by Julian Clary
‘Mia, this is Rupert Shawcross, the well-respected producer.’
‘Of course.’ Molly smiled at him. ‘Congratulations to you, too.’
Rupert was clutching his own award for his inspired musical version of Gaslight. ‘Thank you. Will you join me for a glass of celebratory champagne?’
Molly considered. She’d heard, of course, of Rupert Shawcross, successful theatrical entrepreneur and producer, not just because of Gaslight but because of his high-profile divorce, which had only just faded from the front pages. She knew that his wife Sheila had separated from him after he’d had an affair with the leading actress in one of his shows, and it had cost him dear. He’d lost the family home in Chalfont St Giles, complete with stables, swimming-pool and staff bungalow in the grounds, with the second home, a state-of-the-art villa in Ibiza, and had to pay annual allowances amounting to several million pounds each year. Sheila had revelled in her triumph, and been interviewed sympathetically on several daytime TV programmes about her love-rat multi-millionaire ex-husband and the effect of it all on their son. Did Molly really want to get involved with someone who had so much baggage, even if so far he was just offering her a glass of champagne? She could already feel the crackle of chemistry between them and, if she was honest, she was desperate for romance, sex and a little sensual stimulation, and was likely to fall wildly in love with the first man who gave her a good seeing-to.
‘Yes, please!’ Lilia said eagerly. ‘We’d love to.’
To Molly’s delight, Rupert was nothing less than utterly charming to Lilia, and didn’t seem to mind that their drink together was a threesome. He toasted Molly with champagne, and when he went to order another bottle, Lilia grabbed her arm. ‘He is the one!’ she said urgently. ‘He is the man we have been waiting for! He has love in his eyes, love for you. A man might have everything, wealth, fame, success, looks, even, but if he does not have that fire, that longing for you in his soul and his loins, then he cannot help you. Rupert is yours for the asking. Look at his teeth. He is worth a fortune!’
‘Really, Lilia, how can you tell he has love for me? We’ve only just met!’
‘I can see it, believe me. He fulfils all our requirements. Don’t let this one get away.’
When Rupert returned, Lilia made her excuses and left them together. They fell in love that night over champagne and success. He kissed her before dispatching her home in his chauffeur-driven car, then sent white roses at dawn and more roses every hour on the hour for the whole of the next day, then three times a day for the next week.
‘What a gentleman!’ said Lilia. ‘Such tenacity! Such taste! What a life he is offering you! All we can hope is that he soon abandons the theme of roses and takes up diamonds instead.’
Molly hardly heard her — she was in love.
After a whirlwind romance Molly, too, had known that Rupert was the one, and she was pregnant almost as soon as their relationship was consummated. They were married just a month before Leo was born, in a quiet ceremony with only their closest friends present and the paparazzi outside, hoping for a glimpse of the very pregnant bride.
Molly had always thought that Simon would give her away at her wedding but, as it was, she asked Lilia to do it. Jane, reconciled to her old friend after Molly had called and begged forgiveness for the episode at Kit-Kat Cottage, was her bridesmaid, and Boris Norris attended with his family.
Lilia made a memorable speech at the reception. ‘I know that Molly’s parents would be very proud of her and very happy for her on this day. They are not here, so I speak for them.’ She closed her eyes, as if channelling the thoughts of Molly’s absent mum and dad. ‘Rupert, they say, “We give you the precious gift of our daughter, and entrust her to your keeping. To have and to hold, to keep and cherish, spoil and lavish. Spare no expense in the care of our beloved Molly.” A top-of-the-range BMW will do very nicely for starters. Pension schemes and life insurance are something I’ll discuss with your secretary.’
Now Molly had the life Lilia had promised her. Slumming it (as Rupert said) in darkest Kent, they nevertheless lived in a romantic and imposing house, all rambling roses and latticed windows.
Lilia lived on the top floor of the picturesque home. The sweet, cosy, self-contained flat had been the deciding feature when Molly and Rupert first viewed the house. ‘This is perfect!’ Molly had said, clapping her hands in pleasure. ‘Lilia can live with us but we’ll have our privacy. What do you think, darling?’
Rupert had already been charmed by Lilia and was aware that his wife came with an attachment. He had been thinking about buying a cottage down the road from wherever they moved into, but the granny flat upstairs solved the problem and saved him a few bob too. ‘I think it’s the one,’ he replied.
When they’d first moved in, Lilia had been happy to keep to herself, pottering about her kitchenette. In fact, Molly had had to insist that she dine with them in the evenings. ‘I don’t like to impose,’ Lilia had said graciously. ‘Thank you for thinking of me, but you and your husband need time alone together. You couldn’t possibly want me sitting between you like the Shroud of Turin. I shall stay upstairs alone and nibble an oatcake. Maybe a radish too, if I have one.’
All of this carry-on only made Molly more insistent. Before long, she had persuaded Lilia to join them for dinner each night, and thereafter the old lady would enter the dining room at precisely eight o’clock every evening. She was always slightly overdressed in something elegant but fussy, with freshly applied makeup and her ruby-red hair combed up into several improbable curls, lacquered to the resistance of a wicker basket.
With Lilia in the house, and then the arrival of Bertie, Molly had what she’d always dreamt of: a family. Just when she thought life couldn’t get any better, it had trumped itself: first weight loss, sudden professional success, fame and financial rewards beyond her wildest dreams. Then falling in love. Marriage. More wealth. A dream home in the country. Motherhood. Whatever next? Ascension to heaven?
‘Come on, boys, time for tea!’ called Molly, dishing up spaghetti Bolognese. The children giggled and shrieked as they ran and toddled for the table, their blond heads gleaming in the early evening sunshine. Molly let out a long, contented sigh and smiled.
But after a moment or two the smile faded and her forehead puckered into a frown. Despite her wonderful husband, her gorgeous children and the beautiful house they lived in, Molly couldn’t hide her growing anxiety any longer.
Over the years, as Molly’s success had grown, Lilia had become grander and grander, declaring herself solely responsible for her student’s professional triumphs. ‘You came to me a frumpy pantomime actress and you left a charismatic firework! All this is down to me and me alone.’ In the meantime, she was trying to work some of her transformative magic on herself and was no stranger to the surgeon’s knife and the sumptuous Harley Street practices where physical perfection and eternal youth were on offer at the right price. The various procedures she had undergone had plumped and smoothed her skin, any deeper wrinkles removed with fillers, so that she looked much younger than a woman in her early eighties. Her hair, though still thin, was persistently red and enhanced with a selection of weaves and clip-in tresses that added lustre and fullness. She wore a corset, more to hold her upright than to hold her in, which gave her the posture of a much younger woman. She made the most of her new 36C breasts, and the killer heels gave her height with a feminine totter. She was certainly a world away from the bent, limping old lady who had opened the door of Kit-Kat Cottage all those years ago.
Her desire to be close to Molly was stronger than ever. Whenever she went shopping with Molly in Bond Street, it had become her habit to order two of everything, one in each of their sizes. Lately she had even taken to appearing in the identical outfit that Molly was going to wear that day, though how she could predict it so accurately, Molly had no idea.
‘Not again!’ Lilia would say, with mock exasperation. ‘It must be a psychic link between us. Like twins!’
But Molly found it irksome to have a much older German double alongside her each and every day. The relationship had become stifling, and the truth was that Molly didn’t want it any more. She appreciated what Lilia had done for her, but she no longer needed her. She had Boris to negotiate her deals, a publicist to look after her image, and she was perfectly capable of managing herself. If it was her lot in life to look after the old lady and humour her until she passed away, then she would do that, but she didn’t feel the attachment to her that she had in the old days and was irritated by Lilia’s constant presence and interference.
She was married now, with two sons, and she wanted to make her own decisions, call her own shots. It might not have been so annoying if Lilia had fulfilled the role of sweet old grandma, but with her new looks and her ever-more ferocious ambition, it was like having a discontented teenager in the house.
It was an awful thing even to think, but Molly was beginning to daydream about life without her old friend. She was not as obsessed with her career as she used to be. She had enjoyed phenomenal success but now she wanted a break. Her children were still very young and they needed their mother. She didn’t have the heart to leave them constantly in the care of others. What was the point in that? Hadn’t she earned the right to take a couple of years off?
She knew Lilia would never agree. She seemed to feel that unless they toured constantly, continuing to perform and record a new selection of heartrending songs every six months, the public would forget them and move on to someone else. Things had come to a head one morning a week ago, as soon as Rupert had left for the office.
‘Lilia, I’ve come to a decision. I don’t want to work for a while,’ Molly had announced, as they sat drinking their breakfast coffee together. Michelle had taken the children down the garden to the trampoline. ‘There’s only a week left of the world tour — just five more London dates. Once it’s over, I’m taking a break. I need to spend more time with the children.’
Lilia stared at her, aghast. ‘What sort of talk is this? A break? We are just at the beginning of our journey. We cannot stop now, just because you are consumed with nauseating maternal feelings. What about nurturing me?’
‘I’ve been working flat out for eight years,’ Molly said softly. ‘I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I’ve made us both rich and successful. Surely I’m entitled to some time off.’
Lilia put down her coffee cup crossly. ‘But Boris is in talks with Paramount! We would be mad to throw it all away now.’
‘Hollywood can wait. The boys are growing up so fast. I don’t want to miss it.’
Lilia narrowed her eyes. ‘How can you be so arrogant? I have sacrificed everything for you. Now you throw it all back in my face. Ingrate!’
‘Please calm down, Lilia. I have other responsibilities. You are not the only person in my life.’
Lilia got up with slow, wounded dignity. ‘I see. You’ve made yourself quite clear, Molly—’
‘Oh, Lilia, I’m sorry — you know I love you… Lilia held up a hand. ‘No, no, Molly, I quite understand.
Others come first in your heart now. I cannot compete with a silver—haired husband or vomiting children.’
There was a pause. Then Molly said, ‘I need a rest, that’s all. A little time off. I’ll be ready to start again soon, I promise.’
‘I beg you to think about this seriously. We have poured everything, everything, into your career. Do not abandon it now, I beg you. Please, Molly, think about it before you do anything you may regret.’
Molly had promised she would. But then, last night at the Palladium, she had been possessed by something greater than herself that had spurred her on to make her announcement. She had felt calm and liberated afterwards: now she was free to live a real life for a while. Today it had been all over the papers that she was retiring for good, and she’d not seen or heard from Lilia since.
Molly sighed. No doubt she was furious. Well, they would sort it out in good time. They always did.
On the way to hospital Roger had held Simon’s hand and kept repeating, ‘You all right, girl? You all right?’
‘Am I going to die?’ Simon had asked weakly. The pain-relieving drugs administered by the paramedics were already taking effect, but he knew that he was very ill.
‘Well, we’re all going to snuff it one day, let’s face it, said Roger. ‘I’ve always fancied a brain haemorrhage. Dead before you hit the ground. Not yet, though. You’re only in your thirties. Pull yourself together. You’re not going yet, do you hear?’
But some of us will die sooner than others, thought Simon now. He was lying in his bed on the ward, curtained off from the other patients and awaiting Roger’s return. The fresh-faced consultant, wearing an expensive shirt with rolled-up sleeves, had paid a visit that morning, and after he’d examined Simon thoroughly, had taken Roger into a side-room to talk through his treatment. Simon had been in hospital for five days now and had rather surprised Roger by naming him as his next-of-kin on the official forms, which meant that Roger was kept abreast of his progress and medication.
‘I simply refuse to take on the responsibility,’ Roger had said, when Simon told him what he had done. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got enough on my plate. Visiting is one thing, getting the results of your stool samples quite another.’
‘Go on, Rog. The consultant’s a dish. This way you’ll get lots of one-on-one time with him,’ said Simon, persuasively. ‘They earn good money, you know…’
‘He hardly looks old enough to operate a Bunsen burner,’ said Roger, but he went off all the same to hear the latest verdict on Simon’s health.
He had been gone for such a long time that Simon was beginning to wonder exactly how much the consultant had to confide when the curtain round his bed was pulled back and Roger came through.
‘So — am I dying after lunch or before?’ quizzed Simon, as Roger sat on the chair next to his bed.
‘If you can get through Loose Women, you have a very sturdy constitution,’ Roger mused. ‘I spent most of the time mentally undressing the dear doctor. Dreamy, intelligent eyes and a very trim waist, but the upshot is he seems to think you’re rather ill. That was the gist, anyway.’
‘Go ahead. Make my day.’
‘You have cirrhosis, hepatitis and ascites — that’s dropsy to you. It’s why your stomach’s so swollen — full of retained liquid. You also have an inflamed pancreas, glycogen deficiency, high blood pressure, damage to your nervous tissue, and alcohol dependency, obviously. Not to mention an overload of poisons and toxins in your system and mental-health problems. Apart from that, you’re fine. They can’t do anything about your vile personality, unfortunately. I did ask.’
Oh, well, thought Simon, philosophically. That’s my life, then. It really hadn’t turned out to be as spectacular as he’d expected. Like many a tortured queen, he had simply drunk himself to death. He had sacrificed everything for the dubious pleasure of getting smashed. The eternal, fervent need to forget, to get out of it, was giving him, finally, what he craved. Death would be the ultimate oblivion, the night of nights to remember.
What would I have changed? Simon wondered. What could I have changed?
But he knew the answer to that.
Simon had always drunk to excess, but after the night Molly had discovered him with Daniel, his drinking had taken on new gargantuan proportions. If the answer to life’s problems before had been to drink, now it was to drink much, much more.
He’d got home, bedraggled and befuddled, and immediately consumed almost a full bottle of vodka. He drank until he passed out. He knew all too well that he had very probably just shattered his friendship with his soulmate — the look on Molly’s face when she saw him and Daniel together was burnt on to his consciousness. Her utter despair had frightened him like nothing else in his life ever. He drank to blot that picture out of his mind, but no matter how much vodka he poured down his throat, he couldn’t forget it.
He woke up full of self
-loathing. How could he have risked the trust and love of the only person who really understood him? A future without Molly was unthinkable. What on earth was he to do without her? The answer had been to drink.
He had drunk all that day too, desperate to call Molly but too scared of the pain he had caused her and of what she might say to him.
So he had gone out and got drunker still.
The next night he was booked to perform as Genita L’Warts at the ICA. It was a very high-profile gig, and Boris, the excitable agent, had invited television producers and commissioning editors to view the startling new talent everyone was talking about.
‘This is your big chance,’ he’d told Simon, when the gig had been confirmed. ‘I mean it. This is your stepping-stone. to the big-time. Get this right and we’re made.’
In a bid to show how upmarket his star turn now was, Boris ordered the sardines from Selfridges for the performance.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Simon woke up, feeling sick and dehydrated. There was still so much alcohol in his system that he also felt unsteady and uncentred. Shit, he thought, staring at his watch through bloodshot eyes. I’ve got a sound check in two hours.
He tried to roll on to his side and ease himself into an upright sitting position, but ended up lying in a heap on the floor. ‘Oh, bollocks,’ he said. ‘I can’t even stand up.’ He reached up to the overcrowded bedside table and blindly grasped whatever he could reach in the hope that it was a glass of water. Instead his hand clutched a vodka bottle.
‘Oh, well,’ said Simon. ‘Why the fuck not?’ He put it to his lips and drained the remnants. Then he flung it across the room. It smashed against the wall, spraying the room with shards of glass. His head rolled back on the dusty carpet and Simon fell into another deep, impenetrable sleep.
He slept through all of Boris Norris’s frantic phone calls and never heard the incessant ringing of his doorbell. When he next opened his eyes it was midnight and he had missed his important gig. After he had staggered into the kitchen to drink a gallon of water straight from the tap, he phoned Boris’s number. ‘Boris, it’s Simon. I—’