Starring Adele Astaire, page 10
“Oh, please come. It’s our last night together.”
“You have to come,” Caty, her roommate, chimed in. “We’re going to shake the whole club down.”
Violet shook her head slowly, the set of her mouth firm. “I’m no good at goodbyes.”
Caty pouted and tried to tug on Violet’s arm, but the young dancer remained rooted in place.
“Can I at least offer you a ride home?” I knitted my brows, wishing I could change her mind, but I understood Violet well enough to know when she was in a mood like this there was no turning it around. She’d made up her mind, and the best thing I could do was support her. “I hate for us to part like this.”
“I’ll be fine.” Violet smiled, and then hugged me so tightly that I could barely breathe. I hugged her right back. “And we’re not parting forever.”
“I expect to see you on our next London leg, if we’re so lucky.”
“I will be in the front row.”
“Rubbish, darling, you’ll be onstage with me.” I embraced her one more time, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
Violet stepped away from the group, walking in the opposite direction without turning back. The space behind my ribs was suddenly tight with regret at not having begged her harder. My dearest friend in London, not someone any of the upper classes would have expected. But it always came down to the roots, didn’t it? And maybe that’s what I found so enchanting about Violet. Born to nothing, like me, and we were showing the world up.
Cars, taxis, and trucks whizzed by, oblivious to my heartbreak. A lady with her dog jostled past, her husband hot on her heels. And the world went on. As if I’d not just said goodbye to a show, and a dear friend, scarcely moments before. As if it didn’t matter what the world held in store for us.
Part Two
Shall We Tango or Jazz?
“The Astaires were like automatons. They were magic, covering the stage with this terribly smooth, gorgeous rhythm bringing the best of American choreography together—we couldn’t believe they were quite human.”
—Hermione Baddeley, referencing Lady Be Good!
Chapter Eight
Adele
The Limelight
There’s trouble in paradise for the famous brother-and-sister duo Fred and Adele Astaire. The slap heard round the world! Arriving late to a show, after tippling too much on the arm of her new beau, Adele Astaire was allegedly slapped by her brother for her irresponsible behavior. It begs the question, did he also shout “Lady be good!” as he did it? Perhaps a stunt for their show with the same name?
Late 1924
New York City
We’d no sooner walked down the gangplank to find our pile of luggage than Alex Aarons was waving a contract in our faces, which we signed on top of the trunk stack. I suppose we should have been grateful for the employment, but, sheesh, he could have let us settle into our digs first.
With a little time left before our next show’s rehearsals started, Freddie and I took in all the hottest numbers on Broadway, both for the fun of it and to check out our competition. A year and a half is a long time to be away from home, and, after all those months away, there were some new up-and-comers.
“Tonight we’re going to El Fey Club,” Freddie whispered as we left Dillingham’s new musical, Stepping Stones. One actress stood out to me, Dorothy Stone, a debut who was going to hit it big.
I pressed my hand to my chest in mock shock, the sounds of New York filling our ears as we waited for a taxi. “Why, Freddie, you want to go to a speakeasy? But what about our rest? What about rehearsal? It’s already nearing midnight.”
He rolled his eyes and gave my ribs a light jab. “If there’s one thing I know about you, sis, it’s that you were planning to go already.”
I shrugged coyly as Freddie waved his hand for a cab. “Anyone who is everyone will be there.”
“And we’d best get it out of your system before rehearsals for Lady Be Good start.”
I grinned as we climbed into a taxi.
“West Forty-Fifth, Mac,” Freddie said.
We whizzed through the familiar New York streets toward El Fey Club. We’d heard so much about this joint, owned and managed by Texas Guinan, an actress whom we’d met on the vaudeville circuit. Although El Fey was often raided, it was a sight to behold and the place to be for theatrical celebrities, the rich and famous, and a sprinkling of underworld mobsters.
As we entered the speakeasy, through cigarette smoke made blue by the lights, Texas’s voice rang out over the crowd. “Hello, suckers! Don’t dawdle, come on in. And while you’re at it, leave your wallet on the bar.”
“Oh, boy,” Freddie murmured, but all I could do was laugh as we were swept up into the dimly lit club, its music’s beat thrumming through our veins.
It sure did feel good to be back in New York.
We claimed a table, quickly surrounded by friends we’d long missed—George Gershwin among them—but as the drinks were being served, Freddie’s eyes were on the dance floor, watching a man hoof a Charleston like I’d never seen. His footwork was quick, executed with a precision and flair that made us look like amateurs.
“Who’s that?” Freddie asked, waving off the offer of a cocktail from a smartly dressed waiter.
“George Raft,” George Gershwin called out over the music as he lit a cigarette.
In an instant, Freddie was up from the table, parting the crowds as he approached the dance floor. He took the man’s hand in two of his, shaking vigorously as he spoke. Although Freddie might have been enthralled by this bloke’s fancy feet, it seemed there was a high volume of mutual appreciation going on.
Not a second later, the two of them were facing off, their feet flying, and those on the dance floor had backed up to form a circle around them to watch—and blocked my view. I didn’t want to miss out on what felt like a monumental moment. I leapt up from the table—not too upset to leave my bootleg gin behind; it wasn’t my bag—and joined the boys.
The three of us danced until sweat dripped from our brows, and even Texas joined us, egging the crowd on as we shuffled.
We closed down the house, bleary-eyed, at five o’clock in the morning when the doors shut, with Texas begging us to come back.
“Thank God rehearsals don’t start until next week,” I said, rubbing my temples, which hurt from exhaustion and dehydration more than anything else.
Freddie chuckled, wiping his hands over his face and then loosening his collar. “I’ll be honest, Delly, the plot of this one seems pretty stupid.”
“At least we’re cast as brother and sister instead of lovers.”
“Good point.”
We linked arms and then hopped into one of the waiting cabs.
* * *
Freddie was right—the plot was stupid. But the numbers were good; magical, even. The lyrics and beat allowed Freddie and me to capitalize on what we did best, which was showcasing our talents with comedic highlights. Naturally the crowd loved us, calling the show witty, playful, and full of the Astaire spark. We even added a new bit of fun to our stage exits, which was to continue our dance steps, traveling offstage without stopping. Lady Be Good got such rave reviews that by April 1925 Alex Aarons asked if we’d be willing to perform in London at the year’s end, to which we heartily agreed.
“I think it’s time we got a Rolls-Royce,” Freddie said one afternoon after rehearsals, while we were changing out of our dance shoes.
“I’m surprised it took you so long to say so,” I answered, with a waggle of my fingers and my thumb on my nose. Freddie had been eyeing a pamphlet on Rolls-Royces for months.
“They are pricey,” he hedged.
“How do you propose we pay for it?” We’d been getting a good salary and had plenty of money in the bank, especially with Freddie doing the accounting. But he was rather frugal when it came to our keeping it that way, so I knew he’d not want to spend the funds outright. We’d learned more than once as kids that in showbiz the money could dry up just as easily as it flowed.
“Funny you should ask,” he said. “We’ve been offered a gig at the Trocadero Club.”
I wrinkled my nose; hadn’t we just turned down Texas? “Performing at a nightclub?” I enjoyed dancing at clubs, and I liked watching others do the entertaining. But there was a big difference between dancing for fun and dancing for money. “It’d have to be after midnight, with Lady Be Good going on, and you’d hate that. We’ll be totally wasted—and not in the sense of being drunk.”
“But I’d love to drive a Rolls.” Freddie’s head rolled on his shoulders the way a toddler’s would when he wanted something.
I laughed and held out my hand for Freddie to pull me up. As he did, everything cracked, and I spent a few breaths stretching out the kinks in my spine. “For how long?”
Freddie’s head snapped back into place and he locked eyes with me. “Six weeks. And they’ve agreed to pay us five thousand a week to do it.”
My eyes nearly bulged from their sockets at that sum. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“That’s thirty thousand dollars!” The sum was so large for so puny a job that I practically choked on it. “Just to dance a couple hours a night?”
Freddie nodded and wiggled his eyebrows, as if we’d gotten away with highway robbery. “We’ll have enough for a nice flat in London even after we buy the baby Rolls. Besides, it’s a bit of friendly competition, and I know how much you like that. The Trocadero is trying to mirror the success of Club Mirador, where Marjorie and Georges are dancing.”
Freddie knew just the right way to send me spinning off the edge. “Oh, we’re better than those two Brits.”
“Exactly.” He pointed at me and winked.
For three weeks Freddie and I danced nightly starting at 12:45 a.m., after having performed Lady Be Good once or twice that day already. We had a whole slew of new routines, and then some old ones that we rechoreographed. Then, one night, after we’d finished dancing and were sitting at a table with a few friends, shouts came from the entrance to the club, followed by a waiter rushing past us with a tray full of cocktails.
“Everybody stay put and this will go easy!” shouted a police officer, backed by nearly a dozen others in uniform, their pistols raised. The man doing the talking had a good sheen of sweat on his upper lip as he surveyed the crowd, taking in the odd mix. “Get back here, son,” he called to the escaping waiter with a tray full of contraband.
But in his haste to make it to the kitchen to dump the illegal alcohol, the poor sap tripped over his own feet and the tray went flying. Everything moved in slow motion at that point. Glasses flying up in the air, champagne shooting upward from the coupes like golden, sparkly fountains and then slamming into the thick red carpet, obliterated.
“Damnit!” the officer shouted just as he reached the waiter and all the evidence of what he’d carried soaked into the floor.
Didn’t take long for everyone else to follow suit, either tossing their drinks back or spilling them—and then there were the runners. It was all rather fascinating.
Freddie grabbed my hand and pulled me backstage, where we hoofed it out the back door and down the street. Neither of us had been imbibing, but we weren’t willing to risk our necks for a Rolls. After the raid, business at the club slowed during the next week, and we agreed to take a pay cut for the last two weeks of the deal. We danced our hearts out every night, eager to please the crowd, even though we both knew we’d only done it for a lark.
When we weren’t dancing, Freddie was back into horse racing with his friends Jock and Sandy, and I was going along for the ride sometimes, but mostly to avoid all the boys who were chasing me down. When you’ve been courted by a prince, everyone else seems so boring.
I fired off a letter to Violet, hoping she’d audition for the show, but for the past several months all the correspondence I’d sent her had been met with silence. Even the Tatler and the Limelight magazines were reporting that she’d basically disappeared from the stage. I was worried for her and had sent another letter to Caty, asking where she was, but Caty’s reply had been vague, saying that Vi had gone on “holiday.” When I arrived in England I would get to the bottom of it.
In the end, we decided that, with our upcoming run in London, we’d hold off on buying the Rolls until we got there. No sense in buying it now, only to ship it with us and then ship it back. Better to have to do that only once.
We performed Lady Be Good for an astonishing 330 shows in New York, with the final engagement in late September 1925, followed by a slew of performances on the road.
Although we’d kept in touch with most of our friends through letters, I’d hoped when returning to New York that the pull of London wouldn’t be so strong, that my love for Europe was simply a phase. However, when the January morning came to board the Majestic, Freddie and I were both eager for it. The journey was swift, the air frigid when we walked on deck to get some exercise. But when you’re cooped up on a ship for two weeks, the last thing you want to do is hide out in your cabin.
At last we stepped off the train in London, and I drew in a long gulp of cold city air. The sky was overcast, but that did nothing to dampen my bright mood. We had several weeks lined up to enjoy the West End shows and London clubs, and visit with friends before rehearsals started in March and we opened at the Empire in mid-April.
I searched the playbills for Violet’s name but found it nowhere. When my telegrams went unanswered, I ventured to the little flat she shared with Caty and knocked on the door.
A muffled voice called something from within, and then hurried footsteps followed before the door swung open.
“Caty, darling,” I said to the wide-eyed gal staring back at me, wearing a silk robe as if she’d only just been summoned from bed.
“Why, if it isn’t Adele Astaire!” She smoothed her mussed hair.
“In the flesh.”
“Do come in.” Caty opened the door wider, beckoning me into the cozy flat. There was a small sofa and two matching chairs. A cellarette with a few bottles of liquor, some plain crystal, and a gramophone. It smelled of women’s perfume and gin.
“I’m so sorry to tell you that Violet isn’t here.” Caty frowned, tightening the knot on her robe. “She’s on holiday.”
“You mentioned that in your letter. But that was months ago.”
“Yes.” Caty drew in a deep breath, the pinched look on her face disappearing into one of I have an idea, which meant she was probably going to lie. “How about a drink? I’ve gin or tea . . .”
I set my purse down on the sofa and stared right into the other dancer’s face. “Caty. I didn’t come for gin. Or tea. What is going on? Where is Vi?”
Caty straightened her shoulders and looked as if she was going to fight or lie her way out of answering, but then her shoulders sagged. “Well, she’s gone up to Scotland to help an aunt.”
“And given up the stage?”
“Her aunt needed a lot of help.” Caty nodded, more as if she were trying to convince herself, rather than me.
I narrowed my eyes, seeing right through her antics. “She got knocked up?”
“The aunt?” Caty pursed her lips, then nodded empathically. “Yes. And Vi’s gone to help. She had enough money to pay her part of the rent, though, so that was incredibly good of her.”
“Caty, you’re a brilliant dancer, but you’re not a very good liar.”
Caty’s face fell, and for the first time I felt as if she was being genuine. “She swore me to secrecy. You can’t tell her I told you.”
“She’s in trouble.”
Caty nodded.
“Do you know who did it?”
“Some producer; she wouldn’t tell me who.”
“Damn. I was hoping she was just ignoring me.” My heart ached for the friend who’d worked so damn hard to not be in this situation. She’d come up from the slums of London, been kicked out of her home by her mother, and now this?
“I’ve sent everything you posted up to Perth,” Caty rushed. “She’s grateful for it all. And I’m sure when she’s back, she’ll find you.”
“When will that be?”
“Should be only a month or two more. She’s due to pop any day, and then needs a few weeks to snap back into shape.”
I let out a long sigh, wishing my friend had reached out to me, felt confident in confiding in me, but I understood. One of the earliest things I’d told Vi was to be careful of the pawing producers. To know she’d succumbed when I’d warned her off of that must have made her feel embarrassed.
“Thanks for telling me, Caty.” I pulled a little note from my purse with our address on Park Lane, in hopes that Violet would come see me when she returned. “Now, you’ll come to the audition for chorus dancers, won’t you?”
“I would, you know I would, but I’m already cast in Scotch Mist with Tallulah Bankhead.”
I grinned at the mention of the rising starlet. “We’re going to see that show tonight. I’m sure you’re smashing.”
“I’m something.” Caty laughed.
“It was good to see you, Caty. Don’t be a stranger.”
“It was lovely to see you, too, Miss Astaire. I’ll be sure to catch Lady Be Good when you open.”
“I’ll send tickets.”
“Thank you.”
As spring pushed some of the winter chill away, and Lady Be Good wowed our London audiences, Violet continued to remain absent. I looked for her, thinking a few times that I’d seen her in my peripheral vision, but it always seemed to be just a ghost of my imagination. As if Vi had never truly existed.
* * *
August 1926
Our chauffeur pulled our black baby Rolls up to 17 Bruton Street.
“I don’t even know why I’m here,” I said to Freddie, who was straightening the lapels of his suit jacket and admiring his new diamond-and-ruby cuff links.
“Because when a royal invites you, you go.”
“It’s just a baby.” I was pouting something fierce.
