The Angel Tree (4 page)

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.