The Girl from the Savoy (7 page)

“Well, she looks at me funny. Like I'm something she scraped off her shoe.”

“She
will
scrape you off her shoe if she hears you bad-mouthing her. Keep your mouth shut and your corners neat.” She grabs me by the elbow. “Sorry about the lipstick. Next time, wipe it off before you come downstairs, you silly sod. She'd have marched you straight to Cutler if it wasn't your first morning. I'm certain of it.”

“Let's call it beginner's luck, then, and forget all about it.”

Sissy checks the new house list as we make our way to the storerooms. “Well, look at this. Beginner's luck indeed. First room on your list, Miss Dorothy Lane, is occupied by a Mr. Lawrence Snyder. Friend of the governor. Manager to the stars.”

“Snyder? That vile man we saw yesterday?” I think about the way he looked at me. I think about the way I've been looked at like that before.

“The very same. Gladys will be as sick as a dog when she hears. She's convinced he'll have her on the next boat to America.” She nudges me in the ribs. “Well, come on. We won't get much done standing around daydreaming. The rooms won't clean themselves.”

I follow her as she strides off toward the linen stores, but my thoughts are elsewhere and my heart has rushed back to my room and wrapped itself around the photograph beneath my pillow.

T
he service floor is even more confusing than it was yesterday. A steady stream of porters, maids, chefs, and waiters fills the narrow
corridors. When anyone in livery or formal dress passes, we step aside to make way for them. Sissy points out the head chef, a formidable Frenchman who forbids anyone, other than kitchen staff, to enter his storerooms. I catch a glimpse of some of the recent deliveries: gallons of cream in great vats, mountains of fresh pineapples, tanks full of live lobsters, vast saddles of venison, haunches of ham, and great slabs of beef. The hotel bakery alone is the size of a small house. My mouth waters at the aroma of freshly baked loaves being lifted from the ovens on huge paddles by red-cheeked young boys and burly men. Sissy swipes two milk rolls from the nearest tray, earning herself a friendly flick at her backside with the end of a paddle.

“Do you ever see the guests when you're in their rooms?” I ask when we've loaded our trollies. “Gladys was telling me that the ladies sometimes keep maids talking for hours, to pass the time.”

“They ask for more soap to be sent up, or hand towels, but really it's just an excuse to have a bit of company. Bored, you see. I suppose there's only so many times you can admire yourself in the mirror. It's mainly the hairdressers and manicurists who are personally requested in the guests' rooms. They spend hours up there, drinking coffee and eating delicate little cakes. Get sent bouquets and earrings and perfume and all sorts by their regulars. And they always get a good tip. Half a crown if they're lucky.”

“Really?”

“Mind you, I've heard some guests show their gratitude in ways that might not be appreciated as much as a bouquet of roses, if you know what I mean.”

She winks as we step into the lift and ask the attendant to take us to fourth.

“I didn't think things like that would go on here,” I whisper.

Sissy scoffs at my naïveté. “Same old divide. There's us down
stairs, and there's them upstairs. A maid is as easily taken advantage of at The Savoy as she is anywhere else. You'd be a fool to think otherwise.”

The lift jolts to a stop and we step out as a gentleman emerges from a room to the left. He tips his hat as he passes. Larry Snyder. We stand to one side and wish him a good morning.

“And to you both.” He looks at me. “The new girl. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir.” I touch my fingers self-consciously to my lips, hoping the last traces of Sissy's Vermillion have been rubbed away.

“So my suite is your dress rehearsal!”

“I'm not sure what you mean, sir.”

“Movie stars. Actresses. Chambermaids. I suppose we all need somewhere to practice. My suite is all yours. Feel free to fluff your lines—or should I say pillows!”

He smiles warmly and I mutter a thank you.

“Would you like your room attended to now, sir?” Sissy asks.

“Indeed. I shall be gone for the day.” He walks on a few paces, stops, and turns around. “There might be a few papers scattered around the place. Leave them where they are, would you. Work in progress on a new script.”

“Of course, sir.”

At the guest lift we hear him greet a friend. “John McArthur! What the devil has you at The Savoy?”

“The wife, Snyder. The wife has me at The Savoy, and both my bank balance and I are suffering dreadfully as a consequence.”

Sissy and I burst out laughing and enter Snyder's room.

A
s I sip my cocoa over supper that evening, my feet throb and my arms ache. I glance at the clock on the wall. The productions across London will be reaching their final act by now, the girls in the gallery hoarse from shouting their appreciation, the restaurants and
nightclubs ready to welcome the after-show crowds for supper and dancing. I'm so tired even the thought of dancing makes me feel weary, and when I climb into bed I'm too exhausted to even read one page of Sissy's magazine.

I shuffle under the blankets, listening to the scratch of Mildred's pen on the page as she writes in her diary. I can't think what she can possibly have to write so much about. Her life seems to consist of nothing more than the hotel. No hobbies. No interests. No dreams. By the time she turns out the light, Gladys is fast asleep and Sissy is already snoring. The room is plunged into darkness, but I know the lights from the hotel suites and the restaurant and ballroom still shine all around me. For a while, I listen to the distant sounds of music and laughter that float along the corridors, enticing me to follow, until I grow sleepy and close my eyes and I set my dreams free to drift and dance among those who have already made theirs a reality.

Sometimes I would happily swap the lonely peaks of stardom for the jolly camaraderie of the chorus.

T
he Shaftesbury is sold out for opening night of
HOLD TIGHT!
Dear Cockie is delighted. Yet again he has shown his critics that while those who take risks in this business sometimes fall on hard times, they can also bask in the glory of success when it comes. From the ladies and gentlemen and distinguished guests dressed in their finery in the stalls and dress circle and boxes, all the way back to the raucous throng squashed together high up in the gallery, there isn't a spare seat in the house, nor any space to stand. If ticket sales are a measure of success, we already have a hit on our hands, but experience has taught me that there's a long way to go and many pages of script and musical score to be convincingly delivered before the final curtain falls.

As the audience roar their approval for the first act, the heavy velvet curtain drops in a dramatic swoop in front of me and the spotlight goes out, plunging the stage into a dead blackout. I savor the moment; the cocoon of pitch black. In that dark silence, I can pretend that nothing matters, other than the fading applause. I stand as still as stone and breathe. In and out. In and out. I wonder what my last breath will feel like.

A fine dust drifts down from the gantry high above, disturbed by the stagehands as they hoist and lower scenery. I stifle a cough as it settles on my arms and sticks to my clammy skin. My moment of silence interrupted, I walk offstage, feeling my way with the toe of my satin shoe down the five steps that lead from the wings.

Backstage is already a hive of activity. Stagehands, assistants, the pianist, and my leading man all congratulate me as I pass.

“You're terrific, Miss May.”

“A wonderful first act!”

“Fabulous, darling! Fabulous!”

“Word perfect. Simply divine!”

I smile graciously, letting the compliments and platitudes wash over me. They are expected now, arranged by my people, regardless of how good or bad my performance. I don't care for insincerity. Only dear Jimmy Jones, the stage-door manager and my unlikeliest of friends, remains silent. We have known each other through some of the hardest years we will ever know. He understands when words are not needed. He simply smiles, gives me a reassuring pat on the arm, and presses a bundle of carefully audited cards and messages into my hand. Only the kindest words, the most sincere letters of adoration from fans and amusing offers of marriage from respectable gentlemen ever make it past Jimmy's careful scrutiny.

As I make my way to my dressing room a young girl from the chorus runs past. She stops as she recognizes me. She is a beauty, all wide-eyed and wondering, no doubt envying my leading role and my name in electric lights front of house. Little does she know that it is I who envy her and the other chorus girls with youth and vitality on their side: training from noon till four, twenty-five half-dressed girls crammed into one dressing room, stepping on each other's corns, sharing makeup and jokes and a cup of pickled
onions for a snack before curtain up, and all the while waiting for Friday when “the Ghost Walks” so they can run straight to the shops to spend their hard-earned pay. Sometimes I would happily swap the lonely peaks of stardom for the jolly camaraderie of the chorus.

It wasn't so very long ago that I was a defiant society girl with an unforgettable face and an unrelenting mother; the girl who found her place on the stage despite the disdain her parents expressed toward such an unseemly profession. That girl had fought and rebelled. That girl had shunned her chaperones to drink and dance to the exotic music of the Negro bands and mix with the chorus girls and actresses she admired. That girl was starry-eyed and carefree. She had passion and belief, just like the young girl in front of me now.

“You are wonderful, Miss May,” she gasps, all breathless and starstruck. “Just wonderful.”

I step forward and take her face in my hands. “And so will you be. Keep practicing, keep believing, and you can have whatever you dream of.” She gazes at me, adoringly. “Now run along and get changed before the wardrobe mistress has a fit.”

“Yes, Miss May. Of course.”

I watch her as she runs off into the shadows and wish I could run with her, disappear into obscurity, and never have to tell anyone the awful truth of it all.

Stepping around tins of paint, precariously balanced props, ladders, and endless rails of costumes, I hurry along the cramped passageways, relieved to reach my dressing room and close the door on the noise and chaos behind me. Jimmy has been busy, arranging the boxes of chocolates and bouquets from gentlemen callers and well-wishers. I take a cursory look at some of the cards as Hettie, my seamstress and dresser, pushes several larger displays to one side
so that I can see my reflection in the mirror. I slump down in the chair at the dressing table and look at the flowers surrounding me. A beautiful arrangement of pink peonies catches my eye. The rest are ghastly.

“Why can't people send roses, Hettie? Nobody sends roses anymore. They're forever trying to outdo one another with gaudy-colored orchids.” I lift up some vile yellow blooms. “I don't even know what these are.”

“Shall I remove them?” she asks.

I take off my dance shoes and slip my aching feet into silk slippers. “No. Leave them. Ask Jimmy to arrange a car to send them to the hospitals after the show.”

“Of course.”

“Tell him to leave the peonies. I'll take them home.” I run my fingers over the blooms, remembering my wedding posy. Pink peonies. Roger stole one for his buttonhole. It was all such a rush that buttonholes hadn't been considered. He placed a single bloom in my hair and told me I looked more beautiful than the stars.
“My very own slice of heaven.”

Hettie places a silk housecoat around my shoulders and pours me a glass of water. I'd far rather she pour me something stronger but she fusses about my drinking, especially during a performance, so I say nothing and take a couple of dutiful sips as she fetches my dress for the next act.

“The audience love you tonight, Miss May.”

“Hmm? What?” I'm distracted by my thoughts and the many pots of pastes and creams on the dressing table. Gifts from Harry Selfridge. He really is a darling man, if a little too American at times.

“The audience,” Hettie repeats. “They love you. The gallery girls especially.”

“The audience always love me, Hettie. And as for the gallery-ites, I can do no wrong as far as they are concerned. It's the press I need to worry about.”

“Well, I'm sure they'll love you too. You could hear the shrieks of laughter back here.”

She sets to work, fiddling with last-minute adjustments to hems and seams. I stand up and turn around as instructed, the electric bulbs around the mirror illuminating my skin. I look tired and drawn, the delicate skin around my lips pinched from too many cigarettes. My thirty-two years look more like fifty-two.

“Do I look old, Hettie?”

She is used to my insecurities. She knows me better than my own mother at this stage. “Not at all,” she mumbles through a mouth full of pins. “You're as beautiful now as the first day I saw you.”

I catch her eye. “You are very kind, Hettie Bennett. You are also a terrible liar.”

She smiles, finishes her adjustments, and leaves me alone for a blissful five minutes before curtain up. Those few minutes of peace are like a religion to me. Like afternoon tea with Perry, they are mine. Everything else about tonight—what I wear, what I say, what I sing, where I stand, where I will dine after the show and who I will be seen dining with—is all decided for me, all part of the performance. I sit down and stare at my reflection without blinking until my image blurs and I can almost see the young girl I once was.

I
ronically, it was Mother who introduced me to the theater. She shunned the teaching of regular subjects, instructing my governesses to focus on poetry, singing, and the arts. As a young girl, I
was often taken on trips to the London theater, where I was enthralled by the provocative dancing of Isadora Duncan and Maud Allan's
Vision of Salomé
and the exotic
Dance of the Seven Veils.
As I approached my debut year, I embarked on a strict exercise regime to improve my fitness. I enrolled in dance classes, determined to learn how to move as gracefully as those incredible women I had watched on the stage. I worked hard, and while Mother considered my dancing “a pleasant little hobby,” my heart was soon set on it becoming far more than that.

Shortly after my debut season, I developed a talent for escaping my chaperones. While other debutantes diligently danced gavottes in the austere rooms of elegant homes across London, I discovered the heady delights of the city's nightclubs. I met theater producers and actors, writers, artists, and dancers. I was captivated by them as much as the gossip columnists were captivated by me. My exceptional beauty and extraordinary behavior became a regular feature of the society pages. As the years passed, my parents increasingly despaired of my unladylike behavior and my failure to secure a suitable husband. I, however, reveled in the exciting new circles I mingled in.

But it was the arrival of war that gave me my first real taste of freedom. We were told the fighting would be over by Christmas, but it soon became clear it was going to last much longer than that. Losses were heavy. Help was needed. I couldn't bear to stand idly by as Aubrey and Perry and dear friends of mine fought for their lives at the front. Going against my mother's express wishes not to, I enrolled as a Voluntary Aid Detachment nurse at the Royal Herbert Hospital. The work was difficult and exhausting, but I took comfort in knowing that I was helping. Photographed in my uniform, I became something of a poster girl for the VAD. Other society girls soon followed my example.

The sleeping quarters of the shared hospital dorm were cramped and inelegant, but the freedom of dorm life was thrilling to a girl who had been educated at home. On my evenings off I relished the opportunity to dance and drink and forget the awfulness of war for a while. It was during those evenings away from the hospital that I first met Charles Cochran. It was Cockie who saw my charm and my talent and encouraged me to dance in his little revue at the Ambassador's. It started as a bit of fun, a distraction from the shocking realities of nursing. I took to the stage with audacious poise and a new name, Loretta May. While Lady Virginia Clements put in long shifts at the hospital, Loretta May became a shining star of the stage. Night after night, Virginia was dismantled as easily as a piece of scenery, replaced with the dazzling smile and beautiful costumes of my new persona. That I danced in secret whilst under the glare of the brightest spotlight was nothing short of thrilling.

Small speaking parts soon saw my reputation soar. Sassy, beautiful, beguiling—the hacks lavished praise in their emphatic press notices and it didn't take them long to discover the truth behind this intriguing new star. The papers couldn't print their headlines quickly enough.

PEER'S DAUGHTER TAKES THEATER BY STORM!

LADY VIRGINIA CLEMENTS EXPOSED AS DARLING OF THE WEST END, LORETTA MAY.

By day, I attended to the sick and wounded. At night, I entertained those whose lives were falling apart. While the revelation about my true identity saw Mother take to her bed for a week, it only made the gallery girls and society pages love me even more.

And then the first letter arrived, and everything changed.

My dear Miss May,

You must forgive me, but I have fallen hopelessly in love with you and I'm afraid I must tell you that you are now inextricably linked to my survival in this dreadful war.

“O
ne minute to curtain. One minute to curtain.”

The cry of the stagehand cuts through my thoughts. I check myself again in the mirror, touch up my rouge, and apply more kohl to my eyes. The mask of theater. Who cares that my head is pounding and my bones ache dreadfully. The show must go interminably on.

I open the dressing room door and call out into the dimly lit corridor: “Does anyone have an aspirin?” but my words evaporate in a cloud of powder and perfume and glitter as the chorus girls scurry past, their heels clicking and clacking along the floor as last-minute adjustments are made to zips and straps, buckles and laces.

Only Hettie hears me. “Should I go and find one?”

“One what?”

“An aspirin.”

“Yes. Please.” I wave her away with a distracted hand. I have no idea why the poor thing puts up with me. I treat her dreadfully at times. I don't mean to. I just don't seem to know how to treat her any differently.

I listen at the door until I'm certain the last of the girls have gone. Only then do I reach beneath the dressing table and open the bag I keep hidden there. I pull out the bottle of gin. A quick slug. Purely medicinal. What I wouldn't give for a shot of sweet morphine, to slip into that delightful abyss of nothingness where nobody can hurt me and nothing dreadful has ever happened and Roger is coming home and I am perfectly well. There was a time when I took morphine for fun, to numb the emotional pain of war.
Now the doctors tell me I must take it for the physical pain that will eventually bring about my demise. I take two long gulps of gin, coughing as the liquid burns the back of my throat, before returning the bottle to the bag and rushing from the dressing room, the sharp tang of liquor flooding through me, suppressing my pain and my fear and my doubts.

“Miss May! Your aspirin!”

I ignore Hettie and carry on along the passageway, climbing the steps into the wings. I hear the chatter and rustle of the audience as they settle back into their seats. As the houselights go down I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and allow everything to dissolve into a muzzy warmth as I step onto the stage.