Devil in Disguise

by Julian Clary

  ‘Er, no. First time. I’ll be back in a tick.’ Simon went to get the drinks but the bar was far more crowded now, and no amount of pushing or shoving seemed to help. By the time he returned to Roger the two-minute bell was ringing, and they were both anxious to find their seats.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ said Roger, taking his drink. ‘Listen, meet me after the show, outside the front. All right?’

  Simon agreed and the pair separated.

  As he made his way to his seat in the stalls, Simon felt a sudden rush of nervous excitement. How extraordinary. On the very night he was to see Molly in the flesh for the first time in eight years, he had bumped into an old cruising chum he hadn’t heard hide or hair from in almost a decade. You might almost think it was meant to be, he thought.

  Just then an excited buzz filled the auditorium, and people craned their necks to look up at the royal box. A small red-haired old lady wearing a glittering gown and a modest tiara was taking her seat. She waved regally in all directions, then the house lights went down and darkness fell.

  Simon didn’t recognise her face. Maybe minor royalty, he thought. Never mind that, though: the show was about to begin.

  Unusually there was no opening act and no interval. Mia Delvard would sing her most famous songs for forty incredible minutes — and then the show would be over. The purity and intensity of Mia’s performances were what her fans adored. They had no need of a warm-up act: they were hot for Mia.

  Seven or eight musicians made their way into the pit and soft pink lights came gently up on the stage. The atmosphere was tense with anticipation. Then a lone figure emerged from the shadows and the audience erupted into rapturous applause. Before Mia had sung a note, she received a standing ovation. She stood centre stage, slender and beautiful in a figure-hugging dress and high heels, and gazed out at them all, as if she were slightly distracted by a buzzing fly. Eventually she managed a half-nod. When the applause finally subsided, the first chords of ‘Spring Will Be A Little Late This Year’ floated up from the pit. The audience were on the edge of their seats, the desperation to hear her almost tangible. Then she opened her mouth and sang.

  Hers was the most extraordinary voice anyone had ever heard: clear and pure but cracked and world-weary too. It caused a collective intake of breath from the audience, sending them in two completely opposite directions: up into a blissful state of rapture at its effortless beauty, yet simultaneously to the depths of human despair and disillusionment. Here was a singer as sweet as strawberries dipped in honey, but as sad as a stillborn baby and as bitter as a mouthful of Campari for breakfast.

  She’s stupendous! thought Simon. He’d heard her voice on CD thousands of times, but to see her in the flesh and to hear her live sent goose-bumps up and down his spine. When she finished her first song, he joined in the riotous applause, hollering and cheering from the back, almost swooning with delight at her bitter-sweet singing. The high notes of their college days were long gone, he noted, but her husky, soulful new singing, not to mention the fabulous figure and the long, straight red hair, were entrancing. No wonder she was a star. She was truly special.

  Mia never spoke between songs, simply nodded her mild appreciation of the fans’ enthusiasm. Occasionally she would look towards the upper circle, slowly down to the balcony, then the stalls. Finally she would drop her head and rest her gaze on the stage just in front of her feet. This constituted a bow.

  The nearest Mia got to singing a happy song was her rendition of ‘What A Difference A Day Makes’, but even this was performed at a funereal pace, the sun and flowers given far less emphasis than the rain. After that brief declaration of happiness rediscovered, she retreated to bleaker territory, wowing her public with ‘Goodbye, Little Dream, Goodbye’, ‘One Less Bell To Answer’ and ‘The Party’s Over’. The last two songs of her set were a dark and deathly rendition of ‘Falling In Love Again’ and finally the inevitable ‘Losing My Mind’, sung so convincingly that everyone was in tears of sympathy and concern.

  After a stunned, magical silence, the audience was on its feet, roaring its love and approval as she left the stage. She returned a few moments later to sing ‘Maybe This Time’, but even then they wouldn’t let her go. There were five minutes of tumultuous, foot-stamping applause before Mia returned to screams of delight.

  For her second encore, Mia sang her world-famous signature song, ‘Daniel And Simon’, a bleak, bluesy number that reached a peak of emotion when she sang of how Molly was done wrong. It brought the house down, as it always did, and afterwards she was showered with long-stemmed deep-red roses, thrown from the adoring multitudes up in the gods. She placed her microphone on the stand, made her graceful bow once again, but this time continued downwards and swept the roses up into her arms, burying her face in the blooms, then rolled her head backwards as if the heady scent was overpowering her. As the wild applause and shouts of her public reached a crescendo, Mia Delvard managed a wan smile. It was only momentary, and not wide enough to reveal her perfect white teeth, but it sent them into deafening, almost hysterical heights of rapture. Such a smile was like a snowdrop in spring, the first glimmer of the sun at dawn. It gave the audience hope. If Mia Delvard could be happy then maybe they could too, one day.

  Then, to the astonishment of all, Mia went back to her microphone and spoke into it, her voice low and husky. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much. You are amazing.’ She blinked her smoky eyes at the audience, who fell in love with her all over again. They hardly dared to breathe in case it stopped this unheard-of happening — Mia speaking to her public. ‘Tonight is a very special night — the last night of my world tour. I’ve visited fifteen countries and travelled many thousands of miles, but that journey is nothing compared to the one I’ve come on in the last eight years. It would not have been possible without you.’ She blew kisses to the audience, who laughed and applauded lightly. ‘This is the last time I shall be on stage for some time. I’m going to withdraw from the spotlight for a while …‘ There were cries of ‘No!’ but Mia hushed them with a wave of her hand. ‘Not forever, just long enough for me to regain my strength and renew my spirit. I’m sure you will allow me that. And so goodbye for now. But this is au revoir and not adieu.’

  With that, she smiled again at her audience and walked slowly into the wings, managing a final wave before the curtain came down and the house lights went up. Still the applause continued, even after some people had made their way out of the theatre. A few sobs were audible.

  Simon was almost the last person to stop clapping. He suddenly realised he was exhausted. He sat down and wiped his cheeks, which were streaked with tears. How he longed to see Molly and congratulate her on her amazing success and her stunning talent. He wanted to apologise for the terrible thing he had done and the pain he had caused her, make everything all right between them. But he couldn’t. Had Molly Douglas not become Mia Delvard, it would have been a lot easier to approach her. Now he had left it too late. They could never be friends again.

  He got up to leave the theatre and shuffled out in the wake of the last few audience members.

  ‘There you are!’ said an impatient voice, as he emerged from the stalls.

  Simon looked up and saw his old pal waiting for him. He was in such a daze from the performance that he’d forgotten they were meeting.

  ‘I thought you’d disappeared into the Gents like you used to,’ Roger said.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Simon. ‘Not in my condition.’ His once-hectic sex life had dwindled to a standstill a couple of years previously. ‘I don’t feel the need, these days. I rather like the way life dovetails itself together. Just when you become less likely to pull, your desire to conjugate correspondingly decreases. It’s one of nature’s little marvels, don’t you think?’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Roger. He took Simon’s arm as euphoric punters swirled around them, saying what a marvellous night it had been. They went out through the foyer towards Great Marlborough Street. ‘Anyway, I stopped all that when I
moved to Northampton. Some of us grow up, you know. Did you enjoy the show?’

  Simon lit a cigarette. ‘I was blown away. She’s amazing. And fancy meeting up with you. It’s been a really weird night.’

  ‘Can I have one of your snouts?’ asked Roger. ‘I’ve given up but I could just go a Marlboro right now.’

  ‘Here you are.’ Simon handed the packet to him. ‘The lighter’s inside.’

  Roger lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke contemplatively. Then he turned to Simon with a smile. ‘Hold tight, love. Your night is about to become even stranger. I’ve got tickets for a very select after-show party. And I mean very select. A private room at the Ritz. Mia will be there. You’re coming with me, girlfriend!’

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t,’ said Simon, flustered. As much as he longed to see Molly again, he couldn’t face her — not the way he was now. Not with everyone around her clamouring for her attention. It wouldn’t be what he wanted at all. ‘I have to go home.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Roger. ‘Don’t be a misery. There’s a free bar. You said you loved the gig. Wouldn’t you like to meet the star? I can introduce you.’

  Simon’s mouth twitched. ‘I can’t, really.’ He was just puzzling over how on earth Roger could have tickets to Molly’s exclusive after-show party when the pain hit. He moaned as it gathered and ripped through him with such force that he clutched his stomach and bent forward involuntarily, his face distorted with agony.

  ‘Simon!’ said Roger, clutching his friend to steady him. ‘Are you okay? What’s wrong?’ He supported Simon as his weight fell on him. ‘It’s all right, mate. I’ve got you. Take it easy.’

  After a full minute of torture, the pain at last ebbed away, leaving Simon sweating and panting. He pulled himself upright and let go of Roger. ‘I’m fine, thank you. There’s no need to fuss.’

  There was an excited buzz from the people around them, and Simon realised that they had ended up in the crowd outside the stage door, which had opened, causing the ripples of excitement. The crowd of a hundred or so was about eight deep and, with his stoop, Simon couldn’t see over their heads.

  ‘She’s coming!’ several people shouted. There was a flurry of flash bulbs and applause and cries of ‘Bravo!’

  Roger ignored the activity behind him, focused only on Simon. ‘You don’t look well at all,’ he said. ‘When did these pains start?’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Roger, I’m fine.’

  Just then, the crowd began shouting and shoving. Mia Delvard had emerged from the stage door, her burly bouncers making a path for her from the theatre to the road where a blacked-out Bentley awaited her. Surrounded by her entourage, her face shielded by huge dark glasses, head bowed as if she were just a commuter homeward bound, Mia moved quickly through the throng as people cried her name or clapped their hands, lit by the flashes of cameras and the lights from mobile phones that filmed her. Simon caught a glimpse of red hair and a whiff of jasmine perfume as she passed within a few feet of him. Then she was blocked from view by her hangers-on and squealing fans as she climbed into the waiting car.

  ‘Look at the colour of you. Something’s seriously wrong. Have you seen a doctor?’ said Roger.

  ‘Have you? You’re not exactly pork-sausage pink yourself,’ snapped Simon. He watched the Bentley glide down the road, carrying Molly away from him. The crowd began to disperse. Just then another, stronger wave of pain engulfed him and this time knocked him off his feet.

  Roger caught him just before he hit the pavement. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Something’s very wrong here.’

  Simon could hardly hear anything above the agony that had him in its clutches. Is this it? he wondered. Am I actually dying, at long last? Here on the pavement where Molly just trod? The pain grew and grew until there was nothing else in the world.

  He heard the distant sound of Roger’s voice. He was saying, ‘Yes, emergency services? I need an ambulance as soon as possible …‘

  The afternoon sun was lowering in the sky, and the chill of a September evening was rising up from Romney Marsh nearby. Molly picked up the tattered bamboo stick she kept by the back door and made her way down the acre of garden towards the mulberry tree. The three hens and Blake, the cockerel, usually dozed in the shade under the low-hanging branches. When she reached the tree, Molly stirred the leaves above them with her stick, and after a few indignant burbles, Blake popped out, alert and outraged as only a cockerel can be. Jodie, Jordan and Maureen followed. They were big, brassy, white Sussex Light chickens, although Blake had a handsome, tapering dark grey collar of feathers and a spray of dramatic dark blooms at his tail.

  ‘Come on, girls!’ she called. ‘Let’s be ‘avin’ you. Bedtime!’

  Familiar with the routine, the four birds squawked and scuttled across the croquet lawn and into their pen. Molly flung a handful of corn after them and fastened the gate with a sturdy Y-shaped stick stuck through the padlock catch.

  ‘Be good. I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said. She left the chickens to their roosting, envying them their simple existence.

  She felt like roosting herself, drawing in, closing her eyes and sleeping for days on end. The night before had been more draining than any performance she could remember, perhaps because it was the last on the tour that had taken her round the world over the last six months. Or perhaps it was because she knew that she had stored up trouble for herself with the announcement she had made. Lilia had been so livid that she hadn’t spoken a word to her at the party afterwards, and Molly had come home alone. Where Lilia was now, she had no idea.

  She made her way back across the lawn and up the crazy-paving pathway towards the house. A patio nestled against a semi-circular bay, around which grew a profusion of ice-white roses. There she paused. From inside the house she could hear the children laughing with Michelle, the nanny. In a minute she would go in and see them, but first she wanted to savour a few more peaceful moments looking out over the garden on a perfect late-summer evening.

  Her life had turned round so dramatically, and her happiness had blossomed so much, that she had trouble taking it all in. It had all begun eight years before, when she’d stepped out onto the stage at Ronnie Scott’s. Moments before she was due to go on, Lilia had come to her dressing room with the terrible news that Pancho, her little Chihuahua puppy, was dead. He had leapt from Lilia’s arms in front of an approaching tube when she was waiting for the Bakerloo line train to Oxford Circus. ‘He gave just one little yelp and was gone. Under the wheels like a dropped sandwich. I’m so very sorry,’ Lilia had said sadly.

  ‘Oh, poor Pancho!’ Molly had cried. ‘That’s just dreadful. I feel sick!’

  ‘I know,’ said Lilia, comforting her with a hug. ‘Such a sweet, loving little chap. How about we get you a kitten? Would you like that?’

  Tears flowed down Molly’s cheeks but just then the stage manager knocked on the door to tell her it was time to go on.

  ‘Be brave,’ Lilia had said, helping her dry her eyes and pushing her towards the door. ‘Be strong. You know you can do it.’

  When she had stepped out into the spotlight, she had sung with such sensational sadness and heartbreak that the whole audience was moved to tears. The next day, she woke up to rave reviews and an ecstatic agent whose phone wouldn’t stop ringing. She was, overnight, a star.

  The next few years passed in a whirl of hard work, dressing rooms, stages, studios and all the other places her career required her to be. There was hardly time to breathe. More than ever she depended on Lilia to advise and guide her, to help her manage her overcrowded diary, to sit at her side in interviews or just to book her hair and beauty appointments. Molly Douglas gradually disappeared completely as Mia Delvard took over. Sometimes it was hard to remember who she really was. It was only when she was here, at home with the children, that she felt she was Molly again.

  Sighing, she turned to go inside. Stooping slightly, she went through the bleached-oak door that led into the half-timbered Elizabethan hou
se. She crossed the boot room, then the small lounge, which led into a rambling drawing room and from there to the office and TV room, where she heard her sons gurgling and laughing with Michelle.

  Four-year-old Leo was a ray of joy, as happy as the day was long, forever smiling and amused by life. He jumped up as his mother came in, leaving the puzzle he was doing, and rushed over to her for a hug. ‘Leo! Hello, gorgeous!’ said Molly, taking him into her arms. ‘How have they been, Michelle?’

  ‘Wonderful.’ The nanny was holding eighteen-month-old Bertie, who was clutching a toy train and chattering happily at the sight of Molly. ‘They’ve both been very good.’

  ‘Great.’ Molly smiled at her nanny. They had formed a strong bond over the last few months when she and the boys had accompanied Molly on various parts of the tour. ‘Why don’t you get off home now? I’ll do bath and bed.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning, then.’ Michelle kissed the children and said goodnight to them, while Molly set about getting their tea, humming as she bustled about the kitchen. She loved this humdrum domesticity after the weeks of hotel rooms and planes. She savoured these moments, filing them in her memory under ‘blissful contentment’. She would never have guessed that marriage and motherhood would suit her so well.

  Molly had met her future husband at the Jazz and Blues Awards at the Grosvenor House Hotel where she had won the Best Newcomer trophy. Lilia had grabbed her by the arm and led her through the crowd of fashionable people until they were elbow-to-elbow with a good-looking well-upholstered man in his early forties.

  ‘Oh, Mr Shawcross!’ declared Lilia. ‘What a pleasure. May I introduce you to my client, Mia Delvard?’

  Molly smiled while Rupert Shawcross looked at her appreciatively. ‘Of course. The pleasure is mine. Congratulations, Miss Delvard. I’m so glad you won. I was rooting for you,’ he said, with a generous smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Molly, swimming in his handsome brown eyes.