by Julian Clary
‘Where in the name of Jesus have you been? Abducted by aliens?’
‘Er, well, I … I …’
‘This had better be good, Simon. I’ve had to deal with four hundred angry punters, theatre management, unimpressed journalists and photographers, and more TV executives than you could fit into a toilet cubicle at Soho House. Where the fuck were you? Tell me.’
‘I was asleep.’
‘Okay. That’s not great. I phoned and rang your doorbell for two solid hours.’
‘I remember having a dream about Santa and I thought I heard sleigh bells,’ said Simon, stifling a yawn. ‘I’m sorry about the stupid gig. Sorry you were left in the shit. I messed up.’
‘You most certainly did,’ said Boris. ‘What am I supposed to do? Employ some kind of minder to ensure that you’re able to fulfil your contractual obligations?’
‘Oh, I like the sound of that,’ purred Simon. ‘Maybe an Eastern European with ice-grey eyes and a tattoo of his girlfriend’s name on his torso.’
‘This is no joking matter.’
‘But unfortunately,’ continued Simon, ‘the girlfriend is back in Poland and my swarthy minder has to spend twenty-four hours a day with me. What’s a boy to do?’
‘Get a new agent,’ said Boris.
‘Oh,’ said Simon, thoughtfully. ‘It’s like that, is it?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is,’ said Boris. ‘I have my reputation to consider. You’ve made me the laughing stock of the industry. You’re a talented man but you have no future in this business. You are that most terrible of things: unprofessional.’
‘Are you sacking me because of one unfortunate evening?’
‘I am sacking you before there’s another. My nerves can’t take it.’
‘What if I say there won’t be another?’
‘I wouldn’t believe you. Good luck with your career. Goodbye, Simon, goodbye, Genita.’
Simon was undaunted by the departure of Boris. Despite his no-show at the ICA, plenty of agents were panting to get him to their books. He eventually signed with Worldwide Artists, under the guidance of Portia Thomas. His first and last booking via Portia was a high-profile appearance at the British Comedy Awards. Such was Genita L’Warts’s profile at the time that the producers broke with tradition and scheduled a seven-minute slot for one of her rants.
He’d felt the danger signals while preparing in the dressing room. As he’d applied his makeup and sipped his Grey Goose, he hadn’t felt that other personality possess him as it usually did. When the time came and he took to the stage, Genita was nowhere to be found. Instead of the glorious, triumphant crowning of the mistress of post-modern comedic genius, twelve million people watching live saw Simon mumbling, ‘Genita? Where are you?’ as he stared, mortified, into the close-up camera. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, once the excited shouts and jeers had died down. ‘I have nothing to say.’
Because they had time to fill, and maybe because they thought this was all a prelude to a hilarious bit of comic genius, the director kept the camera on Genita’s face. There was a silent stare-out between Simon trying to summon Genita and the cameraman. Eventually they cut to Jonathan Ross who did what he had to do to reignite the audience.
That was the end of Genita L’Warts. She never appeared again. Her spirit departed Simon for good, just as he had predicted. She had evaporated into thin air. Strangely, he didn’t mind. He wished her well and took great delight in cancelling all his future engagements.
‘Genita has gone,’ he told all bewildered enquirers. ‘May she rest in peace. Goodbye.’
Simon withdrew from the world of showbusiness. He screened his calls and simply ignored all messages and post. He was amazed by how quickly he was forgotten. Once the bookings and appearances dried up, so did the invitations to parties and first nights. He was even refused entry at the Shadow Lounge one night, even though he explained who he was. He blended back into his old life, which meant he stayed at home.
The years passed and gradually Simon’s world grew smaller. He spent the money he had made as Genita, then lived off social security and a small allowance that came in from an investment his father had left him. Now poor, he could no longer afford Grey Goose vodka so resorted to supermarket own brands.
Drinking began to take its toll on Simon’s body: he gained weight and his startling eyes were lost in puffiness and jowls. He knew he was becoming increasingly unappealing, with his bloodshot eyes and musty breath. All his pretty hair fell out, leaving hanks on the pillow and in the shower. His skin looked awful, his fingernails became coarse and yellow, and he could see red cracks creeping over his cheeks and nose, like sparrow’s footprints. He felt unattractive. His sexual desire decreased and eventually he hung up his cap as far as cruising was concerned. Without ever renouncing his former lifestyle, he just couldn’t be bothered.
‘I don’t have the stomach for it any more,’ he told a concerned Charles, when he bumped into him one day in Sainsbury’s.
‘That’s an unfortunate choice of words,’ said Charles, perusing the fresh-meat section. ‘But I know what you mean.’
‘I’ve had enough cock to last me a lifetime,’ said Simon, failing to lower his voice and rather shocking an elderly lady, who tutted, then scurried away with her trolley as quickly as her legs would carry her.
‘You’re not withdrawing your dance card, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that just because you’re getting fat?’
‘How dare you?’
‘I’m being honest.’ Charles looked worried. ‘You’re not looking at your peak, let’s put it that way.’
Simon didn’t want to hear it. The road back to his vibrant youth was too long to travel now. He could only go forward into an alcoholic, fuzzy, almost unreal future. By now he was in a permanent state of bleariness, incapable of caring much about anything other than the next drink. He needed Molly more than ever, but she had disappeared. What was he to do? He drank to calm himself. Sobriety was one extended panic attack and he wanted nothing to do with it.
Then one day he heard of Mia Delvard, whose fame and talent eventually pierced his tiny, self-absorbed world. He heard her voice in a shop coming over the sound system, and was at once fascinated by it. He asked the assistant who was singing and she blinked at him as though he must have come from another planet not to know that this was Mia Delvard. Simon scraped together enough pennies for a CD and bought a Mia Delvard recording.
Back home, he listened to the album while he sipped a glass of wine. Something about the girl’s voice touched him like no other ever had. It was nostalgia and bitter-sweet regret made into sound, a voice at once familiar and yet quite new to him. Then he froze. The voice on the album had begun to sing ‘Molly and Daniel were sweethearts, Molly and Daniel were one …’ He could hardly breathe. When Mia sang ‘Along came Molly’s friend Simon’, he grabbed the album cover and stared at the picture of Mia on the front. He suddenly saw who stood behind the heavy-lidded eyes, glossy lips and long red hair. He listened to the entire song, then drew a shuddering breath and wept.
The chest pains had started as a vague, irritating burn in his chest, usually the day after a particularly heavy session. Then he noticed that the pain spread, in gentle ripples, up to his ears and down to his groin.
Simon increased his water intake, assuming it to be the righter of all the wrongs he had done to his body, though he didn’t reduce the amount of alcohol he drank. He couldn’t now. He was beyond that.
Gradually the pains got worse, taking over his whole body. He simply ignored them, coping with them when they came and forcing himself to forget them when they passed.
By the time he went to see Molly at the Palladium he was on two bottles of wine before lunch, his stomach was hugely swollen and as tight as drum, and the abdominal pains alarmed him.
Hurry up, was all Simon had thought. This must be the slowest, most protracted suicide there is.
Now he knew the lie of the land. His body was sh
attered—beaten, scarred and pummelled — by years of neglect and abuse. His system had done its best in the face of the poisonous onslaught, but eventually it had had to crumble. No part of him, it seemed, was unaffected by his alcoholism.
God, he thought. I need a drink.
Roger was staring at him, pity in his eyes. It was obvious now that time was short.
At last, Simon said, ‘Roger, how well do you know Mia Delvard?’
‘I’ve known her for yonks. I got her a singing gig at an Italian restaurant and she’s never forgotten. There’s always a ticket and an after-show invitation for me, although Lilia, the old bird, her manager, would happily have dropped me. Not one for tender friendships. Why are you asking me this now?’
Simon turned his head so he could look Roger in the eyes. ‘I need a favour. Could you call her? Tell her Simon needs her. Tell her how ill I am.’
Roger frowned. ‘Do you know Mia?’
Simon smiled sadly. ‘I know Molly. We were at college together many moons ago and we were friends.’
Roger was clearly puzzled. ‘Yes, her real name is Molly — but I had no idea she was friends with you, Simon … Oh.’ Roger’s expression changed as he made the link between Molly and Simon and the words of Mia Delvard’s famous song. ‘I don’t believe it. So you’re Simon. You done her wrong.’
‘I did. I must speak to her. Please, Roger. Tell her Simon’s dying and needs to see her. Bring her to me before it’s too late.’
Lilia appeared back in her flat the following day with a suspiciously red face, which meant she had been having facial peeling at her favourite dermatologist’s. Molly was relieved to see her. She had worried that her announcement of a temporary retirement might have made Lilia so furious that she would be impossible for weeks on end. But she came down to breakfast quite happily and seemed her old self.
Molly tried to mention her break but Lilia would hear none of it, and brushed away her attempts to discuss with it with a breezy ‘Come, come! If you need a rest, you need a rest. I’m not Pol Pot, you know.’
Molly was delighted that harmony was restored.
A few nights later, Lilia came down to the lounge to join Molly and Rupert for a quick drink before dinner. ‘Good evening, Rupert, my dear,’ she said, going over to peck his cheek. She looked elegant in a light blue dress with a glittering diamond brooch. ‘I trust you have had a good day?’
‘Hello, Lilia,’ said Rupert, cheerfully. ‘Not bad, thank you. I think we’ve got Tara Palmer-Tomkinson to play Ophelia at Regent’s Park.’
‘An excellent choice.’
‘It’s what the punters want. Can I get you a drink? Your usual?’
Lilia went to sit down opposite Molly. ‘I very rarely …’ she said, as she always did’… but it would be rude to refuse. Just a small brandy to wake up my tastebuds, if you insist. And when I say small, I’m talking continental measures. Don’t just show the bottle to the tumbler if you don’t mind.’
Rupert half filled the glass with Courvoisier and handed it to Lilia, who held it up to the light and examined it as if it were an old donkey and she the keeper of the knacker’s yard. ‘Well, it’s a start, I suppose.’
Molly accepted another top-up from Rupert as she said brightly, ‘How was your day, Lilia?’
‘Rather marred by worry, if you must know.’
‘Really? What about?’
‘It’s the children.’
‘What about them?’
Rupert looked over from the drinks table, his eyebrows raised.
‘I can’t help wondering if your nanny — Michelle, isn’t it? Such a pretty girl! — is altogether wise to let the boys play in the way she does.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Rupert.
Lilia raised her shoulders. ‘It’s probably nothing. I’m an old woman. What do I know of raising children? Except in my day we didn’t throw them in the air, let them fall into ponds or eat chicken shit.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Molly, sitting up straight. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Nothing, really,’ said Lilia, demurely.
‘No. Explain to me what you mean, please. What’s Michelle done?’
‘I spent most of the day in my flat and every now and then I looked into the garden. What I saw shocked me. At one point, Michelle was throwing each child up in the air like a Frisbee. Higher and higher she tossed them, catching them as they plummeted to the ground only by the most fortuitous of good fortune. Perhaps that was just good fun and high spirits and I’m silly to be concerned.’
‘But what’s this about the pond?’ asked Rupert, coming over.
‘Oh, they both took a tumble into the fish pond. Michelle seemed to be encouraging them to balance on the ornamental edging. Naturally, at only four and almost two, the boys hardly have the skill required. Luckily she hauled them out of the freezing, filthy water before too long.’
Molly gaped at her, open-mouthed. ‘But I didn’t see any of this!’
‘You were on the phone for a while today, weren’t you? Three hours, I think it was.’
‘But …‘ Molly had been chatting to Jane for rather a long time but could she really have missed both boys being soaked to the skin?
‘Then, when Michelle fancied a rest, she simply shut the boys in the chicken run and went off for a sleep on the sun-lounger. That’s when I’m sure I saw Bertie eating chicken shit. Of course I went down immediately and let them out. Poor little things, poo smeared all over them.’
‘My God!’ said Rupert, horrified. ‘Are they all right?’
‘I just can’t believe it,’ Molly said, appalled. ‘It doesn’t sound like Michelle at all.’
‘This is serious,’ Rupert said grimly. ‘We can’t leave Leo and Bertie in the care of someone we don’t trust to look after them.’
Molly was amazed. ‘But she’s a marvel! The children love her. What would I do without her?’
‘You heard Lilia. Michelle’s been dangerous and reckless when she thought no one was watching.’
‘But that can’t be right,’ said Molly. ‘She’s very responsible. I trust her implicitly.’
Rupert shook his head, his eyes grave. ‘I don’t think we can take the risk. If we have the least doubt, she has to go. Luckily for us, Lilia is on hand to see things we can’t. We’ve had the warning and must heed it.’
‘But how will I cope without her?’ said Molly, becoming distressed.
‘My dear, you are not to worry,’ said Lilia. ‘I will pop down after Trisha to help you for a while. It will be no trouble.’
‘There,’ said Rupert, looking relieved. ‘Lilia can help you. You wanted more time with the children and now you can have it. We ought to think seriously about letting Michelle go.’
‘But, Lilia …’ said Molly, helpless to express what she was thinking. How could she tell her that she was both too old and unqualified to care for the children?
‘I am glad to be of use,’ said Lilia. ‘It gives me a reason to carry on. Especially now you are on a break.’
Molly felt sure that something was going badly wrong but she couldn’t see exactly what it was. Just then the telephone rang and Rupert went to answer it.
‘It’s for you,’ he said, holding the handset towards Molly.
‘Someone called Roger wants to speak to you. He says it’s urgent.’
Roger was waiting for Molly at the grand glass-fronted entrance of University College Hospital on Euston Road when her driver dropped her off. ‘Molly!’ he called.
‘Oh, Roger,’ she said breathlessly. She hugged him. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.
‘Don’t be silly. Of course I had to come. How is Simon?’
‘I’ll take you up to see him. He’s on the sixth floor.’
‘Is it very serious?’ she asked, as they made their way to the lifts.
Roger looked grave. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. They’ve done a lot of tests and an ultrasound scan. Basically he has all the symptoms of end-stage liver failure: jaundice, he
patitis, abdominal swelling —they’re draining off litres of fluid. He’s also suffering from alcohol withdrawal so he’s got the shakes and is a bit delirious. They’ve given him some sedation to help that.’
Molly closed her eyes. It was too terrible. ‘Oh dear. How on earth did he get into such a state?’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Years and years ago. We fell out rather badly. We were incredibly close once.’
‘He was never the easiest person to get along with.’
‘When we were young and carefree, I adored him. Couldn’t imagine my life without him. And I’ve thought of him often over the years. Every day, really. And now this …’ Sadness washed over her, and her voice trailed away as she became lost in memories.
They fell silent as they entered the crowded lift. Molly’s ordinary clothes, lack of makeup and the pair of dark glasses she wore protected her from being recognised. Once they stepped out on the sixth floor, Roger touched her arm. ‘Prepare yourself. He’s not a pretty sight. Go through the doors and he’s in the second bed on the right.’
Molly hung back, stomach churning. Of all the places in which she’d imagined meeting Simon again, his deathbed had not been one of them. She was frightened now of seeing him and of not knowing what to say. ‘Are you sure he wants me? I’m terribly nervous.’
‘You’re the one he keeps asking for. Go on. I’m going to stay here. Let you two be reunited without me being in the way.’
‘Thank you, Roger,’ she said, and impulsively kissed his cheek. ‘You’re a dear, kind man.’ Then she gathered her courage and walked slowly down the ward to Simon’s bed. As she approached, she saw that the curtains were partly drawn round the bed and a male nurse was busy, probably taking his patient’s blood pressure. She waited awkwardly until he’d finished, then drew a deep breath and walked into view. Simon was turned away from her, trying to plump up his pillow, and didn’t see her straight away, so Molly had time to register his appearance and hide her shock. His scalp was drawn tightly over his hairless skull, his cheeks were hollow and his skin looked dry but glowed a luminous pumpkin yellow, as if lit from within. He sighed with frustration and lay back. Then he saw her. Their eyes locked.