Devil in Disguise

by Julian Clary

  ‘Oh, my God, I’m going home,’ said Molly, beginning to feel excited at the prospect. ‘Oh, yes, Lilia, this is fabulous news.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’re both very happy in throbbing London, ‘said Roger, tartly. ‘Some of us have done that dump and moved on.’

  ‘We are not, as far as I am aware, committing a crime by going to London. We are not taking up a life of vice or joining a cult. It is a sensible move, essential to Molly’s career.’

  ‘It makes sense, Roger,’ said Molly, softly. ‘You’ve got to be in London if you’re in showbusiness.’

  Roger thought for a moment. ‘I know,’ he said sincerely. ‘I’m only angry because I’ll miss you. You’re the best thing that’s happened to Northampton since Julian Clary appeared here in panto.’

  ‘Julian Clary was at the Derngate?’ squealed Molly. ‘I just love him. He’s so funny. I wonder if he went into my dressing room?’

  ‘That was his dressing room, come to think of it,’ said Roger.

  ‘That’s amazing!’ said Molly. ‘Wow! Did you hear that Lilia? I actually occupied the same dressing room as Julian Clary!’

  ‘He was a dirty queen, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Roger. ‘I’ve seen chorus boys coming out of that dressing room bow-legged.’

  ‘Please,’ said Lilia. ‘Do stop this nonsense. We’re leaving at the end of the week, Roger. You’re welcome to come along if you want, but I can’t think what you’d do to amuse yourself So I suppose this is goodbye.’ She offered him her cheek and Roger kissed it.

  ‘Take care,’ he said, and turned to hug Molly. ‘You look after yourself, girl. I’ve got mighty fond of you. And I know you’ve got what it takes to be a star, so go out there and get ‘em. Just don’t forget your old pal Roger, all right? I shall expect tickets to your first nights.’

  Molly relaxed into his warm embrace, surprised by how emotional she felt. She’d grown to like and trust Roger. He seemed a voice of sanity in the curious fantasy world she now occupied with Lilia. She would miss him. ‘Bye-bye, Rog. I won’t forget you, I promise.’

  ‘Fame and fortune, here we come,’ said Lilia. ‘Again.’

  Lilia and Molly moved to a studio flat on Charing Cross Road. It felt minute after Kit-Kat Cottage. ‘It is ideal,’ said Lilia, satisfied. ‘We can walk home late at night after work. Soho is our world. It is perfect that you live here.’

  The flat was in a 1930s block built above the Phoenix Theatre, and consisted of one large room with a separate kitchen and bathroom. It took them a while to get used to the cramped space and adjust to their new proximity. They still shared a double bed, which they folded up into a sofa during the day. Sleeping with Lilia didn’t even feel strange to Molly any more, she felt only gratitude towards the old lady, a remarkable woman who had, via a series of fateful happenings, become her mother in every sense other than the biological. She still felt a little uncomfortable that she was so much under Lilia’s control but everything that had happened so far — the new look, the success in Northampton, the miraculous new voice she had found — was down to Lilia and her sense of purpose, which made it all worthwhile.

  Molly could sense that she was in very real danger of becoming a star. She had to go with the flow now. The journey might be weird, but it was wonderful too.

  Lilia moved a baby grand piano into their tiny flat for them to rehearse with and set about finding gigs for Molly. Even though they were almost in Soho, there were none there yet. Molly’s first booking was in a community centre in Plaistow, and Lilia got her a late slot at a once-weekly jazz club in Luton. Then, as Christmas approached, more opportunities came their way. Lilia had business cards printed, photographs taken, a sample CD made, and went round knocking on doors or phoning every contact she could make. The results were good: as the party season approached, Molly performed at a string of Christmas dos, then at the 606 club in Chelsea’s King’s Road and the famous Vortex in Stoke Newington. Wherever she played, she was a sensation.

  ‘Word is building, my dear,’ Lilia said, as they sat together at their tiny table, eating the Christmas lunch Molly had cooked for them. ‘People are beginning to come to me, asking if Mia Delvard is available. Your reputation is spreading. Believe me, we will soon leave all this behind.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Molly knew in her heart that Lilia was right, but she wanted to hear it again. Every morning she woke up with her stomach churning excitedly, knowing she was a day closer to her dream.

  ‘I know so. It is your destiny. It is unstoppable.’

  ‘I owe it all to you. Happy Christmas, Lilia.’ Molly gave the old lady an affectionate kiss on both cheeks. The tiniest Chihuahua puppy, hardly bigger than a gerbil, nestled in Molly’s arms, Lilia’s Christmas present. ‘And to you too, precious Pancho.’ Molly gave him a peck on the top of his head, and Pancho closed his eyes contentedly. His pink tongue, no bigger than a sixpence, licked her cheek.

  ‘He’s an albino, which is very rare,’ said Lilia, gazing at their new pet admiringly. ‘He’ll go very nicely with your black Chanel two-piece, the one with the daring grey buttons.’

  ‘We can carry him around in my handbag!’

  ‘Once he’s house-trained, maybe.’

  ‘I’m so thrilled with him,’ said Molly.

  ‘I never thought I’d look at a dog again, but there was something about Pancho that I couldn’t resist.’

  ‘He’s adorable.’

  ‘You needed an outlet for your emotions. Pour your love into Pancho, not some good-for-nothing two-legged man.’

  ‘I’d take a one-legged man,’ said Molly, returning to her native accent momentarily, despite Lilia’s rigorous elocution lessons.

  ‘That is where you are wrong,’ said Lilia, politely. ‘You are no longer a rambling rose. I have pruned and cultivated you. Now we are waiting for the right man to come along and pluck you.’

  ‘Will he be long?’ asked Molly, earnestly. ‘Only I’d rather like to know.’

  ‘We are not yet moving in the right circles, my dear. There are no fish worth diddly squat in our current pond. We will bide our time until circumstances change. How long that takes is really up to you.’

  Early in the new year, Lilia set about securing the services of an agent. She had persuaded Molly to sack the previous one a few months before, when she had agreed to Lilia’s experiment. ‘If he was any good, you wouldn’t need me,’ Lilia had said dismissively, and Molly could see she had a point.

  Now, though, Lilia had changed her mind. ‘I’ve almost reached the limit of what I can do,’ she explained. ‘You need a proper agent, with access to the highest show-business echelons. But I must be careful who it is. I must find someone who shares my vision for you.’

  One afternoon she returned to the fiat in a state of some excitement. Molly was washing up in the tiny kitchen.

  ‘Molly!’ cried Lilia. ‘Come and listen. I have found us an agent. You are now represented by none other than Boris Norris, agent to the stars.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Molly. She reached for a tea-towel and dried her hands. ‘Is he the bee’s knees?’

  ‘He heard you last night at Pizza Express on Dean Street and he’s mad about you.’

  ‘Are you sure he doesn’t just want to be my agent because I’ve been in the same dressing room as Julian Clary?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ snapped Lilia. ‘Boris Norris is the best in the business. Shirley Bassey, Nina Simone, Kathy Kirby — he’s heard of them all.’

  ‘Great,’ said Molly. ‘If you think he’s right for me, then I’m happy.’

  Lilia removed her gloves and coat. She sat down on the simple brown sofa and looked seriously at Molly, who came over and sat opposite. ‘In another month, we will reach the end of our six-month agreement. I would like to propose that, before you sign with Boris, we make a pact. We will extend our partnership indefinitely, and there will be certain terms I would like you to agree with — to do with my status as your mentor and manager. When you
begin to earn money, I will need to be sure that my efforts are rewarded. That is fair enough, is it not?’

  ‘Of course, Lilia! I’m your creation so of course you must share in the rewards when it begins to pay off,’ said Molly. The idea of their agreement coming to an end appalled her: she couldn’t imagine living without Lilia now. To put it simply, she needed her.

  ‘Good. I will have a lawyer draw up our agreement — it’s best to have these things done properly. It can save much heartache in the long run. Now…‘ she looked mischievously at Molly’… I have other news, too. There is something else that Mr Norris would like us to consider.’

  Molly recognised her portentous tone. Something major was about to be announced. ‘What is it?’ she asked, almost nervous. She sensed that whatever Lilia was about to say would change her life.

  ‘How would you like to play a week at Ronnie Scott’s?’

  Molly gasped and her hands flew to her mouth. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ said Lilia. ‘Ronnie Scott’s. The most famous jazz club in London. The world and his wife will be there. Press. Reviewers. Record labels. Boris will make sure of it. Mia Delvard will perform her heart out and everyone — the whole world — will fall in love with her. Everything we have ever wanted is about to come true.’

  ‘Oh, Lilia!’ said Molly, overcome. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much! I knew you could make this happen. I always believed you.’

  ‘This is it, my little canary,’ said Lilia, gravely. ‘This is your big chance. We are an unbreakable team and you are about to become a star!’

  A delicate-looking man with yellow skin and a stoop shuffled through the excited crowds outside the London Palladium. Despite the mild autumn weather, he was wearing a woollen coat and scarf and would stop occasionally to allow a rumbling cough to work its way out of his lungs. He checked his coat pocket and found the single ticket for the back row of the stalls. Yes, it was still there. In a little less than an hour he would see the legendary Mia Delvard on the final night of her world tour. He had followed her career with interest over the years: he had listened a million times to all of her recordings, watched her rare television appearances (Mia was disdainful of the medium) and avidly read all the articles and interviews he could find. But he had never, until now, experienced her live.

  Simon had made a special effort to be there that evening. He rarely went anywhere, apart from the off-licence, and felt decidedly panicky about being away from his flat. It had taken great discipline and courage to get himself a ticket and then to the Palladium, relatively sober, in time for the performance.

  Outside the theatre, touts were asking everyone in low, urgent voices if they had any tickets to sell. This night had been sold out for months, and if he had been interested, Simon could have sold his single ticket for several hundred pounds. But he had no intention of doing that. He suspected, and rather hoped, that he did not have much time left, and one thing he wanted to do before he became incapable was see his old friend Molly in action.

  Simon stopped for another cough and studied the poster for the show he was about to see. At the top, in huge gold letters, it read, ‘MIA DELVARD World Tour 2009’, followed by the title of the show: Losing My Mind. Across the right-hand top corner a sticker proclaimed, ‘Last Sensational Night!’ Above Mia’s name were the small but important words: ‘International Artists in grateful association with Lilia Delvard present …‘. The rest of the poster featured a full-length image of Mia standing, sylph-like, in a single spotlight, dressed in her usual figure-hugging black dress. She held a microphone in one hand while the other was stretched out towards the camera. Her eyes, heavy with charcoal, were closed and her mouth open as she sang one of her show-stopping, anguished notes. At the bottom there were a few choice words of praise from her many rave reviews. ‘A star of the brightest and most illuminating kind,’ gushed the New York Times. ‘Her voice is the eighth wonder of the world,’ opined the Guardian, and ‘A star for our times,’ said the New Statesman.

  Simon pondered this last quote. The title of Mia’s show was indeed clever. She was touring at a time when most of the world was in the grip of an ominous depression, and people were indeed losing their minds, their jobs, their homes or their pensions. Mia Delvard’s dark songs expressed their mood. She seemed to speak to all of them individually. But no one could know her the way he did.

  Like most of her fans, Simon knew all of Mia’s recordings by heart. But, unlike them, he had a window into her past. Sometimes he would get out his old photos and compare the groomed and sculpted Mia with the bubbly Molly he remembered. There was one particular photo of her and him sitting on the steps of the National Portrait Gallery. He remembered that afternoon, soon after they’d left Goldsmiths. They’d been in high spirits after drinking a bottle of rosé in St James’s Park and had just been curtly asked to leave the gallery for laughing at a Beryl Cook exhibit.

  ‘What on earth were we expected to do?’ Simon had said indignantly, as they sat on the steps to recover themselves. Between howls of laughter he had stopped a passing Japanese tourist who had obligingly taken that picture of them. They had clearly tried to stop giggling while they posed for the camera, but their faces were tipped up towards the sun and their eyes were shining with suppressed amusement. Molly’s mass of wild dark-blonde curls framed her pretty, round-cheeked face and she was stunning, in a friendly, northern sort of way. He looked back to the show poster. You would never guess this was the same girl: Mia was all cheekbones and pouting lips, with soulful, sorry eyes.

  But then, he thought ruefully, lighting a cigarette, I’ve changed a bit myself.

  The cigarette only made him cough again, but he persisted and was eventually able to inhale the invigorating smoke. The coughing set off a burning sensation in his stomach that spread in all directions until he had to close his eyes and clutch at his waist, willing the agony to subside, which it did after about thirty seconds. He sighed with relief and popped two Gaviscon Extra Strong tablets into his mouth. The excruciating stabbing pains happened all day and all night now, and he lived in fear of them.

  Time for a drink, he thought. He threw his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter, then elbowed his way through the theatre doors and eventually into the heaving bar. This was really a bit much, he thought. He wasn’t used to crowds or, indeed, to physical contact of any kind, these days, and being pressed against all and sundry made him irritable.

  He had almost reached the bar when he got wedged between a big actressy woman in a vintage floral dress with an unfeasibly large red handbag, and a small-framed wiry little man wearing a pork-pie hat. Simon studied his options and decided he’d stand a better chance if he pushed in front of the man. He took a deep breath and lunged, thrusting the pork-pie hat into the people behind him, and got one hand, clutching a ten-pound note, across the bar.

  ‘Oi!’ said the pork-pie hat, squeezing angrily back. ‘I was before you!’

  ‘Oh, piss off, you little runt,’ said Simon.

  The man looked ready to punch him, but suddenly his expression changed and he stared at Simon, astonishment on his face. ‘Simon?’ he said. ‘Is that you? It is, isn’t it? I remember those eyes! Well, fuck me pink. Still as rude as ever, I see. You haven’t forgotten me, have you? It’s Roger. How are you?’

  ‘Roger?’ Simon blinked, then realised that the face of his old friend was beneath the ridiculous hat. ‘I don’t believe it! Roger. It’s been years.’ He shook his head. ‘You can buy the drinks, then.’

  ‘That’s bloody typical, that is.’

  ‘I knew something awful would happen if I came out tonight. But I had no idea it would be as bad as this. I’ll have a large vodka and tonic.’

  Roger appraised his old friend. ‘You all right, girl? How’s life treating you?’ He seemed concerned now.

  Simon shrugged. ‘I have endured. And you? Did you tire of the Midlands, or did the Midlands tire of you? Didn’t you move there in pursuit of everlasting love? Please don’t tell me it
didn’t last.’

  Roger managed to get served and they moved away from the bar scrum to stand in the corridor.

  ‘Freddie developed dementia,’ Roger confided, handing Simon his drink.

  ‘Oh dear. You don’t want that.’

  ‘The maisonette became too much for him.’

  Not a sentence you’ll hear very often, thought Simon.

  ‘I had to put him in a home,’ Roger continued. ‘He kept mistaking me for John Barrowman.’

  ‘We all have our snapping point. That must have been hell for you,’ said Simon, resting a hand sympathetically on Roger’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s all been rather awful, actually,’ said Roger, his eyes filling with tears. ‘I visit at weekends but he keeps asking me if I’ve ever worked with Denise van Outen.’

  ‘You poor thing.’

  ‘So I moved back to London. There was nothing for me in Northampton once Freddie was in the home. I’d had enough of my stage-door duties, so I decided it was time for another fresh start. I’m a window dresser.’

  ‘How glamorous. Who for?’

  ‘Poundstretchers,’ said Roger, looking momentarily uncomfortable. ‘But it’s just a stepping-stone. What about you? What have you been up to in the last eight years?’

  ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. My father left me some money so I bought a flat. I’ve got a roof over my head and that’s enough for me. Other than that, I please myself.’ There was much more to tell but Simon couldn’t begin to go there.

  ‘You’re looking a bit yellow, if you don’t mind me saying so. And you’ve put on a bit of weight by the look of your stomach. You sure you’re okay?’

  Simon drew his coat closed over his distended belly. ‘Of course I am. I’m fine. I had that motherfucker of a flu virus that’s been going round. Shall we have another drink before we go in? I’ll buy.’

  ‘All right, then. Thanks. You must be a Mia Delvard fan as well. Have you seen her before?’ asked Roger.