Diary of a Painted Lady (7 page)

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 easel, 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 difficult 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.

“They tickle.”

“Do you?” Gina gazed at Mr. Fenton’s bristly moustache.

Mabel winked. “But it’s where it tickles, that counts.” She gave a peal of laughter and winked at the men who joined in.

Uncomfortable, Gina pushed Mr. Fenton’s hand away from where it had settled on her knee beneath the table.

He frowned. Picking up the bottle he poured more wine into her glass. “Have another drink. You need to loosen up.”

Several courses followed the first. Gina had never seen such food, lobster, chicken and asparagus in aspic, followed by delectable desserts she couldn’t eat. Her corset already drastically constricted her ribs.

When the meal was reduced to crumbs, Mabel and Mr. Battersby took their champagne over to a chaise longue on the other side of the curtain, and Gina sat with Mr. Fenton. He pulled his cravat askew and unbuttoned his collar, gazing at her owlishly. “You are a very beautiful girl.”

“Thank you.”

“I might give you a nice present. If you do something to please me.”

Afraid of what that might be, she said nothing. Fearing the evening had taken a definite turn for the worst, she looked around hoping to persuade Mabel to come home with her. But Mabel and Mr. Battersby were kissing, and he was squeezing her breasts. Seeing her watching he rose to pull the curtain across.

Heart pounding, Gina spun round. Mr. Fenton’s cravat had come off and joined his coat on the floor. “Come here.” He grabbed her by the waist. Her wine glass flew from her hand splashing wine over the cherry-red carpet.

Gina pushed him away and jumped to her feet. Behind the curtain, Mabel and Mr.

Battersby moaned and thrashed about. Not daring to look, she ran to the door and whipped it open. She shut it behind her and walked regally down the stairs. “Please call me a carriage,” she said to the doorman. It would cost far more than she could afford, but worth every penny.

The next day, Mabel was angry. “What did you need to go off like that for?” She put a hand to her head and moaned. “I have the worst headache. And Mr. Fenton was that angry.”

“You told me there’d be none of that,” Gina said. “Just dinner you said.”

“I don’t know what Dave will say if Mr. Fenton complains. I don’t think he will though, I’ve promised to make it up to him.”