Mr.Churchill's Secretary(51)
Simon leaned in. “That’s quite some frock you have on, Scarlett,” he said to Paige, looking her up and down and brushing his hand down her back. Maggie stiffened. After the party, she just didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him.
Paige was her usual flirtatious self. “Why, thank you, kind sir,” she said in her southern drawl.
“It’s you. It suits you,” he murmured. Suddenly, John was right beside them, his face tight and his eyes unreadable. He and Simon glared at each other for a moment. “Ah, yes, John. How did you like the dancing girls?” Simon asked.
“I think it’s time to go back to our seats,” he said evenly.
Simon winked at Paige. “Very well, then. I look forward to your official memo on the performance.”
John didn’t flinch.
“We’ll continue after the show. What do you say, Paige?”
Maggie was trying to figure out John’s sudden interest in Paige and Simon, when Annabelle sauntered up and took his arm possessively, with a high-pitched giggle.
“Why, I’d love to,” Paige said, and Maggie was puzzled to see John’s brow furrow. Was it because of Paige and Simon, or Annabelle?
Maggie thought Acts III and IV were even more wonderful. As Odile, the black swan and counterfeit version of the heroine Odette, the white swan, Sarah was magnificent. Perfection was the moment when she, as Odile, most obviously imitated Odette, rippling her arms and traveling on pointe in vulnerable, tender white-swanlike fashion toward the duped Prince Siegfried.
When the final curtain lowered, Paige and Maggie jumped to their feet, applauding madly, as Sarah took curtain call after curtain call.
“Let’s go backstage,” Maggie said as the crowd began to disperse. “We’re friends of the prima ballerina, after all.” She took Paige’s arm. “Come on!” The group headed back to the stage door, which was unlocked and unguarded.
They wandered backstage, a dim, cavernous space with long racks of costumes and boxes full of broken rosin to keep toe shoes from slipping, looking for Sarah. The smell of sweat and cigarette smoke hung in the air. As stagehands put props away, they could overhear snippets of conversation: “Terrific show, darling!” “Oh, but did you see the Russian section?” “Merde, I fell off pointe, can you believe?”
They walked past throngs of sweaty half-dressed dancers in heavy stage makeup, towels and sweaters thrown over their shoulders, and asked where Sarah’s dressing room was. Inside, they found Sarah, slight and glistening with sweat, wrapped in her red silk robe. She was gingerly pulling off false eyelashes.
“Hello, kittens!” she called, getting up to kiss everyone. She appeared almost ridiculously tiny offstage and so funny with her heavy white makeup and drooping eyelashes that Maggie had to laugh.
“So what did you think? Did you like it?” she asked.
“You have the best legs I’ve ever seen,” Simon said. “I could have looked at them all night. Oh, wait, I did.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Let me talk to the grown-ups. What did you think?”
“Exquisite,” Paige said, checking her makeup in the mirror and touching up her nose with some of Sarah’s powder.
“First-rate,” Nigel added, gazing at Paige.
“I loved it,” Maggie said, giving Sarah a kiss on the cheek. “You were amazing!”
“You were like moonlight,” John said. Maggie looked at him, surprised. His comment was beautiful; she never realized he had a poetic streak.
“Sweet Johnny, I’m sure you say that to all the swans. And now I, for one, would like to celebrate!” she continued, taking off her makeup.
“The only place to celebrate the newest Tchaikovsky Swan Queen is the bar at the Langham hotel, of course,” David said. “Vodka for everyone!”
“Ooooh,” Annabelle and Clarabelle cooed together. “We just love the Langham!”
“Right-o,” Simon added. “Russian vodka—what are we waiting for?”
They entered the Langham hotel through tall columns and porticos and proceeded into the lobby, the shining floor designed in circles of black, green, burgundy, and white marble.
“Very Grand Hotel,” Paige said, savoring the elegance.
“Very Victoria Train Station,” Simon stage-whispered back, obviously not impressed.
Annabelle had slipped her arm through John’s, while Clarabelle walked with David. Maggie’s feelings for the twins usually alternated between exasperation and tolerance, but she was suddenly extremely annoyed with them.
The group made its way through the lobby to the bar, dark and smoky, with mahogany paneling and maroon leather chairs, and filled with the sound of clinking glasses and high-pitched girlish laughter. They all took seats around a long table—John, Annabelle, Sarah, Nigel, and Chuck on one side, and Maggie, Simon, Clarabelle, David, and Paige on the other. The waiter approached. “We’ll have a few bottles of champagne,” David said, waving down the length of the table. “While the British pound is still worth something.”