Devil in Disguise

by Julian Clary

  A gentle spatter of applause rippled through the room. Lilia paused, waiting for it to subside before she continued, ‘I am very touched.’

  ‘I’ll say,’ muttered Roger. Molly gave him an angry nudge.

  ‘The showbusiness world, I thought, had forgotten me, ‘continued Lilia, oblivious. ‘But then Fate brought the beautiful Molly to my door. In the few short days she has been here she has shown me such kindness. And now, tonight, she brings me new friends — all of you!’

  ‘Will you sing for us, Lilia?’ asked a rather intoxicated Renata. ‘It would be such a treat.’

  ‘I will, if you insist, delve briefly into my glorious past.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ said Peter, raising a glass.

  ‘Spare us,’ murmured Roger. ‘Trust me, I’ve been here before.’

  ‘I would like to begin with a song written for me in 1950 by James Shelton.’ Lilia cleared her throat and stroked it with her hand. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. At first there was nothing, then a low, steady I-sound. It got louder until, like a paper plane taking off, Lilia launched herself, unaccompanied, into the song.

  ‘I lost myself on a cool, damp night

  Gave myself in that misty light

  Was hypnotised by a strange delight

  Under a lilac tree.’

  Lilia sounded a little tremulous, but this added poignancy to her rendition. It was slow and regretful. As she sang her voice grew stronger and she opened her eyes. She didn’t just sing the song, she acted it, gaining intensity, her hands grasping in front of her at a bottle-shaped hallucination. She warbled through a second verse, then a third, and ended on a long, deep vibrato note.

  ‘Bravo!’ shouted Peter, when she finally ran out of breath.

  ‘More!’ cried Renata. ‘It’s divine.’

  ‘She’s got the auditory equivalent of beer goggles on!’ hissed Roger.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Lilia. ‘And now — ‘Peel Me A Grape’!’

  Halfway through this number Duncan joined in on the piano with some jazzy chords. By the end everyone, except Roger, was keeping the beat with finger-clicking, while Molly and Renata hummed backing harmonies.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Roger. ‘Sing-along-a-Granny-o?’ But no one paid any attention to him and Lilia didn’t seem to hear his catty remark.

  Another bottle of schnapps was opened and passed round, as Lilia continued to entertain her guests with ‘Honeysuckle Rose’, ‘May I Never Love Again’ and ‘Old Devil Moon’.

  ‘Frank Sinatra told me he preferred my version of that song to his own,’ Lilia told them afterwards.

  By now Peter’s enthusiasm had waned and he tapped his watch, looking worriedly around the room. ‘This is all very lovely, but has anyone seen the time? Almost half past two!’

  ‘It’s not exactly Ronnie Scott’s, is it?’ said Roger, quietly, giving Molly a meaningful look.

  ‘I shall finish with some Kurt Weill,’ said Lilia. ‘I think I just about have the energy. After all, these are the songs written by the man I believe to be my father.’ She left a pause for this impressive fact to sink in. The medley was comprehensive, from early obscure songs sung in German right through to ‘Mack The Knife’. The audience were fading by the end, although Molly was mesmerised, her eyes shining with pride and admiration. The final applause was consequently a little tired and short, and Duncan, Peter, Roger and Renata jumped up almost immediately to indicate the end of the evening. Sam and Michael were soundly asleep on the sofa while Marcus was staring into his beer can.

  Lilia raised her voice. ‘Again, thank you all for coming. I leave you with the words carved on my father’s gravestone:

  ‘“This is the life of men on earth,

  Out of darkness we come at birth

  Into a lamplit room and then

  Go forward into dark again.”’

  With that she bowed to the room and swept out, with only Molly clapping now.

  ‘My poor cat’ll be starving,’ said Roger. ‘Come on, I reckon I can fit everyone in my car, if Sam goes on the back of Marcus’s bike and Duncan sits on Peter’s lap.’

  Everyone stood up and headed out, mumbling their thanks. The front door slammed and feet hurried down the gravel path. There was a loud guffaw and stifled giggles, then the sound of car doors and an engine being started. Finally it zoomed off into the distance and there was silence.

  Simon had forgotten about the drag competition as soon as he’d posted his entry in the box. A couple of minutes later he had staggered out of the pub and headed to Clapham Common to try his luck with the shadowy figures who lurked there. When Jimmy, the manager of the pub where the competition was to be held, called him a couple of days later to confirm his appearance, he was more than a little baffled. Fortunately he was on his second glass of Veuve du Vernay and therefore in a rather good mood.

  ‘Did I really fill in an entry form? Good heavens! I blame the lager in the Two Brewers. I’m sure it was off. I ended up having sex in a skip that night with the captain of the Lowestoft rugby team. At least, that’s who he said he was — Charles said he recognised him from the menswear department at Bentalls. Typical.’

  ‘You were swallied,’ said Jimmy, in his thick Glaswegian accent. ‘You’re Genita L’Warts, apparently. But if you’d like to withdraw, I’ll understand, aye? We willnae send the police round.’

  ‘I cannot, for a moment, imagine myself appearing on stage. In drag. It’s unthinkable. I’m never drinking again.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Jimmy. ‘Genita L’Warts is a great name.’

  ‘I was very drunk. I’d have signed up for the Foreign Legion if you’d put the form in front of me. No, I don’t think so, thanks all the same.’

  ‘The prize is five hundred pounds and first dibs at the after-show buffet.’

  ‘Really?’ There was a pause. Then something seemed to possess Simon. ‘Count me in. I’ll be there,’ he blurted out.

  ‘You sure now?’ said Jimmy. ‘There’s no pressure…

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure,’ said Simon, firmly.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Jimmy. ‘Be there by nine and the show starts at eleven.’

  ‘You can depend on me,’ said Simon, and hung up. He stared at the phone with a kind of excited horror. What had he done? He’d never felt the slightest desire to be a drag queen, and now he was going to be in a competition. It was daring and different. Well! he thought. This calls for a bottle of Cava.

  The next day, Simon paced round his flat thinking and smiling. He felt more excited and invigorated than he had for ages. In the hallway he looked at himself in a mirror and tried to imagine what sort of woman he would make. ‘Genita L’Warts,’ he said quietly, several times. ‘Who the devil are you? Friend or foe?’ He giggled.

  Suddenly he had a thought and opened a cupboard in the hallway where he began pulling out the broom, the Hoover and assorted junk. ‘Aha!’ he said at last. ‘I knew it was somewhere.’ He pulled out a large roll of two-tone purple and green shot silk that he’d pinched from the Old Vic on the day he was dismissed. He’d concealed it under his coat imagining he’d make some fabulous curtains with it, but had never quite got round to it. His experience in the wardrobe department had taught him a fair bit about how costumes were made, and now it was time to put those skills to the test. Holding one end, he flung the roll down the hall, then draped himself in the gorgeous fabric, turning this way and that to allow the light to shimmer over the silk. Still swathed in it, he went back to the lounge to pour himself another drink. ‘Genita Genita,’ he murmured, between sips.

  Where does one begin? he thought. Here was a creature conceived in the final throes of drink-induced stupidity. Now he had to flesh her out and produce some sort of performance in record time. A thought flashed into his mind and he couldn’t stop himself speaking it aloud. ‘A vile, vindictive, unstable woman, though rather fabulous with it.’

  Whoever she was, she liked a drink, certainly: the bottle was empty in no time. ‘Gre
edy bitch!’ he declared.

  He started work on his dress at once.

  During the hours that Simon sat alone and sewing, he began to meditate upon Genita and who she was, like a broody seagull doggedly nesting high up on a craggy cliff, sitting on her clutch of eggs in stormy weather, willing them to hatch. It was not until he felt an ache in his cheeks that he realised he was smiling. The creative process — the sewing of the dress and the dreaming up of a new persona — had energised him and gladdened his heart. He felt alive about something other than sex for the first time in his life. He was happy!

  Well I never, he thought. I’m all of a flutter and there’s not a cock in sight.

  It was a different sort of excitement too, not the tingle in the loins or the blood-pumping readiness of the predator moving in on his prey: it was a prouder, deeper, more soulful excitement. As Genita L’Warts took shape in his mind, he felt the empowerment a sculptor must feel when he’s chipping away at bare rock, making something new and unique. He had three days to prepare, to conceive and develop his alter ego. He didn’t go out once in that time, apart from a few trips to the off-licence to buy bottles of Grey Goose vodka. Only the best for Genita.

  The more he drank, the more Genita thrived inside him, like an air bubble in a spirit level.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a visiting friend,’ replied Genita, through the very same lips. ‘Nothing to be concerned about. I shall be performing at the Black Cap on Friday. Don’t fret about it. I’ll take care of everything. Vitriol and filth, that’s what they want at the Black Cap and that’s exactly what they’re going to get.’

  ‘They’ll love it,’ said Simon, convinced that his appearance would be awesome.

  ‘I don’t want a wig,’ continued Genita, once Simon had replenished her glass with Grey Goose. ‘I only wear turbans. If you shave your head it’ll be a boon. My eyebrows are black and extend like antlers way above the hairline. My makeup is extreme, some would say grotesque. The dress is fine but needs some sequins and crystals sewing on … This vodka’s terribly weak. Are we on rations, or something?’

  Simon added an extra slurp to the glass.

  Genita took a sip. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Now, where was I? My performance — the first of many, I trust — won’t be for the fainthearted. I intend to call a fist a fist. If you get me well oiled enough I’ll take care of everything. I’m a tart with no heart. No one messes with me.’

  Simon felt the alcohol overpowering him and lurched towards his unmade bed, even though it was only eight o’clock in the evening.

  ‘I shall let you rest,’ said Genita. ‘I will still be here when you wake up. Shall we say nine thirty? Threshers closes at ten and you’re perilously low on Grey Goose.’

  Simon sank into a deep slumber, only to awake suddenly at the appointed hour as if someone had tapped him briskly on the shoulder. He rubbed his eyes, picked up his debit card from the bedside table and set off down the high street to the off-licence, pausing to be sick in a public bin outside Argos. Genita must be obeyed.

  It took Simon two days to turn the stolen fabric into a regal, full-length gown with a matching turban. It was loosely based on a dress he had helped to make for Gertrude to wear in the Old Vic’s production of Hamlet a few years back. Charles, in a rare appearance outside the bars of Soho, came to Simon’s flat to help with the fittings, then dashed to the Oxfam shop to get some glittery black shoes and to Boots to acquire makeup. When the costume was ready, they had a dress rehearsal.

  ‘You look divine!’ cried Charles, when Simon emerged in his full get-up. ‘Like a vision. But have you thought about what you’re going to do on stage? You can’t just stand there like a straight man in the Vatican. You need to do something. Perhaps you could mime to Eartha Kitt singing “Monotonous”?’

  ‘Genita doesn’t mime, said Simon, firmly, looking himself up and down in the mirror. He felt slightly alarmed at what he saw, at how strangely familiar she seemed. He had become the very antithesis of what he sought: a drag queen. A strange feeling came over him, a rare combination of excitement and self-loathing.

  ‘Who is Genita?’ asked Charles.

  Simon closed his eyes. ‘I am possessed by a dark and daring spirit. John Leslie and Bette Davis rolled together in one terrifying package,’ he replied. A sombre silence descended on the pair.

  ‘I feel a little nervous for you,’ said Charles, at last.

  ‘Don’t worry. Genita will be wonderful. She’s promised me, and I believe her.’

  On the night of the competition, the dressing room at the Black Cap was crowded with jittery amateur drag queens, squealing with excitement and smoking nervously. Simon staked his claim to a far corner and hung his dress on a light fitting. He was icy cold towards his fellow competitors, variously attired as Dannii Minogue or Dame Edna Everage, or others he couldn’t quite recognise. He unpacked his makeup and had a swig of vodka from the silver hip flask he had inherited from his father. Genita fluttered inside him like a moth in a lampshade. It would not be long now before she was released.

  ‘Touch my frock with that cigarette and I’ll save you the trouble of going to Bangkok for a sex change. Comprendo?’ he said, to what could only be a very unconvincing Davina McCall looky-likey. ‘And if you think Davina would be seen dead in a cheap top like that then … you’re probably right.’ Is this me speaking or is Genita here already? he wondered.

  ‘I’m not supposed to be Davina!’ said the naff queen, indignantly. ‘I’ll have you know you’re looking at Penélope Cruz!’

  ‘Pass me the bucket,’ said Simon.

  According to the list on the dressing-room door, Simon was to appear seventh, right after an act called Maud Boat. He sat down in front of the mirror and gazed at his reflection. Already he looked quite different: that afternoon he had carefully and ceremoniously shaved his head. Now he set to work. Starting from the nose and working outwards, he applied a pale foundation to his face and smoothed it outwards from the nose to the ears, forehead and beyond; then he powdered himself liberally. He rubbed soap into his eyebrows and reapplied the foundation, causing them, to all intents and purposes, to disappear. Now his entire head was a blank canvas.

  I look like a corpse, he thought.

  He started with the eyebrows, painting a steady arch from the inner point of the original, just above the bridge of the nose, up and out like a swan’s wing. He repeated the procedure on the other side. Next, the eye sockets were similarly exaggerated to run parallel with the brow and also coloured black, the outer edges of each eye fanning out luxuriously like feathers. A white pencil ticked between each quill enhanced the effect. Long, thick black eyelashes added another dimension.

  He moved to his mouth, using a deep red pencil to create a severe pout, although the outer edges were turned slightly upwards to add a knowing, cheeky touch. Once the outline was complete, a gash of Russian Red lipstick was applied and topped with matching Kryolan glitter. The original outline was then redrawn with black. Now his mouth was a shimmering cushion of lush stickiness.

  He dipped a brush into white iridescent powder, stroked it along his cheekbones and added a cold grey shading immediately underneath. The final touches were a whisper of pink blusher dabbed either side and two beauty spots, one under Genita’s right eye and the other on the left jawline, just an inch below her lips.

  Face done, Simon took off his shoes, trousers and T-shirt and folded them neatly. Wary of leaving anything on show in a dressing room filled with queens, he rolled them up, placed them in his holdall and zipped it shut. Next he put on two pairs of extra thick tights — even though his legs would not be on show — and released his dress from the plastic cover it was restrained in. A couple of his rivals gasped at the sight of it.

  ‘Oh, my sweet Jesus!’ lisped someone, from the other side of the room.

  ‘Get her!’ said another. ‘I thought this was amateur drag, not Vivienne Westwood’s spring collection!’

  Simon ignored
them and stepped into the dress. ‘Would you be so kind?’ he asked Penélope Cruz, who was busy snorting a line of cocaine from a Woolworths mirror.

  ‘I’ve got a terrible case of the runs,’ she said, as she fastened the back of Genita’s dress.

  Simon settled himself down to wait, staring at his reflection from time to time, completely satisfied with it. Eleven o’clock came, and he watched with serene indifference as, one by one, each hopeful tottered nervously on to the stage and was greeted with cat-calls and jeers by the drunken crowd. Here was an audience ready for a real star. Genita swelled inside him and the contractions started. Instead of gas and air, Simon took vodka and tonic in liberal quantities. One by one the acts returned, bedraggled and forlorn. The only one who had been mildly well received was a Madonna tribute with exploding tits. ‘How predictable,’ came Genita’s voice from somewhere within. Simon wiped the sweat from his brow and re-powdered.

  Finally it was time.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ shouted Jimmy down the microphone, ‘please welcome on stage — Miss Genita L’Warts!’

  Genita swept on to the tiny stage and stood there, shimmering in the follow-spot. She peered at her audience disapprovingly, as if they were youths caught sniffing glue in a bus shelter, and took a swig from the vodka bottle she held tightly in one hand. Eventually the crowd quietened, but still Genita didn’t speak. She took an air-freshener out of her handbag and sprayed the people at the front. Finally she lifted the microphone to her lips and spoke: ‘I am Miss Genita L’Warts, the patron saint of homosexuals.’

  It was the morning after the party. Lilia was sitting at the kitchen table when Molly came in for her morning muesli. She gave her a warm smile. ‘Good morning, sweet child,’ she said, in a girlish voice. ‘I am concerned that I kept you up late last night with my performance.

  ‘Oh, Lilia,’ said Molly, crossing the kitchen and grasping her hands. ‘You’re not to worry about me. In fact, I want to thank you for such a wonderful evening.’