The opportunity to discuss the bad news came up quicker than expected. She encountered Gil striding down the hallway just as she was returning to their offices. “Alice,” he exclaimed, “that’s no expression for a Friday afternoon.”
He flashed her a grin, looking like a kid, which was no great stretch as he was still in his twenties. He was the boy wonder of the WCBT: a surprise hire for director of development three years earlier at the tender age of twenty-six, uncommonly successful at his job, a master of charm and persuasion. He still had the high coloring of a boy, as well—cherry lips, smooth complexion, his wide blue eyes an unlikely match with his glossy black hair. Office eye-candy. He knew this and cheerfully exploited it whenever it suited his needs.
“Why the down face?”
On impulse she thrust the letter at him. “Here’s something that might kill your TGIF glow. From the Prescott Foundation.”
She watched his expression as he scanned the letter. When he winced, she knew he’d gotten to the part about the foundation’s regret in being unable to match the previous three years’ contributions of $200,000, but they were pleased to award the West Coast Ballet Theatre $10,000 for the following year.
He finished the letter and looked up at her. “Well, shit,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” she muttered. “I should have seen this coming.”
Gil shook his head. “Don’t beat yourself up. I didn’t see it coming either. I had lunch with one of the board members a few weeks back and he led me to believe we were still in good standing. And we are, really. It says here that they look forward to returning to a bigger award next year.”
She was too disheartened to offer further reply.
He studied the letter again and flipped it over, just as she’d done, as if hoping to find a Just kidding! postscript on the back. He sighed. “The worst part is that I have a meeting on Monday morning with Charlie and the board of directors. Things were looking so good for next year. This is going to put us way under forecast.”
“Can you pretend like we haven’t gotten the letter yet?”
Gil shook his head. “They might have copied Charlie Stanton.”
“How about we sort of stretch the truth on the proposals that are out, the ones I’m almost sure will be a go?”
“No. The best thing at this point would be to come up with a new lead. A strong one.”
“By Monday?”
“Sure.”
“Well, gee.” She consulted her watch. “Two o’clock. That gives you roughly three working hours.”
He smiled. “I’ve had bigger challenges thrown at me.”
Something in her began to feel the tiniest bit better. “Okay, boss. Let me know if I can help.”
“I will. Don’t go anywhere.”
He set to work immediately. Over the next ninety minutes, she overheard him on the phone, networking with friends, business associates, service personnel, local receptionists—anyone who might serve as a point of contact for reeling in a bigger fish. He regularly checked with the city’s hotel concierges to find out what group was in the hotel, who’d stopped in the lounge for a drink. Today that avenue paid off. She heard him speaking more enthusiastically and after he hung up he emitted a loud whoop.
Moments later he was at Alice’s office door, shrugging into his suit jacket, clutching his BlackBerry and keys. “Let’s go,” he said.
She looked up from the report she was editing. “You did it? Like that?”
“It’s big, Alice. Big, big, big.” He grinned at her, then made shooing motions with his hands. “Come on, already. I can’t guarantee how long he’ll be there.”
“Where? Who?”
“The lounge at the Ritz-Carlton. The who? Only Andy Redgrave.”
Her mouth formed a silent O.
He chuckled. “Yes. My sentiments exactly.”
“I’m ready.”
“Then let’s do it.”
The Redgrave Foundation, like its eponymous billionaire founder, was notoriously elusive and difficult to conduct business with. But its allure was irresistible: five million dollars of its considerable funds reserved for the California arts annually. Last year the San Francisco Symphony had received $1.2 million. The WCBT had received a form rejection.
Gil’s plan now, he told Alice as he drove, was to wander in, strike up a conversation with Andy and bring up the name of a friend of a friend he’d dug up. Andy was a theater person—Gil’s former domain, where he still had influential friends. This mutual friend was a sure connection, Gil insisted.
“So why am I here?” Alice asked.
“Well, you’ll be Plan B.”
“What is Plan B?”
“That part I haven’t figured out yet.”
She clutched the door handle tighter. “Jesus, Gil. I don’t know about this.”
“Trust me here,” he said as they pulled up along the Ritz-Carlton’s front drive. As a team of valets hurried over to their car, Alice drew in a deep breath. She had to trust him; there were no other options at this point.
The lobby was predictably opulent, replete with chandeliers, marble floors, elaborate vases of flowers. Half a dozen staff members stood at attention, poised to offer immediate assistance to guests. Alice took a seat on a cream brocade settee just outside the lounge as Gil went on in. A few seconds later she picked up his soothing baritone. A murmur of conversation followed and, to Alice’s relief, a rumble of laughter. She waited another minute, rose and entered the lounge.
Gil spotted her and waved. Beside him sat Andy Redgrave. Early forties, Alice guessed, lean, receding silvery-blond hair, elegant in a fitted charcoal suit, looking every inch the powerful billionaire player. He was not handsome in the same way Gil was; his face was too angular, but it served to highlight his posh bearing, the arresting nature of his pale blue eyes.
Gil made the introductions. Alice accepted Andy’s offer to join them for a drink, a glass of white wine the server produced even before she could settle into her high-backed leather chair. Sipping her wine, she listened to the others talk. The two men across from Andy remained largely silent, listening to Gil recount an anecdote about Gil and Andy’s mutual friend.
"So, we both know Joel," Andy said afterward. "I've just learned Alice is your associate. But I didn’t catch what organization you two work for."
He hadn’t told Andy yet. She couldn’t believe it. Her toes curled in fearful anticipation.
"The West Coast Ballet Theatre Association." Gil offered Andy his most winning smile.
"In what capacity?"
"Oh. That would be development."
Andy's own smile faded. “I hope you’re not here to try and talk business.”
“Not in the least,” Gil assured him. “We know your organization’s submission guidelines.”
“Good. Because otherwise I’d feel compelled to ask you to leave.”
“I can fully appreciate that.” Gil kept his tone confident, but Alice saw behind his eyes the first flicker of insecurity.
It was time for Plan B.
Fast.
“Actually,” Alice blurted out, “Gil and I are here to settle a bet. He didn’t believe me when I told him my great-great-grandfather and yours might have done business together.”
Gil stared at her, baffled.
Andy looked her way as well. “Your great-great-grandfather. And he would be…?”
"Elijah Whittier.”
"Ah. Railroads."
Alice nodded.
Andy cocked his head at her. "What did you say your last name was?"
"Willoughby."
"As in James Willoughby?"
"No. Thomas."
"I don't know the name."
"Neither did my mother's family." Alice offered him a conspiratorial grin. "But she married him anyway."
The corners of Andy's mouth lifted as he raised his highball glass and took a sip of his scotch. “Well, Gil,” he said after he’d set the drink down. “It would appear you lost the bet.
So what do you owe your associate?”
“A drink.” Gil’s eyes latched onto Alice’s, transmitting pure, unadulterated gratitude. “A big one.”
Gil hadn't conceded the game, however. He worked the conversation back to Chicago, to the mutual friend, mentioning how he’d helped Joel's brother create and run the Haberdasher Street Repertory Theatre.
"Good troupe they've got there in residence right now,” Andy commented.
"Agreed."
"Who do you think is the better actor, Bryce Hamlin or Hodge O'Connor?"
"It depends on whether you're talking about the dramatic roles or all-around versatility. Or sex appeal."
"Which do you think most lends itself to an actor's success?"
"Oh, sex appeal,” Gil said. “Face it. Sex sells."
Alice winced.
Andy, as well, looked taken aback, even disdainful. "Sex…”
"Sex," Gil repeated. "An unmistakable facet of life. And what's theater if not an elaboration of the core stimulus that drives us? A vicarious release of all those subconscious desires every human carries down in them. Desire for power. For sex. For domination. Being dominated."
Silence. Alice saw the account flash before their eyes and disappear. She hardly dared look in Gil’s direction. But when she stole a glance a moment later, he was smiling, calm, regarding Andy expectantly.
Andy sat back in his leather armchair, his hands coming together to form a steeple. "I think that's a provocative perspective.”
"Good theater is nothing if not provocative. Art in general. As it should be.”
Andy mulled over this without replying. He reached for his glass, took a sip of his scotch and glanced at his Rolex. Alice's spirits sank. They’d been dismissed. Andy confirmed this when he stood a moment later. The two men accompanying him scrambled to their feet as well.
"I'm afraid we must take our leave," Andy said.
Gil rose and thrust out his hand, undaunted. "It was a pleasure to meet you. And if you talk to Joel, tell him Gil Sheridan sends his regards."
Andy shook Gil's hand but paused, mid-shake. His other hand swung around to sandwich Gil's hand. The Cadillac of handshakes: the two-handed grip.
"I'm having a private party in a month’s time, at my Hillsborough home. Maybe I’ll send a few invitations your way.”
"We would certainly appreciate that," Gil replied without missing a beat. "It would be a pleasure to spend more time discussing, uh, theater with you.” He gave Andy's hand one last vigorous pump before Andy released it.
"I’ll give it some thought,” Andy said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Had that been an official invitation or not? Over the next twenty minutes, on the way back to the WCBT offices, Gil and Alice speculated over this. Gil thought yes. Alice wasn’t so sure. She told Gil he’d been too shocking, too overt about the sex-and-domination business. He told her quite the contrary, that if they received invitations, it would be because he’d gotten Andy’s attention over that.
She shook her head as they entered the lobby. “It was my reference to the great-great-grandfathers. Otherwise he would have asked us to leave. I mean, did you see how cold his eyes had grown?”
“I would have come up with some way to save us. And hey, I didn’t know Marianne was a Whittier.”
She hesitated. “She’s not.”
“So, you lied.”
“I did not. Maybe Marianne’s not my birth mother.”
“Nice try. Except that I’ve heard you call her ‘my mom’ a hundred times.”
“I’m serious. Deborah Whittier is. Was.”
He stopped and regarded her in surprise. “You are serious.”
She nodded.
“You never told me any of this.”
“Why should I have? I was a kid when she died and my father remarried. It’s all ancient history.”
“Sure, okay.” He resumed their walk toward the elevators. “Point is, your diversion worked. Thank you. And now I think we’re in, Alice.”
“Well. Time will tell if we sufficiently impressed him.”
“We did. He ended with ‘We’ll be in touch,’ didn’t he?”
“That could mean anything.”
“Regardless, I’m calling this a lead. A strong one.” He chuckled to himself. “Charlie Stanton’s going to be over the moon. He’s been trying to make inroads with the Redgrave Foundation for years. It drives him nuts that the symphony gets all the funding.”
The elevator door pinged and slid open to reveal a young woman, clearly a dancer, standing inside. She had the perfect dancer’s body, Alice noted, thin and delicate but not starved-looking, appealing angles and planes to her face and shoulders. She was sweetly pretty rather than beautiful, with pale, unblemished skin, light brown hair pulled back into a bun, and full pink lips. Paperwork poked out of the girl’s dance bag and Alice realized this must be the new hire, the soloist the girls in the bathroom had been gossiping about. She looked nervous, her hazel eyes wide with unease, the look of someone forced onto a roller-coaster ride, anticipating that first giant dip.
“Were you getting out?” Alice asked.
“Oh,” the girl said. “Oh. Right.”
A tango of sorts ensued as the girl tried to get off the elevator, only to step right in front of Gil, back up and step right in front of Alice. She next tried stepping to Gil’s left, just as he shifted in that direction.
He began to chuckle. “Shall we dance?” he asked.
She didn’t smile back. She looked as if she were ready to cry. “Sorry,” she whispered, and shot between them.
Bemused, they stepped onto the elevator, followed by three other people who blocked their view of the girl. Even after the doors slid closed, however, Alice could still feel the girl’s presence, that frozen, anticipatory moment among the three of them.
Gil was conspicuously silent on the ride up to the fourth floor. Alice glanced over at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked confused. Unmoored.
He was not thinking about Andy Redgrave, she realized. He was thinking about that girl.
A prickle stirred the hairs at the back of her neck. She understood, in a way she couldn’t put into words, that the dancers she’d encountered earlier had every reason to feel threatened by the new girl.
Unfathomably, so did she.
Chapter 2 – The New Hire
Lana couldn’t find a place at the barre for company class. It was like a game of musical chairs, or something from a bad dream. Two weeks into the game, each day still felt like her first, nerve-wracking and awkward. She darted around the studio, searching, her panic growing. She spied an opening along the main barre affixed to the wall, paralleling the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, but a petite Asian-American woman wearing cutoff sweats and a frayed red sweater over her leotard frowned when Lana asked if she could squeeze in.
“There’s really not enough room,” she told Lana.
Of course there was, Lana wanted to argue. The woman could take one step back and make room. But instead of arguing, Lana smiled weakly and backed away.
She saw another space along the other wall, beside the window, but even before she could get up to the barre, a muscled blonde man was shaking his head. “That’s Katrina’s spot,” he told her.
Katrina was a senior principal. Royalty.
Lana swallowed, nodded and turned away. She noticed two dancers bringing another portable barre to the center. She scurried after them and the moment the barre was down, planted her hand firmly on a middle spot.
Two corps de ballet dancers had claimed similar spots on the other side of the barre. They cast glances her way, which she ignored. She couldn’t keep getting bumped from spot to spot. But this time no one challenged her. As she warmed up, she studied the dancer across from her out of the corner of her eye. She was pretty, with velvety brown eyes and thick lashes like something out of a Maybelline advertisement. She looked confident and happy, the kind of person you saw and instantly wanted to be, rather than your own inh
ibited, ever-worrying self. She caught Lana’s glance and broadened her smile.
“Settling into San Francisco?” she asked. Her voice was high, sweet-sounding.
“Oh. Yes, thanks.” Lana said, clutching onto the barre.
“That’s good.”
She could think of nothing else to say. The girl turned back to her friend and the two resumed conversation.
Another dancer approached, looking for a spot, and Lana gestured to the place in front of her, taking a step back to make room. The woman was one of the other dancers in Arpeggio, the ballet that Lana was scheduled to rehearse for the spring repertory season. She saw Lana, smiled and hurried over. “Thanks,” she murmured. “It’s crowded today.”
“It is,” Lana agreed, and some of the tightness inside her eased.
The rehearsals for future programs, beginning to appear on the daily rehearsal sheet, were starting to make Lana feel like she belonged here. Over the last two weeks, most attention had been focused on the two programs the company would perform on their October ten-day West Coast tour. The first program incorporated works from last year’s season. Lana, as a newcomer soloist, wouldn’t play much part in that program. Only one role, dancing within the corps in Balanchine’s Serenade, not even soloist work. Three-quarters of Program II had been cast with nothing yet for Lana. There’d been an afternoon audition session with the choreographer’s representative from Paris who would stage Autumn Souvenir, but no casting news. It had a demi-soloist trio, though. She knew she was under consideration there; the stager, standing alongside Mr. Gunst, had singled her out to dance a sixteen-count solo passage.
And now there was Arpeggio. Five days ago, Lana’s name had been posted alongside seven others. As a soloist. Upon seeing this, a wave of dizzying relief had passed over her.
It would all be okay. It was as promised, after all.
The situation had carried with it the hazy, unsubstantial nature of a dream ever since last spring, when she’d received the phone call from Anders Gunst, artistic director of the West Coast Ballet Theatre. She’d been speechless to hear from him, his interest in the audition tape she’d sent as little more than a dare to herself, something to keep her from sinking into despair. He’d invited her out to San Francisco and she’d spent two days in the WCBT studios, which had culminated in a contract offer. Initially, just for the corps de ballet, as she would have expected, but a month later, a call, with news that was even better.
Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) Page 2