Chapter 30
Chapter 30
Harry: I’m her first. She was never intimate with anybody else.
Gil: How can you be sure? Not all those ballet boys are gay.
Harry: I’m one hundred percent positive. Do I have to spell it out for you?
Gil: You’ve seen how those chaps pick her up. Their hands on her tits. Grabbing her crotch. I reckon she gets aroused, being touched like that. Everywhere.
Harry: It’s a performance. Not an orgy.
Gil: All those bodies rubbing up against her, and practically no clothes on. None of the girls in her group have a figure like hers. They starve themselves until they stop having periods. And they look like they’d break into pieces if you shagged them.
Harry: Ellie’s sensible about food.
Gil: Can you make her come every time you two have sex?
Harry: Get your mind out of the gutter, man.
Gil: Better enjoy it while it lasts.
Harry: What makes you think it won’t?
Ellie’s fist knocked the phone out of his hand. “Did he know you recorded that conversation? When was it?”
“I visited him in Williamstown, when he apprenticed with the theatre there. You were in Montreal.”
She’d accompanied her mother, hired to lead an intensive at her former ballet company, with the added benefit of a tuition waiver for Ellie. Mom had been a broken record, carping at her about sleeping with her boyfriend, warning her not to get pregnant. Right after she returned to New York, Harry took her to his parents’ empty house out on Long Island, where he proposed.
Gil was anxiously checking his phone for damage. Looking up, he said, “Harry married you so he could keep you to himself. He was jealous of other guys, all the time. He told me so. Often.”
“That’s not true. He wasn’t insecure about me, or us. He knew perfectly well he had no reason to be.” Her glare dared him to contradict her. “You loaded your characters with your twisted feelings about him and me. You exploited us. And tarnished our marriage. I’m only Lyla when I’m on the stage. Randall isn’t Harry. He’s you. Keep away from me, or I swear to God, I’ll tell your father how you’ve treated me.”
“He won’t believe you.”
“Don’t be so sure.” His expression proved that she’d landed a blow where he was weakest. “I’m a gifted actress, all the reviewers say so. I intend to be very convincing when I tell Sir Francis Cooke that his son is a duplicitous rat. And if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll report you to the Sovereign Theatre Group personnel department.”
“For what?”
“Harassment. Physical injury. And invasion of privacy. Mine and my late husband’s.”
She picked up her bag and burst thorough the dressing room door, slamming it behind her. She wished she could lock him inside.
Walking through the murky darkness, she became aware of an exhaustion that was equally emotional and physical. Halting beside an iron railing beaded with raindrops, she thrust her arms into the sleeves of her hoodie and fumbled with the zipper. The nearest streetlamp cast a beam onto a brass plaque beside the door.
She was standing in front of Dan’s club.
He’d told her to contact him if she needed anything. She was desperate for an unthreatening, comforting presence.
She fumbled with her phone. Hearing Dan’s voice giving instructions about leaving a voicemail, she canceled the call. She could think of several reasons he hadn’t answered. He didn’t want to talk to her. He’d gone to a movie. Or he could be inside this very building. Club members were prohibited from using mobiles in the common areas and were advised to keep them switched off.
She found the club’s number on the website and dialed. “Is Mr. Wheeler there?” she asked the person on the other side of the brick wall. “Maybe in the bar?” At this late hour, the dining room would be closed.
“We’re unable to relay that information, Madam.”
“If you can find him, I’d appreciate your letting him know that a friend of his is standing outside. In the rain. Thank you.”
While waiting, she examined her messages and found a fresh text from Gil. She deleted it without reading. And blocked him.
The glossy black door opened. Heedless of the raindrops, she pushed back her hood to expose her face.
“Ellie?”
The father. She wanted the son.
“I specifically asked for Mister Wheeler,” she blurted. “You’re the Sir.”
“Dan’s not here. He’s seeing whatever is on at the cinema in Curzon Street.”
“Oh.” One of her guesses had been correct.
“I’ve been at an orchestral concert, my way of relaxing after a most trying day. We attended his grandfather’s memorial service at St. Mary Abbott’s Church in Kensington, and a family gathering afterwards. My former wife was there with her husband.” He cleared his throat before saying, “Forgive my inability to invite you inside. I’m prevented by our extremely strict rules about correct attire for members and guests.”
Her composure crumbled. She bent her wrist and pressed it against each eye in a futile attempt to push back the tears.
Moving closer, he said calmly, “I doubt there’s a safer street in London, but a female in distress shouldn’t wander about alone at this advanced hour. I’ll walk with you to Latimer House.”
“You’ll get wet,” she said shakily.
“You think I’ve never been rained on? I’m British. And a gardener. Come along.” He was silent until they reached the corner. “Pamela and I were impressed by Fractures in the Heart. It forced me to reconsider my prejudice against modern dramas. Dan said you provided our tickets.”
“Yes.” Almost home—she could see Latimer House at the corner.
He opened the residents’ door and followed her inside. “Good evening, Angelo,” he greeted the night porter.
“Hello, Sir Terence.”
Ellie, eyeing her escort’s damp blazer, told him, “I’ll go upstairs for my umbrella. You can borrow it.”
“If it’s not an imposition, I’d prefer the drink I didn’t have a chance to order in the bar.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure.”
During their elevator journey to the top floor, she lowered her hood. “How do you know Angelo?”
“He was our club doorman. Dan and I recommended him to Martin Latimer for the night porter job when Lorcan took the day shift.”
When they entered the flat, she went directly to the kitchen and pointed to a cupboard. “That’s where you’ll find Dan’s favorite single malt. Glassware is in the next one over. I want to clean up.”
“What shall I pour for you?”
“White wine, please.”
The reflection in her bathroom mirror should have appalled her, but she was past caring. Her guest’s opinion of her was so low, her bedraggled appearance couldn’t diminish it. While soaping and rinsing her face, she wondered whether he’d come here with an agenda. She hoped he’d speak his piece without delay and leave. She’d experienced more than enough angst, on stage and off, for one night.
He’d taken their drinks to the informal sitting room, and was studying the framed travel poster of a gondolier passing beneath an arched bridge over a Venetian canal.
“You must have been here before,” she surmised.
“Occasionally.” He handed her a very full wineglass.
“After the Autumn Gala, I’m moving out. I’d rather not live this close to Dan. I wouldn’t have tried to reach him if I hadn’t been upset by—by something that happened at the theatre. It was a reflex.”
“I’m a willing surrogate. Perhaps I can help.”
“Nobody can,” she said bleakly, gravitating to her favorite spot on the sofa. “Gil Cooke, the playwright, barged into my dressing room. I threatened to inform the management if he bothers me again. But I won’t have to. The show closes tomorrow.”
“Be specific. Did he get physical? Were you attacked?”
“He’s not daring enough to go that far. He plays mind games. His methods are stealth and manipulation. Not many minutes ago, I discovered that when he was my future husband’s roommate at Juilliard, he tried—and failed—to undermine our relationship. He used that same trick on Dan, telling him I was married to a possessive jerk and my marriage was a nightmare. It was the worst kind of gaslighting. I didn’t know about it till Dan came to New Hampshire. I told him about the real Harry, how much we loved and supported each other. Always.”
“How did he react?”
“He was surprised. He’d believed everything Gil said.”
“You hadn’t previously spoken to him about your husband?”
“Only in general terms. We met at school. He was a really good actor. That’s about it.”
“You’ve just solved the mystery of my son’s abrupt—and most unexpected—decision to detach himself from you.”
“It should’ve been perfectly obvious. You won, Sir Terence.”
“Please call me Terry. I can understand why you think so. My part in the rupture, if any, was negligible. Outwardly, Dan gives the impression of being the quintessential middle child. But that easygoing temperament conceals a longing to measure up to others. He spent years in the shadow of an impressive and accomplished older brother. He had a lively younger sibling who was quite the charmer. His sense of self changed drastically when we lost Oliver and, in a different way, Brian. While he was adjusting to an altered identity, his mother left us.”
“I know.” She looked straight at him when she said, “All the years after losing Harry, I wasn’t seriously—or casually—involved with anybody. When I met Dan, I was instantly attracted, but I wasn’t looking to fall in love. Certainly not so fast, in the all-consuming way I doubted I’d ever experience again. I believed he felt the same about me. Until he told me he wanted to end our relationship. That was crushing. But I had to accept his choice.”
“In doing so, you apparently confirmed his belief that you couldn’t love him as much as you did your husband.”
“I do.” Ellie got up and crossed the room to close the curtains, blocking out distant star-like lights that glowed in other windows. “And it makes no difference.”
“Shouldn’t it?”
“Living after loss, coping with hardship in my work life, taught me to accept situations that I can’t change or control. Like Dan, I responded based on my history. Neither you nor I can be sure about his motivation. Whatever it was, I’m certain he wouldn’t want me clinging on, or guilting him into staying with me. Which would only prolong and increase his misery. Missing somebody who is still alive, living and working in the next street, is agony. Every day since the breakup has been a challenge. But I’ve experienced a loss that’s far, far worse. Like you and Dan did. It doesn’t, it mustn’t define us. Not entirely.”
“Agreed.”
“Years ago, my grief counselor told me that when the most terrible, unimaginable thing happens, there’s an urge to look for meaning in it. That impulse, she said, can be redirected towards a purpose, and action. So that’s what I did. I created a charitable foundation. I followed Rafe to Ballet Bruxelles. I became a burlesque performer and built a name brand and a business. I accepted the role in Gil’s play.” She pointed to the dance publication on the coffee table. “I’m back where I started. When I signed my BBT contract, I didn’t know Dan was about to cut me loose. Work can’t cure heartbreak, but I’m thankful to have a job that takes up a lot of my time. And concentration.”
Terry picked up the magazine and studied the table of contents. Looking up, he told her, “After reading Dame Alicia’s memoir, I was inspired to seek out a substantial and heavily-researched biography. I was unaware that one of her sisters was a Windmill Girl and performed at a theatre not far from here. For thirty years it was famous for its nude revues and other forms of entertainment. Daily shows at the Windmill continued throughout the war. And during Blitz, when the bombs were falling all around the building.”
“There was a movie about it,” she recalled, wondering why he’d raised a thorny subject.
“Doris Marks never appeared without clothes, but her costumes were quite revealing. She was a soubrette, singing comic songs and dancing. Her employer, the rich old lady who created the nudie show, financed Alicia Markova’s touring company. I admit, I’d never known of the strong historical connection between classical ballet and burlesque in Britain. If you’re interested, I’ll lend you the book.”
“I’d like to read it.”
Setting down his empty glass, he said, “I’m a solicitor. If you require an attorney to act on your behalf, I can provide recommendations. Mr. Cooke has demonstrated that he’s unstable. You not only need to be wary of him, you should protect yourself.”
“I’ve spent enough years as public figure to know the risks of bad publicity. Taking action against Gil would backfire on me and cause a hell of a lot of trouble at a sensitive moment in my career. Liar that he is, he would accuse me of enticement and drag in my Stella Nue exploits to justify his behavior. He isn’t stupid. He’s very ambitious. And he can’t bear disappointing his father. My threat of exposure should be sufficiently daunting.”
He stood up. “Nevertheless, I advise caution.” Removing a business card from his inner jacket pocket, he said, “Take this. If you require legal advice or assistance of any kind, you should get in touch.”
She followed him to the foyer. “All I want is your promise not to tell Dan. He already knows Gil deceived him. What happened at the theatre tonight doesn’t concern him.”
“He’d be extremely concerned, I assure you.”
“He doesn’t need to know,” she said firmly, and pulled an umbrella from the stand near the door. “Good night—Terry.”