Virginia spotted L.L. in the stalls; she wanted to speak to him about the design for her dress for ‘Oh, Lady of my Delight,’ so she joined him. He got up on seeing her, and pulled down the seat of the tip-up chair next to him. He nodded at a man sitting on his other side.
“George, this is Virginia. Virginia, this is Mr. Gene. George K. Gene, in fact.”
Flossie smiled charmingly and did some rapid thinking. George K. Gene. She knew the name. Where had she heard it? She decided to leave the dress discussion for the moment, it might be that this man was worth bothering with. He was an American, she liked Americans, she had always found that they knew how to treat people. As a feeler she asked:
“Have you been over long?”
“No, just run over to put this on, only docked this morning.”
‘Put this on.’ Put what on? Ferdie was producing as usual and there was Monty come in to do the dances, and then suddenly thinking of dances it came to her. That show at the Coronet, the ballet ‘Locomotion.’ She had thought it hideous, and very dull, and way down inside her she had known that she had not understood what it was about, but it had been an enormous success, the papers had been full of it, and it had kept quite a drab show running for months, and George K. Gene had done the choreography, that was why she knew his name. What on earth was he doing here? It was the first she had heard of a ballet.
“Are you going to produce a ballet?”
George looked at her in amazement, he had supposed the fact that he was going to produce a ballet at the Princess’s to be the one topic of conversation, not only in the theatre, but throughout intelligent London.
“Of course.”
Flossie looked delightedly at L.L. A ballet produced by George K. Gene was an event, sufficiently an event for her, had he told her about it, to have knocked that fifty-five pounds off her salary that he was so anxious about; it would have been worth it for the publicity. It did not strike her that somebody else might be engaged for it, because she had made a name as a dancer. In each of the shows she had been in, a special dance had been arranged for her to do on her points, and very prettily and trippingly she did it. Her knees might not be as straight as the hypercritical might wish, and there might be more of careful training than inspiration in her movements, but in the musical comedy world she was considered decidedly a dancer.
“A ballet. That’s good news. Naughty L.L. not to tell me.” She turned to George. “Tell me about it, is it very difficult?”
She expected him to say: “Not too difficult for you,” with his eyes saying all the things his tongue left out. Instead he looked at L.L. L.L. refused to catch the glance, but stared fixedly at the stage.
“It’s not your sort of stuff, Virginia, ballet called ‘Le Monde,’ very modern, ugly dresses.”
“Who is dancing it then?” her voice was like chips of ice.
“Nobody you’d have heard of, except Leonide Stalsky. It’s all laid in a street, dozens of small bits; the girls will do those, and the Polsky brothers are dancing.”
“Yes.” Flossie’s voice was full of kindly interest which did not deceive L.L. for a second. “And the ballerina?”
“Oh, her.” L.L.’s tone reduced the part to a minimum. “A kid called Daisy Whichart. She trained at Madame’s, by the way—I suppose you never ran into her?”
Flossie, as the great star coming to the Academy for special practice classes, took no interest in the pupils, she would choose times to attend when they would not be there. “I don’t want to run into the great unwashed,” she would say to Muriel. Sometimes, over a cigarette after the lesson, she would ask in a kindly way if anybody was coming on well, not that she was interested, but poor Muriel was such a hard-working old thing, she didn’t mind pleasing her. Dimly now at the back of her mind she recalled one of these conversations. Hadn’t Muriel said she had found a wonderful child? It had gone in at one ear and out at the other. She did wish she had attended.
“You’ve been very secret about this ballet.” Her tone was nasty. “However ugly it is, I think I should have been asked if I wished to dance it.”
George had been watching her stepping ‘When the Sun Sets on London,’ he grinned at her cheerfully.
“You couldn’t do it, baby.” Flossie looked at L.L.; surely as her manager he wouldn’t let such an outrage pass. But L.L. was gazing at the stage, his eyes never moved. “You see,” George went on cheerfully, “it’s none of your pretty stuff that any fool can fake.”
When angry, Flossie’s eyes were blue as the Mediterranean. They were just that colour as she turned them to George.
“Were you by any chance calling me a fool?”
L.L.’s eyes goggled with sheer fright, he pretended he was deaf.
“Course not, sister,” said George mildly, “I just meant—”
Whatever he meant was lost in a slap on his face which rang through the quiet theatre.
There was a break in the rehearsal. Monty Paile was discussing an effect with Ferdie, the stage manager was hovering round in case he was wanted, and the assistant stage manager, script in hand, had his ears stretched for anything he ought to put down in the book. The girls were gathered in a group admiring the cut of the new practice knickers of one of their number. The Polsky Brothers had moved to the side of the stage where they were quietly limbering up. The unmistakable sound of the slap swung all the heads round. Ferdie, who was near the footlights, by using his hand as an eyeshade was able to see as far as the third row of the stalls, to the famous George K. Gene holding his cheek in his hand, to Flossie standing ready to hit him again, to L.L. who had got her by the wrist. Like a monkey he climbed along the edge of the stage box, swung himself into the stalls, came quietly behind Flossie, and put his arm round her waist
“Come on, old girl.”
‘Old girl!’ She was angry already, but that was the last straw. That she should be called ‘old girl’ in the theatre where no one was allowed to forget what blood ran in her veins. In one second, almost six years of culture slipped off her as if they had never existed, she completely let herself go; bottled up as she had been all these years, she behaved as no one would have behaved in the Fordham Road. She lay down and screamed, she kicked, she bit Ferdie’s hand. He, the two stage managers, and the Polsky Brothers, had all they could do to get her to her dressing-room. As her struggling form was borne out of sight, and her screams grew less deafening, the twenty-four dancers looked at each other; they said nothing, for Monty called them to work, but in their faces was complete satisfaction. It was the best few minutes they had enjoyed for ages.
“Bill,” called the electrician to the props, “what was that? Somebody trod on the cat?”
Bill jabbed a brushful of paint on a vase.
“That was ’er Royal ’ighness ’avin’ a nice attack of what they call no-bless-oblige, and I don’t mind ’aving a tanner on it that Mr. Ferdie Carme won’t ’alf oblige ’er when ’e gets ’er upstairs.”
The electrician climbed down a ladder and came over to him.
“Wouldn’t mind doing that meself. What I’ve put up with with ’er! ‘Oh, Virginia says the spot wasn’t on ’er, and Virginia says the lights was wrong on ’er entrance.’ F—ing little B, one day there’ll be a black-out on ’er entrance, and then just one spot, and that’ll be in a place that’ll surprise ’er. I’ve just about finished, what about one?”
“You’ve said it.” Bill laid down his paint and brushes. “Somebody must ’ave told ’er Royal ’ighness what they think of ’er, and that’s worth a drink any day of the week.”
In the stalls L.L. looked apologetically at George.
“Sorry, old man. Hope she didn’t hurt you.”
“No.” George straightened his tie. “I almost wish she could dance, I like ’em tough.”
Ferdie pushed Flossie on to the sofa in her dressing-room, and with a jerk of his head told the
other men to get out. After a few moments she quieted, she lay on her face, turning her head just sufficiently to see that Ferdie had drawn a chair up beside her and was quietly lighting a cigarette. She made no sign that she had seen him, she did not want to see anybody, her whole body flushed, and the nerve centre below her waist felt as though a Girl Guide had practised knot-tying with it. ‘God! What a show she had made of herself! Behaved like a fishwife and that in front of the chorus, and some of the stage staff. What an unutterable fool, and how miserably lacking in self-control.’ She mustered her courage and dignity and got off the sofa and repaired her face, and combed her hair, then she faced Ferdie.
“I’ve made a fool of myself.”
Ferdie was furious, he had promised himself that he would tell this girl all he had been longing to say for years, and now she was disarming him by the one quality which could disarm him quicker than any other. Courage in defeat.
“You certainly have.”
“Mind you,” Flossie drew herself up, “I had a right to be angry with that miserable American, but I was a fool to behave the way I did.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I couldn’t dance the ballet. He said it was too difficult, that it wasn’t pretty stuff a fool could do.”
“Well,” Ferdie blew a ring of smoke up to the ceiling, “he was quite right.” Flossie made a movement. “Now, don’t slap my face, but have a cigarette and you’ll feel better.” He passed her his case. “The trouble with you, Virginia, is that you think you’re perfect. Well, your body is, nobody’d argue about that, but you’re not great shakes as a performer.” She made a quick movement. “Smoke that cigarette and listen, I’m doing you a kindness telling you all this. Given the right stuff and the right producer—and that’s me—you can put it over as well as anybody, better than most, because you’ve got the appearance and personality, but that’s not saying you’re bursting with talent. You owe most of what you’ve got to me. I’ve worked harder over you than any girl I ever handled, and the result is you’re a star earning a salary that’d make a bishop take to green gaiters, so don’t get sitting around thinking you’re all the works, just remember there are a few things you can’t do.”
Flossie never had cared for arguments with Ferdie, so she returned to the original trouble.
“But I am engaged to be the star of ‘Tread On It.’ The ballet will be one of the big things in it, so I ought to dance it.”
“If L.L. decided to put on a scene from ‘Romeo and Juliet’ would you say you had to be Juliet?”
“Yes. Why not?”
Ferdie looked at her despairingly.
“Why not? Because for every actor there’s a nice big open drain waiting and you’d only have to say one line as Juliet and what a plop. Now keep your temper. You’ve got some grand stuff in this show, go all out for it, make it such a knock-out that nobody thinks about the ballet.” He got up. “As for the fuss this morning, forget it, everyone’s allowed their bit of temperament, even royalty must act natural sometimes.”
Flossie realised that as far as the ballet was concerned she was beaten. But she still had her huge salary, and Ferdie was right when he said some of her stuff was good. She was calming down, she felt she wouldn’t mind so much as long as they didn’t try and make a fuss of this dancer.
“What about this dancer L.L.’s found?”
“A little kid called Daisy Whichart. Did you ever notice her sister, a tall pretty girl we had in ‘Mississippi Baby,’ had an affair with Dolly Kismet?” Flossie shook her head, she never knew the chorus by sight. “Well, it doesn’t matter, because this kid’s not a bit like her, something right out of the nursery. Got a nurse brings her to rehearsals.”
“As a stunt?”
“No, that’s what I thought at first, but it’s on the level. Believe me, you’ve nothing to worry about there, she’ll dance and then Nanny’ll take her home to bye-bye. Who’re you lunching with?”
Flossie frowned. She was lunching with Derwent. She had arranged it to annoy somebody else, but now she felt she wished she hadn’t arranged it, Derwent was such a misery, staring at her with sheep’s eyes. She looked at her watch.
“At the Berkeley.”
“Well, go home and put on your best frock, and smile all through lunch so all the world can see that you’re on top of everything, and be back at half-past two sharp, we’ll manage without you for the rest of the morning.” He gave her a most unroyal smack.
Derwent sat almost in silence gazing at Flossie while she, with heat and fervour, poured the story of her trouble over the ballet into his uncomprehending ears. It was a pity she was in this mood, he had so much he wanted to say and it was no good starting till she had finished. His hand that held his glass shook, the irises of his eyes were a bit pink. Oh, dear God, she was lovely. What was the good of people telling him to go away? Why, even if he went to the darkest corner of Africa she would be with him, hers was not a face you could forget, and even if you could forget her face, there was her body; the man wasn’t born who could forget her body. It wouldn’t be so bad if only he could sleep; nights of half satisfied dreams and wholly dissatisfied wakings, that was what got you down. They said she was hard and mercenary. Quite likely it was true, but he wanted her, and that want blocked out all else there might be in the world. If only people would leave him alone. Ossie Bone with his offers of jobs on papers abroad, he had tried to persuade himself they were made because Ossie was jealous and wanted him out of the way, but he couldn’t fool himself. Why should Ossie care if he went or stayed while Virginia treated him like a dog? Just like a dog, whistled for when wanted. He had been whistled for to-day, why? Because two tables away Larry Sims was sitting and Larry was in her bad books; he hadn’t given her something she said he had promised. What a performance she was putting up, gazing into his eyes, and looking at him so lovingly, and all to annoy Larry. He fidgeted and looked at his watch, a quarter to two, and she was still chatting on about the ballet, and he hadn’t begun to say the things he had come primed to say.
The waiter brought the coffee. Shakily he lit a cigarette, he dragged his eyes from hers, it was like dragging plaster off skin.
“I say, Virginia, do stop talking about this ballet, I’ve something I must say.” His voice was desperate. “I can’t go on like this. It’s months since I slept properly, they all say I’m drinking too much, but what am I to do? I think I’d go mad without something to drink. Is there any hope for me? Suppose I had money, would you marry me?”
Flossie poured out the coffee.
“Are you coming into money?” she asked with interest.
“No. But if you would even say that you might marry me if I had money, I’d make some, I swear I would, even if it meant breaking into the Bank of England.”
Virginia sipped her coffee.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk in that silly way.” Her voice was cold, but her eyes, for the sake of the glowering Larry, were affectionate.
“But if I did make money, would you?”
She leant forward and whispered intimately so that the watching Larry writhed.
“Suppose I said ‘No.’ What would you do?”
For a fraction of a second Derwent hesitated, but he had come to this lunch prepared if necessary to burn his boats.
“Ossie’s offered me a job abroad.”
Only by the greatest effort could she maintain her smile. What a nerve Ossie had, going behind her back trying to take her men from her. Jealous, that’s what it was. Well, he’d find out that for all his money he couldn’t get everything he wanted. She laid her hand over Derwent’s. Two tables away Larry, driven frantic, snatched a piece out of his pocket-book and began to scribble. Flossie looked into Derwent’s eyes.
“Poor boy, does ’oo want to mawwy Jinny so terwibly.” She paused while she did a little rapid thinking. Larry was folding a note which was obviously destine
d for her, so she need not trouble much more about Derwent. It would be a mistake now that he had served her purpose to encourage him; naturally he never would make money, so talk of marriage was merely silly. On the other hand, she had no intention of letting Ossie pack him off to some foreign country; he was useful now and again. Why must men always force the issue? As long as nobody ever made actual demands, life could be so pleasant. She took her hand off Derwent’s. “You must be sensible, it’s no good asking me if I’d marry you if you had money because you haven’t any.” She saw his face, and felt it was time he had a spoonful of jam, “I’m very, very fond of you, Derwent.”
“If I made money, would you?”
Oh goodness, how the man did keep on. If he made money, would she? But he never would, so why worry? She gave him a playful slap.
“Mustn’t be naughty boy and worry Jinny. Would you like to have lovely treats?”
“What?” In spite of himself, and although he knew whatever she was going to suggest, it was for her pleasure not his, his voice was eager.
“Well, if you ask me to stay for a lubly long week-end at Jim and Jasmine’s house by the sea, I’ll come, and Derwent s’ all dwive his Jinny down.”
“But I can’t, it’s not my house.”
Flossie gave a faint shrug with her shoulders, and picked up her gloves. At that moment the waiter brought her Larry’s note. How about supper tonight? I’ve something for you. L. She nodded acceptance, murmuring ‘Dear Larry,’ and got up to go.
Swaying slightly, and with his face whitish-green, Derwent came round and stood in front of her.
“If I wangle the invitation to Deal, will you sleep with me?”
Flossie wanted to go to Deal, and that particular promise, as she knew from experience, was easily broken.
“Come on,” she said, “drive me to the theatre.”
“But will you?”
She gave him a look that sent his heart soaring.
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