I watch her as she runs off into the shadows and wish I could run with her, disappear into obscurity, and never have to tell anyone the awful truth of it all.
Stepping around tins of paint, precariously balanced props, ladders, and endless rails of costumes, I hurry along the cramped passageways, relieved to reach my dressing room and close the door on the noise and chaos behind me. Jimmy has been busy, arranging the boxes of chocolates and bouquets from gentlemen callers and well-wishers. I take a cursory look at some of the cards as Hettie, my seamstress and dresser, pushes several larger displays to one side so that I can see my reflection in the mirror. I slump down in the chair at the dressing table and look at the flowers surrounding me. A beautiful arrangement of pink peonies catches my eye. The rest are ghastly.
‘Why can’t people send roses, Hettie? Nobody sends roses anymore. They’re forever trying to outdo one another with gaudy-coloured orchids.’ I lift up some vile yellow blooms. ‘I don’t even know what these are.’
‘Shall I remove them?’ she asks.
I take off my dance shoes and slip my aching feet into silk slippers. ‘No. Leave them. Ask Jimmy to arrange a car to send them to the hospitals after the show.’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell him to leave the peonies. I’ll take them home.’ I run my fingers over the blooms, remembering my wedding posy. Pink peonies. Roger stole one for his buttonhole. It was all such a rush that buttonholes hadn’t been considered. He placed a single bloom in my hair and told me I looked more beautiful than the stars. ‘My very own slice of heaven.’
Hettie places a silk housecoat around my shoulders and pours me a glass of water. I’d far rather she pour me something stronger but she fusses about my drinking, especially during a performance, so I say nothing and take a couple of dutiful sips as she fetches my dress for the next act.
‘The audience love you tonight, Miss May.’
‘Hmm? What?’ I’m distracted by my thoughts and the many pots of pastes and creams on the dressing table. Gifts from Harry Selfridge. He really is a darling man, if a little too American at times.
‘The audience,’ Hettie repeats. ‘They love you. The gallery girls especially.’
‘The audience always love me, Hettie. And as for the gallery-ites, I can do no wrong as far as they are concerned. It’s the press I need to worry about.’
‘Well, I’m sure they’ll love you too. You could hear the shrieks of laughter back here.’
She sets to work, fiddling with last-minute adjustments to hems and seams. I stand up and turn around as instructed, the electric bulbs around the mirror illuminating my skin. I look tired and drawn, the delicate skin around my lips pinched from too many cigarettes. My thirty-two years look more like fifty-two.
‘Do I look old, Hettie?’
She is used to my insecurities. She knows me better than my own mother at this stage. ‘Not at all,’ she mumbles through a mouth full of pins. ‘You’re as beautiful now as the first day I saw you.’
I catch her eye. ‘You are very kind, Hettie Bennett. You are also a terrible liar.’
She smiles, finishes her adjustments, and leaves me alone for a blissful five minutes before curtain up. Those few minutes of peace are like a religion to me. Like afternoon tea with Perry, they are mine. Everything else about tonight – what I wear, what I say, what I sing, where I stand, where I will dine after the show and who I will be seen dining with – is all decided for me, all part of the performance. I sit down and stare at my reflection without blinking until my image blurs and I can almost see the young girl I once was.
Ironically, it was Mother who introduced me to the theatre. She shunned the teaching of regular subjects, instructing my governesses to focus on poetry, singing, and the arts. As a young girl, I was often taken on trips to the London theatre, where I was enthralled by the provocative dancing of Isadora Duncan and Maud Allan’s Vision of Salomé and the exotic Dance of the Seven Veils. As I approached my debut year, I embarked on a strict exercise regime to improve my fitness. I enrolled in dance classes, determined to learn how to move as gracefully as those incredible women I had watched on the stage. I worked hard, and while Mother considered my dancing ‘a pleasant little hobby’, my heart was soon set on it becoming far more than that.
Shortly after my debut season, I developed a talent for escaping my chaperones. While other debutantes diligently danced gavottes in the austere rooms of elegant homes across London, I discovered the heady delights of the city’s nightclubs. I met theatre producers and actors, writers, artists, and dancers. I was captivated by them as much as the gossip columnists were captivated by me. My exceptional beauty and extraordinary behaviour became a regular feature of the society pages. As the years passed, my parents increasingly despaired of my unladylike behaviour and my failure to secure a suitable husband. I, however, revelled in the exciting new circles I mingled in.
But it was the arrival of war that gave me my first real taste of freedom. We were told the fighting would be over by Christmas, but it soon became clear it was going to last much longer than that. Losses were heavy. Help was needed. I couldn’t bear to stand idly by as Aubrey and Perry and dear friends of mine fought for their lives at the front. Going against my mother’s express wishes not to, I enrolled as a Voluntary Aid Detachment nurse at the Royal Herbert Hospital. The work was difficult and exhausting, but I took comfort in knowing that I was helping. Photographed in my uniform, I became something of a poster girl for the VAD. Other society girls soon followed my example.
The sleeping quarters of the shared hospital dorm were cramped and inelegant, but the freedom of dorm life was thrilling to a girl who had been educated at home. On my evenings off I relished the opportunity to dance and drink and forget the awfulness of war for a while. It was during those evenings away from the hospital that I first met Charles Cochran. It was Cockie who saw my charm and my talent and encouraged me to dance in his little revue at the Ambassador’s. It started as a bit of fun, a distraction from the shocking realities of nursing. I took to the stage with audacious poise and a new name, Loretta May. While Lady Virginia Clements put in long shifts at the hospital, Loretta May became a shining star of the stage. Night after night, Virginia was dismantled as easily as a piece of scenery, replaced with the dazzling smile and beautiful costumes of my new persona. That I danced in secret whilst under the glare of the brightest spotlight was nothing short of thrilling.
Small speaking parts soon saw my reputation soar. Sassy, beautiful, beguiling – the hacks lavished praise in their emphatic press notices and it didn’t take them long to discover the truth behind this intriguing new star. The papers couldn’t print their headlines quickly enough.
By day, I attended to the sick and wounded. At night, I entertained those whose lives were falling apart. While the revelation about my true identity saw Mother take to her bed for a week, it only made the gallery girls and society pages love me even more.
And then the first letter arrived, and
