The Angel Tree

by Lucinda Riley

  The reality, as she now knew, was very different . . .

  After she’d arrived back at her boarding house and climbed into the narrow bed, with a cardigan over her pyjamas to keep out the autumnal chill of the unheated room, Greta had realised that Max was her passport to freedom. And whatever it took to convince him that she was the girl of his dreams, she’d decided she’d do it.

  As planned, Max and Greta had met at Feldman’s the following night, and from then on they’d seen each other almost every evening. And despite all Doris’s warnings about overpaid and oversexed Yanks, Max had always behaved like a perfect gentleman. A few days ago he had taken Greta to a dinner dance at the Savoy. As she’d sat at the table in the grand ballroom and listened to Roberto Inglez and his Orchestra, she’d decided she loved being wined and dined by her rich, handsome American officer. And, more and more, she was learning to love him as well.

  Through their conversations, Greta had begun to realise that Max had lived a very privileged but somewhat sheltered life before arriving in London a few months ago. He told her he’d been born in South Carolina, the only son of wealthy parents, and lived just outside the city of Charleston. Greta had gasped when he’d shown her a photograph of the elegant, colonnaded white house where they lived. Max had told her his father owned several lucrative businesses in the Deep South, including a large automotive factory which had apparently fared well during the war. When Max left England and arrived back home he would be joining the family business.

  Greta knew from the flowers, nylons and expensive meals he paid for that Max had money to burn, so when he started talking about ‘our’ future, a glimmer of hope that they just might have one had begun to ignite in her heart.

  Tonight, Max was taking her out for dinner at the Dorchester and had told her to wear something special. He was due to ship out to America in a couple of days and had said time and time again how much he’d miss her. Perhaps he’d be able to come back to London to visit, or maybe, just maybe, she thought, she could save up enough money to make a trip across to the States to see him . . .

  Her romantic reverie was interrupted by a light tap on the door. She looked up as a familiar, friendly face appeared around it.

  ‘Ready yet, Greta?’ asked David Marchmont. As always, Greta was taken by surprise at the clipped, upper-class English accent that was so at odds with his stage persona. As well as working as assistant stage manager, David doubled up as a comedian at the Windmill, going by the name of Taffy – a sly reference to his Welsh roots, and how he was commonly addressed by everyone at the theatre – and delivering his amusing spiel in a broad Welsh brogue.

  ‘Give me two minutes?’ she requested, remembering abruptly what she had to do tonight.

  ‘No longer than that, I’m afraid. I’ll walk you up to the wings and sort your props out.’ He frowned slightly as he looked at her. ‘Are you sure you’re okay about this? You look awfully pale.’

  ‘I’m fine, really, Taffy,’ she lied, feeling her heart rate increase. ‘I’ll be out in a jiffy.’

  As he closed the door, Greta sighed deeply as she applied the finishing touches to her make-up.

  The work at the Windmill was far harder than she’d ever imagined. Revudeville played five times a day and, when the girls weren’t performing, they were rehearsing. Everyone knew that most of the men in the audience didn’t come to see the comedians or the other acts in the variety show but rather to gape at the gorgeous girls as they paraded around the stage in revealing costumes.

  Greta grimaced and glanced guiltily at her beautifully tailored cherry-red coat, hanging on the peg by the door. She’d been unable to resist it during a particularly expensive shopping spree at Selfridges, wanting to look her best for Max. The red coat was an all-too-vivid symbol of the money problems that had brought her to where she was now – Greta swallowed hard – about to stand virtually naked in front of hundreds of leering men.

  A few days ago, when Mr Van Damm had asked her to perform in the Windmill’s daring tableaux vivants – which meant standing stock-still in an elegant pose as the other Windmill Girls walked around her – Greta had baulked at the thought of stripping off almost completely. A few sequins to cover each nipple and a tiny G-string were all she would have to protect her modesty. But, egged on by Doris, who had been appearing in the tableaux for over a year, and the thought of her unpaid rent, she had reluctantly agreed.

  She shuddered at the thought of what Max – whom she had discovered was a Baptist from a devout family – would think of her career progression. But she desperately needed the extra cash that appearing in the tableaux would bring.

  Glancing at the clock on the wall, Greta realised she’d better step on it. The show had already started and she was due to make her grand entrance in less than ten minutes. She opened the drawer of the dressing table and took a hasty sip from the hip flask Doris kept secreted there, hoping that Dutch courage might help to see her through. There was another knock on the door.

  ‘I hate to rush you, but we’d better get going,’ Taffy called from behind it.

  Taking a last glance at her reflection in the mirror, Greta stepped out into the dim corridor, clutching her robe protectively around her.

  Seeing her apprehensive expression, Taffy walked forward and gently took her hands in his. ‘I know you must be nervous, Greta, but once you get out there you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Really? Do you promise?’

  ‘Yes, I promise. Just imagine that you’re an artist’s model in a studio in Paris, posing for a beautiful painting. I’ve heard they strip off at the drop of a hat over there,’ he joked, trying to lift Greta’s spirits.

  ‘Thank you, Taffy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ She smiled gratefully and allowed him to lead her down the corridor towards the wings.

  Seven hours and three nerve-wracking performances later, Greta was back in the dressing room. Her tableau vivant had gone down a storm and, thanks to Taffy’s advice, she’d managed to conquer her fears and stand under the bright lights with her head held high.

  ‘Well, that’s the worst over with – the first time’s always the hardest,’ said Doris with a wink as they sat next to each other, Greta removing her heavy stage make-up whilst Doris retouched hers in readiness for the evening show. ‘Now, you just concentrate on looking gorgeous for tonight. What time are you meeting your American bloke?’

  ‘Eight o’clock, at the Dorchester.’

  ‘Ooo, get you, eh? Living the high life and no mistake.’ Doris grinned at Greta in the mirror, before standing up and reaching for her feathered headdress. ‘Well, I’m off to tread the boards yet again, while you gallivant around the West End like Cinderella with your handsome prince.’ She gave Greta’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Enjoy yourself, dear.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Greta called as Doris made her way out of the dressing room.

  Greta knew she’d been lucky to get the evening off. She’d had to promise Mr Van Damm that she’d work extra hours next week. In a state of heightened excitement, she slipped into the new cocktail dress she’d bought with the extra shillings she knew her new-found promotion would earn her and carefully repainted her face before donning her beloved red coat and dashing out of the theatre.

  Max was waiting for her in the lobby of the Dorchester. He took her hands and gazed at her. ‘You look so darned beautiful tonight, Greta. I must be the luckiest guy in all of London. Shall we?’ He proffered his arm and the two of them walked slowly towards the restaurant.

  It wasn’t until they’d finished their desserts that he asked her the question she’d been longing to hear drop from his lips.

  ‘You want to marry me?! I . . . oh Max, we’ve known each other for such a short time! Are you sure this is what you want?’

  ‘Certain sure. I know love when I feel it. It’ll be a different kind of life for you in Charleston, but it’ll be a good one. You’ll never want for anything, I promise. Please, Greta, say yes, and I’ll spend the rest of my life doing my
best to make you happy.’

  Greta looked at Max’s handsome, sincere face and gave him the answer they both wanted to hear.

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t have a ring to give you yet,’ he added, tenderly taking her left hand in his and smiling into her eyes, ‘but I want you to have my grandmother’s engagement ring when we get to the States.’

  Greta smiled ecstatically back at him. ‘The only thing that matters is that we’re going to be together.’

  Over coffee, they discussed their plans: Max would sail home in two days’ time and Greta would follow him as soon as she’d worked out her notice and packed up her few possessions.

  On the dance floor later that night, dizzy with romance and euphoria, Max pulled her closer to him.

  ‘Greta, I understand if this is inappropriate, but as we just got engaged and we’ve got so little time left before I sail, would you come back to my hotel? I swear I won’t compromise you, but at least we can talk in private . . .’

  Greta could see that he was blushing. From what he’d said to her, she’d guessed that he was probably still a virgin. And, if he was going to be her husband, surely a kiss and a cuddle wouldn’t hurt?

  Later, at his hotel in St James’s, Max took her in his arms and began to embrace her. Greta could feel his growing excitement, and hers, too.

  ‘Can I?’ he ventured, his fingers resting tentatively on the three buttons at the nape of her neck.

  Greta reasoned with herself that a few hours earlier she’d appeared almost naked in front of men she didn’t even know, so what was there to be ashamed about in giving the gift of her innocence and making love to the man she was going to marry?

  The following day, as Greta sat in the Windmill’s dressing room securing her hair with a couple of kirby grips, she couldn’t help feeling anxious. Was she making the right decision in marrying Max?

  Appearing on the big screen had been her ambition for as long as Greta could remember, and her mother had done nothing to discourage it. She’d been so obsessed with the cinema herself she’d even named her only daughter after the legendary Garbo. As well as taking Greta to endless matinees at the Odeon in Manchester, her mother had also paid for elocution and acting classes.

  But surely, Greta mused, if a career in the movies was her destiny, wouldn’t someone have spotted her by now? Directors were always popping in to cast their eye over the famous Windmill Girls. During her four months at the theatre, two of her friends had been whisked off to become Rank starlets. It was the reason a lot of the girls, herself included, were here. They all lived in hope that one day there would be a knock on the dressing-room door and a message would be passed to the girl in question that a gentleman from a film studio would ‘like a word’.

  She shook her head as she stood up and prepared to leave the dressing room. How could she even think about not marrying Max? If she stayed in London, she might still be at the Windmill in two, or three, or four years’ time, enduring the degradation and up to her ears in debt. With so many young men killed in the war, she knew she was lucky to have found a man who seemed to love her and, from what he’d said, could also give her a life of security and comfort.

  Today was Max’s last in London. He was due to sail back to America the following morning. Tonight they were meeting at the Mayfair Hotel for dinner and to finalise plans for Greta’s passage. Then they would spend a last night together before he left at dawn to join his ship. Although she would miss him, it would be a relief to end the deceit about what she really did for a living. She hated lying to him constantly, having to make up stories about working late at the office for her demanding boss.

  ‘Greta, darling! The curtain’s about to go up!’ Taffy broke into her daydream.

  ‘Keep your hair on, I’m coming!’ She smiled at him, and followed him along the dimly lit corridor towards the stage.

  ‘I was wondering, Greta, if you fancied a drink after the performance?’ he whispered as he stood behind her in the wings. ‘I’ve just spoken with Mr Van Damm, and he’s giving me a regular slot. I feel like celebrating!’

  ‘Oh, Taffy, that’s wonderful news!’ Greta was genuinely thrilled for him. ‘You deserve it. You really are talented,’ she said, reaching up to give him a hug. At over six feet tall, with unkempt sandy hair and merry green eyes, she’d always thought him attractive and she had an inkling he had a soft spot for her. They’d sometimes go out for a bite to eat together and he would practise new jokes on her for his ‘Taffy’ routine. She felt guilty that she hadn’t yet told him about her engagement.

  ‘Thank you. So how about that drink?’

  ‘Sorry, Taffy. I can’t tonight.’

  ‘Perhaps next week, then?’

  ‘Yes, next week.’

  ‘Greta! We’re on!’ called Doris.

  ‘Sorry, got to go.’

  David watched Greta disappear onto the stage and sighed. The two of them had shared some lovely evenings together but just as he’d started to think she might reciprocate his feelings, she’d begun to cancel their meetings. He knew why, as did the whole theatre. She had a rich American officer in tow. And how could a poorly-paid comedian, set on bringing his brand of laughter into a world that had seen so little of it in the past few years, possibly compete with a handsome American in uniform? David shrugged to himself. Once this Yank had gone home . . . well, he would bide his time.

  Max Landers sat down and glanced round uncomfortably at the noisy, all-male audience. He hadn’t been keen on coming here, but the guys from his Whitehall office, out to celebrate their last night in London and already half-cut, had insisted the show at the Windmill was something they shouldn’t miss before they left town.

  Max didn’t listen to the comedians or the singers but instead sat counting the minutes until he could slip away and meet his darling girl, his Greta, later tonight. It was going to be tough for her when he sailed tomorrow, and of course he’d have to pave the way with his parents, who wanted him to marry Anna-Mae, his high-school sweetheart back home. They’d have to understand that he had changed. He’d been a boy when he’d left, but now he was a man, and a man in love. Besides, Greta was a real English lady and he was sure her charm would win them over.

  Max hardly glanced up as applause rang around the theatre and the curtain fell on the opening act.

  ‘Hey!’ His friend Bart thumped him on the arm and he jumped. ‘You gotta check the next act out. This is what we came to see.’ Bart made the shape of a woman’s body with his hands. ‘Apparently, it’s really hot, man,’ he said, grinning.

  Max nodded. ‘Yeah, Bart. Sure thing.’

  The curtain rose once more, to thunderous applause and the sound of shrill wolf whistles. Max looked up at the virtually naked girls on the stage in front of him. What kind of woman could do that? he found himself asking. In his opinion, they were little better than whores.

  ‘Hey, aren’t they great?’ said Bart, his eyes shining with lust. ‘Look at that broad in the centre. Wow! Hardly a stitch on her, but what a cute smile.’

  Max gazed at the girl, who was standing so still she could almost be a statue. She looked a little like . . . He leant forward and did a double take.

  ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ He swore under his breath, his heart pounding in his chest as he studied the big blue eyes that gazed out above her audience, the sweet lips and the thick blonde hair piled on top of her head. He could hardly bear to look at the familiar full breasts with their pert nipples barely concealed by a few sequins, or the seductively curved belly that led down to her most intimate part . . .

  Without a shadow of a doubt, it was his Greta. He turned and saw Bart gazing hungrily at his fiancée’s body.

  Max knew he was going to throw up. He stood and hurriedly left the auditorium.

  Greta took her third cigarette from the silver case Max had given her and lit it, checking her watch for the umpteenth time. He was over an hour late now. Where on earth was he? The waiter kept giving her suspicious glances as she sat alone at a table
in the cocktail bar. She knew exactly what he was thinking.

  She finished the cigarette and stubbed it out, glancing at her watch once more. If Max hadn’t turned up by midnight, she would go home and wait for him there. He knew where she lived – he’d collected her from her lodging house on a couple of occasions – and she was sure he’d have a good reason for not showing up.

  Midnight came and went, and the cocktail bar emptied. She stood up slowly and left, too. When she got home, she was disappointed not to see Max waiting for her outside. She let herself in and put the kettle on the small stove.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ she told herself as she spooned a tiny amount of the precious coffee powder Max had given her into a cup. ‘He’s bound to be here soon.’

  Greta sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, jumping at every tap-tap of footsteps that passed the house and willing them to stop in front of it and mount the steps. She didn’t want to change or to take off her make-up in case the bell rang. Finally, at three o’clock, shivering with cold and fear, she lay down on the bed, tears coming to her eyes as she gazed at the damp, peeling wallpaper.

  Panic rose inside her: she had no idea how to contact Max. His ship was sailing from Southampton and she knew he had to report to it by ten o’clock this morning. What if he didn’t get in touch with her before then? She didn’t even have his address in America. He’d promised to give her all the details of her passage and onward journey over dinner.

  As the stars disappeared with the dawn, so did Greta’s dreams of her new life. She knew now for certain that Max wouldn’t be coming; by now he was surely on his way to Southampton, ready to sail out of her life forever.

  Greta arrived at the Windmill the following morning, feeling numb and exhausted.

  ‘What’s the matter, love? GI sailed off into the sunset and left poor little you behind?’ cooed Doris.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ cried Greta sharply. ‘Anyway, you know he’s not a GI, he’s an officer.’

  ‘No need to get nasty, I was only asking.’ Doris stared at her, clearly offended. ‘Did Max enjoy the show yesterday?’ she enquired.