Starring Adele Astaire, page 5
“Why would you do that?” Freddie didn’t sound mad, merely perplexed. “We’ve plenty, and we don’t want to have to redo the entire choreography. Gus is going to be beside himself.”
“There’s a girl whose talent was overlooked. And, like you, I want this show to go off without a hitch, and to last more than a month.”
Freddie pursed his lips. “Is she a project?”
I slapped Freddie lightly on the arm with a frown. “You know I’m not one for projects.”
“That’s true.”
“I met her during the auditions, and I watched her dance, certain she’d be chosen.” I shook my head, still perplexed at how they could have cut her.
“She was cut?”
“Yeah. And, wouldn’t you know it, she’s still practicing and learning the dances. It won’t be any trouble at all to add her in.”
Freddie let out a long sigh. “Why don’t you leave the handling of the show to me next time?”
Here we go again. “I’m not some shy schoolgirl, Freddie. You might be taller than me now, but I’m not your little sister.”
Freddie let it go. “What did Moore say?”
“He didn’t want to add her.” I bit my lip, hedging about how I’d tell him the rest. “But I didn’t give him much choice. Especially since I caught him canoodling with a chorus girl.” I didn’t mention the girl who’d come away upset, not wanting to cast judgment until I had the facts.
Freddie frowned. It was an ugly part of theatre life, we’d learned, that managers and directors often took advantage of vulnerable girls. Making promises that weren’t kept. And what could the poor girls say about it? Tell everyone what happened? They’d only be shamed for their participation and loose morals—even if that was the opposite of what had happened. It was all ridiculous, and perhaps part of the reason Freddie was so sensitive about me forming any sort of male attachments. Too many times, we’d seen women like me taken advantage of.
“Anyways, I thought you should know, in case Felix asks. He’s more likely to come to you with that sort of thing,” I said.
“All right. Well, be careful around Moore. He strikes me as a man who can be a loose cannon if the mood is right.”
I’d gotten the same impression. “I will.”
We climbed out of the cab, walking into the brilliantly lit Savoy. Music came from a nearby ballroom. Another club. As we climbed the soft-carpeted marble stairs, the music faded, and by the time we reached our suite it was only a distant memory.
Mom was asleep already. Freddie waved as he went into his bedroom, and, after washing my face and changing into my nightgown, I slipped between the silken sheets of my bed, resting my head on the feather pillow.
I’d forgotten to draw the curtains and could see the lamplight from the streets outside. The distant honk of a car horn reminded me of New York. I’d not been in London long, but already I was feeling as if I’d come to a place that I didn’t want to leave. One that felt like home. The people, the atmosphere, the food, the cocktails, the music—not to mention the theatre life itself. All of it felt . . . incredible.
Was there such a thing as being born in the wrong place?
I decided no. Because if I’d not been born where I was, to whom I’d been born, I’d not be where I was at that moment, snuggled in a bed at the Savoy in London. I’d not known this was where I wanted to belong from now on.
All I had to do was figure out a way to stay behind here. A way that wouldn’t hurt Freddie and Mom. Yet that was a path that seemed doomed to fail. And who knew if I’d even have a place onstage after our London debut?
We could totally flop.
Chapter Four
Violet
The Limelight
What happened to Maya Chopra? She was nowhere to be seen when Bridgette Hughes was bumped from the primo spot in the chorus line of Stop Flirting by the up-and-coming Violet Wood. This mystery showstopper appears to have emerged from the shadows of the theatre curtains to dance the stage front and center. Just who is Violet Wood? Perhaps the bigger question is, will she survive life in the West End?
Mr. Cowden was waiting in the center of the lobby, bracing himself as if spoiling for a fight. The tips of his polished oxfords pressed into the burgundy carpet, and his meaty fists rested on his hips. His cheeks were flush with temper, judging from the scowl on his face.
“Wood,” he said gruffly, jowls jiggling as he wagged a finger.
Violet stopped in her tracks. Here it comes, the whole bit about who do I think I am and why am I always reaching above my station.
“I want you to turn it down.” His tone made it clear that he expected her to do as he said.
Turn it down? There was only one thing he could be talking about, and she’d yet to be offered the chorus-girl spot.
How could she refuse him? Yet to appease him would mean to betray herself.
Violet’s insides curdled like milk left in the sun, and she clenched her fists, her palms growing slick. She had a sudden urge to run to the nearest waste bin to retch and retch and retch.
You’re stronger than this.
That pocket-sized voice inside her, the one that made her get back up when she was too tired to rehearse, that made her carry on, spoke up. The voice of the girl inside her who wanted to shine, and was willing to sneak into the theatre after hours, came alive, helping Violet straighten her spine. Violet didn’t intend to betray herself. What she desired most in the world was worth the risk of losing some things, including Mr. Cowden’s approval.
Violet cleared her throat. “Pardon me, sir?”
The silence in the vestibule echoed like a battering ram.
Mr. Cowden’s look suggested he knew she was fibbing. “Chorus girl. You’re a cocktail waitress, and I need you to stay that way.”
Wasn’t that what everyone was always saying? You’re this, and you need to stay that.
As if their demands, their doubts, were enough to hold Violet back, to keep her from pursuing her dreams. She lifted her chin. Why should she listen? Irritation made her heart pound, nearly drowning out the jubilation she felt as she realized that Adele Astaire had made good on her word and spoken up for her.
“I’ve not heard yet,” Violet replied. “But if it’s true, then it’s only temporary, and I promise to help any way I can when I’m not onstage. I’ll come in early to set up and stay late to clean.”
Her offer seemed to appease Mr. Cowden. Although his brows continued to hold a deep groove, it was normal for him to appear in a perpetual state of displeasure.
He jerked his head into a nod and gave a great huff. “Fine. But you’ll be working whenever you aren’t onstage. I don’t have time to train a new girl.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“Miss Wood?” A man she recognized from the audition approached through the auditorium doors. “I’m Felix Edwards. We have papers for you to sign before you join today’s rehearsal.” His words were clipped, no-nonsense, and she didn’t hesitate to jump.
“Yes, sir,” she said briskly. First impressions were everything, weren’t they?
“You brought your dance shoes, I assume?” Mr. Edwards’s gaze scoured her from head to toe. She tried to ignore the pinch of his brows and the way his lips turned down, as if she had shot a lemon peel into his mouth.
Violet nodded, patting her satchel.
“Good.” He turned abruptly, giving a click of his heels as he left.
Violet hurried to follow Mr. Edwards backstage, where the other chorus dancers chattered giddily in their flashy dance getups.
Violet’s gaze fell on the one person whom she dreaded seeing—the sharp blond dancer who’d snubbed her before. The woman’s narrowed gaze met Violet’s, practically screaming—What are you doing here? You don’t belong here!
Rather than be cowed, Violet flashed a triumphant smile. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to have the expression on blondie’s face captured in a photograph. The woman’s mouth fell open and her blue eyes bulged, reminding Violet of her landlady’s pug, Moon. The few chorus girls surrounding the blonde tittered, whispering behind their hands.
Violet didn’t care what they were saying, not letting them ruin this monumental moment.
In a small office, Mr. Edwards shuffled some papers toward her.
“This is on a trial basis, Miss Wood, which means we’re not going to pay you what we pay the more experienced dancers. Pay is distributed weekly.”
Violet nodded, too ecstatic for the opportunity to worry about that; besides, it was more than she made as a waitress. She barely read the words and signed, the smile on her lips about to crack her face. Then she was shoved back toward the other girls. A woman with spectacles perched on the end of her nose and holding a pencil between her teeth marched toward Violet with a measuring tape. After taking her size and tutting, she stomped away and zipped back with a beautiful ensemble.
Flowing, gauzy yellow skirts and a bodice that sparkled when it caught the light. Violet barely had a chance to enjoy the sight before the woman was ordering her to try it on. Despite the prying eyes of the other girls, Violet stripped right where she was, knowing that doing so revealed the threadbare fabric of her underthings. She dared not look at the judgment in their eyes, the mocking joy Sharp Blondie surely showed at the way Violet’s drawers no longer held their shape.
Violet closed her eyes as she slid the costume on, feeling the newness of it, the softness of the silk, the scratchiness of the tulle against her skin. All of it a wonder. Then her eyes popped open again as the costume-fitter jerked her into an abrupt about-face, buttoning up the back of the dress, which clung to Violet as if it had been made for her.
“Voilà, c’est bon. Go.” The woman shoved her forward.
The other girls rushed past her, knocking her aside. Violet hurried to put on her shoes, fingers fumbling with the straps. Finally, she ran out onstage—the last to arrive.
Mr. Edwards glared so fiercely, a vein pulsed in the center of his forehead, threatening to explode with his sharp tongue. “We don’t tolerate tardiness.”
Violet could have made excuses, all of which were already obvious to Mr. Edwards. She’d only signed on the dotted line this hour and been fitted for a costume in the same breath. But that wouldn’t matter. He wanted to put her in her place. Fortunately, being onstage was exactly where Violet wanted to be, anyway.
The music started almost immediately. Violet jockeyed for a place in line. Her nerves were taut, but it only took her a fraction of a second to pull herself together. She knew this music, the moves; she just had to let them happen.
Violet stepped in time with the music as it flowed through her body, and the exhilaration of being onstage—of being part of the show—hummed through her limbs like the vibrations of a tuning fork.
As she twirled, smiling toward the empty seats, she spied from the corner of her eye a petite brunette backstage, peering from behind a curtain.
Adele Astaire. The woman who had gone out on a limb for her. For her. The woman whose actions had given Violet the chance she’d worked toward her entire life.
Being watched by someone she owed that debt, who was also the star of the show, only made Violet dance harder. The girls beside her noticed that she was able to keep up, and some of their curious glances turned sour. Sharp Blondie even managed an elbow jab. But Violet had been prepared for blowback, and she twirled away in time with the choreography as if nothing had happened—even though her ribs smarted.
Being a late addition to the chorus-girl team meant that the director shifted her around a few times, until she was on the front line. Not center, but not behind anyone, either, and she was more than happy with that.
The hours of dancing went by in a flash. Even after so much exertion, her body sang with energy. She could have kept going but hurried offstage with the others to change. Violet peeled off her sweat-dampened costume, carefully hanging the frothy confection where it belonged. She ran her hand down the length of the dress, wondering when this dream bubble was going to pop.
As if she could hear Violet’s thoughts, Sharp Blondie passed by her, hissing, “Don’t get too comfortable, street rat.” She gave Violet a bump in the back with her shoulder.
An inappropriate rebuke was on the tip of Violet’s tongue when Adele appeared, putting a salve on the sting.
“Keep your cattiness to yourself, Bridgette. We’re all replaceable,” Adele said.
Bridgette’s face turned the same shade of red as a pair of knickers Violet had once seen on a prostitute in an alley near Brick Lane in Hoxton. But Bridgette didn’t say anything in response, merely slunk from the dressing area.
“Thank you,” Violet murmured to Adele.
Adele waved her hand in Bridgette’s direction. “Girls like her are a dime a dozen and they know it. Don’t pay her any attention.”
Violet nodded, though she was certain to remember Bridgette’s mockery. Her father, before he’d passed, had told her that remembering the rebuffs from one’s enemies helped to prepare for future attacks. At the time, Violet had thought her father paranoid, stuck in the brutal trenches of the Great War even when home on leave. But it all made sense now.
“I’ll try not to,” she managed, around a dry tongue.
“Saying you’ll try is for those without true commitment. You have to do.” With that piece of advice, Adele hurried away.
Violet looked around. The dressing room was nearly empty now, a suddenly large space scattered with discarded hole-riddled stockings, combs, and powder puffs; robes slung over benches; and racks of costumes lined up in a row.
She’d snuck backstage plenty, but never been part of this scene. Everything felt surreal. The opportunities boundless. At what moment would reality come crashing down? Because this had all happened so fast, and it didn’t feel real.
Tearing herself away, Violet dashed to the ladies’ to refresh herself. Her skin was slick with sweat, and she still had to run cocktails for Mr. Cowden. Her feet already hurt, and she hoped she wouldn’t be hobbling by the end of the night.
One of the other chorus girls was applying fresh lipstick in the mirror. She glanced over at Violet and grinned. “Good job out there today.”
“Thanks. I’m Violet.”
“Caty.” She turned back to the mirror, fluffing her hair.
One of the stalls opened and Sharp Blondie came out, scowling. “Marjorie, wasn’t it?” she said, staring down at Violet with disgust.
“Violet,” Caty corrected.
Sharp Blondie snapped her gaze toward Caty, who just went about applying her lipstick as if nothing had happened.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Violet”—Bridgette said her name as if seconds ago she’d dumped a can of sardines into her mouth—“I’m the lead chorus girl for this show.”
“If you say so.” Violet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She could care less if Bridgette was the lead girl. Had Adele Astaire singled Bridgette out and gotten her the job?
Bridgette sniffed. “You need to know who is in charge.”
“I assume you mean Mr. Gus, the choreographer. Or were you referring to Mr. Edwards, the producer? Or perhaps—”
Bridgette let out a disgusted snort. “You’re nothing and will never amount to anything.”
Violet shrugged. “If you say so.” Being looked down upon as if she were a pile of rubbish was nothing new. The only difference now was that Bridgette was obviously jealous. That was very interesting, and made Violet feel less like rubbish.
“Well, if you’re done berating me, Bridg, I’ve got a job to do.”
“‘Bridg’?” the blonde sputtered, but Violet was already pushing past her.
Bravado flashed through her, but she clamped her mouth closed before she could tell Bridg to shove it. The show was going to last only a few months, and after that she was going to need a job. If luck would have it, she’d be picked up for the next show. But one could never bet their future on luck.
Violet had a lot of gumption. The nerve to get up and do what she needed. Despite her being born on Drysdale Street in Hoxton, a stone’s throw from Shoreditch, a veritable orgy of despair, luck seemed to have touched her when she met Adele Astaire.
And she wasn’t going to let someone else ruin that. Bridgette, in a whirl of perfume and hate, hurried to storm out of the bathroom before Violet.
Caty rested a palm against the sink as she turned to Violet with a sympathetic face. “Ignore Bridgette. She’s a rotten nut, but if you get into it with her, she’ll make you sorry. Trust me, I speak from experience.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Caty winked at her. “We’ve got to stick together.”
Violet nodded and left the bathroom. Rounding the corner, she practically ran into Adele, and stumbled backward. She’d been clumsier from nerves in the presence of the star than ever before in her life.
Adele’s slim fingers wrapped gently around Violet’s upper arms. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Violet smiled. “Thank you.”
“Any more run-ins with You Know Who?”
“Only one.” Violet let out a nervous laugh.
Adele shook her head. “I used to deal with women like that a lot on the circuit, and a few in New York, too. Don’t let her bust your chops.”
“Bust my what?”
Adele laughed, her dark brown eyes dancing. “You know, give you a hard time.”
“Oh, right.” Violet felt naive and silly. “Well, I wasn’t.”
“Could have fooled me.” Adele put her arm around Violet’s shoulder and steered her toward the stage.
Violet should have told her that she had to work before Mr. Cowden came looking for her, but she couldn’t help being led in the opposite direction.
“You remind me of myself,” Adele said.
Violet was surprised, unable to spot the similarities. Adele was beautiful, charismatic, and an incredible dancer. Adele was petite and confident, and Violet was tall and less sure of herself. Adele had perfectly smooth skin, while Violet had a faint scar on her jawline from a childhood dog bite. Adele was gorgeous, the epitome of style, whereas Violet perceived herself as mousy and unimportant.
