Devil in Disguise

by Julian Clary

  Lilia wiped Joey’s mouth with a wet flannel and offered him a plastic cup half full of what looked like very milky tea. He looked gratefully at his wife, who murmured, ‘There, then. That’s better.’ She turned to Molly. ‘You see what a mother hen I am? Starlings, thrushes, husbands, lodgers — I take care of them all.’

  ‘You really do,’ said Molly.

  ‘I see only the good in people, in animals, trees, nature. I understand that we all have our place in the world. We are all God’s creatures.’ She finished feeding Joey his last spoonful, then licked the spoon herself, gave his mouth a final, gentle wipe with the cloth, then put it on the table. ‘As far as I can work out, we have two main functions on this earth. There are two imperative instincts all living creatures are born with. Can you name them?’

  Molly frowned, trying to come up with the right answer. ‘Er, let me think… Is one eating? And reproduction?’

  ‘Almost. Love and survival. That is what drives us. In fact, they feed off each other. After all, there is no point in surviving if we cannot feel the heightened emotion of love, and there is no point in being in love if we aren’t going to survive to enjoy it. We need both, and we have both. Cheers!’ Lilia raised her cup of coffee to Molly. ‘Auf dich!’

  ‘Cheers!’ said Molly, who didn’t have anything to toast with, but didn’t like to say so. Lilia’s so wise, she thought. I can definitely learn something from her.

  By the time Molly arrived at the theatre at six, she felt back to her old self. She’d had a nap in the afternoon, which had revived her nicely. She greeted Roger warmly at the stage door. ‘You’re a glutton for it, aren’t you?’ he said, passing her the dressing-room key through his window. ‘You were fairly pickled last night, but if you want a return match, I’m game.’

  He slid his window shut before she could answer, leaving her puzzled as to what he was going on about. She shrugged and headed off down the corridor.

  In her dressing room, she lit a stick of incense, opened the louvred windows to let in some fresh air and turned on her lamp. Finally she flicked the switch on the radio. It was the news, so she turned the volume down to a comforting, well-educated blather from the corner. On her way to the Green Room for a cup of tea she passed Marcus in the corridor. ‘Hiya,’ she said brightly. ‘Did you feel as awful as I did this morning?’

  ‘I wasn’t too bad. I can drink loads more than that and still feel fine,’ he replied, with a grin. ‘By the way, Molly, can’t wait to have a go with your frikadeller. Sounds like a right laugh.’ He loped off down the hall without stopping.

  Another one being odd, thought Molly, surprised. What did he mean, frikadeller? Was it something I said last night and forgot about? Oh, God, did I get so drunk I’ve had a memory lapse?

  The only person in the Green Room was Peter McDonald, wearing a black T-shirt with the words ‘Nobody knows I’m a Lesbian’ printed on it.

  ‘Evening, gorgeous,’ said Molly. ‘How are we today?’

  ‘We’re half asleep. I fear there are students living above me and there was a lot of thumping music and general high junks going on when I got home last night. I hardly slept a wink.’

  ‘That’s a job for Rentokil. You can’t put up with that. Have you complained?’

  ‘Indeed I have. I was given directions to the nearest Travelodge.’ Peter raised his eyebrows at her. ‘No need to tell me about your accommodation. I’ll find out on Thursday, will I not?’

  Molly was just pouring hot water into her cup, but she stopped and turned to Peter, baffled. ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’re having an “At Home”, I see, after Thursday’s show. Everyone welcome.’

  ‘But how on earth did you know?’ Molly said. She’d been planning to tell them all about Lilia’s offer of an after-show party during the interval, and sound out how many people might be interested in coming.

  ‘It’s on the noticeboard. I’ve already put my name down.

  We’re having schnapps and rollmop herrings and your landlady, the fabulously named Lilia Delvard, no less, is going to be there in person.’ He laughed witheringly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Molly. ‘I’m so glad you can come.’

  ‘I’m rather looking forward to it,’ said Peter, slyly, before returning his attention to the newspaper.

  Molly finished making her tea, added the milk and gave it a bit of a stir. ‘I’ll just go and have a look,’ she said casually, and headed out with her mug.

  The noticeboard was adjacent to the stage door. A letter from Equity, the actors’ union, was displayed, wittering on about minimum wages, and there was a dog-eared notice from the theatre about health and safety. A letter typed on pale pink paper was pinned to the middle of the board:

  Attention!

  Miss Molly Douglas invites you to Frau Lilia Delvard’s world-famous salon following Thursday evening’s performance.

  After a light supper of schnapps, frikadeller, gherkins and rollmop herrings, Miss Delvard herself may be persuaded to perform some of her most famous numbers.

  Places are limited, so please put your name below and see Molly for directions to Kit-Kat Cottage, Long Buckby.

  Quite a few people had already signed up for the event: Peter, Roger, Renata (who played Katisha in the show and was a middle-aged actress of the Joan Collins ilk, with quite a lot of what might be called ‘go’ in her still), the wig mistress Christine and the three stagehands, Sam, Marcus and Michael. Some of the cast had yet to arrive at work and Molly had a feeling that most would be too intrigued to stay away.

  Just then Roger appeared behind her. ‘You know what actors are like when there’s an offer of free food and drink. Bloody gannets. Still, I can never say no myself.’

  Molly laughed a little uncomfortably. ‘What I don’t understand is how this notice got up here at all. Lilia only told me she was planning a party last night.’

  ‘Oh, she came in this afternoon,’ Roger said. ‘She flew in, pushed that into my hands and asked me to pin it up for her, then dashed out. She must have been parked on the double yellow outside. I thought I caught a glimpse of a car anyway — it was one of those special tall ones with room for a wheelchair in the back.’

  ‘What time did she come in?’

  ‘About half three.’

  Just when I was sleeping, Molly realised. ‘She needn’t have driven into town, daft old dear. I’d have put it up for her.’ She stared at the notice again. It was odd to see her name up there like that, as though she’d written the invitation herself.

  Roger gazed at her. ‘Everything all right at that place?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, absolutely fine,’ Molly said at once. ‘Lilia’s a sweetheart. I love her to bits.’ She had a flashback of the old lady climbing into her bed and snaking her arm round her waist. That hadn’t been quite so pleasant. She shook her head. She’d resolved to forget about it. After all, Lilia needed some allowances made for her age, eccentricity and faded-star status.

  ‘As long as you’re sure. She’s a funny one.’ Roger sniffed. ‘You be careful, that’s all. One young lady who stayed there said she was treated like a glorified home help. You’ll be painting her toenails green and trimming her manky old minge before the week’s out, if you’re not careful. I hate to tell you but I’ve seen it all before.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Molly said stoutly. ‘She’s been fine with me. Completely fine.’

  Roger fixed her with a beady stare. ‘From London, are you?’

  Molly nodded.

  ‘Thought so.’ He sniffed. ‘I used to live in London. I was on the stage door at the Vaudeville for years, but I gave it all up and moved away just over a year and a half ago. Got so damn sick of that place — the people, the noise, the dirt, everything … and when I met my partner, we decided it was time for a fresh start. So here I am.’ Roger rolled his eyes. ‘Glorious fuckin’ Northampton.’

  ‘Don’t you miss London?’

  ‘Naah. Not really. I think I’m made for the quieter life.’

  Molly smiled
and nodded but she couldn’t imagine living anywhere but the big city. She was hit by a jolt of homesickness. Don’t worry, she told herself, only a few more days and then I’ll be home with Daniel and all this will be forgotten.

  Simon woke up late and lay for a long time staring up at the cracked ceiling and raking through the events of the night before. Once he’d got a fairly clear idea of what he’d been up to, and had managed to get control of his shaking limbs and aching head, he rolled out of bed and headed to the kitchen for restorative tea.

  He still felt guilty about hanging up on Molly the previous Sunday, but he knew it would be all right. They were prone to these lovers’ tiffs. It was painful to endure but always eventually resolved itself. She would call him or he would call her. All would be well in the end. Neither Simon nor Molly could live for long without the company of the other. It was unthinkable. How strange, then, that they were so different. Simon felt none of Molly’s desire to work and succeed. Ambition didn’t grip him at all. He liked to waft through life like a leaf on the breeze. He was far too interested in the twists and turns of fate, the random nature of all human transactions, to consider trying to control or steer his course in any chosen direction. What would be would be.

  Despite its freedom, the reality of Simon’s life was rather dull. Apart from Molly, he had few friends outside the gay scene. His life consisted of recovering from one ‘big’ night and preparing for the next. When his father had died and he had inherited several hundred thousand pounds, he had bought his current flat on Hampstead Road in Camden Town. It looked exactly like a squat but he owned it. Even with a bit of money in the bank, his lifestyle didn’t change much, although he had long since stopped attending Socialist Worker meetings. He drank a lot and slept a lot, saving his energy for his late-night prowls around the parks, cinemas, canal towpaths and night buses of the metropolis. He lived off the remainder of his inheritance, vaguely aware somewhere in the back of his mind that he was chipping away at his bank balance, and one day the supply of cash would run out. Well, once it was spent he could get another job as a dresser, if he had to. Oh dear, thought Simon. I must be sobering up if I’m thinking about working. Yuck. Now, what shall I do this evening? I wonder if Charles is popping into town for a quick one.

  He sent Charles a text. A reply came back immediately: ‘Meet me in the Brief Encounter at eight.’

  After a quiet afternoon, a shower and the application of a little Hide-the-Blemish to cover the red blotches on his face, Simon set out to meet Charles, walking south down Hampstead Road towards Soho, a journey he had made many times before, to meet Charles and Roger for another night of gaiety.

  But, of course, Roger won’t be there, he realised, with a pang of sadness. He still missed Roger, even after all this time. He’d been a part of Simon’s life for so long that when he’d moved away, it had left a gap that was hard to fill.

  In his younger days, Simon had had many friends but gradually his circle of chums had shrunk as they settled into relationships, moved away, or simply got bored with the pursuit of drunkenness and sex — Simon had heard that such a feeling could encroach as one matured, but as he’d never felt anything vaguely like it, he couldn’t understand how. As the flightier friendships had petered out and vanished, he’d been left with his two best friends, Charles and Roger, who seemed as enamoured of getting utterly plastered as he was. He’d been meeting them in dark corners of pubs and nightclubs for years to drink and scout for men, and they’d stuck together while lesser men came and went from the scene. Yet in the many hours they’d spend together since they’d first met, they’d discussed little of real importance and knew only the scantiest facts about each other.

  Charles seemed a rather lost soul, originally from San Francisco and not planning to return. He worked as a civil servant for the tax office and lived in Croydon, but was evidently able to perform his duties on the computer despite several late-night forays each week into Soho. Roger was the stage-doorman at the Vaudeville Theatre on the Strand and lived in a room above the Lemon Tree pub, next to the stage door of the Coliseum. Of the three, Roger was the one forever seeking a new chapter in his life. ‘I’m sick of this crowd,’ he’d say, week after week. ‘The same tired old faces.’

  ‘That boy over there isn’t tired or old,’ said Charles. ‘He’s fresh meat. Looks German to me. I wonder if he’d like to drive up my autobahn?’

  ‘What’s the point?’ complained Roger. ‘I don’t want to be someone’s holiday romance. They can fuck off. I’ve got more self-respect than that. I want a boyfriend.’

  Roger craved permanency, yet his consistent and unwavering cynicism about life in general seemed to prevent him attaining his goal. Every passing male between the ages of twenty and sixty was given the once-over, assessed on the spot for their suitability and usually found to be sub-standard.

  ‘Not husband material,’ Roger would say, after the cute barman had given him his change. ‘Too young. And I’m sorry, but I’m not moving in with a man who has a Betty Boop tattoo on his arm. I don’t care how good-looking he is.’

  ‘He’s only served you a drink,’ Simon pointed out. ‘He hasn’t, as yet, expressed an interest in becoming your life partner.’

  ‘I saw the look in his eye,’ said Roger, indignantly.

  ‘So did I,’ said Simon, under his breath.

  Nevertheless, they would all chat and moan and provide companionship of sorts for each other. There was never any suggestion that their friendship would lead to anything more, although Charles had once made a half-hearted pass at Simon when they were both feeling particularly desperate. Simon was quick to put his cards on the table. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do gays. I’m saving myself for the night bus home. It’s Destination Neasden. Need I say more?’

  ‘Aha!’ said Charles, not in the least bit offended. ‘I think it’s much the same on the Croydon bus. Boys will be boys, after all. Message understood.’

  One night when he and Simon were out together, Roger declared he was going on the pull and left Simon at the bar. He returned a bare three minutes later with what Simon could only describe as a novelty pensioner in tow. ‘This is Freddie,’ Roger announced. Soon they were kissing passionately, and within twenty minutes, he and Freddie had disappeared into the night together. Left alone at the bar, Simon found himself a comfortable spot and settled in for a night on his own, followed by a little jaunt on Clapham Common to finish things off nicely. He could survive without his cruising chum.

  But it seemed that true love had finally come Roger’s way, and it happened with lightning speed. The following week, he said that he was moving in with Freddie and, furthermore, that he was relocating to the Midlands.

  ‘He’s everything I’ve ever wanted,’ said Roger, misty-eyed.

  ‘You mean he lives in sheltered accommodation and he’s got some Viagra?’ snapped Simon. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’

  ‘You can’t move in after just a week,’ objected Charles.

  ‘He’s the One,’ said Roger, as if he was proclaiming the winner of a talent contest. ‘All I can say is, you know when something’s right. I only hope it happens to you one day. You can’t stay on the scene for ever, you know. Sooner or later you become a sad old fucker. So long, losers.’

  With that, he left. It was going on for two years now, and no one had heard from Roger since, but none of them were the type to keep in touch with each other. He must have changed his phone number as well, for when Simon did send a casual text enquiring after his health, there was no reply. Simon was surprised by how much he missed his old friend but, after all, they’d spent many years drinking and cruising together. Of course he wished him well and cheered him on — he was all for people getting what they wanted, good for Roger — but now it was just him and Charles.

  Simon arrived at Brief Encounter on St Martin’s Lane to find Charles had got there first and was already finishing a bottle of beer. Simon ordered his, and in no time at all, they were on their fourth lager
each.

  ‘What do you say to a change of scene?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Like where?’ Simon said warily.

  ‘Let’s give the Two Brewers in Clapham a go. The trade can be a bit rough south of the river, but that’s TV researchers for you. It’ll make a change from all the sour-faced queens in here. Talk about minty! When I asked the barman for a bottle of Becks he looked at me as if I’d told him I had a button mushroom instead of a penis.’

  ‘I’m game,’ said Simon, who knew the Two Brewers from his days in nearby Kennington.

  They finished their drinks and wove their drunken way down the street to Leicester Square tube. Simon bumped into a lamp-post and Charles said it was a ridiculous place to put one in the first place. On their way to the tube station Simon stopped at a cash machine. His credit, he realised through his lager haze, was now just six hundred pounds. Within a month he’d be broke. He felt a mixture of panic and relief. Maybe the next chapter of his life was just about to begin. He drew out fifty pounds.

  The Two Brewers was crowded and rowdy, but the atmosphere was happy and the music camp. Simon and Charles managed to secure two bar stools and settled in for another big night. It was several hours and a good four or five pints later when someone shoved a leaflet into Simon’s hand. It was an entry form for a drag talent competition the following Thursday at a pub in north London.

  ‘I might go for this,’ slurred Simon.

  Charles blinked dozily at him. ‘A drag competition? But you’ve always hated drag queens, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But there’s only one way to overcome a prejudice. Embrace it. I might be the one to convert myself.’

  Charles peered hard at the leaflet, cross-eyed. ‘Looks fantastic! Go on, do it.’

  ‘I will. Barman, do you have a Biro?’ So drunk he could hardly write, Simon managed to fill in his name and telephone number. Under the section entitled ‘Drag Name’ he paused for a moment, then scrawled ‘Miss Genita L’Warts’. He slipped his entry into the box provided and ordered another drink. Clapham Common was just up the road and he could hear it calling him.