The Painted Lady

Two

In my dressing room, I begin to bury Ivy beneath layers of whalebone and modest, black silk with the help of Mrs Stride. She was a ladies maid in another life – once – before middle age settled around her hips and the black hair growing over her lips made her distasteful to her mistress (but a curiosity to the crowd); she knows how to lace a corset and has strong, nimble fingers able to roughly scoop up Ivy's wild, blonde curls and knot and plait them into Sally's fashionable updo. My dressing room is nothing more than a broom cupboard backstage – large enough only for a chair, a cracked mirror propped against the wall and a gas lamp set precariously beside it. My bustle takes up most of the room, and we wriggle around the small space like beetles under a rock.

Mrs Stride is pinning my hat in place when there's a knock on the door. She's a perfectionist and waits until the hat is perfectly placed before she smiles and nods at me, muttering a brief, 'There you go, your ladyship,' before she swivels in the tight space and opens the door.

The gas light from the corridor fills the cupboard, as does the Doctor whose thick frame fills the doorway. He stands there with his hands in his trouser pockets, shirt sleeves rolled up and his waistcoat an oil slick of green and black – like the abdomen of a blow fly. 'Beat it, Beardo,' he says, nodding his head to the side.

Mrs Stride immediately scurries away, almost stumbling over the long legs of Flynn, who's leaning against the wall of the corridor just behind the Doctor, puffing on a cigarette.

'...I was just leaving,' I tell them both, my eyes moving from one to the other.

The Doctor raises his dark eyebrows. He removes a hand from his pocket and brushes it over his greying beard, 'Gee, it's like a magician's box trick; one woman goes in and another comes out,' he says, tilting his head as he stares at the frills of black silk in front of him. He holds my gaze, '...I'd just love to see how you do that.'

I fold my arms. 'What do you want, Harry?'

His eyes are set black within his spectacles as he steps closer. 'I wanna know what happened out there,' he says, and his voice is soft – too soft; if you didn't know him then you'd think he cared. '...Why d'you flake?'

I glare at him. 'You know why.'

He shrugs his lips.

This is the real man behind The Doctor. He's no professor, no German quack. He's just plain old Harry Black; a gambler, a crook and a showman from Wisconsin.

I tut and sigh. I haven't got time for this; I need to get back before I'm missed. 'Look, if you want to turn this into a peep show, then you're going to have to pay me more,' I tell him as I quickly settle on an impossible price in my head. '...Double what you're giving me now, at the very least.'

He sniffs and appears to think about it for a minute. '...Two whole pounds,' he drawls. And then – after a beat – adds quietly, 'What? Is daddy not giving you a big enough allowance already?'

'Fuck you, Harry,' I spit as I try and shove past him into the corridor – and he lets me.

He lets me because he knows that Flynn won't. His hired muscle – the prizewinning bare-knuckle boxer from Kilkelly – kicks off the wall and stands tall – blocking my path. He drops his cigarette to the floorboards and gently crushes it out with one of his weather-beaten boots.

I breathe out through my nose as I look up at him. I won't be stomped out.

'We both know you don't need the money, princess,' Harry says, stepping up behind me.

I spin, 'You know nothing about–'

He raises his voice – just slightly, just enough. 'So, I'm wondering why – why do it?' he says, shrugging his shoulders. '...I've thought about it a lot, you know – keeps me awake most nights – and guess what? I've come at it from every single angle and the only reason I can think of – for why it is that you do this – is that you do it because you like it.'

I look away.

'You get a kick out of stripping down and letting men look at you,' his says, narrowing his black eyes at me. '...Don't you?'

If only it were just that, I think to myself as I stare at the floorboards and count the scuffs and splinters. If only I were that free.

He nods, staring down his nose at me. 'Yeah,' he whispers.

I scoff and shake my head. 'You don't know–'

'I know everything!' he explodes, shoving his finger in my face, and for just a second he reminds me of my father – my cruel and capricious father. But, unlike my father, he clenches his fist and is quickly able to reign in that anger. 'I know everything there is to know about you,' he insists softly. 'And unless you want to make the front page of The Illustrated News – and the whole world to see you for what you really are – then you'll do exactly what I tell you to.'

I release a shaky breath.

'Got it?'

I look up and frown, then nod once.

'...Good,' he replies as he reaches into his pocket and takes out a fist full of coins. He counts out three shillings and six pence, and then takes my hand and drops them into the palm of it. 'Get home safe,' he whispers, before he nods at Flynn and then takes off down the corridor.

I catch Flynn's gaze as he brushes past – a brief glance before he fixes his frown and stares along the broken bridge of his nose. I close my fingers around the coins, then head down the corridor in the opposite direction.