Mr.Churchill's Secretary(50)
Maggie sighed, did a quick scrub, and reluctantly got out of the bath. Whatever she could do to find her father she couldn’t do tonight, after all.
Even with blackout curtains in place, the theater appeared a world removed from the city at war, a city being bombed from above almost nightly. The lobby overflowed with golden light, magnified by the many chandeliers, spilling over the glossy marble floors. Paige took care of the tickets and then led the way to the orchestra section. “Oooh, good seats,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
Maggie looked at the chairs covered in crimson velvet, the elaborately carved ceiling with its chandeliers and murals, the gold curtain masking the stage. It was gorgeous. As they were handed programs and moved into their row, she saw that John and David were already there.
They rose to their feet, John spilling sections of newspaper all over the floor. The headline read, “Battle of Britain: RAF on the Offensive!”
“Long time no see, Magster,” David said as he took off his glasses to wipe them with his handkerchief. He put them back on and then leaned past John to take a closer look. “Quite the posh frock you have there. Mainbocher, ’thirty-seven?”
“Paige’s, back of the closet.”
“Well, you look divine. Doesn’t she, John?”
“She looks all right at the office,” John said, bending to pick up his newspapers. Ah, that was the charming John that Maggie knew. Although she had to admit that both he and David did look elegant in their black bow ties and dinner jackets. She opened her program: At tonight’s performance, the role of Odette/Odile will be played by Sarah Sanderson. John had finished gathering up his fallen tabloid and was attempting to straighten the sections. The rustling of the papers was excruciatingly loud.
“Do you enjoy ballet, John?” she asked, as John gave up folding the papers and tucked the mess under his seat.
“I don’t know much about it, really.”
“You grew up in London. You must have seen a few.”
“A few,” he admitted. “Yes.”
“I saw Martha Graham and her dancers in concert before I left,” Maggie said, “which was beautiful, in an angular sort of way. Something you’d need to see more than once, though, to appreciate. And I went to New York with a group of friends years ago; we saw the American Ballet do some amazing dances set to the music of Igor Stravinsky. The choreographer was Russian, a man named Balanchine, I think. It wasn’t what you’d expect at all—there were no tutus, no princes and princesses, just the music. What music looks like.”
“So you like modern music, then? I’m an Igor man myself.” Why was she not surprised John liked Stravinsky?
“Oh, I don’t pretend to understand it. It’s not as though you walk out humming it, the way you do with Tchaikovsky. But it was an evening I’ll never forget. There was one ballet, Apollo—”
She blushed, realizing John was looking at her intently.
“Go on,” he said.
“Well, it’s just that—oh, look, it’s starting.”
The lights dimmed, and they applauded as the conductor came out and bowed, then raised his baton to cue the overture. As the music swirled around them, Maggie forgot the late nights at the office, the Dock, the daily trials of slimy slivers of soap and worn-down toothbrushes, of rationing and the dreaded National Loaf, and was transported to a fairy-tale realm where a prince could fall in love with a woman turned into a swan by a horrible curse.
Maggie knew Sarah was good, and worked so hard, but she felt a prickle of excitement when she took the stage. She was dressed in a white tutu, her hair pulled back with white feathers. But when she moved, she wasn’t just a dancer in a beautiful costume, she was an enchanted swan. Her movements, light as thistledown, spoke of Odette’s plight—her captivity, her straining for release from the spell. There was a yearning, a sense the prince might somehow be able to free her, and also a resignation, an admission of the sorcerer’s power.
As they filed out of the theater to the lobby for intermission, Simon caught up with them. He must have come on his own, or perhaps Chuck or the twins had invited him. “You hated it,” he said to Maggie and Paige, lighting a cigarette and inhaling.
“Hardly,” Paige said, tossing her golden curls.
“I’m joking, Scarlett. I could see you adored it.” Chuck and Nigel were sharing a romantic moment in the corner, while David and John were involved in an intense discussion with some men at the bar—politics, of course. Maggie saw the twins approach them. The Ding-belles, she thought as they approached John, with Annabelle leaning in so he could light her cigarette. And look down her dress.