Devil in Disguise

by Julian Clary

  ‘Why?’ asked Molly, with a laugh. ‘What are you worried about?’

  ‘First, letting someone in on our secret,’ replied Lilia. ‘The golden goose could be stolen from me. Second, there is the danger of you forming an unsavoury liaison with him. He is a man, after all. According to. Roger, Geoffrey is pig ugly, though. Forty-nine and balding, too. That should put you off, for a while at least.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound my type,’ said Molly, with a shudder. ‘Although,’ she said impulsively, ‘I’d like to think I’ll meet a man one day and be happy again.’

  Lilia looked worried. ‘Happiness is always a great danger. It could ruin everything. Luckily for Edith Piaf, the great love of her life was killed in a plane crash. That kept her going for decades. Her misery vaults were full to bursting. Even so, she had to top them up with a couple of car accidents and the suicide of her best friend.’

  ‘Do I have to be unhappy to be a great singer?’ asked Molly, contemplating Lilia’s words. ‘Can’t I just have an unhappy experience and move on with life? Maybe get married and have children.’

  ‘Yes, that is scheduled,’ said Lilia, matter-of-factly. ‘But it is years away. You will marry someone interesting and rich one day.’

  Molly smiled, pleased at the prospect. ‘Oh, good!’ she said.

  ‘Put it out of your mind for now, though. We have work to do. Geoffrey will start tomorrow, and we will test your voice with some Jacques Brel. Now go for a smoke. Roger has also provided me with the telephone number of young Marcus.’

  Molly’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘Marcus? What do you want his number for?’

  ‘Apparently he knows where to buy drugs.’

  ‘Drugs?’ gasped Molly.

  ‘Yes, indeed. You need to dabble. I have asked him to deliver six grams of high-quality cocaine, some skunk and a packet of Valium.’

  ‘I’ve never taken drugs in my life!’ said Molly, aghast.

  ‘I know. A pitiful state of affairs. The cocaine we shall use as an appetite suppressant mainly. You are not losing weight quickly enough for my liking. It has the added advantage of being a depressant. Smoking joints will not only be beneficial to your new voice but will make you dreamy and other-worldly. They will also make you depressed,’ added Lilia, happily, as if listing the advantages of a new skin-care range.

  ‘And the Valium?’ asked Molly.

  ‘The same,’ said Lilia. ‘All in all, a fabulous combination. Think of it as your Judy Garland phase. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t slide into hopeless addiction.’

  Molly thought for a moment. Taking drugs was a serious matter — she’d seen the damage they could do — but this was a controlled environment, and Lilia was hardly going to let her do anything really dangerous. Besides, she’d said she’d do anything it took to become a famous singer … I’m fed up with being a good girl, she thought recklessly. Look where it’s got me! Maybe it’s time to live a little and find out what it’s like on the other side. ‘Okay,’ she said, like a Girl Guide setting out to earn a new badge. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘As to whether or not you should have sex again with Marcus, ‘continued Lilia, weighing the options, ‘I am in favour of it. It will help to stoke up your emotions and therefore improve your singing. Particularly when he chucks you for someone younger and prettier. Your infatuation with his beautiful body followed by the unanswered phone calls will do you the power of good. I’m all for it.’

  ‘I’ll go for a cigarette,’ said Molly.

  Geoffrey, when he arrived, was indeed an unappetising man with the air of an undertaker. His hands and shirt collar were grubby and he had an unfortunate habit of grunting at the end of each song — a pig-like sound that signified its completion. His piano playing, however, was lovely, and his knowledge of torch songs encyclopedic. After a couple of days Molly and Lilia realised that he was eccentric rather than unfriendly, and if you could make him smile, which Molly’s singing certainly could, then his face changed, lighting up with satisfaction. He carried with him a battered briefcase bulging with sheet music.

  The first song that the new, improved Molly sang in Lilia’s living room was ‘Cry Me A River.

  ‘Exquisite!’ pronounced Geoffrey, as Molly breathed to the end of the last, soulful note.

  ‘It can be improved,’ said Lilia. ‘Curdle the words a bit more. You must spit when you sing that he says he’s sorry. He says he’s sorry, but he must prove it. Remember your own suffering! Cast your mind back to the night you were betrayed by Daniel and Simon. Sorry is not enough. Again!’

  Geoffrey played the opening chords and Molly’s voice quivered with the bitter memory.

  Lilia interrupted her: ‘No. You are still too kind and too gentle. You need to infuse the words with meaning, convey to me the betrayal and eternal hurt they inflicted on you that night. Sing it with irony. Find a way in. Again!’

  Molly sang the song over and over until she was reliving the events of that terrible night with every phrase. Tears ran down her cheeks and her chest heaved with emotion.

  ‘Good!’ said Lilia, at last. ‘That is what the song is about: the refusal to forgive or forget. Now you have it.’

  Geoffrey said very little, but smiled encouragingly at Molly and adjusted his playing to accommodate her increasingly dark and dangerous rendition.

  At the end of their two-hour session (punctuated with several cigarette breaks for Molly), Lilia handed the pianist a twenty-pound note and said, ‘Thank you, Geoffrey. Your playing is very satisfactory. Most sensitive. We shall continue tomorrow at the same time.’

  Geoffrey bowed respectfully. ‘I would be very happy to. A fine afternoon’s work.’ He turned to Molly. ‘Congratulations. A remarkable voice! And your teaching, Miss Delvard, is, w-ell, inspiring.’

  ‘You are most kind,’ said Lilia, opening the lounge door to show him out. ‘Tomorrow we will work on “The Man That Got Away” and Hoagy Carmichael’s “Sky Lark”.’

  ‘Marvellous songs,’ said Geoffrey, enthusiastically. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  Molly was in the garden, smoking, where Lilia joined her after she had seen Geoffrey out, Heathcliff at her heels. ‘You are going to be a great singer. I am already very proud of you.’

  Molly tipped her head back and closed her eyes, blowing smoke up towards the sky. ‘Oh, I hope so. I can begin to feel it.’

  ‘Your destiny,’ whispered Lilia, ‘awaits you.’

  Molly opened her eyes and straightened her head to look affectionately at the old lady. She smiled, raised her shoulders towards her ears, then dropped them down again. ‘I’m so excited,’ she said. ‘I’ve suddenly got a purpose in life. It’s a wonderful feeling.’

  They gave each other a warm hug. Heathcliff collected his ball from the lawn and dropped it at their feet.

  ‘Tonight is special, Molly!’

  They were sitting in the lounge. Lilia and Molly had not long finished their salad and were watching the news headlines.

  ‘Really? What’s happening? Am I going out?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I’ve arranged for a delivery of drugs. You are going to try some, just as we discussed.’

  ‘Lilia, what are you doing to me?’ asked Molly, as if she was being tempted with chocolates.

  ‘You cannot sing the blues if you are pure. You need to experience a few unnatural highs and lows to be convincing. You took to drugs after your lover betrayed you. You were trying to blot out the pain. You had nothing to live for. You were at an all-time low. Drugs were your only escape.’

  ‘I get the general idea,’ said Molly, considering the prospect.

  ‘It will be good for your biography. Your singing talent sprang forth when you were in the very depths, and so on.’

  Molly laughed. ‘I can’t believe all this. You really are recreating me, aren’t you? You’re like Henry Higgins!’

  She was amazed by the thoroughness of Lilia’s vision. She seemed to have thought of everything.

  At t
hat moment, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Ah!’ said Lilia. ‘The delivery. You stay here while I deal with Marcus in the kitchen. You must know nothing of it — he may try to sell his story to the press one day. Bastard.’ And she left the room.

  Molly heard the front door open and Marcus’s monosyllabic tones as he and Lilia went down the hallway to the kitchen. Five minutes later Lilia opened the lounge door and announced, ‘Marcus has come to see you.’ Then she added significantly, ‘I think I will have an early night.’

  She retreated through the door and Marcus shuffled in. He hung his head as if he was embarrassed to see Molly, his hands dug deep in his pockets. His tousled hair had gone, replaced with a crew-cut and a few days’ stubble. He didn’t look at her until Lilia had closed the door behind him, but when he finally raised his eyes he did a double-take.

  ‘Molly, is that you?’

  ‘Hiya, Marcus. Yes, it’s me.’

  ‘What happened to the curls?’

  Molly smiled nervously. ‘Oh, I had it straightened. What happened to yours?’

  Marcus stroked the top of his head as if he was only now aware of his new severe hairstyle. ‘I let a mate cut it one night when I was pissed. How come you’re still here? I thought you went back to your boyfriend.’

  ‘I did,’ said Molly, suddenly embarrassed at the memory of their night together. She felt a guilty twinge deep inside her. ‘It ended rather messily so I came back to Lilia’s.’

  He nodded as though this made perfect sense, then stared at her again. ‘You’re a bit thin, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been dieting.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. ‘Perhaps I’d better go,’ said Marcus. ‘Would you like a drink, maybe?’

  ‘I’m on the bike. Better not.’

  Molly sipped her brandy. How could someone she had known so intimately seem such a stranger? She had devoured this boy a few months before, and he had twisted her body into all manner of shapes, but now there seemed to be nothing between them except mutual mortification. Despite Lilia’s blessing there seemed little desire on either side to repeat their night of lust.

  Marcus mumbled, “Bye, then,’ and left the room with unseemly haste.

  Molly sat alone with her brandy and contemplated the feeling of emptiness she was experiencing. Seeing Marcus again and receiving the confirmation that sex with him had been a drunken fling, a physical release and nothing more left her vulnerable.

  Was this what Simon went through after each of his many one-night stands? How desolate and lonely it must be. How damaging. All that was left was the memory of the moment. And because she had been drunk, that memory was all mashed up in her brain: she had flashes of moaning, tongue-stretching French kisses, the urgent uncovering and tasting of genitals and other animalistic acts. She and Marcus had been possessed and overcome, unthinking to the point of mindlessness. Maybe sensual pleasure alone was the point. It was foolish to try to analyse it in a rational way. Perhaps giving in to it, seeking out that liberating second of sexual ecstasy, was a life-affirming instinct — a self-contained triumph for nature to claim over rational, developed human analysis.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Lilia coming into the lounge, now wearing her nightie and slippers. ‘I heard Marcus leave,’ she said, pouring herself a brandy and refilling Molly’s glass. ‘Rather lost his charm, I think. It can be so fleeting in young-men, I find.’ She sat down in her usual chair.

  ‘We didn’t really know what to say to each other,’ said Molly.

  ‘You were ships that passed out in the night,’ concluded Lilia.

  ‘I guess we were,’ agreed Molly.

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Confused,’ said Molly, ‘that something so intense can also be so meaningless.’

  Lilia nodded knowingly. ‘Ah, yes, indeed. There is a song called “Is That All There Is?” by Leiber and Stoller. I think you will perform it very well. Do you know it?’

  ‘Was it sung by Peggy Lee?’

  ‘After she stole it from me, yes.’ Lilia closed her eyes and began to sing in her high vibrato: “‘Break out the booze and have a ball — if that’s all there is.”‘

  ‘Yes! I’ve heard it before,’ said Molly. ‘I’d love to sing that!’

  ‘You will do it wonderfully,’ said Lilia. ‘Hang on to your feelings of confusion about Marcus. File them away. They will be very useful. It is a song about disappointment. Even death will fail to live up to expectations.’

  ‘I can’t wait, said Molly.

  ‘I shall call Geoffrey in the morning and tell him to bring the music with him tomorrow afternoon. It could be your encore, maybe.’ Lilia got out of her chair and stood in front of Molly. ‘Now put out your hand.’

  Molly did as she was told.

  ‘Here,’ said Lilia, placing her clenched fist on top of Molly’s hand and unfurling it.

  Molly felt something small drop on to her palm. ‘What is this?’ she asked, examining a small, purple, diamond-shaped pill.

  ‘Something to help you drift off to sleep,’ said Lilia, soothingly. ‘Judy’s favourite.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I need it,’ said Molly, resisting. ‘No, thank you.’ She tried to return it to Lilia, who put both hands behind her back.

  ‘You do need it. Swallow it. You will lie awake for hours, otherwise, fretting about the indignity of your drunken fuck.’

  ‘But I’m worried that—’

  ‘There is nothing to worry about!’ insisted Lilia. ‘Trust me. Billie Holiday ate them like Smarties.’

  Molly took the pill, put it into her mouth and washed it down with a gulp of brandy.

  ‘There,’ said Lilia. ‘That wasn’t difficult, was it?’

  ‘What’s good enough for Billie is good enough for me,’ said Molly.

  ‘We worked together in the fifties and, of course, she tried to embroil me in a lesbian affair, but I refused her. She wrote a song called “Our Love Is Different” about her feelings for me.’

  ‘Gosh!’ said Molly.

  ‘Not one of her finest, but touching, I grant you,’ said Lilia, casually. ‘Now, then, you need to clean your teeth and wash your face before it takes effect.’

  ‘Do I?’ asked Molly.

  ‘Yes. The fabulous thing about these pills is that your body goes to sleep before your mind does. It’s a bit like sinking into a warm mud bath. You’ll love it. Come on.’ She tugged at Molly’s arm and they tottered to the bedroom.

  Lilia gradually introduced drugs into Molly’s daily schedule, telling her it was a fun thing to do, not a chore. To be a torch songstress with no knowledge of amphetamines was nonsense, she declared. ‘No one would take you seriously. It simply has to be done. Besides, Queen Victoria used to suck cocaine lozenges. How do you think those royals keep smiling all the time?’

  To counteract the morning grogginess caused by the pills Molly was given at night, a healthy line of cocaine and a cropped straw were laid out for her on a plate after her breakfast. Lilia explained how to snort the white powder. ‘It will make you feel perky and bright-eyed. You will whiz round the field with Heathcliff after this,’ she said. ‘What a treat!’

  Another line was suggested before lunch, after which Molly could barely eat half of her steamed broccoli and tofu stir-fry. ‘The thought of swallowing anything is disgusting. I’m just not the least bit hungry,’ she said, pushing her plate away as Lilia looked on approvingly. The drug also gave her a confidence she had never known before. ‘God, I’m good,’ she said seriously, to Geoffrey, after she’d sung ‘Lover Boy’ one afternoon.

  In the evening, after the effects of the cocaine had worn off she would sometimes feel a little fractious so Lilia rolled her a joint. ‘It will take the edge off the come-down,’ she said, as she sprinkled the powdery dried green leaves with some tobacco from a disembowelled cigarette. ‘Enjoy!’

  After her first experience of puffing a spliff, Molly felt so giddy and ill she was sick into a fruit bowl.
r />   ‘Excellent!’ said Lilia. ‘The messier the better. You will have so much to talk about when you are a huge star giving exclusive interviews to upmarket magazines about your sleazy past.’

  Molly retched again. ‘I feel like shit,’ she said queasily.

  ‘Bravo!’ said Lilia, with a chuckle.

  ‘I think I’m going to pass out,’ she said, her eyes rolling backwards.

  ‘That,’ rejoined Lilia, ‘is too much to hope for.’

  After a couple of days the nausea stopped and Molly was able to enjoy the mind-altering effects of her drug selection. Now she was overcome with a new-found creativity that inspired her to write some original lyrics of her own. In the evenings she would lie on the sofa, stoned out of her mind, and dictate to a vigilant Lilia, whose pen was poised over a smart new red notepad. ‘I used to do the same for Bob Dylan,’ she let slip.

  ‘You knew Bob Dylan as well?’ asked Molly, managing to raise her head at least three inches from the cushion. ‘I thought you were more of a crooner than a folk singer.’

  ‘Let’s just say our careers brought us together and we were close for a while. After some weed he would close his eyes and think up songs. I wrote them down for him, and it’s true that I improved them where I could. One evening he wrote a little trifle called “Like A Rolling Log”. I decided a rolling stone would be catchier. Of course, he remembered nothing when he woke up in the morning.’

  ‘Well,’ said Molly, impressed, ‘please feel free to improve on my words too. You obviously have an ear for such things.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ agreed Lilia. “‘Blowin’ In The Wind” would have been a very vulgar little ditty if I hadn’t worked my magic on it.’

  ‘I feel a lyric coming on now,’ said Molly, closing her eyes and moving her head from side to side.

  ‘I am ready, my dear,’ replied Lilia, as if they were at a séance and about to contact the other side. ‘What is it you want to say? ‘She leant forward and tipped her ear to Molly’s mouth as she began to mutter: ‘I’ve got the blues … I just want to snooze …’

  ‘No,’ said Lilia, gently. ‘Try a bit harder. What is making you blue? Think.’