Diary of a Painted Lady

by Maggi Andersen

  “Others have told me,” he said rising to the bait.

  “Oh, you are so conceited.”

  “You don’t believe me? I could show you.”

  “You will not.”

  He sat down beside her. “How do you find my coffee? Is it to your taste?”

  “It smells heavenly.” She took a sip. It was good, hot and strong. “Very good. But just look at that monster of a machine you must use to produce it. The one we use is half the size.”

  “It’s in the method. Would you like me to teach you?”

  “The French know how to make good coffee. Almost from birth.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps I wasn’t talking about coffee.”

  Astrid couldn’t resist. “What makes you think I need to be taught ... anything?”

  “Then teach me. I make an excellent pupil.”

  “You’re being silly.”

  This ridiculous banter filled her with a heat and yearning she hadn’t felt for a very long time. She lowered her head over her cup, fearing he might see the longing in her eyes.

  “I have this overwhelming urge to make you laugh, Astrid. You’re too serious.” He stretched out his long legs and placed an arm along the back of the couch. “I can be serious too, when the situation requires it. But life should also be light-hearted and spontaneous.”

  Meaning she should fall into bed with him? “You Irish,” she said. “Always singing and cracking jokes.”

  “You French,” he quipped. “Always lost in philosophical thought.”

  “We are very different,” she agreed, attempting to put a safe distance between them.

  He shook his head. “Only superficially. Love is universal. Do you know what love really is?”

  “Tell me,” she asked despite herself.

  “The desire for that lost half of ourselves.”

  “Now you’re being philosophical.” But the thought appealed to her. She picked up the script in an attempt to detach herself from the disturbing emotions he aroused in her. Without realizing it, he was urging her to break free of the restraints she’d grown used to over the years with Philippe. “Let’s do the scene in the carriage.”

  “Shall we do the complete scene, including the kiss?”

  “We shall not.” She was not about to put her resolve to the test.

  ***

  Philippe surprised Astrid, arriving in time to escort her to the BAFTA’s. She hadn’t invited him, knowing how he disliked London. Initially annoyed, her fondness for him made her hide it. She had to admit she was pleased to have his arm at such an event. The British Academy of Film and Television Arts was second only to the Oscars.

  Maureen had been nominated for Best Supporting Actress in the film, Falling. Astrid had made a point of seeing the film before she came to London, and thought Maureen’s performance deserved to win.

  Philippe grimaced when he saw the simple, quaint cottage. He shrugged off his Balenciaga coat and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. Dropping his designer baggage on the floor, he wandered around shaking his head. He did not care for the rustic. He preferred to stay at the Berkeley, one of the better hotels, although not equal to the Ritz in Paris. She kissed his cheek and stroked his dark hair, quite distinguished with its patches of grey at the temples. “You are only staying two nights,” she said speaking to him in French.

  Philippe refused to speak English, although quite fluent if a business deal required it.

  She left him to sulk while she went to have her hair and nails done in Mayfair. She was gone most of the day having had a wax, a facial and a massage as well, and spent the hours filled with guilt that she didn’t want to go home and find him there. She enjoyed having the cottage to herself.

  When she came down the stairs dressed in the Valentino black satin bustier dress with its billowing white taffeta underskirt, black stockings and Jimmy Choos shoes, Philippe finally smiled. “I’ve brought your diamonds.” He unlocked his valise and removed a blue-velvet lined box.

  At the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, they walked the red carpet with the flashes popping. Astrid was becoming better known in England and fans leaned over the barricade and called to her. The walk was constantly interrupted by journalists curious about her plans for future movies. Astrid gave them just enough. She had become adept at evading leading questions.

  The awards were entertaining although Maureen lost to Tilda Swinton. At the after-party, Astrid introduced Philippe to her fellow actors, including Dylan who arrived with a pretty blonde actress on his arm.

  Astrid left Philippe who had found a French director he knew, and crossed the room to the hall that led to the powder room. A tall man in a black dinner suit stepped into her path. Dylan’s warm gaze brought that thrill rushing back, making her heart beat faster.

  “You look beautiful tonight.”

  “Merci,” she said smiling. “You look very handsome.”

  “Come and talk to me a while.”

  Astrid shook her head. “Philippe—”

  “Does he remind you of your dear Papa?”

  She frowned. “You are very badly behaved.”

  He shrugged. “Then I apologize.” If an apology it was a poor one. Astrid was about to chastise him further, but found she didn’t want to. She gazed over his shoulder at Philippe still in heated discussion.

  “You make me want to be bad.” Dylan’s hand caught hers. He subtly stroked the inside of her wrist with a thumb. He must have known how her pulse raced. “I want to throw you over my shoulder and run off with you.”

  “To your cave, no doubt?” She managed a flippant tone, despite the charge of excitement at his touch. She stepped back, cautioning herself. She’d had several glasses of wine and her head felt wooly. She didn’t handle alcohol well, it relaxed her body and her resolve. The thought of slipping away with Dylan had become too much of a temptation. She looked back to where Philippe had finished his conversation with the director. He’d begun to search for her, no doubt wishing to leave. It hit her in that moment, how much she allowed him to manipulate her. Despite her sense of outrage, she still struggled with indecision. Was she afraid to face life on her own terms? Dylan looked so reasonable standing there. And so gorgeous. “We don’t always get what we want, do we?” she asked, aware that a long heated pause had passed between them.

  “My father always told me, if I tried very hard, I would achieve great things,” he said reminding her of a sleek leopard judging his prey.

  “I’m sure your papa didn’t intend you to behave like a bore.” She pushed past him.

  He put his hand on her arm to stop her and leaned down, his face near hers. “I’m not such an oaf as to pursue a woman who doesn’t want me. But you want me, Astrid. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Then you need glasses.”

  At his appreciative laugh, she bit her lip hard and moved away through the crowd, hearing his soft laugh behind her. She was slipping, slipping into a vortex of passion. It consumed her mind and body. She reached Philippe and he smiled and took her arm. Aware that she was being disloyal if only in her thoughts, made her stomach tighten. She really had to sort out what she was going to do. It was impossible to continue with this tug of war with her emotions.

  Chapter Eleven

  London, 1890

  Gina came home from the funeral and sank onto the sofa, still wearing her black veil. She wept at the futility of such a death and Milo’s unfulfilled life. How was she to go on? Milo hadn’t kept a record of the art he’d sold in the beer house and had never received payment for. Any chance of recovering it now was gone.

  A few of Milo’s artist friends had thrown in to pay for the funeral. She was eternally grateful to them, and hated to have to ask them for modeling work when she knew many were struggling to live. Apparently she was too well known as Milo’s model. “Give it time,” one of the artists had said.

  Time was something she didn’t have.

  The sight of his latest work, perched unfinished on the e
asel, caused the tears to flow again. Sobbing, she looked around the room, a cold and empty space without his energy and enthusiasm to fill it with life. Filled with enthusiasm, he’d rushed to complete four more works before he’d succumbed to the drink, and she wondered if she could sell them. How perilous her situation had become. The landlord rapped on her door that morning, before Milo was even in the ground and offered her a way to pay her rent that made her long to hit him. She’d thrust the rent money into his grubby hand telling him not to concern himself, she’d found work. Despite the lie, she’d almost enjoyed the stupefied look on the man’s face. She had no idea what to do next, only that she would pack up and leave here as soon as she could.

  The next morning, Gina selected the two paintings she thought the best, wrapped them, and took an omnibus into the city. Struggling with the canvasses she walked the rest of the distance to a gallery in Great Russell Street.

  The proprietor stood the paintings up on an easel and stepped back to study them. He stroked his moustache. “They are good, certainly,” he said. “But now Russo has died, I don’t know if I can sell them. Buyers want living artists who’ll build up a good body of work which will increase in value.” He turned to look at her. “You can leave these with me if you like. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Might I have some money in advance?”

  The expression in his pale eyes lacked sympathy. “Sorry. As I said, I may not sell any.”

  “But Milo’s works are very much sought after. Why, one of his earlier paintings resold at auction for more than double what was first paid for it. The art critics are saying he could become one of the most noted artists in England.”

  “But not a true indication of what his painting will sell for now. And beggars can’t be choosers miss.”

  Her heart sinking, Gina paused to think. “I’ll leave them with you for two weeks.

  Please give me a receipt.”

  She left the shop tucking the receipt into her purse. Her final chance of work lay at Mabel’s theatre. She would have to walk; she couldn’t afford to waste money. Holding up her skirt to cross the wet road, she hurried to the Folly Theatre.

  When she arrived at William IV Street, a street singer stood on the pavement outside the theatre. She must once have been pretty. Now, a mask of thick rouge and powder covered her cheeks, and she’d lost a front tooth. In her tattered gown, she looked emaciated and unwashed.

  As Gina passed, she caught the reek of gin. The girl began to sing off-key and tried an unsteady dance step or two. A couple stopped to cheer her on as she sang

  One lovely morning as I was walking, In the merry month of May,

  Alone a smart young pair were talking,

  And I overheard what they did say.

  Gina put a penny in the girl’s upturned hat, as a scruffily dressed man approached the singer and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and followed him around the corner into the alley. As Gina approached the stage door, she saw the girl pull up her dress. She wore nothing underneath and her thin body looked blue with cold. The man fumbled with his trousers and pushed the girl back against the wall. Gina shivered and turned away as the man’s breathy grunts filled the alley. No matter how difficult things became, she would never resort to this.

  She would rather die first.

  She entered the stage door and asked for Dave, the stage manager. Minutes later, he appeared. “I remember you,” he said. “Mabel’s friend. You don’t sing or dance, do you?”

  “No, but you thought I might be suitable for the statue number,” Gina said.

  He shook his head. “I’ve got all the goddesses I need.”

  Gina’s throat constricted and tears pricked her eyes. “Do you have anything else?” she asked desperately.

  “Try again next week.” The man turned away.

  Tears trickled down Gina’s cheeks and she hurried away swiping at them angrily. She’d reached the street when the doorman called to her. “Dave wants you back.”

  Returning, she found the man waiting. “I’ve just heard one of me girls is sick. Let’s have a gander at you.”

  Gina followed him into the recesses of the theatre. He stopped behind a painted backdrop.

  “Unbutton your dress,” he said.

  “No!”

  The man frowned. “You’re not going to be much good to me, if you don’t want to show your body.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait! I’ll do what I have to when the time comes.”

  “I need to know if you look the part.”

  “You can see that by looking at me.”

  He nodded. “Show me your legs then.”

  Gina pulled her skirt up to reveal her stocking-tops held up with pink garters and a glimpse of naked thigh.

  “Higher.”

  Blushing, she pushed it up to the frilled-edge of her bloomers.

  To her relief, the man said, “You’ll do. Two shillings a performance. Be here tomorrow morning at seven.”

  Gina returned to the flat. She stacked the remainder of Milo’s paintings away in a corner and covered them with a cloth. In every one, her naive face stared back at her. She couldn’t bear to look at them. She tried to buoy herself up with the knowledge that tomorrow her new career would begin.

  * * *

  “Great to have you here, ducks,” Mabel said.

  Gina gave her a hug. “I’m grateful to you for helping me, Mabel. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “You did it yourself, dearie,” Mabel said. “Looking like you do.”

  Gina stood still as the wardrobe lady draped and stitched the brief costume. She was to be Artemis, goddess of the hunt, pulling back her bow as if about to let the arrow fly. She looked in the mirror at the almost transparent cloth hanging in folds from her shoulders and showing a good deal of her chest. The costume only went to mid-thigh. The wardrobe lady pulled a golden cord tightly around Gina’s waist raising the skirt even higher. In the mirror, her breasts heaved alarmingly and her nipples rose to display themselves. She quickly covered them.

  She’d been comfortable under Milo’s gaze; his artistic eye looked at form and not really at her. A theatre full of men studying her was a different thing altogether. Freezing drafts whipped around the old theatre flattening the cloth against her body and making her afraid she’d catch her death. It was a regular occurrence for the girls to be off sick.

  Some of the goddesses wore even less than Gina as they shivered in the wings, watching the stage. She barely took the show in, concentrating on taking deep, rhythmical breaths to steady her nerves. She held up her chin. An artist’s model was adept at holding a pose. She would keep her bow and arrow still. If she wobbled or dropped it, she would lose her new employment before she’d even begun.

  After the sword swallower left the stage, the curtains closed and the rush was on. The painted backdrop depicting a Grecian ruin unfurled with a bang. The girls dashed onto the stage.

  Gina took her place beside them, each with their own story: Gaia, the earth mother, with her hand on a cradle; Hestia, goddess of hearth and home, holding a candle; Demeter, goddess of the harvest cradling a sheath of wheat; Hera, wife of Zeus, majestic in her peacock robe and Athena, goddess of weaving, sitting at her loom. A girl rushed in late to stand among the flowers that grew at Persephone’s feet wherever she walked.

  As Gina went into her pose, Dave ran on with a large dog of indefinable breed. He ordered it to sit beside her. When it began to scratch, its owner hissed a command from the wings and it stopped. “Ready?” Dave said. Disconcerted by the animal, Gina fixed her arrow and pulled back her bow, her straining fingers threatening to release it at any moment.

  The curtain swung back to whistles and applause. Gina’s knees shook. It seemed an age until it swept shut again. The girls rose and stretched, murmuring to one another and the dog began to scratch in earnest before being led away. Gina flexed her stiff fingers. She saw Mabel clapping from the wings. She’d succeeded in holding her diff
icult pose right to the end.

  The manager hoped the semi-nudity of the Classical piece would be acceptable to the general public, but the theatre was besieged by protesters. They pasted signs over the walls warning Sodom and Gomorrah lay within. The manager left them there because they attracted more people than they kept away.

  Men gathered around the stage door, waiting to meet the girls. When Gina refused to go to supper with any of them, some complained to the management.

  “I’m worried I’ll lose my job, she confessed to Mabel.

  “Come to dinner with me and a couple of my gentlemen,” Mabel said.

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

  “Just dinner. No funny business.”

  Gina hesitated, realizing she had little choice. “As long as they know that.”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  They borrowed gowns from wardrobe. Gina’s pale lilac faille showed off her shoulders and upper arms with its scoop neck and short, beaded sleeves. Mabel looked like an exotic bird in a plunging garnet satin affair with feathers adorning her hair. The two toffs waited with the carriage.

  Gina found herself enjoying the company. They were gentlemen and Romano’s Restaurant, on the Strand, was known to be one of the best in town. All the Gaiety Girls dined there.

  Gina wished Mabel might act a little less familiar with her partner. She almost sat on Mr.

  Battersby’s knee in the carriage. His high bridged nose appeared to look down on everything, and he had a mocking smile. He didn’t rebuff Mabel’s affections though, and his witty remarks made them all laugh.

  Gina was surprised and uneasy to find that they were to dine in a private parlor upstairs.

  The walls were covered in gold flock wallpaper and crimson velvet drapes divided the room into two. They sat on oyster velvet, button-back chairs at a small table as a waiter served them champagne and oysters.

  Mabel laughed uproariously when Mr. Battersby threatened to drink champagne from her slipper. He removed her shoe while sliding his other hand provocatively up her leg. She rapped his knuckles with her fan. Later, she said. I do like a man with whiskers,” she said to Gina.