Devil in Disguise

by Julian Clary

  ‘There is one more thing,’ interrupted Lilia, raising her hand to silence her new lodger. ‘There is someone else I want you to meet. The real man of the house.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Molly.

  ‘My boy. My best boy. Heathcliff.’ Her eyes sparkled. She raised her voice and called towards the door. ‘Where are you, Heathcliff? Come to Lilia!’

  The door opened and a large, muscular Rottweiler, the size of a lion, pushed his way hurriedly into the room and headed straight for Lilia, panting with excitement. With his rear legs still on the ground, he raised himself in the air like a stallion, his front paws as big as table-tennis bats, one on each of Lilia’s shoulders. His impressive tongue licked her ravenously from chin to forehead as she cooed and giggled girlishly. ‘There, there! My love puppy, my baby, my gorgeous, handsome man!’

  ‘He’s… beautiful,’ Molly said, trying not to recoil at the sight of the enormous tongue lapping the old lady’s face, taking the powder and paint with it.

  ‘Yes, he is! And gentle as a baby, so don’t be frightened. Down, Heathcliff, down. Now. Come along, Molly, we will go and find your room.’

  Heathcliff sat down on the hearthrug, two syrupy spindles of saliva escaping from either side of his mouth.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Molly, tentatively, but Heathcliff never took his eyes from Lilia.

  Somewhere in his mind Simon realised it was risky to pour himself a third glass of vino rosso di Sicilia. It was only five o’clock in the afternoon, after all. The first mid-afternoon ‘snifter’ had seemed harmless enough. He told himself he deserved it. It was a pick-me-up, no less, after a traumatic sleepless night. Pick him up it had. It had given him such a spring in his step, he’d decided without much ruminating that a second was in order. This had also gone down the hatch so smoothly and quickly that he had wandered into the kitchen, empty glass in hand, and was contemplating the third. The shot in the arm that the first drink had given him had faded. The second had allowed a brief reprise, but had been annoyingly fleeting. He needed that third, yearned for it and desired it so strongly that his feet were almost tapping with impatience.

  A dark recklessness coursed through his veins, and he snatched the bottle from the counter as if some invisible figure might take it away from him. ‘Fuck it!’ he said, pulling out the cork he had stuffed back into the neck in the feeble pretence that he wasn’t going to drink any more. He knew the outcome of this game because he had played it before. Many times. Why did he pretend he could enjoy just one drink when one was never enough? And why did he wake each morning promising to have a wine-free day only to relent mid-afternoon without so much as a struggle? He would finish this bottle and very probably go to the off-licence for a second. He could always find a reason to indulge himself, and once the bottle was open it was game over. He didn’t even bother toying with the notion of restraint, these days.

  It’s not my fault, he told himself, as he glugged the ruby liquid into his wine glass. I need some comfort. I blame Molly. After all, it’s been two and half months now, and how on earth am I supposed to cope for all that time without her? It’s no wonder I need the odd drink. I’ve been discarded, and it’s the only comfort I can lay my hands on.

  For the last few weeks his drinking had been getting just a little worse and he was sure it was because, without Molly, he was unravelling. She was his best friend, his soulmate. She had abandoned him to go cavorting around the country in some dreadful show and his increasing intake of alcohol was the consequence. Usually he and Molly spoke at least twice a day and met up almost as often. When she was between jobs they practically lived together, spending hours in cafés, endlessly chatting, always able to amuse each other and never bored in each other’s company. Without her, he was lonely. It was as simple as that.

  He looked at his watch. Molly was going to call him as soon as she had settled into her digs in Northampton. It was her custom to ring him during the afternoon that she settled into a new place so that they could have a giggle over the latest hole she was staying in — another of the little pleasures they shared. But if she guessed he’d been drinking, he knew what would happen. Disapproval would creep into her voice, and she’d very often cut the conversation short, as if there was no point in talking to him in his inebriated state, and he would be left feeling more deprived than ever.

  Hopefully, she’d phone soon. He looked again at the glass of wine in his hand, luscious and inviting. He was dying to sip and savour it, roll it over his tongue and swallow it. He could just about hold himself together on three glasses of wine, as long as he enunciated clearly and didn’t start rambling. Four glasses and he was liable to start going on about the BBC, the Post Office, the DSS, British Gas or any other organisation that drink seemed to transform into the enemy du jour. Both he and Molly knew very well that if he started ranting, he was most definitely pissed. If she didn’t call soon there would be no point in answering the phone.

  The third glass of Sicilian red was risky, therefore. He was still sober enough for lucid self-recrimination, not drunk enough to be lost and pain-free. It was the tipping point.

  With the glass in hand, he wandered into the lounge and sat looking out of the window across the railway tracks towards Camden High Street.

  Simon had met Molly on their first day at Goldsmiths College in London when they were both freshers, starting out on their university lives. The welcome meeting had just begun in the college theatre and Simon was sitting in the back row, listening intently to the head of the English department, who was explaining how they were all on the threshold of an exciting new future. The door behind him flew open and a rather flustered Molly crashed through it. ‘Sorry I’m late!’ she announced, in a breathless Liverpudlian twang. ‘1 had the wrong room. I’ve been sat with a load of geeks in Geography!’

  Simon stared at her. Immediately she turned her head and saw him. She gave him a grin and headed straight for the empty seat next to him, plonking herself down without ceremony. ‘Have you got a tissue, mate?’ she asked, in a loud whisper. ‘I’m sweatin’ like a bloody ‘orse ‘ere. I’ve just run the one-minute mile in these.’ She showed him the big stacked heels on her boots.

  ‘Not easy,’ Simon agreed.

  ‘You can say that again.’ Molly rifled through her bag and pulled out her information pack. ‘Now — what have I missed?’

  ‘Quiet, please, at the back!’ called the head of English crossly. Simon and Molly exchanged looks and snorted quietly.

  They were friends from that moment on. It was only natural that they should go straight from the welcome session to the cafeteria where, over what claimed to be chilli con cane, they filled in their course-option forms identically, thus ensuring they’d be attending all the same seminars.

  ‘Shall we opt for Dickens or Sylvia Plath?’ Simon asked, wrinkling his nose and chewing the end of his Biro.

  ‘Sylvia Plath. No contest. I can’t be doing with Dickens — all them Mr Fartpants and Mr Chuzzlepricks. Drives me insane. Plath is much easier, just bumble-bees and bell jars. Then she had the good sense to top herself. Didn’t go on and on and on, like Charlie boy.’

  ‘No contest, then,’ Simon agreed. ‘What’s next?’

  ‘Medieval poetry or the complete works of Piers Morgan?’

  ‘Medieval poetry,’ they said simultaneously.

  She’s fabulous! Simon thought. He was already falling in love with her, if in a strictly platonic way, and that was a very novel experience indeed. He had never mixed with girls much, as his boarding school had been all boys and his life afterwards, in the years before he’d decided to come to university, had been decidedly male-centric. He’d thought that was the way he liked it, but there was something about Molly’s extraordinary energy and her throbbing vibrancy that drew him to her. She was larger than life, a big girl with fabulous cheekbones and a cascade of dark blonde curly hair piled on top of her head and trailing halfway down her back. She wore men’s shirts and jackets but always with a chunk o
f impossibly large diamanté on the lapel and bold, punky makeup. Simon, who was tall and willowy and rather delicate, complemented her look, and they were soon inseparable, always together in the refectory or the college bar, laughing, whispering about something or clinking their glasses to toast their brilliant futures.

  They were rather disdainful of their fellow students, whom they perceived to be over-studious and boring, at least in comparison to themselves. They were the arbiters of style in their world, and gossiped indiscreetly about those around them, creating witty but disparaging nicknames for all and sundry, ‘Anorak girl’, ‘Psoriasis Boy’ and ‘Hunky Hughes’ being just a handful of examples. They gave each other knowing looks and spoke in coded catchphrases. They were far too caught up in their own fabulousness to bother much with course work or writing tedious essays.

  Apart from their looks, behaviour and exclusivity, something else that drew everyone’s attention to them — whether they were interested or not — was Molly’s habit of letting out screeching, ear-piercing soprano notes anywhere and everywhere she went. Simon thought it was hilarious. Sitting in the bar or walking down the corridor she would, without warning, launch into an aria or an obscure line from one opera or another, culminating in a glassshattering top C that would stop all conversation, all movement around her. Once delivered, she would give a grand wave in all directions and carry on with what she had been saying or doing before this impressive musical interlude. Simon thought she was amazing and wonderfully talented, even if some of the other students found Molly’s habit a little less enchanting than Simon did. Some even took to wailing like fighting cats when they saw her. But Simon loved attention of all kinds, even the negative variety, so he and Molly saw it as further evidence of how special they were.

  The bubble they had created for themselves was impenetrable by others, a two-person tent made from the Emperor’s new clothes, with no zip, no buttons, no means of removal. They were utterly dependent on each other, their emotional well-being knitted fast together. Simon loved this dangerous new coexistence, and he was thrilled and excited by Molly.

  The only thing that might have come between them was men. But in that first year at university, Molly was recovering from a broken heart and still pined for her lost love. Many were the evenings that they opened up the vodka and Molly got nostalgic, telling Simon over and over again about Jezza and how much she loved him. Usually she’d end up weeping in an alcohol-fuelled crying jag, wondering why Jezza didn’t love her any more.

  ‘Because he’s a fool, that’s why. You’re an extraordinary creature, a tropical flower among the weeds of womankind. He couldn’t handle that. Most men, sooner or later, want to be in charge. They want their woman at home scrubbing the doorstep and making their dinner. You were never going to do that.’

  ‘No, I bloody wasn’t!’

  ‘Well, there you are, then. You were too much for him to handle. Besides, you have me now,’ Simon would say, hugging her and stroking her unruly curls. ‘You don’t need men any more.’

  ‘It’s not quite the same, though, is it?’ Molly would sniff. ‘I have needs, you know, and you can’t pretend you can do anything about those, can you?’

  ‘No,’ Simon said honestly. ‘I can’t. But I do love you, Molly. You can get a shag from anyone, but you’ll only get true love from me.’

  Then Molly would get all emotional and cry and say she loved him too, and no man would ever come between them.

  No man ever had, either. Yes, Molly had fallen in love plenty of times, once she’d managed to get over Jezza, and when she did, it would cause an irritating hiatus in their ongoing devotion to each other, but in the end she always came back to him. The men in Simon’s life never seemed to last much longer than a few hours, so there was no problem from that side of things. It was Molly and Simon, together for ever.

  Simon took another large slurp of his wine. Of course he and Molly were going through a rough patch at the moment — another reason for the medicinal administration of Sicilian red. It was all because of the dreary builder, Molly’s latest love interest and rival for his attention. It was a bore, that was all, having to think about it, talk about it and deal with it — Daniel this, Daniel that, Daniel all bloody day long. Simon really couldn’t be doing with the way Molly threw herself into her relationships. He dreaded hearing the catch in her voice when she announced there was a new, perfect man in her life because he knew what it meant: the sparkling eyes, the dreamy expressions, and the endless breathless gush. She couldn’t just date someone once a week, take it slowly and let things develop. No, she always had to be devoured by the new lover, investing all her emotional well-being in a romantic ideal that, sooner or later, turned sour. And she never seemed to learn her lesson. Why, within a month of meeting this Daniel she had given up the lease on her own flat and moved in with him! Just like that, if you please. It was all too cosy and too sudden. There weren’t enough hours in the day for Molly to devote to Simon and her latest beau, and it was always the squeeze who got her attention. It was unfair, Simon thought. They had vowed to go on life’s journey together and, in his frequently intoxicated opinion, Molly was breaking her promise. Simon’s love for Molly was eternal, but it was far from unconditional. She must, at the very least, be available to him.

  Simon knew he was having a bitter and twisted moment. Perhaps he was already a little drunker than he’d realised. But he couldn’t help it — he felt deeply neglected.

  He was still staring out of the window, now feeling rather cross, when the telephone interrupted him. He put the almost empty wine glass down on the table and took a deep breath. Yes, he decided, he was sober enough to speak. He picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hiya, chuck!’ came Molly’s familiar greeting. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, hello there.’

  ‘You all right?’ Molly asked. There was a pause and then she said, ‘You on the sauce?’

  ‘No, no. I was deep in thought, that’s all. How’s Northampton?’

  ‘I think it’s all right, actually. My landlady’s German, claims to have been a huge star in her day. All silk dressing-gowns and heady perfume. Very Sunset Boulevard. You’d love her. Her name’s Lilia — bright orange hair and heavy makeup. Traditional bungalow affair: knick-knacks everywhere, photos of the good old days, lots of pink, lots of lace. My room’s okay — clean and no used condoms or filthy knickers under the bed like the last time, so that’s a plus. Masses of doilies and china ladies but that’s all right, I don’t mind that. Sheets and blankets on the bed, not a duvet, and gold-brocade scatter cushions. She’s got a huge slavering Hound of the Baskervilles called Heathcliff, and a sad old husband who’s had a stroke and can’t move or talk. Sits like a statue in the corner of the room, poor love. It’s ever so sad, Si. I haven’t had the full story yet, but I intend to — the place is dripping with posters and photos. I bet she’s had a fascinating life.’

  ‘Fabulous,’ Simon said slowly, concentrating on not slurring. ‘You must investigate fully.’

  ‘Oh, I will, God love her.’

  ‘Are you ever coming home?’

  ‘Last week now, then I’m on my way. I can’t wait. Have you missed me?’

  ‘I feel like a cheese sandwich without the pickle. I’m inconsolable. I may not last until the weekend.’

  ‘I miss you too, something shocking. Whenever I go away, you get yourself into trouble. Talking of which, have you heard from your married man?’

  ‘No,’ said Simon, dismissively. ‘Nor do I expect to.’ This was not a subject he wanted to talk about, as he was rather embarrassed by his weeping and wailing of a few nights ago when Molly had called from Stevenage. Drunk as a skunk, he’d howled down the phone, said he couldn’t live without Justin, that he was going to do something silly — all the usual histrionics Molly had heard many times before. Suddenly he’ felt a little hypocritical over the things he’d been thinking about Molly and her love life: if he was honest, he had to admit that she had put up wit
h her fair share of listening to the same old nonsense from him, just on a slightly different theme. ‘I don’t particularly care if I never hear from him again, actually.’

  ‘I see. You’ve changed your tune a bit. I thought you were about to get the noose out if he didn’t answer your text.’

  ‘No. It has no future. Justin has a wife and child. There’s nothing I can do about that.’

  ‘Well, the other night you were all for presenting yourself on their doorstep, intent on breaking up a happy home.’

  ‘I thought better of it,’ said Simon, pained at the memory of his dramatic, drink-induced threats.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Molly sounded relieved. ‘I was a bit worried you were going to make an arse of yourself.’

  ‘I don’t actually know where he lives, so there was little chance of that happening.’

  ‘Take my advice, hon, and give Justin a miss, eh? That way madness lies.’ She was being gentle with him now, not pleading but softly cajoling. Perhaps she was aware that he’d had something to drink, but the door of sobriety was still ajar and it seemed that she wanted to get her foot through it while the going was good.

  ‘Hmm,’ Simon muttered.

  ‘Time to move on. Agreed?’

  ‘I thought he was the One…’ Simon trailed off and sighed heavily. He could feel himself getting maudlin. Justin had been divine, a chartered accountant with a mean streak and well-cut suits that set off his broad shoulders. He’d talked scornfully about gays, leered at big-breasted women and said all poufs revolted him, but he didn’t mind Simon sinking to his knees to administer the relief his huge erection so clearly needed.

  ‘The One?’ said Molly, incredulously. ‘Come on, Si, I don’t want to be mean but let’s talk facts, shall we? If there is a “One” I think it’s highly unlikely that you’ll meet him at two o’clock in the morning behind a clump of trees on Clapham Common, chuck. And if you do, it might be for the best if he wasn’t busy, in his spare time, being a loving husband and father. I’m not Claire Rayner, but your ideal partner may well turn out to be gay.’