@gothicity --> I made her basically as the good Daddy's girl (as shown in the set) that turned into the good Sugar Daddy's girl...
Model/ character: Skye Stracke/ Anette Welch
Bio: Born on the leap day of February 1904, Anette had a habit of being unusual. She adored the taste of absinthe the drink of the great artists ever since she had raided her au pair’s liquor cabinet when she was seven, but she couldn’t draw a circle to save her life. She refused to learn how to drive a car for herself, even though her father was the leading automobile producer East of Hudson. She liked dandelions but despised roses. She objected to the norm.
She was the girl of the Upper East Side, the pouty lips, the pin straight hair and the haute couture dresses. But her smile deceived her and shows the mischievousness that she longed to explore, but her hesitance at asking questions dampened such opportunities.
Her friends, her beautiful dollies, she loved them more than her first hand edition of Wuthering Heights. She saw them as her rock. Whereas they saw her as a fragile porcelain doll, too pure to ruin. This normal protectiveness though only increased as they attended a party at a new bachelor’s house to cheer her up over a recent ‘grievance’...
On the 30th May 1920, in the middle of 46th Street, her father’s business went bankrupt. The cars had failed, the money was gone, and so was her penthouse apartment.
On the 31st May 1920, in a dimly lit house to the North of the Hudson River, she met her match. William "Wild Bill" Lovett. The leader of the White Hand Gang, now he was the leader of her. They shared a drink over a hydrangea bush and a conversation involving the ‘bloody Boers’ and before she knew it, she’d fallen head over heels. Almost literally, but he caught her with no struggle.
She lived with him from that day onward, he had proposed in a passionate exchange of words towards the end of the night. Even he, the resident of the West Egg, knew of her father’s recent troubles. Of course she agreed, it was either that or live in the Bronx with her family, now that she couldn’t stand that at all.
Take a good look in the society pages of your local newspaper and look at the picture of the group of socialites near the top of the page, focus on the girl second to the left. Tell me what you think of her. Those sparkling baby blue orbs that shine whenever she is near a light, her quizzical brow and her twitching lip corners at the slightest silly comment that makes her seem like a delicate little rosebud. Now think of the complete opposite.
Anette Welch was a theatrical production. She was not involved in one, she was one. Even her name alone held a sense of tragedy and development to it. A-nette Ma-de-line Welch. From her tyrant years as a toddler to the simply boy crazy years of her early to late teens, this girl was a show.
She had always wanted to be an actress; she told me so as a young child when we saw a poster for a repeat of an Oscar Wilde play in the local theatre. Such an old sort that man was, shame about the whole ‘lover-boy’ scandals. This was of course before her father began to make the ‘big bucks’ as people liked to whisper. Then she seemed to lose her faith in it all, her mind preoccupied with trying to act like a lady and behave the way her parents wanted her to. There was no time for dreaming anymore. It was time to grow up.
I first noticed her change in behaviour when she turned fifteen, it was only a small change in her as she was still young and relatively inexperienced but I still saw it. Her grandfather had passed away, he man who had set up their great business and left them living in a Utopia. She didn’t cry, she sighed. And it wasn’t in the sense of relief as you may be thinking, but more a release of excess carbon dioxide from her lungs. As if it had just been a passing comment rather than a serious occurrence. Her family merely shunned her for it, calling her heartless and cruel. They didn’t understand why she reacted in such a way, but like so many unfortunate happenings in life, just because you do not understand something does not mean it isn’t so. They didn’t understand, but I did. I just did nothing about it. I have always held the thought that if someone is crying it is the noble thing to do to comfort them, but if they are hiding their tears then it is best if you too act like they were not there at all.
She cried like a banshee during a famine the following four in the morning. Such a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that or time in this world is limited and yet we still hold this sense of surprise when we hear that someone has passed on, it makes no sense. It’s such a common thing. Why did it do this to them?
That was three years ago, when she still lived in that uptown apartment and I was sitting in my flat-share in Brooklyn thinking about her rather than taking it down like I am now.
Three years ago, Roosevelt died, anarchy took off like wildfire and Wilson won the prize for peace for creating a table where a bunch of foreigners sat and stared at each other until their time was up.
Three years ago, I thought she would be forever.
Two years ago, she left me for another. A gangster, a tyrant, a thief. Some might say that she was never mine to begin with but once you have seen the weaker side to a person they are forever yours. I tried to convince her, beg her not to go along with the hellish plan of theirs, no matter how darn romantic it was. But, sometimes words just aren’t enough. She chose her sugar-d-ddy, her fool. She chose the side of the darkness, with the champagne and the ‘art nouveau’, while I stuck to my typewriter and suspenders. They tempted her, my little angel, and showed her what it was like to not be like yourself. To subsist. She did give me her excuse though, in her typical Catholic girl fashion, let me show it to you;
“They say that the devil's water it ain't so sweet, and that you don’t have to drink it. But you can dip your feet, every once in a little while.”