Starring Adele Astaire, page 7
My heart did flutter kicks against my ribs as I was swept through the room meeting this person and that, their names and faces a blur of vowels and shapes. If bellies had been rubber bouncing balls, mine was being kicked down Copperas Hill outside the hotel by a bunch of rowdy hooligans. I smiled wide, putting on my best show for those who expected it.
My brother clinked his glass with the ring on his pinkie. “Thank you for inviting us. I can’t tell you how pleased we are to make your acquaintance,” Freddie said to the crowd in general. “Adele and I have been trying to hop the pond for some time now.”
“And how!” I did a short five-step tap, ending with an exaggerated curtsey, to emphasize our excitement.
The rest of the crew followed in step, which sent the stunners watching us into giggles and applause. Down the line of actors, I saw Violet standing tall, an identical grin on her lips. When she was on display, gone was the scared girl. I was mesmerized by how much it felt as if I were looking in a mirror.
Freddie was over the moon, though whenever he caught himself smiling he quickly adopted the serious look that he felt made him seem like a man of consequence. Mom was chatting away with a woman who looked like she was probably related to the Queen, judging by the diamonds dripping from her earlobes, melting into a gem-encrusted necklace that might have weighed as much as I did. The woman’s gown was a divine gold crepe, and she wore a diamond-and-gold tiara perched on the very top of her head.
Violet put on a good show—carefully hiding her reaction to it all—but when just the two of us were alone in the ladies’ room she gushed. Not that I blamed her. I might not have been from the East End, but I didn’t come from this milieu, either. It had taken me years to adjust.
My glass of champagne never seemed to get below half-full, which was fine by me. Although when I became slightly light-headed I only pretended to sip. I managed to give off a nonverbal signal, a slight cut with my hand, to the footman to stop serving. I was still getting used to the contrasts between America’s Prohibition and Britain’s blessing of booze.
After all, if I got too schnockered, it was going to be a hell of a day tomorrow. The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint Freddie and Mom, and even Pop from afar. We’d worked our asses off—literally, where has my ass gone?—for this moment. No way was drink going to ruin our triumph.
We had performances every day this week—twice a day—and then we’d move on to the King’s Theatre in Glasgow for a couple of weeks. No break for the weary, because after Glasgow the Royal Lyceum in Edinburgh would be awaiting us. Only then, with our sketch thoroughly hashed out, would we board the train back to London to make our debut there. That debut—if we were lucky—could be the genesis of a whole new career. We’d been climbing the mountain for so long and now a sparkling pinnacle was almost within reach. Soon we’d be teetering on the edge of the slope, ready to either grasp it firmly, or fall, hard.
* * *
The next weeks went by in a blur and frenzy of dancing and performing. My hotel room dripped with gifts—bottles of champagne, chocolates, cards, creams, perfumes, cuff links for Freddie, and a string of pearls for me. But I had little or no time to enjoy any of the goodies. At one point there were so many flowers in my room that Mom and I pretended we couldn’t find each other. I teased about opening a florist’s shop and using the proceeds for shoes, then gave half the flowers to Violet, who really was my favorite.
When we weren’t catering to an audience we were rehearsing, and when we weren’t rehearsing we were attending to the elite bits of society that had deemed us their pets for the short term.
The funny thing about pets is that they have such a different view of things than their humans do. Lady So-and-So might think I was her petite dancing darling, but really it was she who catered to my sensibilities—fawning over me and filling my champagne coupe as quickly as she overflowed my social calendar. And it was all in good fun. In fact, I wouldn’t change a thing, except maybe to rehearse less. At some point the play was as good as it was going to get. But, unlike me, Freddie never seemed to recognize that tipping point, and he continued to insist we devote hours and hours to lines and dances we’d already mastered.
I was barely able to snatch a few hours of sleep, let alone have any real time to myself. In the quiet mornings, before Mom and Freddie woke, when the sun was barely an orange slit on the horizon, I’d wake up and let my mind wander. What would it be like to lie in this same bed with the feel of a warm, solid body beside me? Or to be awakened by the cries of a child wishing to be comforted? To do something normal, such as stroll down to the corner market or take a dog for a walk?
I wanted a dog.
I wanted a child.
I wanted a husband.
I wanted . . .
But desiring something other than the achievement and success I had made me feel ungrateful. Right about the time each morning that the sting of that guilt sliced through my thin layer of fantasy and reflection, Mom would wake up, or Freddie would come knocking.
Finally, the preview performance tour was at an end. On that Saturday evening, May 26, after the curtain dropped, we boarded a sleeper train to London.
But really they should have called it the no-sleeper train. Mom and I had a double cabin to ourselves, with Freddie next door. But for all the gentle rocking, the soothing chug-chug of the wheels on the tracks, all I could do was stare at the maroon carpeting with gold medallions and try not to count the pile.
Freddie paced the corridor outside our compartment, his shadow bouncing off the window every time he trudged past. Finally I’d had enough. I pulled on my robe and flung open the door.
“What in the world are you doing, Freddie? We need to sleep. Aren’t you exhausted?”
Freddie stopped in his tracks. He didn’t have to answer that question: the matching dark circles beneath his eyes were evidence enough. “Don’t you know what’s about to happen?” He raked a hand through his wild hair, which was not in its usually neat coiffure.
What was he talking about? Had we made plans I’d forgotten about? In my exhausted state, I glanced up and down the corridor of the train car, seeing nothing. I peered out the window at the dark beyond, but only our reflections bounced off the glass. Barely visible beyond the mirroring panes, the night-covered countryside slid past.
“Well, what’s supposed to happen is sleep. But it’s not happening because of your endless pacing. So, how about you lie down and we both get some shut-eye before dawn breaks and we arrive in London? That is what’s going to happen—we are going to pull into that station whether we sleep or not.”
“Exactly.” Freddie tossed up his hands. “London.”
I frowned and reached forward, pressing a hand to his brow. It was cool to the touch, if not marginally damp from his train-car-stalking exertions. “Are you all right?”
Freddie shooed away my fever checking and laid his forehead against the window. I moved to stand beside him, my back to the outside world, my focus solely on my brother’s clear distress.
“No, I’m not all right, Delly. We’re about to make our London debut. London, for Pete’s sake.”
I crossed my arms casually over my chest and studied his profile, and the fog on the window made by his breath. “Freddie, we’ve been doing this musical comedy for a month. We’ve made the tweaks and our audience loves it. London is merely another venue. What’s the deal?”
He rolled his head to the side, staring at me. “London could break us.”
I raised a brow in challenge. “Or London could love us, like they did in Liverpool. Like they loved us in New York City—on Broadway, what we thought was the pinnacle. Think of London as New York.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Oh, dear, Moaning Minnie’s at it again.” I scrubbed my face with my hands. “Do you ever simply believe in yourself, Freddie? In the rest of the crew?”
He frowned at me. “You can’t just believe in yourself. You have to do the work.”
“No one is disputing that. But we’ve done the work. And, really, Freddie, you work harder than anyone I know.”
“Precisely.”
“Which begs the question of why you won’t believe in yourself, then. It’s going to be fine.”
He faced me, crossing his arms in a pose to match mine. “It needs to be better than fine.”
“It will be spectacular.” I did an embellished shuffle, trying to cheer him up.
But that only seemed to make things worse as he groaned and dropped his chin to his chest. I could tell that Freddie was in one of those moods that would be long lasting and would mean a sleepless night for us both if he didn’t snap out of it.
“You know, when I was a little girl, I used to keep a diary. I wrote a whole number about a boy once.” If only my younger self hadn’t jinxed me with that last line she’d written about not getting married.
Freddie crinkled his nose in a frown. “So, you think I should write in a diary?”
“Or do what you normally do and write to Pop. I’m sure he wants an update, and you can get some of your worries out. Then go to bed.” I smiled at him in a mixture of goodwill and irritation.
To my utter elation, Freddie nodded in agreement. “Good idea.”
By the time we arrived in London, Moaning Minnie was still scribbling, and I’d gotten only two hours of sleep. But two was better than none.
“Dress rehearsal today,” Freddie started up, but I cut him off.
“We need a rest, brother. And I’m not asking, I’m telling.”
He looked ready to argue, but I pointed to the swelling beneath my eyes. “I haven’t seen what a fright I am, but I’m pretty sure these puffy eyes resembling mouse bellies won’t go away without a good rest.”
Freddie gave a mock shudder, and I slugged him in the arm. We stumbled off the train to join the rest of our party. As soon as we reached our new digs, I was going to sleep for the rest of the day.
* * *
“Would you look at that, Freddie?” I shimmied with excitement as we stood outside the Shaftesbury Theatre. Overhead atop the marquee, our likenesses, from head to toe, were blown up to nearly three times life size in one of our famous dance poses, the one where I popped my heel. Parallel to our colossal bodies was another sign that practically shouted our names in bold. And in between, in looming cursive, stop flirting. “Not bad for two vaudeville kids from Omaha,” I said.
“Looks like New York City, only older,” Freddie teased back, referring to the low-rise buildings adorned with scrollwork, which dated back ages and ages. Certainly, no royals had trolled the streets of Broadway, at least not on the regular.
I laughed and gave him a bump with my hip. Then I stared up at our names again. The long hours of rehearsing, doing nothing but eating, sleeping, and breathing dance and performance—and now our London opening was here at last. A thrilling rush went through my limbs then, making my hands tremble.
“Fred and Adele Astaire?” a woman said beside us, her gaze directed at the larger-than-life cutouts of us strapped onto the building.
I turned to address her but then realized she wasn’t looking at me.
“Stop Flirting?” her friend beside her said with a snobbish lilt in her voice, as if even the title of our play were rubbish.
“Sounds cheap, doesn’t it?” I said, unable to help myself. “Only Americans would be so crass.”
They gaped at me, their gazes flicking to the cutouts and back, and obviously taking note that Freddie and I were one and the same. One of them had the decency to blush at her gaffe. I grinned with a wink, then danced my way through the shiny glass-and-brass doors with Freddie groaning behind me.
“Do you think they’ll come to the show?” I teased, putting my thumb on my nose and wiggling my fingers toward the door, though they’d already moved on.
“I’d rather Charleston,” Freddie said dryly.
“Hey, that’s my line.”
“It’s nobody’s line, yet,” he reminded me, because it was a song he’d been working on with George Gershwin for us to use in a future bit.
“Well, it will be mine.”
Fred nodded toward the door, with that worrying crease between his brows. “Not if you keep up those shenanigans. We’ll be tossed onto the nearest barge and shipped out to sea.”
“Oh, I’m just having some fun. Besides, if they see the show, they can tell all their friends they got to talk to the lead dancers.”
Freddie shook his head with a serious expression, which only made me want to tease him more, but I reined myself in.
We were the first to arrive, as usual. It would be a good hour at least before we were joined by the rest of the crew, which would give Freddie time to get comfortable. He liked to do all the blocking—the path of our movements—himself. He played around with the choreography and any changes he wanted to make.
“Want to check the stage?” I glanced at my brother, who seemed even more nervous than usual. He bit at the corner of a fingernail, and I batted his arm down.
“Yeah, let’s.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
We walked down the center aisle of the theatre, stopping right in the middle to take it all in: the red carpet; the plush red velvet seats in neat rows rising up three levels; the grand cupola with its massive chandelier; imposing columns of marble with gold beading and carvings of miniature angels playing instruments. All of it carried me back into the Renaissance age. The richness of the place, and the fact that we’d be performing here, had me tingling all over with pride.
We climbed the side stairs to the stage. The sound of our shoes clacking against the wooden floor echoed in the vast domed space. Freddie shuffled from one end to the other, as if he could feel the boards through his soles.
I slipped my shoes off, stretching my toes against the cold planks. I closed my eyes, sliding along the boards, doing a few pirouettes as I felt for wear in the wood. My body leaned as I moved, becoming one with the stage. When I twirled into Freddie, I opened my eyes and smiled.
“Not as bad as the Royal Court,” I said with a shrug as I hiked upstage. “And not nearly the same incline as the last theatre.”
“Agreed.” Freddie did a five-second tap number, then a shuffle tap forward and a perfect slide downstage to the edge, his arms outstretched.
I mimicked his moves, facing him with a teasing grin. We went on for a quarter hour, making the stage our own, letting our feet and limbs grow accustomed to the vagaries of the structure.
“Our show is going to be great,” I said.
Freddie nodded, but I knew he didn’t agree. He was too superstitious for that—and too relentlessly certain we were underprepared. After rehearsal, as the other actors and I changed and the crew left, my brother remained in the theatre. As I put on my street clothes I could see him in my mind’s eye—worrying, surrounded by the ghosts of the show. Too nervous to leave the stage, fearing it would jinx opening night. I wondered: Had he slept on the stage after rehearsals earlier in the week? I hadn’t seen him at our hotel at all.
“Is he going to be all right?” Violet asked, as she followed me out of the theatre and onto the sidewalk. She was dressed in the uniform for her other job as a cocktail waitress, the job Cowden had miraculously held for her. Serving champagne to those in the boxes before the show and trying to avoid a pinched bottom, then rushing to change for our performance.
I cocked my head. Violet looked truly concerned, and it warmed my heart. “Depends on how you mean?”
She shifted nervously, shoving a hand into the front pocket of her apron. “I’m not sure what I mean. In general, I suppose.”
I laughed and reached forward, giving her arm a squeeze. “You really are swell, Violet. He’ll live. Now, whether or not the rest of us will is another story.”
* * *
May 30, 1923
Opening Day
The few bites of scone I’d managed that morning to take the edge off my hunger felt like lead in my stomach as we waited for the curtain to rise on the first show of the day, a 2:30 p.m. matinee. We’d have another show tonight, taking note of what was a hit or a miss with the audience this afternoon.
As usual, Freddie’s nerves were on fire, blazing outward from his body to burn mine, but he’d refined every move, every word, until there was nothing left to perfect.
I, on the other hand, was always afraid I’d walk out onstage and stumble into the orchestra pit, landing on the tuning pins in the baby grand piano, with the lid slamming down on my head. That’s all, folks! Show’s over, I could practically hear the producer saying.
Of course, this was a ridiculous fear, given I’d yet to do it in the decades we’d been performing together, but still—that’s what fears were all about, right? The unknown. The chance that something won’t go the way you want.
I flashed a smile at Mimi, squeezed Freddie’s hand, and turned to nod at the rest of the crew, catching Violet’s eye, and she looked about as nervous as I felt.
“Break a leg,” I said with a chuckle to the whole gaggle.
The chorus girls shouted back in unison a clever cheer they’d taught me at our first preview performance: “Merde!” The word was French for “shit,” and allegedly stemmed from the Paris Opera Ballet, at which, the better the show, the bigger the audience. The bigger the audience, the greater the number of carriages. The more carriages, the more horses—and, hence, more shit. Merde!
Our laughter was cut short by the snap of Edwards’s fingers, as the lights went down and the overture sounded. That brief inhalation as the musical score began, right before the lights came back on and the curtain went up. The opening chorus was off and running as the orchestra struck up the first tune and the curtain rose.
Freddie and I charged onstage for the next scene, singing “All to Myself” before reciting our comedic lines. The audience was less than enthusiastic—barely a laugh, and rarely a cheer—and my stomach started to tighten. This was certainly not the reception we’d received in the earlier opening shows north of London.
