Starring Adele Astaire, page 9
“Do you have a partner?”
Oh, my . . . what would Adele say? If Violet admitted she didn’t have anyone to dance with, would he think her not worthy, or would that get her an ask? Navigating the wilds of the upper-class life wasn’t exactly her forte. She knew how to dance, she could serve them a drink, and that’s about where her talents ended. With a flick of her tongue across her lower lip, she said the first Adele-like thing that came to mind. “Depends.”
“On what?” He cocked his head.
Suddenly she felt bolder. “On whether or not you’re going to ask me.”
His brows raised, nearly touching his forehead, and then he broke out into a wide grin. “You bet I am.”
He held out his arm and, with a grin right back at him, Violet took it.
As they joined those on the dance floor, Adele caught her eye and winked. Violet winked back.
“I’m Paul Reid, by the way.” He twirled her around, and then into his arms.
Ah, the infamous owner of a fancy sportscar who’d been courting Mimi at the beginning of the show. They’d since broken up, from what Violet had read in the papers. “Nice to meet you, Paul. I’m Violet.”
“You dance wonderfully.”
The compliment sent a thrill through her. After dancing professionally day after day, her confidence had grown exponentially. Even music had a new tenor for her, now that she’d danced center stage. The past months had been incredible, to put it mildly.
“A good thing,” she teased. “Else Adele would kick me off the stage.”
“Oh, no, I think that’d be Freddie.”
Violet laughed. Fred Astaire couldn’t stand anyone not up to snuff. And she made it her daily goal not to be on his radar.
They danced to one slow song, and then an upbeat one, swinging over the parquet floor as if their feet had wings. Sweat trickled down her spine, and her limbs felt vibrantly alive.
* * *
February 1924
Paris
Violet and Caty barely slept as their excitement for a trip abroad kept them awake most of the night. They’d tried on everything in their closets, swapping dresses, blouses, and skirts, until their small bags were bursting with fabric. They’d then ridden the Tube as far as they could before hailing a taxi to the airport, and hopped a clipper to Paris with Adele and the others. Violet was grateful she’d taken their producer’s advice early on to get a passport, should she need to go abroad.
Now, standing beneath the Eiffel Tower, its iron bars perfectly crisscrossed at precise angles as it jutted sharply toward the starry sky, she was grateful for a whirlwind holiday. A chance to see a piece of the world. And once again, she was grateful Mr. Cowden had let her go. The number of people coming in to see the show had softened his hardness toward her.
Midnight in Paris was different than in London. The streetlamps emitted a soft yellow glow, and people still walked arm in arm as if it were just past dinner. The clubs were abuzz with instruments and singing.
Even if her dancing career didn’t take off, even if Stop Flirting was the last show she ever did, Violet would still have this moment in time to look back on with a delighted shiver.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Paul asked.
Violet cocked her head, deciding how to answer. The truth was, she’d found it more incredible in the daylight when she could see the tip at the top, whereas now it blended in with the sky.
“I can’t see the top.”
Paul moved to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders as he shifted her position. “Now look.”
There it was, the triangular pinnacle with the moon as its backdrop. She let out a breath. What a magical year this was turning out to be. But, as with all dreams, she had that angsty feeling in the back of her mind that everything was going to burst and she’d come tumbling down from the clouds.
“Now you understand,” he said with a chuckle.
And she did. Strangely mesmerized by that point. Paul’s hand slid down her arm before it fell away, as he stood behind her staring up.
He was one of the entourage that had followed the Astaires to Paris, which included a few swanky literary types whose names all began with Honorable. Then there was the prince, who’d taken to calling Adele “Delly,” as Freddie did.
“I would kill for some ice cream right now,” Adele announced to the group.
“Should we find a shop and warn its owner?” Caty teased.
At this hour, was it even likely that anything would be open?
Violet yawned. They’d arrived in Paris that morning and barely taken a break since. Her mind reeled from the show at the Moulin Rouge and the cocktails she’d become accustomed to accepting—and drinking.
Freddie was lagging like Violet, while Caty seemed as energetic as Adele. Violet wished it wouldn’t be inappropriate to beg Paul to escort her back to the hotel, but she didn’t want to give him the wrong message because he was obviously interested.
Mimi grabbed hold of Adele’s and Caty’s arms and they romped around in a circle, doing the runaround dance that had caused a stir across London. Several other shows had copied the Astaires’ signature move. In fact, Violet had jokingly suggested that Adele go to one of the shows on April Fools’ Day and greet the dancers at the end, congratulating them on their “original” work. So far, the plan had taken root, and they were expecting to do that in just over a month’s time with a large group, whose members were excited for the coup of the season.
“I know an ice cream shop,” Paul piped up.
Violet looked at him, surprised, because he often didn’t like to play midnight shenanigans when they’d gone out with the group before.
“Just up the road, actually.”
He offered Violet his arm with a wink. She’d really grown to like him quite a bit over the past few months that she’d gotten to know him. But she needed to keep him at arm’s length. Allowing anything or anyone to derail her from her goal was out of the question. When her mum gave her the ultimatum to either stay behind and have a roof over her head or seek her place onstage, Violet had promised herself she’d never let another person get in the way of her dreams. And right now those dreams were looking like they’d become a reality.
“Do you like ice cream?” he asked.
Violet nodded, too embarrassed to admit she’d never had it before. Ice cream was one of those treats that seemed as far away from her possession as a diamond tiara.
“Then you will simply keel over from La Crème,” he said.
“I’ll have to eat it sitting down,” she teased back, hoping he didn’t notice how much of an imposter she really was.
Paul shrugged. “Or I could hold you up.”
Her face flamed with heat, and she smiled but didn’t want to encourage him with a reply.
Paul was not wrong—the parlor was open for business. The cold, sweet, creamy confection melted on her tongue and Violet closed her eyes in sheer pleasure, swaying on her feet. Paul, true to his word, pressed his hand to her elbow, then the small of her back, leaning close to whisper against her ear, “I knew you’d like it.”
A shiver snaked its way dangerously down her spine. Rather than believe it was from Paul’s whispered words, she decided it was the pleasure of the ice cream. Denial was a skill she’d had all her life.
How Violet could ever go back to a world of boiled cabbage and crusts of bread was beyond her. Impossible, really. Already it had been nearly a year since their first show, and there seemed to be no end in sight. The audience was still raving mad, with some people claiming to have seen them perform fifty times. She was starting to understand that bone-deep ache Adele talked about, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from getting to the top.
Chapter Seven
Adele
The Limelight
Soon all of Great Britain will be in mourning. Rumor has it the best long courtship between London’s darling and the West End is coming to as abrupt an end as the American star’s romance with our beloved Prince. Time to bring out your black veils, and join us in our sorrow.
August 1924
Strand Theatre, London
A gust of late-summer wind pushed against my chest as if it could delay the very last performance of Stop Flirting. This moment was bittersweet as I stood outside the Strand, Freddie at my side, likely wondering why my feet had stopped moving. We’d toured all over Great Britain, from London up to Scotland and back. Multiple theatres across the West End.
I was exhausted. And I knew that Freddie was, too, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
The endless rehearsals and getting used to new stages, followed by hundreds of performances, were grueling. Stop Flirting had run longer than any of us had ever expected—more than five hundred showings.
The cast had started to mimic me, calling the show “Nonstop Flirting,” because we were on an endless loop. The bottoms of my feet were so calloused that I could have walked on a bed of nails with nary a puncture, and there wasn’t a night that went by when I didn’t toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t put pressure on my hips and shoulders, which seemed eternally agitated.
Everyone was beyond exhausted. So much so that one night in Glasgow when Freddie, midshow, had gone back to his dressing room to disrobe, utter chaos ensued as everyone tried to find out where he’d gone before his next scene. My poor brother had been so bushed from performing 144 dances a week for more than a year that he’d simply forgotten to finish the show. I found him, purple smudges beneath his eyes, with his shirt half undone, ready to call it a night.
In true Astaire fashion, we’d cooked up a scheme right quick. Freddie improvised, with his character claiming to have been assaulted and forced into a fistfight just outside, which explained his disrobed and disheveled appearance.
I winged it and cooed over his rumpled shirt, and the audience went wild. But that had been the beginning of the end for this run. Much to everyone’s dismay—well, not everyone’s. I was damned excited at the possibility of a break and a return to our own shores. I loved London, had thought I wanted to stay, but I also found myself missing New York terribly.
We were London’s darlings, but this wasn’t our hometown. After the longest run of our lives, we needed a reprieve. Just standing outside the theatre now, I wondered if my knees would give out the moment I stepped onstage, and all of me would just crumple to the floor. My body done, even if my mind begged for one last dance.
I was equal parts excitement and trepidation. What was next for us?
We’d been gone from home for a long time. Those in show business were often forgotten in weeks, let alone in the year we’d been out of New York’s limelight. Our success in London had been prolific, netting Freddie and me advertising deals for things like face cream and top hats. Even those who didn’t visit the theatres knew who we were because the papers printed articles about us nearly weekly. We also wrote pieces ourselves on dancing, performing, and, really, anything they asked, because it kept people buying tickets.
Our faces were just as recognizable as the Prince of Wales’s—my one regret maybe leaving him behind. But, as much as I thought myself in love with David, there was no future for us. He was a prince, after all, first in line to the throne. And men who were going to be kings didn’t marry American stars. That was a comical idea: an American married to a royal. I shook my head. Never going to happen.
Oh, but the stories I’d have to share about our courtship would last me a lifetime.
“Delly?” The worried expression on Freddie’s face begged to know if I was about to run off.
“Just taking it all in,” I said.
What was next for our crew? I wouldn’t deny feeling some guilt at leaving all the good friends and dancers behind. Especially Violet. Even though she no longer lived at home, she still sent most of her wages to her mother, hoping they helped to support her sister. The East End of London wasn’t all that different from some of the poor areas of America, where kids worked to help feed the family. Hell, that was what the Gerrymen had been invented for. I could understand completely Violet’s angst about that.
Being friends with Freddie and me, Violet had managed to stay away from the grabby hands of the stage manager, and I hoped it stayed that way. She’d yet to tell me which show was next for her, but I knew she’d been on a few auditions. Violet was on the rise, and I wished her nothing but the best.
“You okay?” Freddie asked, not pushing me to go inside, as I knew he wanted to.
I nodded slowly. “Just thinking about this long run, and the crew.”
“We’ll keep in touch,” Freddie said. “And we’ll be back.”
“One can only hope.” I grinned, though inside I kind of hoped that the only reason to make the ocean-liner journey back would be to visit our friends, rather than put on another epic performance.
“Ready?” Freddie nodded toward the door, his voice a little anxious.
“As I’ll ever be.”
We made our way inside and backstage to start getting ready for the show. The scent of gardenias hit me with a blast of sweetness as I entered my dressing room. Every day, dozens of bouquets were delivered, and it felt as if I prepared for each show in a veritable greenhouse. Everyone kept saying I was London’s darling, but if they’d only known me well they might have changed their mind.
As I sat at my dressing table, looking at my reflection, to think this was the last show was surreal. We’d been going at it for so long, it felt strange to realize that tomorrow we wouldn’t.
I dabbed some makeup beneath my eyes, hiding from the audience the toll a run like this one took. A scratch sounded at the door.
“Come in,” I sang out, the way Violet always said sounded as if I had a permanent smile in my throat.
But Violet knew better. We all wore masks here, tucked up tight around our faces; no one could see the parts of us we kept hidden. The longing part. A darker piece of myself that huddled somewhere behind my ribs, wishing for things that weren’t. It had grown since I’d broken things off with the prince, not wanting our goodbyes to languish over the impossible.
I recognized something similar in Violet, a mirrored fragment within her, though we longed for different things.
And, speak of the devil, Violet stepped into the small room, shutting the door behind her.
“The face I’ll miss the most when I go back to New York.” I pointed a smile her way, then pulled on a pair of stockings, my toe poking out the end. With a groan I pulled them off and riffled through the drawer until I found a new pair. “Why don’t you come with me, Vi? You’d make a stunning star there, and I’m not sure how I’m going to make it without you.”
“You’ve made it this far,” Violet said, leaning over to sniff a fresh bouquet.
“Fair enough. But what about you? What are you planning to do?”
Violet shrugged, moving on to another bouquet and giving me the impression she was avoiding the question.
“We’d get you plenty of gigs; you might even get a chance to be one of Ziegfeld’s Follies.” I wiggled my brows, suggesting it would be a scandal.
Violet gave me a curious glance. “Ziegfeld’s Follies? What’s that?”
“Only the most popular dance show on Broadway.” I curled my lip in the mirror and scrubbed the line of lipstick off my teeth.
“Oh. That does sound like heaven. Is that what you’ll be doing?”
“No.” I smiled, not wanting to voice the murmurs of a new show, because what I really wanted to do was lie in bed for a year. “Think about it?”
“All right.” Violet nodded. “I’ll think it over. But I’d hate to leave Pris . . .”
“It wouldn’t be permanent, just long enough for a run.” Seeing that Violet was uncomfortable, I decided to change the subject. I could tell by the way she was looking at me that she was going to say no. Even with her mother having kicked her to the curb, Violet held on to the unfair guilt. “Break a leg out there today, Vi. Are you going to join us for the party afterward? It’s our last show; we’d best make a toast.” I started the process of pinning my curls up, making it look as if I had one of the short, fashionable bobs, when in fact my hair was down to my waist.
Violet nodded in the mirror. “I wanted to give you something.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out a small envelope. The card was a lavender color and covered in adorable blue birds with golden feathers.
I stopped pinning for a moment to accept the beautiful card, which had to have cost Violet a small fortune. “What’s this?”
“A note to say thank you so much for all you’ve done for me.” Tears gathered in Violet’s eyes, and my throat did that funny tickling thing it did when I cried.
I flew out of my chair and wrapped my arms around her. “I’m going to miss you so much, Vi. London, this show, wouldn’t have been the same without your friendship. Promise you’ll stay in touch?”
“Of course.” Violet attempted a smile, but the wariness of it prickled at my ribs. “Find me when you’re back in London.”
“If only I could be so lucky.”
“You’re an international star now. You’ll be back.”
“Freddie said almost the same thing. So, if the two of you believe it, then it must be true.”
We put on our best show to date, all of us feeling the emotions ten times more than at any other performance, knowing this was the last. At the end of the night, when the crowd cheered and called for an encore, we sang “Auld Lang Syne.” I let the tears fall then, in unison with the rest of the cast. Although we were crying for the end of a show, all of us had new adventures to go on to. New dreams to fulfill.
We blew out of the theatre with laughter and sobs and hugs, everyone planning to attend one last party. But as we finalized our plans Violet edged away, making me pause my steps.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Goodbyes are hard enough, made worse by a few drinks.” She shrugged. “I think I’ll head off now before I’m crying into a cocktail.”
