Devil in Disguise (18 page)

Everything
was neat and clean: Daniel had obviously made an effort. On the kitchen table
there was a ‘Welcome Home’ card — a picture of a cat asleep in a basket by a
coal fire, a bowl of milk at her side. Inside, in Daniel’s slanting, masculine
writing, it said: ‘Molls! You’re home at last! I’ll be back around six and will
show you how much I’ve missed you. There’s a present in the fridge. Love you,
Daniel xxx’.

Ah,
bless, she thought lovingly. She could guess what the present was. She propped
the card on top of the microwave and pulled the fridge door open. Champagne and
white chocolate truffles. Her favourite. Next she took her case into the
bedroom.

The
sheets were clean and the carpet had been hoovered. It was good to be home. She
unpacked, put some laundry into the washing-machine, made a cup of tea and sat
down to open her letters.

Before
she did so, she allowed herself a contented sigh and a long sip of tea. It was
always a joy to be in her own space after a long, intensive period of work.
Having spent all day every day of the last month cooped up in the theatre and
her few spare hours locked into Lilia’s strange world, it was lovely to have
her own things around her.

It
always surprised her how quickly she readjusted to her old life, and how
swiftly the work routine and the people she had been with faded from her
consciousness. Actors and dancers who told you every intimate detail of their
lives, laughed and cried with you, discussed their dreams and aspirations with
you and hugged you tightly on the last night, vowing to meet up in town and
resume the deep friendship you had embarked on, were swiftly forgotten. It all
meant nothing. The tight-knit family group was, seasoned pros understood,
merely for the duration of the contract.

It was
a similarly unspoken rule that any affairs and liaisons that might occur while
on tour or during the run of a play or panto were of little or no consequence.
What happens on tour stays on tour. Everyone in the theatrical world knew that.
Outsiders didn’t, unfortunately. If you were a teacher or an estate agent or an
office worker, intimate encounters in the workplace would not be as
inconsequential. There was not the built-in escape at the end or, indeed, the
abundance of suitable locations, such as dressing rooms with handy day-beds.
And theatre people had the added temptations of working in the evenings, the
after-show parties with liberal amounts of booze, the frisson of on-stage relationships
where the boundaries between acting and reality might so easily become blurred
and confused. Not to mention the occupational hazard of fragile egos needing
reassurance and the occasional touch of comfort …

These
were Molly’s vague thoughts as she drank her tea. She was determined to
dissolve the niggling twinge of guilt she was feeling about her night of lust
with Marcus. Daniel wouldn’t understand that theatre folk operated under
different moral rules and she had no intention of trying to explain it to him.
She couldn’t even say she particularly regretted what she had done. It would be
a private memory that no one knew about. Only Lilia —and she was miles away,
safely in the past now. If anything, her love for Daniel had been intensified
by the experience with Marcus. Or so she told herself.

The one
person she could share absolutely everything with was Simon. Their silly
falling-out was, she had no doubt, just temporary. They hadn’t spoken since he
had hung up on her the day she had arrived in Northampton. It wasn’t unusual
for them to behave petulantly with one another. Once, they hadn’t spoken for
six months, after Simon called Molly an interfering busybody and she told him
he was a bitter and twisted queen, incapable of sustaining a relationship. Their
reconciliations were always accompanied with fresh declarations of eternal
friendship, plans for turkey-baster babies and a blissful old age together
somewhere fun and unexpected, like Las Vegas or Casablanca. Molly resolved to
call him later, after she’d had a nap. The hangover was just a faint ache now,
but she had time for a rest and a bath before Daniel came home.

Simon had marked in his
diary the date of Molly’s return to London and was half expecting her call.
Their reconciliations were always full of affection and laughter. He had missed
his soulmate more than he cared to admit. It was all very well drinking with
Charles and cruising on his favourite commons, but he never felt quite as happy
as he did when he was with Molly. No one else amused or understood him like she
did.

He sat
in the Sunday-morning sunlight that poured through the windows of the flat,
illuminating the dust and the empty bottles piled up by the fireplace, staring
at the phone and wondering what to do. Not only did he want to hear all about
the tour and everything that had happened in Northampton but he couldn’t wait
to share his exciting news with her. Things had been moving apace since
Genita’s last stage appearance, and he knew Molly would be staggered, excited
and delighted by what had happened. But he was very aware that he was the one
who had hung up on her, rather unforgivably. He was still feeling guilty about
it. She only ever wanted the best for him. It was very bad behaviour to throw
that back in her face and act as though she was the one in the wrong.

Should
I make the first move, he wondered, or should I wait? Perhaps she’s still cross
… But that wouldn’t be like Molly. She was always quick to forgive even his
worst tantrums. He decided to wait until Monday, to give her time to have the
passionate reunion with Daniel she was no doubt enjoying at that very moment,
but he couldn’t last any longer than that.

When
the phone rang at three o’clock, he knew at once who it would be. He snatched
it up with an eager ‘Hello?’

‘Si,
it’s Molly. I’m back in London.’

‘Are
you, now?’ he said, unable to disguise his pleasure at hearing her voice again.
‘And how was Northampton? As glamorous as ever, I trust?’

‘I had
a very odd time. I can’t wait to tell you all about it.’

There
was a pause. Simon rubbed his fingernail along some dirt embedded in the edges
of the telephone table. ‘So I’m forgiven?’

‘Well …‘

‘I’m
sorry about that little snit I was in,’ he said quickly. ‘You know I didn’t mean
anything by it, don’t you?’

Molly
laughed. ‘Oh, Si, I do know. Let’s forget it. How have you been?’

‘Rather
busy, thank you for asking.’

‘Good.
Er, busy doing what? Your usual nocturnal activities?’

‘Not
really, no,’ said Simon. ‘Listen, I have so much to tell you. Can we meet up
somewhere?’

‘Not
today. Daniel’s coming home in a minute for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.’

‘I’ve
never heard it called
that
before.’

Molly
giggled. ‘How about tomorrow? Lunch at Delancey’s?’

‘I’ll
be there at one o’clock sharp. Longing to see you!’

‘Dying
to hear your news!’

When
Simon put the phone down, he felt restored and happy. In just the right mood
for his first glass of something.

Delancey’s was a favourite
lunch spot of theirs, an unpretentious French bistro in Camden Town that was
open all day, and they had spent many a long, lazy afternoon there. The waiter
recognised Simon when he arrived just before one, and ushered him to his and
Molly’s favourite corner table. When she arrived a few minutes later they flung
their arms round each other and hugged. When they finally sat down, there were
tears of pleasure in their eyes.

‘How
blissful it is to see you,’ said Simon. ‘We must never, ever fall out again.’
He called to the waiter, ‘Champagne, please!’

‘I am
so
pleased to be home,’ said Molly, wiping her eyes with a napkin. ‘You’re
looking so handsome!’

‘Are
you glad the tour’s over?’

‘Oh,
yes. It wasn’t my most memorable job, but I was missing Daniel, and missing
you, of course.’

Simon’s
smile became a little fixed at the mention of Daniel, but he thought it wise to
refrain from saying anything catty so early in their reconciliation.

‘So
tell me,’ continued Molly, ‘what’s the big news?’

Just
then the waiter arrived with the champagne in an ice bucket, and Simon maintained
an enigmatic silence until their glasses were full and the man had withdrawn.

‘To
you!’ he said, raising his glass.

‘And to
you, my dearest friend in the world!’ replied Molly.

‘Now
then,’ began Simon, ‘take a look at this.’ He plopped something on her empty
plate. It was a glossy leaflet advertising a fun-packed night at the Black Cap,
a pub just north of Camden Town. The main photograph was of an extraordinary
creature dressed in a black sequined power jacket with matching mini-skirt and
turban. The makeup was extreme — glamour gone mad — huge black eyes sweeping up
to the forehead and pouting lips encrusted with glitter. The words, in a jaunty
pink font with stars dotted above and below, read: ‘Live on Stage — the Drag
Scene’s newest sensational discovery MISS GENITA L’WARTS! Friday night. Be
there or be straight!’

Molly
wondered why he wanted her to read this information. Then she looked again at
the photo. ‘Oh, my Lord!’ she shrieked, with surprised amusement. ‘Simon! What
have
you done? Is that you?
You
are Miss Genita L’Warts?’

‘At
your service, bitch.’

‘Oh.
My. God!’ Molly screamed again.

‘It’s
all happened rather quickly.’

‘I’ll
say. You were swigging the whisky and pursuing a happily married man the last
time we spoke. Suddenly you’re a cock in a frock with the career prospects of a
young Danny La Rue. What happened?’

‘Well,
you see,’ said Simon, lowering his voice as if someone might overhear, ‘high as
a kite I signed up for the amateur drag night at the Black Cap. Just for a
laugh. The next day I’d forgotten all about it, but they phoned and told me I
was to turn up the following Thursday and I had a five-minute slot. I was sober
then and something about the challenge appealed to me. Suddenly I was possessed
by a dark, daring and, if I say so myself, hilarious spirit.’

‘Oh,
Simon! Whatever happened next?’ exclaimed Molly.

‘Well,
my
dear,
Thursday dawned and Genita was feeling supremely confident. I
strode out on to that stage and I fucking slayed them!’

‘Good
for you. What did you do exactly?’

Simon
could see that Molly was struggling to understand his extraordinary news. He
had never expressed any interest in performing before: Molly had always been
the star turn and perhaps he had detected just a teaspoonful of chagrin in her
tone. ‘Well, that’s just the thing. I haven’t the faintest idea. She just
babbles away. It’s almost as if I talk in many tongues.’

‘Do you
sing?’ asked Molly, and took a gulp of champagne.

‘No,
don’t worry. Not yet, anyway.’

‘I’m
not worried, Simon, just asking.’

‘Genita
doesn’t sing — at least she hasn’t yet — and she certainly doesn’t mime. She’d
be deeply offended by the very suggestion. She just raves at the audience
mostly, spouting vitriol and filth, crossing every line and crucifying every
taboo. She knows no bounds.’

‘Simon,
I’m so pleased for you,’ said Molly, genuinely excited. ‘You’re a hit!’

‘Well,
yes, it seems I am. A large fish in a small pond, that’s all, mind. After that
first gig — I did twenty minutes instead of five and a ten-minute encore — they
stormed my dressing-room door to book me again. Since then every gay pub in
London has been calling me up and asking for my services. It’s madness!’

‘Amazing,
Simon. Congratulations. I can’t believe it’s all happened so quickly.’

‘I’m
going to have to find an agent or a manager, I guess.’

Molly
was gazing at the leaflet, still rather shocked. ‘I’d better come to the Black
Cap next Friday, then.’

‘I’ll
put you on my guest list. Word has it the Pet Shop Boys are coming, and I’ve
heard a whisper about Simon Fanshawe, but let’s not get our hopes up.’