Devil in Disguise

by Julian Clary

  ‘Not for me,’ Jane said, picking up her coat. ‘I think I’ve had all I can take for one night. Give Simon my love and admiration though. ‘Bye.’ She kissed them both and started to push her way to the door. She turned back just long enough to say, ‘You might find that ingrowing pubic hair is fine now, Molly,’ and then she was gone.

  Once Daniel and Molly had fought their way to the bar and been served, they crossed the dance-floor to the toilets where they’d been told the dressing-room door was. A bouncer stood outside, shaking his head sternly at a gaggle of excited queens who were trying their best to talk their way into the inner sanctum.

  ‘But I love Genita!’ one was saying. ‘I just need to tell her that.’

  ‘Sorry, mate, no can do. She doesn’t want to see you, ‘explained the bouncer.

  ‘But I love her!’ the queen persisted, near to tears.

  ‘That will do. Make your way back to the bar now, please,’ came the firm response. The bouncer then placed a hand on each shoulder and spun the anaemic queen round. ‘Off you go,’ he said, giving a push in the right direction. More protestations followed, but no one was getting past.

  ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t bother him,’ Molly said. ‘He doesn’t seem to want any visitors.’

  ‘We’re not any old visitors,’ Daniel said obstinately. ‘Leave this to me.’ He shouldered his way through to the bouncer, with Molly huddling behind him. When they got there, he said confidently to the bouncer, straight man to straight man, ‘We’re Molly and Daniel, mate. We’re on your list.’

  The bouncer glanced at his clipboard and knocked on the door, announcing their names in a deep voice. A squeal of delight from within was all it took, and to the excited murmurs of those left waiting, the door was opened and Molly and Daniel were admitted.

  The dressing room was tiny, consisting of an old school desk with a rectangular mirror, mottled with age, propped up on it against the wall, lit by a rusty Anglepoise lamp. Simon was alone, slumped in front of it, a wad of cotton wool in one hand and a tub of Cremine in the other. He had removed the makeup from one eye but not the other. As the door closed he eyed them in the mirror. He let them speak first.

  ‘Simon, you were fabulous,’ said Molly. ‘Congratulations.’

  He smiled and stood up to hug his friend.

  ‘Brilliant, mate,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Thank you,’ Simon said softly, more or less ignoring him. ‘I’m feeling very weak. Do sit down. I think there’s a bottle of wine somewhere.

  ‘We’re all right, thanks,’ said Molly, raising her bottle of lager. They sat behind him on two grey plastic chairs. There was no window and it smelt of damp and cheap cosmetics.

  ‘Not much of a dressing room,’ said Molly.

  ‘It’s a fucking horsebox,’ said Simon, wiping his other eye several times in quick succession. He then poured mineral water over a fresh piece of cotton wool and dabbed his eyes and cheeks.

  ‘They loved you out there — really!’ said Molly.

  ‘I know they did,’ said Simon. He sat back in his seat, as if he was only able to relax now that he had removed the eye-shadow and lipstick. ‘They loved Genita, anyway. Quite a mystery, isn’t it? She’s not a very lovable character.’

  ‘A woman with balls, though,’ said Daniel, with a jovial, admiring chuckle. ‘Folks love that.’

  ‘Do they?’ Simon sighed.

  ‘Listen, honey,’ said Molly, moving in front of Daniel to give Simon a big, affectionate squeeze. ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, pal. All you’ve got to do is carry on.’

  Simon hugged her back and exhaled loudly on her fleshy shoulder. ‘But I don’t know what I do, Molly. As soon as the turban goes on, I become this harridan of filth. I’d never speak to that young lad like that in a million years when I’m myself. He can’t help his buck teeth, poor soul.’

  ‘That’s why they love you,’ said Molly, breaking out of the hug for a hearty laugh. ‘You’re fab, that’s all you need to know. And I love you, so there.’

  The mood was broken by the bass tones of the bouncer vibrating through the wooden door: ‘Lucy Cavendish from the Evening Standard, Kate Moss and Immodesty Blaize would like to pop in and say hello.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Simon, trying to be cool but clearly excited at the prospect of meeting a burlesque star and a supermodel. ‘Be right there!’ he called. ‘Tell Kate and Immodesty they’re very welcome.’

  All three stood up, and Daniel said, ‘We’d better be going.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Molly, ‘I’ll call tomorrow, Si.’ She held his face between her hands and pulled him towards her for an affectionate smacker on the lips. ‘Night, hon, have a good one.’

  She took a step back and it was Daniel’s turn to say goodbye. He opted for one of those manly semi-hugs, which turn out to be three vigorous slaps on the back followed by a quick withdrawal. ‘Night, mate,’ was all he said.

  As soon as the dressing-room door was opened, an octopus of arms reached in and desperate voices called out, ‘Genita!’ Daniel had to force a path through against the tide.

  Just before the door closed behind them, Molly turned to give Simon a final wave. He was looking at himself in the mirror, staring intently and wiping his cheek with a tissue.

  Then Kate Moss brushed past, blocking her view.

  It was five o’clock in the morning before Simon got home. Kate and Immodesty had whisked him away to a party in Primrose Hill, where Kate had told everyone what a huge star he was about to become and the Cristal champagne just kept on flowing. When he finally collapsed on his bed, drunk but excited, he knew that that night he’d crossed a bridge to a new world. Something unexpected but rich in possibility glittered before him. He had the chance to go into the place that so many longed for. When people put on makeup, dressed up and went out on the stage, what did they want? To be adored, desired, loved and fêted. That had happened to him! It could go on happening. He could become … famous. Rich. His life could be about performing. He could spend half his time as Genita, the woman never lost for words, brilliant, caustic, extraordinary …

  Was this what he wanted? Fame and adoration had really never featured in his plans for himself. His ambitions had always been more basic. If he was honest, they still were. Earlier in the evening, back in the dressing room at the Black Cap, something rather unexpected had occurred, and it was only now he was alone that he had time to contemplate it.

  Daniel.

  There had been only a fleeting second of eye-contact while he was talking to Molly but Simon had felt a fatal twinge, a stab of excitement just below his navel. After that, all was lost. As he talked, he had noticed from the corner of his eye that Daniel’s gaze was still focused on him. He wiped a trace of lipstick from the corner of his mouth to his chin, glanced across to Daniel’s hands, which were clasping his pint glass, then up to his heavy-kidded, smiling eyes. Their gaze had locked for an instant before he’d looked back at Molly.

  That was all it had been, but now Simon relived it and the swell of excitement returned. He knew this sensation well —the delightful conflagration of lust and the possibility of passion sparking into flame. He shouldn’t, but he would. A sudden feral resolve possessed him. He would make it his business to see more of Molly and Daniel and discover where this new challenge led.

  Simon fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke, head thumping, dry throat croaky and sore, there was a strange brown stain on his pillow that he realised must have come from his mouth. Well, that sometimes happened after a particularly big night. He staggered into the kitchen and drank some tap water from a dirty, tea-stained mug. He returned to his bed and dialled Molly’s number. ‘So Kate and I are the best of friends,’ he said teasingly.

  ‘You sound rough,’ said Molly. ‘Just woken up?’

  ‘Yes, but I feel wonderful.’

  ‘So you should. Congratulations on last night, Simon. Fantastic.’

  ‘Thank you. You and Daniel had a good time, then?’

 
‘Brilliant, yes.’

  ‘Good. I’m so pleased. I wouldn’t want to speak too soon but I think you may have finally found a boyfriend I approve of.’

  ‘Wonders will never cease. You’ve got a job and my fella gets the thumbs-up.’

  ‘Listen — I’ve got a night off. I’d like to take you both out to dinner.’

  ‘Ah. That’s really kind of you, but we’re already going out. It’s our anniversary.’

  Simon’s lips tightened but he managed to keep his voice light. ‘How nice! Why don’t I come along?’

  ‘Well,’ said Molly, clearly unsure, ‘I think Daniel wants it to be just the two of us, you see.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense! I haven’t seen you for months and I want to celebrate too. How’s about I pay?’

  ‘Well, it’s not really—’

  ‘I insist. I can be a surprise for Daniel.’

  ‘Any other night we’d love to, honestly. It’s just that we’ve made plans. He’s taking me to Joe Allen’s.’

  Simon’s mood curdled. ‘Oh, okay. Some other time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Simon.’

  ‘Never mind. I have to go. Speak soon,’ he said petulantly, and hung up. He realised that he was cross with Molly for getting in the way of his seeing Daniel again. How naughty I am! he thought, amazed at himself. Daniel is Molly’s boyfriend. She adores him. There’s no point in seeing him again: he belongs to her.

  But he couldn’t deny what he felt. The flutter of excitement in his chest — such a relief from the constant ache of misery: he was impatient for another viewing of Daniel. His bad lustful angel sat on his shoulder, telling him that it wouldn’t matter if he just looked at him again — would it?

  Daniel and Molly would be in Joe Allen’s later, toasting their love over a romantic anniversary dinner. What was to stop Simon turning up and joining them? If he ordered a bottle of champagne as soon as he arrived, they could hardly be so rude as to ask him to leave. And what harm could it possibly do? He only wanted to look, he told himself again. Would Molly begrudge him that? Of course she wouldn’t!

  He spent the rest of the afternoon lazing about, managing to change his sheets and the stained pillowcase, thinking over and over again about Daniel’s beautiful eyes staring into his.

  Before he went out, he had a bath and ate a bowl of Heinz spaghetti — his favourite since he was a child. He dressed to the nines in a three-piece suit with a lavender shirt and a white tie, then headed into town. He started his evening in Soho, arriving at Revenge around seven o’clock. He was on his second pint when Charles sauntered in.

  ‘Well,’ Charles said, raising his eyebrows, ‘the prodigal returns.’

  ‘The prodigal is just passing through,’ replied Simon. ‘Having a last glance at his sad, sordid life as it used to be before he swans off to richer, more glamorous waters.’

  ‘Get you,’ said Charles. ‘You’ve won a drag competition, not been voted President of the fucking United States. Now buy me a drink before you leave us.’

  ‘They don’t sell Cristal in this dive, so will a pint of lager do?’ said Simon, grandly.

  ‘Very nicely, thank you.’

  They spent the next couple of hours bitching and drinking, until Simon announced he must be off.

  ‘Take care, dear one,’ said Charles. ‘Love you, wouldn’t wanna be you.’

  ‘You’ve been …’ Simon searched for the words. ‘Well, you’ve been. Let’s just leave it at that.’ He nodded goodbye and headed for the door.

  ‘See you on the way down,’ called Charles.

  Simon enjoyed his walk in the fresh autumn air and arrived at the restaurant in Exeter Street at half past nine. The place was packed, as usual, and there was a queue of about six people waiting for tables to become available. Simon brushed past them and came face to face with the maître d’.

  ‘I am a surprise guest for the sweet couple over there on the table for two. Do you think you could bring me a chair?’

  The maitre d’ glanced over to where Molly and Daniel were halfway through their main course, gazing longingly into each other’s eyes between mouthfuls. As Simon looked at Daniel, his heart rate soared.

  ‘I am sorry,’ began the maitre d’, in a thick French accent, ‘there is no room on that table for another chair.’

  ‘I see,’ said Simon.

  ‘Maybe you can wait for them at the bar?’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Simon. ‘I’m her brother. I’ve just flown in from Los Angeles as a surprise. Surely …‘ He smiled encouragingly.

  The maître d’ was stony-faced. ‘Unfortunately it is not possible.’

  ‘And I’ve got cancer,’ said Simon, raising his voice so those around him could hear.

  They looked at each other for a moment. Then the maitre d’s face softened, and he said, ‘Just give me a moment. I will get a chair for you.’

  ‘Thank you so much!’ Simon beamed. ‘And a bottle of champagne, kind of maintenant.’

  A moment later he was squeezing on to a chair between Molly and Daniel, who stared at him, astonished.

  ‘Hello, darlings! I just couldn’t keep away!’ he gushed, as the two lovebirds looked horrified. ‘You don’t mind if I join you, do you?’

  ‘Simon!’ said Molly, embarrassed. ‘We’re in the middle of dinner!’

  ‘I know and I apologise,’ said Simon. ‘But as I was in the area I couldn’t let the occasion pass without giving you both my blessing.’

  Just then a waiter arrived with the champagne, whispering in Simon’s ear that it was ‘on the house’.

  ‘Lovely,’ Simon said. ‘Just some fizz to toast you with, you gorgeous things.’

  The waiter began to pour champagne into their glasses.

  ‘Well, this is very nice of you,’ said Daniel, handsome in a black linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up beyond his biceps.

  ‘You’ve got a tattoo!’ said Simon, touching the object of his desire with a forefinger. ‘Is it a Celtic symbol?’

  ‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘Arsenal coat-of-arms.’

  Simon managed to stop stroking Daniel’s arm and pick up his champagne flute. ‘To the three of us! Congratulations on your first year together. Here’s to many more.’

  Molly and Daniel dutifully picked up their glasses and the three of them said, ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Great to see you, Si,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Yes, it is, love,’ said Molly, looking happier now she could see that Daniel didn’t mind Simon dropping by. ‘Thank you for being such a good friend.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Simon gulped back his champagne in a couple of mouthfuls. ‘Now, I’d better be on my way.’ He knew it was important not to outstay his welcome. Daniel would still be forming an opinion of him so, now that the heart-warming surprise had been delivered and both Molly and Daniel were beginning to enjoy his intrusion, it was time for him to leave.

  ‘No!’ protested Molly. ‘Stay and finish the champagne with us.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ insisted Simon. ‘I shall leave you two to your evening together and disturb you no longer.’ Despite their pleadings, Simon blew kisses to them both and disappeared as quickly as he had come.

  I’m so naughty, he told himself, as he headed for the tube. But what harm can it do? It’s just a fantasy. It won’t come to anything. Oh. He’s divine … Lucky Molly.

  The popularity of Simon’s alter ego, Genita L’Warts, continued to grow. He started to get enquiries from small theatres, and an agent from the alternative comedy circuit (a different world from the drag circuit) called Boris Norris arranged a meeting with him. Over lunch at the French House in Soho, he proposed a tour of universities and possibly a three-week run at the Edinburgh Festival. ‘No good fiddling around with these pub gigs, mate. You need a strategy. Things could take off for you, big-time, if you want them to.’

  Simon thought that Boris looked a bit like James Dean, and told him as much, adding, ‘Before the car crash, obviously.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said B
oris, flattered. He was tall and a little stout, married with two young children, and wore Fred Perry shirts and Dr Marten boots. Simon hadn’t a hope of seducing him, he realised, but then again … away from home, late at night in a hotel room after too many beers, anything might happen. He filed the delicious thought away for later consideration. Daniel was his current project. Boris’s potential would have to wait.

  ‘So, are you interested? Do you want to sign with me?’

  ‘Hell, why not?’ declared Simon. ‘Where’s the dotted line?’

  Boris grinned. ‘Great. We’re going to be huge, I promise. You, me and Genita.’

  Simon had decided to give in gracefully to the presence of Genita in his life. He wasn’t the fighting type, after all. Like a triffid, Genita seemed to have a life of her own and a rapacious appetite for professional success and vodka that Simon could only wonder at. Besides, Grey Goose wasn’t cheap. He needed all the work he could get to keep the cuckoo in his nest happy and sated.

  And Genita L’Warts had, almost despite Simon, begun to evolve. She was still as vile as ever to her audiences and a large proportion of her time on stage was spent insulting and shouting and carrying on inconsequentially, but luck had given her new material. One night she found herself in a slanging match with a lesbian standing at the front. Genita grabbed her bag and began to rifle through it, looking for something to be withering about. (This was usually a fruitful exercise. Letters, clothes, diaries — all could be held up and ridiculed.) For some reason this particular woman had three fresh sardines zipped up in a supermarket cooler bag, complete with heads and tails.

  ‘What the fuck is this, you disgusting dyke?’ asked Genita, picking up a fish between finger and thumb and waving it accusingly at her. The crowd were in uproar.