The Girl from the Savoy (15 page)

“I'm Dorothy,” I say. “The temporary lady's maid for Mademoiselle Delysia. The head of housekeeping told me to come.”

He turns and walks back into the room. “Yes, yes. You'd better come in.”

I step into the apartment. I'd only cleaned it earlier that morning. Already it is in disarray.

The valet walks into an adjoining room. I hear voices before he returns. “Well, close the door, then.”

I close the door behind me. After what feels like an age, Alice Delysia enters from a door to the left of the fireplace. She is exquisite, dressed in a white satin housecoat with an ostrich-feather trim, her feet in lavender silk mules. It takes all my self-control not to gasp at the sight of her.

She walks toward me. “Your name is . . . ?” Her voice is like spun sugar, soft and oozing in her seductive French accent.

“Dorothy Lane, ma'am.” I curtsy instinctively.

The valet smirks and leans against the ornate mantelpiece. A small dog lies on a rug beside the fire.

Mademoiselle Delysia nods. “I dine at seven thirty, followed by dancing. I will need a dinner dress, gloves, shoes, headdress, and
jewels. You will help me dress and arrange my night attire.” I nod, thoughts of dazzling evening dresses spinning through my mind. “That is all for now. I must leave the hotel shortly, but I will return for afternoon tea. After that, I will dress for dinner. You may go.”

I mumble a thank you as she glides back into the adjoining room.

The valet smirks at me. “That'll give you plenty to gossip about over your tea break.” He affects a female voice. ‘She wore this. She said that. She was so beautiful.' He laughs at himself. “You're all the same. So easily starstruck.”

He calls the little dog after him and disappears into another room.

Opening the door to leave, I jump at the sight of Larry Snyder, his hand raised, ready to knock. He startles, dropping a bundle of papers.

“I'm so sorry,” I say, dropping to my knees and scooping up the papers: sheet music, and lines of script. It is all horribly muddled. I think of Mr. Clements and rain-soaked music; a silent moment shared between us. But unlike Mr. Clements, Larry Snyder merely laughs and stands over me as I fumble about and try to pick everything up.

“We really must stop meeting like this . . . goodness, I don't even know your name.”

“Dorothy,” I mutter. “Dorothy Lane.”

“Well, Dorothy Lane, we really must stop meeting like this or people will start to talk.”

I glance up. “I don't know what you mean, sir.”

He smiles and winks. “Oh, I think you do.”

I scoop the pages up as quickly as I can, stand up, and hand them to him, adjusting my cap and straightening my apron.

He looks at the mixed-up papers. “Well, if Mademoiselle can
make any sense of the scenes now, she really does deserve the part.” I look blankly at him. “I'm her manager,” he explains. “We work very closely together. Are you the maid for her room too?”

I nod. “I've been asked to stand in for her lady's maid. She's been struck down with a fever in Calais.”

“Then I expect we will see even more of each other, Dorothy Lane.” He looks at me through narrowed eyes, placing the papers under his arm and making a square of his fingers again, framing my face between them, just as he did in his own room. “Really quite alluring. No doubt you've dreamed of being on the stage, or the screen?”

I shrug my shoulders. What business is it of his?

He smirks. “Very well. Be coy and demure. But if you ever want a professional photograph, or if you'd like to audition . . .” He pulls a business card from his inside pocket and hands it to me.

I hesitate.

“Take it. Throw it in the garbage if you wish. Or keep it. It's entirely up to you.” He folds his arms across his chest. “But remember this, Dorothy Lane, nobody ever made it in this business by being coy and demure. Fortune favors the brave. Isn't that what they say?”

He holds the card closer to me. I take it from him, shove it into my pocket, and hurry off down the corridor.

As I leave the dazzle and glitz of the upstairs and travel back down to the darker corridors of the staff floor, I think about the butterflies trapped in their case on the governor's office wall. I take Snyder's business card from my pocket and think of the face in the photograph beneath my pillow. The person I long to be will always be pinned down by the person I once was.

After attending to my extra duties, I am late for supper and arrive in the Maids' Hall to great excitement.

Sissy grabs my arm. “Where've you been? It's snowing. Look!”

She drags me toward the window. The snow is coming down thick and fast. Some of the porters are having a snowball fight in the laneways below. We stand and watch for a while before Sissy pushes open the window and leans out, turning her head up to catch snowflakes on her tongue.

Soon we all join in, taking turns to lean out into the cold air, and for a wonderful moment I am neither trapped in my past nor reaching for my future. I am exactly where I belong. Not looking forward. Not looking back. Just laughing, and catching snowflakes as they tumble from the sky.

I look for him on every street corner,

in every passing car, in every silent flake.

T
here is a curious stillness about London when it snows. Like everyone else, I feel compelled to gaze skyward and marvel at the spectacle. As I look up, I give space to my private thoughts, to matters more important than hats to buy and rehearsals to attend and what one should wear to unwelcome invitations to tedious dinner parties. Something about the crisp white of the snow gives me the courage to face my darkest fears.

The first light feathers soon become thick fat flakes that form a white blanket over the rooftops and gas lamps and shop awnings of Regent Street. I find it extraordinarily pretty, delighting in the scene despite the fact that I know the snow will be the ruination of my good silk shoes. A young boy—a scruffy urchin from the East End by the look of him—hurries past with his mother, sticking his tongue out to catch the flakes. I smile as I watch him from the warmth of the car, envying his childish ways. I wasn't permitted such vulgar habits as a child. In many ways, I wasn't permitted a childhood at all.

My driver comes to a stop outside the stage door where the gallery-ites are already waiting for me, undeterred by the weather. I
stop to sign a few autographs, my gracious gesture sending the girls into a hysterical frenzy until Jimmy Jones tells them politely that that will be all and ushers me inside.

I'm looking forward to the performance. We are at that wonderful point in the show's run where the cast all have great confidence in each other and know their way around the stage and the script as well as they know their way around their own homes. We have perfected our timing and costume changes so that we can relax and truly enjoy what we are doing. In another fortnight we will be stale and lazy. A week after that we will be longing for the run to end. For now, we are in that wonderful sweet spot and I feel myself falling in love with the profession all over again.

Like a lover's return after a long absence, I revel in the sensation of familiarity and give a tremendous performance. The crowd show their appreciation with a long standing ovation and the cast reciprocate with several curtain calls. I make a short speech of gratitude. As I'd feared, the photographs of my sudden departure from Claridge's made the front pages, accompanied by spurious claims of a nervous breakdown. I'm determined to put an end to the rumors.

“You have all been marvelous in your recent concern and well wishes, and I am most grateful for it. However, as you can see, I am perfectly well. Better, in fact, than ever! I, ladies and gentlemen, am a reminder that one shouldn't always believe what one reads in the newspapers. Nervous breakdowns are for anxious lady drivers, not for Loretta May!”

I sweep from the stage to thunderous applause and I hope that is the end of it.

I
t is still snowing as I step out of the taxicab in The Savoy courtyard for the after-show supper party. I tip my head back to look at the falling flakes.

“Beautiful, ain't she?” I turn to see the doorman looking skyward beside me. His cheeks flare red against the cold air.

“I'm sorry?”

“London. She's beautiful when it snows.”

“She most certainly is. It makes one feel quite childlike.” I stick my tongue out, mimicking the urchin I'd seen earlier.

He laughs. “Have a good evening, Miss May.”

“You too, Bert.”

Pushing a manicured hand against the swing door, I'm pirouetted into the warm interior of the hotel. The lights of the chandeliers dazzle against the frosted glass paneling of the ceiling. The scent of cigar smoke and expensive perfume wraps itself around me, the lilt of the piano mingling gloriously with the clink of silverware and crystal and the merry chatter of post-theater diners in the Grill. Cocktail pages dressed in white and gold flit about like butterflies. A waiter waltzes past with a silver tray covered in gemstone-colored cocktails, cloakroom attendants busy themselves with coats and umbrellas, and the headwaiters stand to attention, ready to receive late diners for the restaurant. Everything blends into a beautiful symphony of charm and elegance. I can't blame Reeves-Smith for his gloating. This really is London's finest hotel.

I walk slowly toward the concierge desk, leaving whispers and glances in my wake. I may not be the beauty I once was, but I can still stop people in their tracks.

“Good evening, Miss May.”

I turn to greet Reeves-Smith, offering him my hand and a dazzling smile. “George! How wonderful to see you.” George Reeves-Smith takes great pleasure in fawning around his more esteemed guests. He has a rare talent for making one feel like the only important guest in the hotel.

“What a pleasure to see you,” he gushes, leaning forward to
kiss the air to the side of my cheek as he clicks his fingers behind my back and motions discreetly for a cloakroom attendant to take my cape.

I feel as light as air as the silk lining slips from my shoulders and the great weight of velvet and mink is lifted from my narrow frame. “And it is always a pleasure to see you, my good man, and your wonderful hotel.” I know how he likes to be flattered.

He flushes with pride and tugs at the dickey bow around his neck. I run my fingers flirtatiously along my string of emerald beads.

“And to what do we owe the honor of your presence with us this evening, Miss May?”

“I have an overwhelming yearning for one of Ada's cocktails, George, and band music that only your esteemed establishment is capable of supplying. Where else could one possibly wish to be?”

He escorts me personally to the ballroom, following the sweeping stairs and wide corridors. I am dressed in gold lamé and lace. Eyes turn to admire me as I glide along the marble floor, shoulders back, chin high. Seeing the others already seated at our table at the very front of the stage, Reeves-Smith bids me a good evening.

We drink and gossip and smoke cigarettes as Mr. Somers's Orpheans band plays wonderfully, but it is only when I am halfway through my third martini cocktail that I begin to fully relax. I'm delighted to see that Perry and Bea are getting along rather well. She and the others are all talk of a midwinter's eve party they are planning with Elizabeth Ponsonby. Of course, it isn't any usual sort of party. There is talk of a strict dress code of white clothing only and Cecil Beaton is planning to set up a studio to photograph the guests posing with paper moons and stars. It all sounds rather glorious.

I accept an invitation to dance with André Charlot, another
great theater producer and rival of Cochran's. The two of them are in constant competition with one another to put on the biggest hit of the season. Charlot has wanted to engage me for his revue for years. He has come very close to charming me with his seductive French ways on more than one occasion, but my loyalties lie firmly with dear Cockie, the man who first discovered me and has never let me down. Nevertheless, I admire Charlot's work and I wonder if I might put in a good word for Perry.

“Is that brother of yours writing anything decent at the moment?” he asks as he leads me expertly around the dance floor. “I'm looking for something different for next season. The audiences are becoming bored of the same numbers and the same format of revue. I want something different. Something exciting.”

I tell him Perry is working on new material. “He's even found himself a muse, André. Imagine that. I can hardly wait to see what wonders he starts to produce!”

“I would love to discover a new young star,” he says. “It has been an age since we discovered anyone really special. Someone such as yourself when you first started out, or Tallulah.”

“Surely there are any number of girls
you
could turn into a star.”

He brushes aside my flattery. “I find that everyone is too polished these days, or too similar to everyone else. There's no spark. Nothing original. I want someone imperfect. Someone I can mold. You might let me know if you notice anyone promising in the chorus.”

I laugh as he leans me gently back for the end of the number. “I will do no such thing, Mr. Charlot! Promising stars you will have to find on your own. But I will certainly mention the music to Perry whenever I can drag him away from Bea Balfour.”

Tiring of the conversation around the table, I stay on the dance
floor. For once, I enjoy the fuss and attention of the endless line of gentlemen who wish to dance with me. The flurry of snow has everyone childish and gay. I drink and dance too much and the night passes in a heady blur.

As the band strikes up the exhilarating new Charleston number that everyone is so mad about, I excuse myself to powder my nose, walking more than a little unsteadily as I cross the room. And that is when I see him, and my world comes crashing in around me.

It is unmistakably him, standing at the bar, cigarette in hand, hat on his head, a silk scarf draped elegantly around his neck. And yet, it can't be.

He leans with one elbow on the bar, his hand under his chin. His ankles are crossed so that I can see his socks. Plaid. His favorite. His jacket falls aside to the left and I see blue braces, the very same blue braces I had so admired in Harrods and insisted on buying for him, despite his protestations.

“Roger?” His name is a whisper on my lips. “Roger. Is it you?”

Everything slows down, my steps labored as I move toward him. He takes a sip from his glass. Hennessy XO. I am certain of it. The thump of the band, the laughter of the guests, the sumptuous surroundings of the Grand Ballroom all fade into the background as I slip underwater. There is nothing but him. I reach out my hand, but he is too far away. “Roger!” He cannot hear me and everyone is rushing to the dance floor and I cannot see him. I strain my neck, rise up onto my tiptoes, and wave my hand in a strange sort of greeting. “Roger! Roger!” I am shouting now, and I am being jostled backward. I am moving away from him. I stumble and push against the tide of eager young things rushing to the dance floor, until they pass and I am at the bar.

But he is gone.

I look around, to the left and the right, frantic to find him. An
empty tumbler sits on the bar. I lift it to my lips. Hennessy XO. I can smell him.

“Miss May? Is everything quite all right?”

The bartender has hold of my hand. I am shaking. “He was here. Right here. Did you see him?”

He looks puzzled. “Mr. Snyder? Is that who you mean? Yes, he was here.”

“No. Not Snyder. Roger. Officer Dawes. He was right here.” I am panicking, my breaths coming fast and shallow.

He gives me a sympathetic look. “I'm sorry, miss. I only saw Snyder. He always drinks XO.”

The pain shoots through my head like daggers. I falter for a moment and grip the edge of the bar.

“Would you ask for a driver? I need to leave immediately. Tell my brother I have a headache. And not to cause a fuss.”

T
he snow is still falling in fat dizzying flakes as I am driven back to Mayfair. I look for him on every street corner, in every passing car, in every silent flake, but he isn't there. He will never be there, his absence a dull ache within me that no amount of morphine can ever suppress.

I've heard them talk about women who see their dead husbands and sons. Delayed grief, they call it, another of the neat little labels the War Office attached to things we had no words to explain. And yet I was so certain he was there.

I stumble into the apartment, and make for the writing table where Elsie keeps her scrapbooks. I throw everything aside, my reckless noise waking her in the process. She emerges from her bedroom to see what all the commotion is.

“Leave me,” I tell her. “I need to be alone.”

Except I don't. I need to be loved. I need to be held.

I find the small package I'm looking for at the back of a drawer, tied with silk ribbon. My letters to him, my photograph captured in a newspaper cutting, the image of the beautiful actress he had fallen in love with before he even knew my name.
SOCIETY DARLING AND BRAVE NURSE VIRGINIA CLEMENTS REVEALED AS WEST END STAR LORETTA MAY!
All of it now melded together into a strange singular bulk.

They told Roger's mother he must have kept the letters in the breast pocket of his greatcoat, where they were found when they discovered his body beneath the earth and twisted metal. They told her it was the heat from the explosion that had caused them to melt into this strange mass. Reading my name and the address of the theater on one of the letters, his mother had sent them on to me, along with the terrible news of his death. She didn't know of the love affair we had engaged in through years of writing to one another. She didn't know of the passionate three nights we'd spent together. She didn't know he left a widow to grieve for him.

Only Jimmy Jones, the stage-door manager, ever knew that we had corresponded. Only he knew about the whirlwind wedding we arranged when Roger came home on leave. But even Jimmy didn't know about the child I carried for three months and lost one beautiful summer's day. That was my secret; a secret I carry alone, deep within my heart.

I hold the letters in my hand as I allow Elsie to help me dress for bed, too weak and exhausted to protest any longer. She makes tea that I refuse to drink and I sulk like a child until she brings brandy. She waits with me, like a patient mother, until the tears stop. I want to thank her, but I can't. I want to talk about him, but I don't, because if I do, if I open up this secret part of me, I don't know how I will ever stop.