The Girl from the Savoy (8 page)

The curtain goes up. The spotlight illuminates me. There is an audible gasp from the ladies in the stalls as they admire the beauty of my red velvet cape. I know the reporters for
The Lady
and
The Sketch
and the other society pages will be scribbling down every detail. The gallery girls burst into rapturous applause, screaming my name and standing on their chairs. “Miss May! Miss May! You're marvelous!” I open my eyes, the audience a blur of black against the dazzle of the footlights. My leading man, Jack Buchanan, gives me the cue.

I step forward and deliver the line. “Honestly, darling,
must
we invite the Huxleys for dinner. I think I would rather curl up in a ball and die.”

The audience roar with laughter, unaware of the cruel truth contained in my words.

“It isn't my place to tell you when you're dreadful, especially not on opening night.”

A
heavy fog smothers London by the time the show is over. Outside the door to Murray's, the soot-tainted air catches in my chest, making me cough. It is sharp and painful. Far worse than anything I have experienced before.

Perry looks worried. “You really should go to the doctor about that cough, Etta. It's definitely getting worse.”

When I've recovered and caught my breath I take a long drag of my cigarette and tell him to stop fussing. “Was I all right tonight, darling? Really?”

He shivers, pulls his scarf around his neck, and claps his hands together for warmth. “You were fabulous, sister dear. Everybody said you were splendid.”

I wrap my arms across my chest and sink the fingertips of my gloves into the deep pile of my squirrel-fur coat. “Of course they did. They always do. Anyway, you wouldn't tell me even if I was beastly. Would you?”

He says nothing. I pinch his arm.

“Ow! That hurt.”

“Good.”

“Etta, I'm your favorite brother, and one of only a handful of people you deem worthy of calling your friend. It isn't my place to tell you when you're dreadful, especially not on opening night. There are plenty of people being paid perfectly good money to do that.”

I pinch him again. “You're a dreadful tease, Peregrine Clements. First-night notices are ghastly things. I'm nervous. What if the critics hate it? I really can't bear to think about it.”

He crushes his cigarette beneath his shoe. “Come on. Let's get disgracefully drunk. By the time the notices are in, you'll be too blotto to care.”

But despite the cold and the lure of champagne cocktails, I'm reluctant to go inside. “Walk with me around the square?”

“What? It's freezing. You need a gin fizz, dear girl, not an evening constitutional.”

“Please, Perry. Just once around. It was so dreadfully stuffy in the theater tonight, and the club can be so suffocating at times.”

He sighs and offers his arm. “Very well. I've lost most of the sensation in one leg. I might as well have a matching pair.”

Looping my arm through his, I rest my head wearily on his shoulder as we stroll. I enjoy the sensation of his cashmere scarf against my cheek; the sensation of someone beside me. For a woman constantly surrounded by people, I so often feel desperately alone.

We walk in comfortable silence. For a few rare moments we are nothing more remarkable than a brother and sister enjoying an evening stroll. Much as he frustrates me, I love Perry dearly, although I can never bring myself to tell him so. Even when he came back from the front I couldn't say what I'd planned, couldn't say the words I'd rehearsed in my head and written in dozens of unsent letters. Old habits die hard. Our privileged upbringing
might have left us with proper manners and a love of Shakespeare, but it also left the scars of unspoken fondnesses and absent affection. We are as crippled by our emotions as Perry is by the shrapnel wound to his knee.

“How did the meeting go with Charlot today? Did he like your piece?” I hardly dare ask. Perry's meetings with theatrical producers have been less than successful recently.

He yawns. A habit of his when he isn't telling the truth. “Not bad. He didn't hate it. Didn't love it either.”

I stop walking. “You didn't go, did you?”

“Damn it, Etta. Are you having me trailed? How do you know everything about me?”

“Because you are about as cryptic as a brick, darling. Anyway, it doesn't matter how I know. But I
would
like to know
why
you didn't go.”

We continue walking as he explains. “The sheet music was ruined by the rain when I bumped into that girl yesterday. And it was a lot of miserable old rot anyway. Charlot wants uplifting pieces. The phrase he used last time I saw him was ‘whimsical.' He told me people want to be amused, that Londoners have an appetite for frivolity. I haven't a whimsical bone in my body, Etta. Why put myself through the embarrassment of rejection again?”

For months it has been the same. Unfinished melodies. Missed appointments. All the promise and talent he had shown before the war left behind in the mud and the trenches.

“You need to get out more, Perry. You need to meet interesting people and find inspiration. It can't help to spend so much time in that apartment of yours. It's the least whimsical place I've ever had the misfortune to drink a cup of tea in.”

“I'm here now, aren't I? Escorting you on an impromptu evening promenade, about to mingle with the set.”

“I do appreciate that you're trying, Perry. Really, I do. All the same, I think you spend too much time alone.”

“I'm not alone. Mrs. Ambrose comes and goes.”

“Mrs. Ambrose is a middle-aged charwoman. You need vibrancy and excitement in your life, not floor wax and sagging bosoms and woolen stockings.”

He laughs. “I can't argue with that.”

“I've been giving it some thought, as it happens. I know what you need.”

“And what might that be?”

“A muse.”

“A
muse
?”

“Yes. A muse.”

“And why would I want a muse?”

“To spark your creativity. You need to find someone whose every word, every movement, leaves you so enraptured that you can do nothing but settle at the piano and write words of whimsy about them. Look at Noël Coward. I doubt he would have written anything notable if it weren't for Gertie Lawrence. And Lucile Duff Gordon. How do you think she produced such incredible costumes for Lily Elsie—and for me? They adore those women so much they simply cannot wait to dress them or write songs or books about them.” I feel rather pleased with myself as we walk on. “Yes. That's absolutely what you need. A muse.”

Perry clearly isn't convinced. “And where might one find a muse these days? Does Selfridge sell them? I hear he has all manner of whimsical things in his shop.”

“Don't be factitious. You need to be look around. Take more notice of people.” I cough and pull my collar up to my chin as we turn the final corner and walk back toward the entrance to the
club. “Either that or put an advert in
The Stage
.” I laugh at my joke as the doorman holds the door for us and we step inside.

The tantalizing beat from the jazz band drifts up the narrow stairs. The cloakroom attendant takes my coat. I turn to check my reflection in the mirrored wall tiles, twisting my hip and turning my neck to admire the draped silk that falls seductively at the small of my back. I'm glad Hettie chose the pewter dress, the fabric shimmers fabulously beneath the lights. I shake my head lightly, setting my paste earrings dancing. I shiver as a breeze runs along my skin. Murray's is one of my favorite clubs in London. I feel safe here. I can let loose for a while and forget about things among the music and dancing and cocktails.

Turning on the charm, I glide down the stairs. My evening's performance isn't over yet.

P
erry orders us both a gin and it from the bar. We sit at the high stools and sip the sweet cocktail, perfectly positioned for people to see us. I watch the band with their glorious café au lait skin. The pulse from the double bass and the shrill cry of the trumpet seep through my skin so that I can feel the music pulse within me. The bandleader acknowledges me, as he always does, and leads the band in my favorite waltz of the moment, “What'll I Do.” I smile sweetly and applaud when the song ends.

When we are quite sure we've been noticed, Perry leads me to our table. The others are already there, the usual set of writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is vaguely interesting in London. Noël Coward, Elizabeth Ponsonby, Nancy Mitford, Cecil Beaton, and, of course, darling Bea, who—I am delighted to see—makes a special fuss of Perry. I kiss them all and settle into the seat between Noël and Cecil.

“You were brilliant, darling!”

“Simply divine. Your best yet, without a doubt.”

I wave their words aside. “You are all wicked and mean to tease me. You've been sitting here drinking cocktails all night. You didn't even see so much as the
HOUSE FULL
boards outside.”

“But she was splendid, of course,” Perry adds as he pours us both a glass of champagne. “Regardless of what the notices might say in tomorrow's papers.”

I ignore his teasing and take a long satisfying sip. The bubbles pop and fizz deliciously on my tongue.
Do
I care what the critics say? It's been so long since I've taken any real notice of the reviews. I haven't needed to. It has simply become habit to read flattery and praise. My housekeeper-cum-secretary, Elsie, cuts out the notices from all the papers and sticks them into a scrapbook with an almost obsessive diligence. The slightest mention of me falls victim to her scissors—photographs, passing references to supper at The Savoy, charitable events, after-the-show reports, costume reviews—nothing escapes her scissors. I tell her I really don't give two figs what they say, but she persists. She says it is important to keep a record; that people will be interested in my career in years to come. She's too polite to say “when you're dead,” but I know that's what she means, and it occurs to me that perhaps she is right. The more I think about tonight's performance, the more I realize that the notices
do
matter. There's an astonishing honesty required of oneself when faced with one's own mortality. The notices and observations in Elsie's silly little scrapbook will soon become the record of what I am—who I was. It is how I will be remembered. It matters immensely.

I tip my neck back to savor the last drop of champagne and hold my glass toward Perry for a refill, hoping that nobody notices the tremble in my hand.

The night passes in a heady oblivion of dancing, laughter, and playful flirtation with handsome men who invite me to dance. I allow myself to be guided around the dance floor to quicksteps and tangos, spinning and twirling among elegant young couples who twist and turn as deftly around each other as the champagne bubbles that dance in my glass.

As the night moves on, the band picks up the pace, holding us all spellbound on the dance floor, our feet incapable of rest. I say all the right things to all the right prompts, but despite the gaiety of it all and the adoring gazes I attract whenever I so much as stand up, part of me grows weary too soon and my smile becomes forced as I stifle a succession of yawns. As I watch the midnight cabaret show the room becomes too hot and the music too loud. I long to slip quietly away and walk along the Embankment to look for shooting stars. I was just six years old when my father told me that they are dying stars. “What you are looking at is the end of something that has existed for millions of years,” he said. It was the saddest thing I'd ever heard, and in a champagne-fueled fog of adulthood, the thought of it makes me want to cry.

“Miss May. Would you care to dance?”

I turn to see who is addressing me. “Mr. Berlin. What a joy! It would be my pleasure.”

What I really wish is that he would hold me in his arms while I rest my head on his shoulder and weep, but that is what an ordinary girl would do, and I am not an ordinary girl. I am Loretta May. So I stand tall and look beautiful and allow myself to be led to the dance floor, where the music thumps and the bodies of a hundred beautiful people twirl and sway in a wonderful rhythm of jazz-fueled recklessness. The gin flows, beaded fabrics ripple against slim silhouettes, ostrich-feather fans sway in time to the music, the soles of satin shoes spin and hop, and legs
in silk stockings kick and flick flirtatiously as the band plays on and on.

I play my part perfectly well.

Shooting stars, and the wishes and tears of an ordinary girl, will have to wait.

“Sometimes life gives you cotton stockings.

Sometimes it gives you a Chanel gown.”

A
fter an exhausting week getting lost in the hotel, finding my way around my chores, and trying to keep in O'Hara's good books and out of trouble, my first afternoon off can't come soon enough. Mildred slopes off somewhere before anyone notices. Sissy and Gladys are disappointed I won't join them at the Strand Palace, but I explain that I've promised to meet Clover for the weekly
thé dansant
at the Palais de Danse in Hammersmith and only a fool would break a promise made to Clover Parker.

Clover and I have been to the Palais every Wednesday since my first week in service at the house in Grosvenor Square. I was looking for a distraction. Clover was looking for a husband. Along with hundreds of others who swarm to the dance halls once a week to shake off the memories of war and the strict routines of work, Clover and I pay our two and six and forget about the troubles that weigh heavy on our shoulders as we foxtrot and waltz our way around the vast dance floor.

After years of rolling back the carpet in our shared bedroom and practicing the latest dance steps over and over, we are both reasonably good on our feet. More than anything, I love to dance, to
lose myself in the music until it wraps itself around me as tightly as the arms of my dance partner. More often than not, this is Clover. Such is the way of things now. There aren't enough men to go around and we can't always afford the extra sixpence to hire one of the male dance instructors, so us single girls make do, taking it in turns to be the man. Clover is a decent substitute, but even when I close my eyes and really imagine, it isn't the same as having a man's arms to guide me. It isn't the same as having Teddy's arms around me. He was a wonderful dancer. It was Teddy who first taught me to dance. It was Teddy who encouraged me to chase my dreams. It was always Teddy.

Changing out of my uniform as quickly as I can, I clock out at the back of the hotel and step outside for the first time in a week. It is still raining but I don't mind. The cool breeze and damp air feel lovely against my cheeks as I turn up the collar on my shabby old coat and walk through the Embankment Gardens toward the river. I think about my collision with Mr. Clements a week ago and the pages of music still hidden beneath my pillow. Although I've tried to push him from my mind, I can't stop thinking about those gray eyes and that rich russet hair, and I can't help wondering about the music I rescued from the litter bin. I feel a strange sense of duty to hear the notes played.

After the hushed order and sophistication of the hotel, London seems particularly grubby and alive. I notice things I've never really noticed before: the soot-blackened buildings, the pigeon droppings on the pavements and railings, the noise from the tugs and wherries on the Thames that toot to one another like gossiping girls, the smell of roast beef from the kitchens at Simpson's. I dodge around smartly dressed ladies in rain-flattened furs who try to avoid the puddles that will leave watermarks on their expensive satin shoes. To them, this is just another dull October afternoon, but to me it is
an exciting medley of noise and chaos; a place without restrictions and rules. To me, the pavements dance beneath the raindrops. To me, the roads sing to the tune of motorcars and puddles. To me, everyone quicksteps and waltzes around each other.

In the Embankment Gardens, I feel the vibrations of the underground trains through the pathway beneath my feet and smile as I watch two pigeons squabble over a piece of bread. Beyond the Gardens, I follow the bend of the river along the Embankment where the overnight work of the screevers—the pavement artists—has been spoiled by the rain. Only one drawing of a young girl is just visible. Beside it is written the word “hope” in a pretty looping script. I'd like to take a closer look but I'm already late, so I hurry on. Clover gets cross with me when I'm late, and she's already cross with me for leaving my position in Grosvenor Square.

S
he hadn't taken well to the news of my position at The Savoy. Her reaction was twenty-two minutes of snotty weeping. I'd watched the clock over her shoulder as I consoled her in the A.B.C. teashop.

“Things won't be the same, Doll. They'll lock you up in that fancy hotel and you'll get all sorts of notions in that pretty head of yours and I'll never see you again. I know it.”

“I'm only going to The Savoy, not the moon!”

“Might as well be going to the moon. You'll make new friends and forget all about me. I can feel it in my waters.”

Clover feels everything in her waters. “Don't be daft. How could I forget
you
?”

“Then promise we'll still go dancing on our afternoons off.”

“Of course we will.”

“Promise.”

“I
promise
. I'll meet you at the Palais every Wednesday. Same as usual. Cross my heart.”

I didn't say “and hope to die.” Nobody says that anymore. And I have every intention of keeping my promise. Clover Parker gave me friendship, a shoulder to cry on, and a Max Factor mascara when I had absolutely nothing. I've grown to love her like a sister and can't imagine sharing my makeup, my ciggies, or my worries with anyone else. But things had to change because I'd made another promise. A promise that I would make something of my life. I had to. Otherwise, how could I ever make peace with what I had done?

“Why does everything always have to change, Dolly? Why can't things stay as they are?”

“I want more, Clover. Look at me. I'm as dull as a muddy puddle. When I watch those girls on the stage, I want to be there with them. I want silk stockings on my legs and silver Rayne's dance shoes on my feet. I want Chanel dresses against my skin. I want to cut my hair and rouge my cheeks, not flinch every time I hear footsteps following me down the back stairs. I want to be appreciated, not discarded like a filthy rag. I feel like a stuck gramophone record, going round and round, playing the same notes of the same song over and over. I want to dance to a different tune. Don't you want that too?”

She doesn't. Clover is happy with her lot. A reliable job as a kitchen maid and a quick fumble with Tommy Mullins at the back of the dance hall is enough for her.

“I don't think about it, Dolly. I just am what I am. All I know for certain is that Archie Rawlins ain't coming home and he was the only bugger ever likely to marry me. I'll more than likely end up an old spinster with ten cats to keep me company. But there's no use complaining. Sometimes life gives you cotton stockings. Sometimes it gives you a Chanel gown. That's the way of it. You just have to make the most of whatever you're given.”

Part of me wishes I could be more like Clover, settle for a life as a housemaid, marry a decent enough man, make do. But I have restless feet and an impatient heart and a dream of a better life that I can't wake up from.

I'd been told that The Savoy prefers personal recommendations of employees from its current staff, and a discreet word by a friend of Clover's cousin led to my engagement. Clover's opinion is that a maid is still a maid, however fancily you package it up, but I disagree. The Savoy attracts movie stars and musicians, poets and politicians, dancers and writers; the Bright Young People who fill London's newspaper columns and society pages with their extravagant lifestyles. The people who excite me. The people who fill my scrapbooks and my dreams.

A
t Trafalgar Square, I jump onto the back of the omnibus and take a seat downstairs, paying my tuppence to the conductor as I pick up a copy of
The
Stage
left behind on the seat opposite me. I flick through the pages of adverts for dancing shoes and stage props, fat-reducing soap and seamstresses, and turn to the theater notices, hoping to find something for my scrapbook.

In his latest production,
HOLD TIGHT!,
Cochran has taken something of a gamble with his leading lady, Loretta May. It is a gamble that has more than paid off. Miss May—one of the hardest-working actresses on the London stage—dazzled, captivating the audience with her acting and singing talents, and her comic timing. Miss May brings the stage to life in a way that many others simply cannot. The costumes were equally remarkable, Mr. Cochran exceeding his previous best in this department. The gasps of admiration from the ladies in the audience could be heard all over town.

In her first full-length musical comedy, Miss May was triumphant in
HOLD TIGHT!
at the Shaftesbury. Her departure from revue was launched amid scenes of tumultuous applause. Kitty Walsh, the chorus girl selected at the very last minute to play the role of Miss May's daughter, was captivating. She is most definitely a young actress to watch. The audience yelled themselves hoarse and refused to let the curtain go down.

I close my eyes, imagining what it would be like to be that young chorus girl, to sing and dance on the West End stage. The notices go on: Gertrude Lawrence “splendid” in Charlot's revue
London Calling!
Noël Coward's musical score “triumphant.” Bea Lillie “radiant” in Lelong. The descriptions of the costumes take up as many column inches as the commentary on the performances.

Miss Bankhead's costumes in
The Dancers
were admired repeatedly. Her first outfit was à la Egyptienne—composed entirely of silver sequins. Another outfit was lilac chiffon and green satin, adorned with lilac trails. Her final costume—a slim “magpie” dress, a back of black charmeuse and a front of white, ending in white lace encrusted with black and crystal beads—was undoubtedly the finest we have seen on the London stage since Lucile Duff Gordon's creations for Miss Elsie in
The Merry Widow
.

Turning the pages, I read the calls for auditions. Chorus girls are wanted all over town, the bad fogs wreaking havoc with the health of many dancers and leading ladies so that understudies are needed for the understudies. I imagine the long lines outside the theaters, another batch of disappointed girls and crushed dreams
traveling home on the omnibuses and trams later that day. I've been that girl so many times, watching with envy as the final name is announced for the callbacks.
“The rest of you may leave. Thank you for your time.
”
The words we all dread.

As I read down the column of audition calls, something catches my eye. The print is small and I lift the page closer to read it.

WANTED: MUSE

Struggling musical composer seeks muse to inspire.

Applicants must possess a sense of humor and the patience of a saint.

One hour a week—arranged to suit. Payment in cherry cake and tea.

Replies, outlining suitability, for the attention of:

Mrs. Ambrose, c/o Apartment Three, Strand Theatre, Aldwych

I read the notice several times and tear the page from the paper. I'm not really sure why, other than that the words set my heart racing.

“
You need to stop asking
why, Dolly. The question to ask is,
why not?”

I hear Teddy's voice so clearly, his gentle words, his belief in me. I see his face, the empty stare, the uncontrollable tremble in his arms, the damp stain at his groin. No dignity for men like him. No future for would-be wives like me.

I read the notice once more, fold it into neat quarters, and place it in my purse as Auntie Gert's words whisper to me.
Wonderful adventures await for those who dare to find them.

Why not?

C
lover is already standing outside the Palais when I arrive. She runs to greet me as I step off the bus, nearly knocking me over as
she throws her arms around me as if we'd been apart for months, not days.

I hug her tight. “I've missed you, Clover Parker.”

“Liar. Bet you've hardly thought about me.” She loops her arm through mine as we walk up the Palais steps. “Go on, then. Tell me. What's it like, this posh hotel of yours? I know you're bursting to tell me.”

I can't help smiling. “I wish you could see it, Clo. Your eyes would pop out at the ladies' dresses and shoes, and the gentlemen are so handsome and the hotel band plays the hottest sounds. I can still hear it sometimes when I go to bed. Ragtime and the latest jazz numbers.”

Clover lights a cigarette for us both. “Told you. Head full of nonsense already! So, what are your roommates like? Please tell me they're awful and you wish you'd never left Grosvenor Square.”

“They're nice, actually. One of them, Sissy, reminds me of you. Gladys is quiet, but nice enough. Very pretty. She wants to be a Hollywood movie star and I wouldn't be surprised if she makes it. The other one, Mildred, is a bit miserable. Never has a word to say, and she looks at me funny. We didn't work with anyone called Mildred, did we?”

Clover thinks for a moment. “Doesn't ring any bells. Why?”

“I've a funny feeling I've met her before, but I don't know where. Anyway, I don't want to talk about her. Let's get inside and dance!”

The Original Dixieland Jazz Band is playing a waltz when we enter the dance hall, a sea of bodies already moving, as one, around the dance floor. I love it here. The Oriental decoration, the music, the dancing, the sense of freedom and letting go. We sit at a table and order tea and a plate of sandwiches. Clover is wearing a lovely new dress, which I admire. Lavender rayon with a lace trim.

“Made it myself,” she says, twirling around and sending the hem kicking out as she spins. “Three yards of fabric from Petticoat Lane for two pounds. Hardly need any fabric to make a respectable dress these days. If Madame Chanel raises her hemlines a bit higher, I'll be able to make a whole dress for sixpence.”

“It's lovely,” I say, conscious of my faded old dress, which looks like a sack of potatoes beside Clover's. I keep my coat on and complain of being cold. It isn't a complete fib. I've had an irritating cough since arriving at The Savoy and it seems to be getting worse. Sissy says it serves me right for wandering around in the rain without an umbrella.