutes of their opening scene. The hours she’d spent in morning class and rehearsal hadn’t dimmed her energy, but he detected a hitch in her stride. He supposed it was a late addition to the script, which she’d let him read when he was in New Hampshire, although it wasn’t explained.
At the interval he went to the lobby bar, so packed with patrons that he didn’t bother ordering a drink. The playwright stood against a wall. When he noticed Dan, he began weaving through the crowd with intent.
“Hello again. Enjoying the performance?”
“It deserves every accolade.”
Gil’s sandy head bobbed. “We hope for similar success in six months, when we transfer to the Sovereign Theatre. I’ve recently completed my next play, a satirical comedy, to prove my versatility. And Ellie’s. She doesn’t know about it yet, so don’t tell her.”
“I won’t.” He’d never been so glad to hear the chime that would send the audience members rushing to their seats. It prevented him from calling out the other man as a liar, which he was sorely tempted to do.
The rising curtain revealed a shirtless Lucas, wearing trousers without a belt, picking up pieces of broken crockery. Ellie sat slumped on the edge of the bed. Her hair was mussed, and her untucked blouse was partly unbuttoned, revealing her bra and exposed cleavage. One bare foot was wrapped in a flesh-colored bandage.
When he’d made love to Ellie that last time, Dan had been the mournful one. She’d twined her legs around him and rested her cheek on his chest, unaware of his inner turmoil. He hadn’t spoiled the moment for her by sharing his distress. He told himself it would ease, eventually. But after he returned to London, she telephoned him to describe her rapprochement with Colmans. She’d accompanied them on a gravesite visit and accepted a box of memorabilia they offered her. They wanted her to occupy their house when they no longer wished to live there. Though she didn’t say so, it all added up to a symbolic reunion with her late husband.
The second act depicted the complete disintegration of the couple’s marriage. In Randall, the playwright presented his version of Harry Colman—an egotistical bully, belittling his wife while demanding her devotion and fidelity. In the final moments, Lyla stood alone on the stage, free of the emotional and physical abuse she’d suffered. The lights went dark, and the curtain fell.
Deafening applause shattered the hush that had descended over the auditorium.
Up went the curtain, revealing Ellie and Lucas. With hands clasped, they bowed in acknowledgment of the enthusiastic acclaim.
The stranger seated next to Dan looked over at him and commented, “A star is born.”
Star. Stella. Ellie.
He wondered whether she saw him in the middle row, clapping so hard that his palms stung. His chest ached with pride—and pent-up, undeclared love for the woman he had relinquished, without telling her the real reason.
Arriving in the physio suite, Ellie felt sure that today she’d be allowed to put on her pointe shoes again.
Because everyone understood the potential danger of stage work, her nonspecific explanation for the severely bruised toes was accepted without question. In class she performed her barre and center routines in dance slippers and refrained from bouncing and leaping. During rehearsals, she was permitted to mark any sections that might hamper recovery. Drew made every effort to be accommodating. After each lift, he set her down gently, reducing but never eliminating the pain of landing.
“Before I saw those x-rays,” her myotherapist said, “I was afraid they’d have to change the title of your play to Fractures in the Foot.”
“Not funny.”
“Are you using stretch bands and your foot roller?”
“Yes. And I’m trying not to limp.”
“Good girl. Shifting your weight to the other leg would impact your hip, and we can’t have that. The skin over the metatarsal has turned a lovely greenish yellow, an improvement over that ghastly purple. By gala night, you’ll hardly remember you were injured.”
Oh, but I will, she silently contradicted, as he manipulated each toe joint.
“How much does that hurt?”
“A minor twinge. Can I practice in my Mindens today?”
“With ample cushioning in the toe box and tape over the bruise. Come back after rehearsal so I can check you over. We’ll have an ice bath ready.”
She danced on pointe for the nocturne and her solo but removed her shoes for the second pas de deux with Drew, and the final grande valse. The next day she wore them longer, with no adverse effects.
Incremental progress. Constant striving for perfection. The essence and the infinite challenge of ballet.
After another evaluation by her new best friend in the physio suite, she sank her feet into the vat of icy water he’d prepared for her. She read the latest email from her agent Cait, who was fielding inquiries from movie casting directors and theatrical producers. Ellie tapped out instructions to decline all audition requests but added that she’d might consider endorsements for dancewear.
No more acting jobs, she typed. Until I retire from this one.
Sorry, Harry.
Hours later when she passed through the Ormond’s stage door, her mood was chipper. In preparation for her penultimate performance as Lyla, she put on the costume that didn’t look like one—a blouse and jacket and pencil skirt—and sat down at the mirror to apply her makeup. She joined Lucas in the green room for their ritual cup of lemon-infused tea.
“You really are amazing,” he told her. “Hopping about and twirling on a mashed foot before emoting all evening on the stage.”
“I also squeezed in a phone chat with my Aunt Camille about Stella Nue merchandising. What about you?”
“I watched Caroline feed the sprog. Babysat him while she was at the gym. Rinsed sick off his onesie and my shirt. Fell asleep reading a screenplay.”
“Must not have been any good,” she surmised.
“This late in the year, the most intriguing productions have already been cast. Not sure I can fit in something before resuming Fractures. I’m gutted that you can’t face working with me again.”
“You know that’s not the reason. Caroline will be a fantastic Lyla. She’ll probably receive an Olivier nomination. You’re sure to get another one yourself. I predict two more matching awards.”
“I told her ripping up at me every night for a paying audience means we’ll never need to quarrel at home.”
At the conclusion of the second act, they met in the middle of the stage. While waiting for the curtain to rise, Lucas whispered, “You’re going to miss this. Admit it.”
“I’ll miss you,” she replied, squeezing his hand.
“You won’t get the chance. We’ll keep in touch.”
After the usual number of bows, they returned to their dressing rooms. Ellie unfastened the lower buttons of her top and slipped it off. She hung it with her skirt and jacket on the clothes rail and changed into the long-sleeved jersey and track suit bottoms she wore for her five-minute walk back and forth from Latimer House. She never bothered removing her makeup for the quick trip through the darkness.
Before she could grab her fleece hoodie, somebody tapped on the door.
Gil stepped past her, satchel in hand. He placed it on her makeup table and pulled out a stack of papers tied together with a crimson ribbon. “The first draft of my next play. A modern version of Much Ado. Romantic comedy with bite.”
Unclenching her jaw, she replied, “I don’t want it.”
“You told me how much you enjoyed playing Beatrice.”
“Because I had Harry for my Benedick.”
“There’s no conflict with the ballet contract. This play won’t go into production before next autumn.”
Fortified by the knowledge that their association was nearing its end, she said, “Gil, we’re finished. I mean forever. I shouldn’t have to tell you why, but I will. You repeatedly asked my in-laws for information about me. You never told me you attended Ballet Bruxelles performances. You deliberately crushed my foot, to stop me from dancing. Most unforgivable of all, you told Dan Wheeler those awful, vicious lies about Harry.”
“I lived with him before you did,” he shot back. “He had a dark side.”
“We all do. Nobody’s perfect, everyone has flaws. He was a normal human being. I can’t say the same about you.”
“You’ve got no idea what your precious Harry was like when you weren’t around. He talked about you. A lot. When he was with me.” He took a step towards her and shoved his mobile at her.
“Go away, Gil. I’m tired. And fed up with your nasty tricks.” She snatched her hoodie from the chair.
“Wait. I want you to hear this.” His forefinger slid across the surface of his phone. “I’ll raise the volume.”
Before she reached the door, the unforgettable mellow voice, forever silenced so many years ago, made her stop. And listen.