Starring Adele Astaire, page 8
By midway through Act 2, the crew was starting to feel their nerves at the lack of audience interest in our performance. One night in London, and surely we were going back to America.
I stared up at my brother as we waited for our cue to go on for the “Oh Gee! Oh Gosh!” number.
“Let’s give ’em hell, Freddie.” I tried to smile.
He grinned down at me, as if some of his jitters were ebbing for a minute, making me feel better. “That’s all we know how to do, right?”
“Yeah. They don’t know what they’re missing. We could be popping out of cakes,” I said, referring to our first vaudeville act when we were children.
Freddie chuckled. “They have no idea.”
We frolicked onto the lit stage, ready to make the most of the rest of the second half. Four more numbers to go, and then we could tuck tail and return to New York.
Our lines cued and Freddie gave an exaggerated character scowl over my shoulder. “Well, I’m surprised you were flirting with that fortune hunter . . .”
I put my hands on my hips and stuck my tongue out. “Well, it’s none of your business who I flirt with.”
“It is, too! It’s every man’s business to protect foolish women.”
“Oh, I’m foolish, am I?”
After some light bickering with a humorous edge, Freddie, my supposed love interest, leaned in close and started to sing about a reluctant lover needing to express himself to his desired partner.
There was a decided shift in the audience then, and we could both feel it. An energy that started somewhere in the middle and fanned outward. I lifted my shoulder, extra quirky-like, gazing coyly at Freddie as he continued through his lyrics, pulling out the funny lines about being mad about me, sad about me.
If this was going to be my last night in London, the audience better bet their asses I was going to blow them away. I batted my lashes, did a hasty twirl away and then leaned back, hands clasped over my heart, and sang about my beating heart.
There was a collective whoosh of air in the house as several people laughed and even more applauded. We were finally winning them over. Freddie and I kept singing, our energy growing with the audience’s excitement. And it continued that way through our next number, “It’s Great to Be in Love,” and then when we sang “The Whichness of the Whatness” and broke into our runaround move, circling the stage as if we were on bikes, going faster and faster, making one face after another at each other. The audience lost it—thank God!—and I knew in that instant that we were going to be a success.
The entire company joined us onstage in the limelight to shouts from the crowd for an encore. The blood in my veins zinged with excitement.
What had started out looking like it would be our last overseas performance had quickly turned around. I beamed at Freddie and he looked back at me with equal delight.
“You did it,” Mimi murmured beside me as we took our bows. “You saved us.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think it was ‘The Whichness of the Whatness,’ which is all of us.” I gave an exaggerated cluck-cluck of my tongue.
Mimi laughed at my subtle play on words.
I peeked behind me to see Violet grinning radiantly out at the crowd. I remembered my first audience, the exhilaration of their approval, the desire to keep going, to give them everything they wanted and more. When I caught her eye, I winked, and she blushed, mouthing, “Thank you.”
We bowed again and again, until the audience quieted down, and Sir Alfred Butt and Alex Aarons came out to join us onstage, thanking the audience for attending our London debut. Then the two men pointed at each of us in turn and we waved to the crowd with more enthusiasm than I’d ever waggled before.
A few hours later, we did it all over again, and this time the audience was even more excited. A few flowers were tossed onto the stage, daisies, roses, and tulips resting at our feet. And I couldn’t be too certain, but I was pretty sure I recognized some of the faces from our matinee.
“Thank you so much!” I called out to the audience, and in my exuberance, with a bit of teasing to boot, I said, “I’d invite you all to tea, if I could.”
Cheers and laughter went up at that, and then we stayed in place as the heavy velvet curtain dropped with a whoosh, separating the players from the watchers. We all let out a collective sigh amid congratulations and jokes about tea and scones.
The dressing rooms were abuzz with chatter as we peeled off our sweaty costumes and stockings, rubbed our aching feet. But nothing felt as good as having had a successful show.
Freddie was waiting outside my dressing room, and I threaded my arm through his, exhausted but energized all at the same time. That was the way it was after a successful show, and to have had two in one day . . . all the pent-up worries Freddie’d had, which I’d internalized, drifted away.
As we approached the stage door, it sounded like a horde was on the other side. Freddie and I exchanged concerned glances.
I was unnerved, to say the least. “Jeepers . . .”
On the other side of the door were at least two dozen people, dressed in their finest and calling out our names. Actors, literary phenoms, and aristocrats, all wanting us to come out to the clubs, to not let the night be over.
“Well, I’m starved,” I said with a shrug, completely ignoring the chaos only a few feet away.
“Who’s up for dinner first?”
A series of chuckles and notes of “How charming she is” went up through the crowd.
“You don’t know my sister,” Freddie said. “She’s completely serious.”
That only made them laugh harder. Then a handsome fellow stepped forward and the crowd seemed to show him deference. I recognized him instantly from his pictures in the papers, but I had to be wrong. There was no way on earth a prince would be here.
Another man beside him cleared his throat. “His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”
I nearly lost my breath at that. It was him. Jeepers!
“Major Metcalf,” Freddie said beside me, then whispered, “I thought it was a joke.”
I didn’t have time to reply before the major reiterated an earlier invitation that my brother had not taken seriously. “The prince would like to invite you to dine with him at the Riviera Club.”
“We adored the show.” The prince spoke to us as if he were a regular Joe and not a royal born. “You must all be in excellent shape to move around so adroitly.”
“Thank you.”
“So, shall we?” the prince asked.
I tried to lift my jaw from the floor to answer, but Freddie beat me to it. “We’ll need to change first.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that.” The prince waved away the idea, as if he couldn’t see we were drenched in sweat and smelling as though we’d come out of the royal slosh pits.
“I think we’d rather,” Freddie hedged, and I couldn’t help adding, “Trust me, you’d rather we did.”
The prince laughed, his blue eyes dancing merrily. “As you wish. I’ll have my driver pick you up at your hotel and bring you to the Riviera.”
Freddie thanked him, and the prince acted as if it were no big deal. I could barely feel my toes.
Was this some kind of jest? A test to see if we could be easily fooled? Perhaps it wasn’t even the prince, but another actor putting us on. I stared at the handsome fellow, trying to assess if it was serious or not, but the way the crowd stood in awe and the ladies drooled, I had a feeling he was exactly who he said he was.
The prince departed and we made a push through the galleryites and out the door toward our hotel. An hour later, we were in a car, the prince’s own driver taking us through town to Grosvenor Road in Westminster.
I barely looked at whatever supper I forked into my mouth, too enthralled at our luck. When our meal was cleared away and a big band struck up a tune, the Prince of Wales leaned toward me. “Miss Astaire, please tell me you aren’t too tired to dance with me.”
“I may be exhausted, Your Highness,” I teased, leaping up and holding out my hand, hoping he didn’t notice how it trembled. “But never too tired to hoof it with a royal.”
“Delly, do call me David.”
That night, I had the extreme pleasure of teaching the prince to tap-dance at a nightclub, and we posed, with smiles wide on our faces, as the flashes of photographers caught it on camera.
When it was nearing midnight, Freddie signaled it was time to go. As we settled into the prince’s car on the way back to our hotel, I whispered to my brother, “Oh, gee, oh, gosh, I think I’m going to like it here.”
Chapter Six
Violet
The Limelight
This just in, a certain playboy Prince has been dancing until the wee hours with a noteworthy starlet nearly every night this week. Does our current drama Queen hope to make a play for a crown jewel on her finger? Perhaps she’s better at making her curtsey onstage instead of before the throne. Experts encourage sticking with what you know, and one thing has been proven—the Astaires can dance.
December 1923
Violet huddled close to Adele, whose thick fur coat collar was tucked around her chin, as snow floated down onto their heads. Violet wished she had more than her decades-old, threadbare coat to keep her warm. She’d sewn a faux-fur liner around the collar and hem to make it look more fashionable, but that kept her about as warm as a pair of stockings in an ice bath.
Beggars couldn’t be choosers. The low salary she made dancing onstage was enough to pay her half of the rent with Caty—whom she’d been fortunate enough to confide in before being forced to spend nights sleeping backstage—and send some money back home for Pris. Her mother never acknowledged the letters with the money, but Violet tried not to be hurt by that, knowing that she was at least helping her sister.
She and Adele had continued to grow close, much to the dismay of certain people, such as Bridgette, whom Violet unfortunately still had to see daily for their performances and rehearsals. Their show continued to run, selling out daily for both the matinee and night shows. There seemed to be no end to the amount of flirting London folks wished to see.
“There he is,” Adele whispered, her cheeks pink with excitement.
Anyone else would think her flush was simply from the cold. But Violet knew that sensation, that stirring in the belly that made one feel as if they had a deep itch that needed to be scratched.
The fancy Rolls pulled to a stop outside the Savoy, where they’d gotten ready.
The Prince of Wales—the prince!—leapt out of the car and Adele executed a flawless curtsey. The prince made a show of dipping into a low bow toward Adele. He’d been courting her for months now. All the papers were going nuts for it: Adele, the star of Stop Flirting, the gorgeous and exotic American actress who’d captured the prince’s attention. Everyone knew he loved all things American.
But he wasn’t the only one to have been captivated by Adele. The papers were flying out of the newsboys’ hands and off the carts faster than they could be printed.
Most of the London elite, with their fancy shoes and dazzling jewels, adored Adele Astaire. Clamored for her. If one had an Hon. in front of their name, or was addressed as “Your Grace,” it was almost guaranteed that they’d seen Adele onstage and invited her to dine.
Luckily, or not, Violet was there to witness it all. To be a part of something greater than any goals she had envisioned for herself. Violet pinched herself every night, waiting to wake up. In the morning when she woke, she found that she was still living two lives: the tossed-out daughter of an East Ender, working her arse off from before dawn until after sunset just to survive, and also the close friend of a megastar who dated a prince.
“Gosh, he is so handsome,” Adele whispered, leaning so close that Violet could smell the Amami shampoo in her hair, the Ponds cream on her skin, the Chanel perfume that surrounded her. Violet had her own bottle of Chanel No. 5, which Adele had given her on her birthday.
“He is.” Violet wouldn’t begrudge the prince his good looks, but the royals lived luxuriously, lapping up clotted cream–covered scones and caviar while their people got by on cabbage soup or a crust of bread. She tried not to be bitter about it, but sometimes it got the better of her.
“And his brother is so charming.”
The statements about their looks and charm were given so casually about the princes. As if they were everyday people. Violet adored Adele, but in this instance she believed her friend’s eyes had become quite hazy in the glare of a glittering crown.
“They sure do make a very striking duo.” Violet wished she’d not agreed to come tonight. A pint with Caty over a game of checkers sounded so much better than trite conversation with uppity blue bloods. But schmoozing was necessary if she wanted to gain a sponsor for a future performance.
“Oh, this is going to be fun.” Adele slid a glance toward her brother. “Don’t tell Freddie how much fun.”
Adele took the prince’s arm as he led her toward the inviting white-leather interior of the vehicle.
“Get in!” Adele called as she slid across the seat, beckoning to Violet.
For a second, time seemed to stand still, and Violet stared at the grinning faces of the glittering, beautiful people in their expensive car, asking her to join them. She’d accompanied Adele for dancing before, but never when royalty was involved. This seemed an altogether different bridge to cross.
Violet thought of her mother, could hear Mum reminding her of where she belonged, forcing her to see that Adele’s world wasn’t hers. Try as she might, she couldn’t make it stop.
“I really ought to get home.” Violet flashed an apologetic smile that she’d perfected over the past few months, as she gave one excuse after another for having to bow out of invitations, mostly because she couldn’t afford to accept them.
The guilt of disappointing Adele would be nothing compared to the guilt of telling Caty she couldn’t make rent. Or the regret she’d feel in the morning when she woke too early after not nearly enough sleep.
“Oh, come on, Violet, you’re always running home.” Adele pouted, but it wasn’t she who’d spoken.
Violet turned with surprise to see Fred Astaire grinning in her direction.
“Now, as one who prefers the comforts of home, and the hours of sleep necessary to keep this show going, I can appreciate your reluctance. But”—he nodded toward the Rolls—“how often do commoners like us get to go dancing with royals?”
Fred had a point. One that made no sense to refute. She’d just limit her drinks and subsist on porridge for the rest of the week to pay for it. At least she could say she’d sacrificed for a prince. And who could say no to His Royal Highness?
With a weary grin that matched Fred’s, Violet nodded and joined Adele in the back of the Rolls. Glasses of champagne in hand, they toasted the show and friendship, bubbly dribbles slipping down the sides of the glasses as the Rolls maneuvered through traffic.
They arrived at the Riviera Club a few minutes later. Violet was not much for drinking alcohol, and the champagne made her legs wobbly as she climbed out of the car. The first sip had gone straight to her head and made her cheeks flame with heat. Fred helped her stay upright when she momentarily lost her balance.
The club was crowded with the upper crust of British society, their jewels flashing in the low light. Clouds of their various expensive French perfumes mixed with peals of laughter and saucy tones.
Violet was out of place, and the valet who took her threadbare coat knew it as he passed her a strange look, seeing her with the princes and other aristos. What are you doing here? his expression questioned. Violet looked away. She couldn’t even offer him a smile of apology because it would feel too forced. She’d once heard one of the snotty Mayfair types say it was terribly American of Adele to befriend a young dancer from the slums.
But Violet wasn’t sorry. Not in the least.
She followed the line of gods and goddesses deeper into the club and slid into the seat beside Adele, placing on the table her small purse that she’d embroidered herself for her fourteenth birthday. What was another passing of a year in this life if one couldn’t give oneself a gift?
At least she felt more comfortable in the dress she was wearing. It was the first thing she’d splurged on for herself since taking the chorus girl position. Not exactly a fancy, famous designer, but, if anyone looking squinted just so, they would never notice. Besides, Violet felt beautiful in the dress, with its silver sequins sparkling and the fringe swishing below her knees. Dressed like this, she blended right in with the rest of the flapper crowd.
“Cocktail?” Prince George, the younger brother of Adele’s beau—also known as Bertie to his good friends—gestured at her. “My treat.”
Violet nodded, promising herself she’d only sip it, and not drink more than half. Adele leaned closer to the Prince of Wales, who was paying her particular attention.
Freddie glowered in their direction until the band struck an upbeat tune, trumpets humming and drums thumping. Without a backward glance, he two-stepped his way to the parquet dance floor.
Violet tapped her feet to the beat under the table, watching a ring of dancers form around Freddie to observe. She twirled her untouched cocktail.
“This is a great song, isn’t it? Let’s go dance, Violet,” Adele’s singsong voice called out, over the din.
Violet glanced up from the swirling curl of lemon peel in her glass to find Adele wiggling her brows.
When it came to fun, Adele’s energy was boundless. Even when exhausted during rehearsal, if someone suggested they go out dancing instead the American dancer would be the first in line. Her sore toes were miraculously healed, or too numb to notice.
Violet admired her energy and enthusiasm for life and often tried to mimic it, because it seemed like so much fun to be Adele Astaire.
“Of course.” Violet hopped up.
“You going to dance?” a gentleman asked, his light-blue, intelligent eyes meeting hers.
“Yes.” She flicked her gaze toward Adele, who’d already started to make her way through the crowd.
