Diary of a Painted Lady

by Maggi Andersen

  He shook his head, taking delight in the pleasing picture of the roses against her peach-tinted cheek. “I came to see you.”

  Her cheeks flushed and she opened the door wider. “Please come into the sitting room.”

  He thought ‘sitting room’ seemed too grand a name for the meagre room as he sat on the sofa. It did appear a little less dreary, a new rug perhaps, but still an inadequate setting for such a lovely young woman. “I came to ask you something, Gina,” he said, surprised to find he was nervous.

  Gina laid the roses on the table and turned to him. “Yes?”

  He rose to take her hand, drawing her over to the sofa. “I want you to come and live under my protection.”

  Gina slipped her hand from his. “But why?”

  “Why?” Her question disconcerted him. “Don’t you realize how enchanting you are?”

  “Bah!” Gina jumped up and returned to the roses.

  At a loss, Blair followed her. “I’m…fond of you. I want you in my life. I hope you might come to feel some affection for me.” He’d made a hash of it. “I’d like to be the one who takes care of you.”

  Gina arranged the roses in the vase. Her movements were jerky, the only sign his words had affected her. When a thorn pieced her hand she pulled her hand away with a small cry.

  “Let me see.” He took her hand and turned it over. After he removed the thorn from her palm, she withdrew her hand.

  “Milo takes good care of me, Mr. Dunleavy.”

  He looked around the room. “Does he?”

  She flushed and her eyes flashed. “Yes.”

  This had become too important to him. His usual perception seemed to have deserted him as he rushed on. “Will you listen to my plan?”

  She hesitated, and then nodded.

  “I’ll rent an apartment here in London. You shall be the mistress of it...”

  “Jermyn Street?”

  “Pardon?”

  “My friend Mabel says toffs keep their mistresses in Jermyn Street.”

  “I have a place in mind in Hanover Square,” Blair said, thrown off balance by her skeptical tone. She certainly didn’t leap at his offer. “It’s an apartment equal to your beauty. You shall have lovely gowns, anything your heart desires.”

  Gina put the palm of her hand to her lips and licked the wound with her tongue. The simple gesture was enough to make him hard. But a frown creased her delicate forehead and his heart sank. She’d been rigidly polite, but somehow, with a growing helplessness, he sensed her disappointment in him.

  “I suppose you think I should be grateful,” she said. “But I’ve never invited your advances. It’s the way your class has of doing things, I expect. You feel your money and position in life can grant you anything. But you can’t buy me.”

  She walked to the door. “Thank you for the roses, Mr. Dunleavy. Now please leave. I don’t wish to be your mistress or anyone else’s. Don’t come again.”

  He gazed down on her. “Is it so very bad of me to want to take care of you?”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “You have come with a completely false impression of what is on offer here. Only my stepfather’s paintings are for sale. Not me!”

  He looked around the pitiful, shabby room at her small attempts to make it homely. “You deserve so much more than this.”

  “That’s as may be. We are soon to move to Holland Park. I feel we shall be quite comfortable there.”

  “I’m sorry, Gina. I seem to have got it badly wrong, haven’t I?”

  Did he see tears in her eyes? Perhaps they were tears of anger or frustration. He wanted to hug her to him, to console her with kisses, but he’d been the oaf who’d caused her distress. “Forgive me, please. I’d like to be considered a friend.” He dug out one of his calling cards from his breast pocket and held it out to her, but she turned away toward the door.

  “If you ever need help, and there are no conditions attached, please contact me. This is my London address. You’ll find my home in Ireland there also. You can reach me by telegraphing the Dublin post office.” He laid the card on the table.

  She opened the door. “Good bye, Mr. Dunleavy.”

  “Good bye, Gina.” He glanced at her lovely face as he passed her. So close, he had only to stretch out a hand to stroke her velvety cheek. The urge was so overpowering he was surprised that she didn’t sense it, but her gaze dropped and the door shut swiftly behind him, leaving him standing like a fool on the doorstep.

  Blair hailed a cab and instructed the cabbie to take him to Horace’s apartment. He sat back as the driver negotiated the London traffic, and gazed unseeing at the passing parade of people on the busy streets. How had he got it so wrong? Girls such as Gina must hope for a generous benefactor to rescue them. Although he didn’t understand why she’d refused him, he had to admit he thought her magnificent when her eyes flashed, and he loved her spirit.

  Perhaps she’d had a better offer, or she might have a lover. The ache in the region of his heart seemed incommensurate with her rejection. He shrugged. He would simply move on. Tonight, he and Horace were to visit the Royal Soho theatre which staged an excellent play, Trial by Jury. There would be attractive feminine company, a good dinner and whatever came after that. Tomorrow this would all be forgotten. Just his pride was wounded after all. But somehow, the prospect of a pleasant evening didn’t raise his spirits.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Blair rolled over in bed. The woman sleeping beside him stirred.

  The bedcover fell away from her small breasts. She pushed back her dark hair, smiling sleepily at him and moved closer. She ran her hand up his thigh. “Ready for more, sweetie?”

  She laughed as his body responded to her touch.

  Surprised at his distaste, he threw back the covers and grabbed his clothes from the chair. He began to dress.

  “You’re not going so soon, are you?” The young actress pouted prettily.

  He took out a wad of notes and placed it on her dresser. “Buy yourself a hat or two.”

  “Come anytime, sweetie. You’re a treat, you are,” she called after him. Her light laughter followed as he descended the stairs.

  Damn, he felt worse than ever.

  * * *

  Had Blair but known it, Gina was as disappointed as he appeared to be. She moaned softly as she leaned back against the door. If he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her, if he’d said that he loved her, she might have capitulated and agreed to all he offered her. She ran to her bedroom. Throwing herself on the bed, she sobbed bitterly. “This is surely not what you wanted for me, is it, Mamma?” she cried into the empty room. “A respectable life filled with loneliness?” She yearned to give her body and her heart to Blair Dunleavy with a pain so strong it felt as if a knife had been thrust into her chest.

  When Milo came home, she would beg him to take her back to Italy. She knew she was running away, and what might await her there could be just as uncertain as her life here, but at least there, she might fit in. Here, the men were either crazy bohemians, oafish men of trade with no appreciation of culture, or the likes of the Earl of Douglass. And gentlemen like Blair Dunleavy. She refused to lump Blair in with the earl in her thoughts, as she fought to banish from her mind his concerned, blue eyes, his handsome mouth that might quirk up in a smile at a moment’s notice, and his black hair which sprung onto his forehead when he took off his hat.

  Gina waited up for Milo, longing to talk to him. It grew very late and still there was no sound of his drunken fumbling at the door. Finally, she turned the gaslight down and prepared for bed. The town hall clock struck twelve. With his pockets full of money, Milo had been on one of his benders for days. He’d held a party to celebrate their good fortune. It cost far too much money, but Milo loved to be the center of attention. His friend, the actor, Arthur Blunt, who performed at the Comedy Theatre in Westminster, warned Gina about Milo’s drinking. Those who crowded into their small rooms, painters and their models, and theatre folk, dra
nk and ate everything on offer. Times were bad and most were glad of a free meal.

  She had stolen a little money away to pay for food and rent, but the rest disappeared at a rapid rate at the beer house. Milo had begun shouting all the local lads and now that word had gone around that there were free drinks, the hostelry was packed. Gina knew Milo would never move to Holland Park. If this continued, in a few weeks they’d be out on the street.

  As she stepped out of her dress someone banged on the door. She ran to call through it. “Milo?”

  “Jeremy Sykes. A friend of Milo’s. Open up quick.”

  She hastily buttoned her dress. When she opened the door, a giant of a man stood there, breathing heavily. She tried to shut it again, but he put his foot in the door. “Milo’s in trouble.”

  Gina hesitated. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m sorry, lass. Your papa’s been hurt.”

  “I’ll get my cloak.”

  She had to run to keep up with the man as he marched down the shadowy lanes toward Red Lion Square. The fog, thick and evil smelling, swirled around, her, choking and almost blinding her. She was constantly in danger of losing the bulky shape striding ahead. “Tell me what happened,” she called after him breathlessly, her voice echoing hollowly around the alleyway.

  “Best you see for yourself,” he yelled back without lessening his pace.

  “Is Milo all right?”

  “Didn’t look too good when I saw him last.”

  They emerged into the square. A group of men stood in a circle outside the beer house.

  Gina pushed her way through. Milo lay sprawled on his back on the ground, his eyes half-closed, and his face a frightening grey. A river of blood ran down into the gutter from his chest.

  “Papa?” She knelt beside him, almost gagging at the stink rising from the gutter and mingling with the acrid smell of fresh blood. Milo didn’t stir. “Papa?”

  “He’s as dead as last week’s kippers,” a man said.

  Gina put a fist to her mouth as a sob rose in her throat. “What happened?”

  “Someone robbed him, looks like.”

  She noticed his pockets had been turned inside out. “Oh, Papa!” She wept as she stroked his cooling forehead.

  A scruffy lad ran over to her. “Someone’s gone for the Watch.”

  At the mention of the police, a murmur rose up and the crowd quickly dispersed, leaving Gina and Jeremy Sykes alone with Milo’s body, as the dense, choking smog closed in around them.

  Chapter Eight

  Present Day

  Pinewood Studios London

  Dylan Shaw entered his suite easing his shoulders, pleased that his first interior scene of Painted Lady was in the can. He thought it had gone well and planned to see the rushes before he left for Ireland. Susie, a young gofer, came to the door, giving him a cheeky smile as she flicked back her hair. “Black coffee and a chicken sandwich as requested, Mr. Shaw, or should I say Blair?”

  He grinned, eyeing her cute derriere encased in jeans as she passed. “Dylan will do nicely, thank you, Susie.” He threw himself down on the couch. Picking up a slab of soft white bread an inch thick filled with chicken, salad and mayo, he took a bite. Astrid Leclair had arrived from Paris. He’d caught his leading lady’s press conference on late night television. Although not Italian, she had always been the first choice to play Gina. Their first scene together was set for next Tuesday. Tomorrow, he and some of the cast and crew headed off to Dublin for a few days shooting, and he hoped to find time for a lightning visit with his family.

  Dylan threw the half-eaten sandwich back onto the plate. He took a sip of coffee and pulled a face. Weak and tepid. He moved to the kitchen and turned on the cappuccino machine he’d installed. Taking a mug from the cupboard, he thought about Astrid. He’d never met her, but rumors about her last movie made him a little uneasy. Her boyfriend, Philippe Fabre had a controlling interest in that picture and was seen to be somewhat of a Svengali where Astrid was concerned. Thank God, the Frenchman wasn’t involved, for this picture had been difficult from the get-go; the script rejected more than once, and the director clashing with the producer. After the director left in disgust, the scramble to replace him produced another Dylan didn’t much like. It seemed scenes were to be written on the run. Well, it worked for Casablanca, could they be so lucky?

  He took a sip of coffee, perfect. He felt the kick of much needed adrenaline a good cup could be relied on to produce. Stretching out his legs he leaned back and savored the brew. To top things off, he and Jessica had gone their separate ways after six months. It wasn’t a smooth break-up. They’d both retreated with battle scars.

  Astrid would begin filming here tomorrow while he was away. They wouldn’t meet until their first rehearsal scene together. He always liked to strike up a rapport with his co-star before this.

  * * *

  Astrid’s taxi pulled up at the Dorchester Hotel. She heard Philippe’s words in her head: Parisian hotels were so much better, and the English food, unspeakable! She pressed the lift button. The first day’s shooting, a scene with Antony Sandeo had gone late, past eight o’clock, and she was tired.

  She expected fourteen or fifteen hour days when filming got underway. She’d been nervous, shooting was always fraught until the cast settled in and became like a family. And she wasn’t as confident as she might have been had she had time to prepare. When she discovered the whole script had been thrown out and rewritten, she rang her long-suffering agent demanding answers. Most unwise, she liked this agent and wanted to keep her. Philippe had given the poor woman a hard time over the last contract. After Astrid cooled down she rang back to apologize. Now, the house the studio had rented for her in Kew wouldn’t be available until Friday. She’d particularly requested a house, because she loathed staying by herself in hotel suites, they could be the loneliest place in the world.

  Just as she opened her door, her mobile rang. She rushed into the room, and threw down her things. Philippe, ringing before he went out to dinner, wanting to put an end to their argument. She sat down on the bed and eased herself back against the pillows, taking the blame as she lapsed into her native French while they both attempted to patch things up. Her words of appeasement should mean more to her than they did. Perhaps Philippe knew it too, for they failed to smooth over the troubled waters. This was the most serious argument they’d had and to Astrid it carried a sense of finality. But Philippe would never accept it. He’d gone into damage control, discussing the hotel bookings for their skiing holiday in the French Alps. When she told him not to confirm their reservation, she had to hold the phone away from her ear. She was too tired to deal with it, so she changed the subject, enquiring about his latest business deal. While he went into detail about his latest coup, she acknowledged that she had sacrificed her relationship for her career. At twenty-seven, she had another twelve years or so of decent roles to build a good body of work. If she was lucky.

  Philippe had been married before his teenage daughter lived with her mother. He wanted more children, but babies weren’t even a blip on her radar right now. She hung up as the familiar feelings of guilt returned. She knew he would have his secretary check the tabloids for any sign of her straying. She half expected him to employ a private detective to watch her. She’d never given him reason to doubt her, and couldn’t help resenting it, even though she knew his jealousy came from a fear of losing her.

  Rising, she took a mineral water from the mini bar fridge. She stripped off her skirt and top and pulled on a leotard, drawing her long, blonde hair into a ponytail. Weary she may be, but she could never ignore the exercise routine that kept her body in shape.

  Astrid rang room service and ordered the Dover sole and salad on the menu, then began her stretches. She tried to relax and banish the anxiety of an uncertain future. She should be on top of the world. She was certainly at close to the top of her career, although you never felt secure in this business. You were only as good as your last movie. There were ma
ny beautiful talented young women waiting in the wings to take her place. One day she would be old enough for character roles, but now she had to look good. She usually managed five hundred sit-ups, but stopped well short of her target, yielding to exhaustion. She’d certainly sleep tonight, which was a blessing. Sleeping pills caused deep shadows under her eyes and consternation in makeup.

  When the meal arrived, she found she wasn’t hungry. She forced herself to eat a little as she went over tomorrow’s shooting schedule, and flicked through the next scene. As usual, the story wouldn’t be filmed sequentially.

  The movie was taken from Giovanna’s diaries written over the course of her life, beginning from when she modeled for her step-father, Milo Russo’s paintings. Astrid took off her glasses, and thought about Dylan Shaw, in appearance at least, he certainly fit the part of the hero. She had never met him. A stud, her hairdresser called him.

  Many of the actors Astrid had worked with fitted into two categories: those that preferred other men, or those that wanted to sleep with their co-stars, and Dylan Shaw seemed to be the latter.

  After she’d showered, creamed her face and brushed her teeth, she climbed into bed. She picked up a magazine that covered the story of Painted Lady. It featured wonderful colored illustrations of Russo’s paintings. He was one of the best artists of his era, even though his body of work wasn’t extensive. Those paintings that featured his step-daughter were exquisite. She really was a beautiful woman. How sad that he’d been cut down in the prime of life. After his death, Gina had gone on to accomplished a lot, at a time when it was very difficult for women to forge any sort of career, especially if they were born into poverty. Astrid hoped she would do her justice.

  Chapter Nine

  There was a knock on Astrid’s dressing room door. “Oui?” She continued to remove her makeup her hair held back by a white band.