Devil in Disguise (12 page)

Roger
fixed her with a beady stare. ‘From London, are you?’

Molly
nodded.

‘Thought
so.’ He sniffed. ‘I used to live in London. I was on the stage door at the
Vaudeville for years, but I gave it all up and moved away just over a year and
a half ago. Got so damn sick of that place — the people, the noise, the dirt,
everything … and when I met my partner, we decided it was time for a fresh start.
So here I am.’ Roger rolled his eyes. ‘Glorious fuckin’ Northampton.’

‘Don’t
you miss London?’

‘Naah.
Not really. I think I’m made for the quieter life.’

Molly
smiled and nodded but she couldn’t imagine living anywhere but the big city.
She was hit by a jolt of homesickness. Don’t worry, she told herself, only a
few more days and then I’ll be home with Daniel and all this will be forgotten.

Simon woke up late and lay
for a long time staring up at the cracked ceiling and raking through the events
of the night before. Once he’d got a fairly clear idea of what he’d been up to,
and had managed to get control of his shaking limbs and aching head, he rolled
out of bed and headed to the kitchen for restorative tea.

He
still felt guilty about hanging up on Molly the previous Sunday, but he knew it
would be all right. They were prone to these lovers’ tiffs. It was painful to
endure but always eventually resolved itself. She would call him or he would
call her. All would be well in the end. Neither Simon nor Molly could live for
long without the company of the other. It was unthinkable. How strange, then,
that they were so different. Simon felt none of Molly’s desire to work and
succeed. Ambition didn’t grip him at all. He liked to waft through life like a
leaf on the breeze. He was far too interested in the twists and turns of fate,
the random nature of all human transactions, to consider trying to control or
steer his course in any chosen direction. What would be would be.

Despite
its freedom, the reality of Simon’s life was rather dull. Apart from Molly, he
had few friends outside the gay scene. His life consisted of recovering from
one ‘big’ night and preparing for the next. When his father had died and he had
inherited several hundred thousand pounds, he had bought his current flat on
Hampstead Road in Camden Town. It looked exactly like a squat but he owned it.
Even with a bit of money in the bank, his lifestyle didn’t change much,
although he had long since stopped attending Socialist Worker meetings. He
drank a lot and slept a lot, saving his energy for his late-night prowls around
the parks, cinemas, canal towpaths and night buses of the metropolis. He lived
off the remainder of his inheritance, vaguely aware somewhere in the back of
his mind that he was chipping away at his bank balance, and one day the supply
of cash would run out. Well, once it was spent he could get another job as a
dresser, if he had to. Oh dear, thought Simon. I must be sobering up if I’m
thinking about working. Yuck. Now, what shall I do this evening? I wonder if
Charles is popping into town for a quick one.

He sent
Charles a text. A reply came back immediately: ‘Meet me in the Brief Encounter
at eight.’

After a quiet afternoon, a
shower and the application of a little Hide-the-Blemish to cover the red
blotches on his face, Simon set out to meet Charles, walking south down
Hampstead Road towards Soho, a journey he had made many times before, to meet
Charles and Roger for another night of gaiety.

But, of
course, Roger won’t be there, he realised, with a pang of sadness. He still
missed Roger, even after all this time. He’d been a part of Simon’s life for so
long that when he’d moved away, it had left a gap that was hard to fill.

In his
younger days, Simon had had many friends but gradually his circle of chums had
shrunk as they settled into relationships, moved away, or simply got bored with
the pursuit of drunkenness and sex — Simon had heard that such a feeling could
encroach as one matured, but as he’d never felt anything vaguely like it, he
couldn’t understand how. As the flightier friendships had petered out and
vanished, he’d been left with his two best friends, Charles and Roger, who
seemed as enamoured of getting utterly plastered as he was. He’d been meeting
them in dark corners of pubs and nightclubs for years to drink and scout for
men, and they’d stuck together while lesser men came and went from the scene.
Yet in the many hours they’d spend together since they’d first met, they’d
discussed little of real importance and knew only the scantiest facts about
each other.

Charles
seemed a rather lost soul, originally from San Francisco and not planning to
return. He worked as a civil servant for the tax office and lived in Croydon,
but was evidently able to perform his duties on the computer despite several
late-night forays each week into Soho. Roger was the stage-doorman at the
Vaudeville Theatre on the Strand and lived in a room above the Lemon Tree pub,
next to the stage door of the Coliseum. Of the three, Roger was the one forever
seeking a new chapter in his life. ‘I’m sick of this crowd,’ he’d say, week
after week. ‘The same tired old faces.’

‘That
boy over there isn’t tired or old,’ said Charles. ‘He’s fresh meat. Looks
German to me. I wonder if he’d like to drive up my
autobahn?’

‘What’s
the point?’ complained Roger. ‘I don’t want to be someone’s holiday romance.
They can fuck off. I’ve got more self-respect than that. I want a boyfriend.’

Roger
craved permanency, yet his consistent and unwavering cynicism about life in general
seemed to prevent him attaining his goal. Every passing male between the ages
of twenty and sixty was given the once-over, assessed on the spot for their
suitability and usually found to be sub-standard.

‘Not
husband material,’ Roger would say, after the cute barman had given him his
change. ‘Too young. And I’m sorry, but I’m not moving in with a man who has a
Betty Boop tattoo on his arm. I don’t care how good-looking he is.’

‘He’s
only served you a drink,’ Simon pointed out. ‘He hasn’t, as yet, expressed an
interest in becoming your life partner.’

‘I saw
the look in his eye,’ said Roger, indignantly.

‘So did
I,’ said Simon, under his breath.

Nevertheless,
they would all chat and moan and provide companionship of sorts for each other.
There was never any suggestion that their friendship would lead to anything
more, although Charles had once made a half-hearted pass at Simon when they
were both feeling particularly desperate. Simon was quick to put his cards on
the table. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do gays. I’m saving myself for the night bus
home. It’s Destination Neasden. Need I say more?’

‘Aha!’
said Charles, not in the least bit offended. ‘I think it’s much the same on the
Croydon bus. Boys will be boys, after all. Message understood.’

One
night when he and Simon were out together, Roger declared he was going on the
pull and left Simon at the bar. He returned a bare three minutes later with
what Simon could only describe as a novelty pensioner in tow. ‘This is
Freddie,’ Roger announced. Soon they were kissing passionately, and within
twenty minutes, he and Freddie had disappeared into the night together. Left
alone at the bar, Simon found himself a comfortable spot and settled in for a
night on his own, followed by a little jaunt on Clapham Common to finish things
off nicely. He could survive without his cruising chum.

But it
seemed that true love had finally come Roger’s way, and it happened with
lightning speed. The following week, he said that he was moving in with Freddie
and, furthermore, that he was relocating to the Midlands.

‘He’s
everything I’ve ever wanted,’ said Roger, misty-eyed.

‘You
mean he lives in sheltered accommodation and he’s got some Viagra?’ snapped
Simon. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’

‘You
can’t move in after just a week,’ objected Charles.

‘He’s
the One,’ said Roger, as if he was proclaiming the winner of a talent contest.
‘All I can say is, you know when something’s right. I only hope it happens to
you one day. You can’t stay on the scene for ever, you know. Sooner or later
you become a sad old fucker. So long, losers.’

With
that, he left. It was going on for two years now, and no one had heard from
Roger since, but none of them were the type to keep in touch with each other.
He must have changed his phone number as well, for when Simon did send a casual
text enquiring after his health, there was no reply. Simon was surprised by how
much he missed his old friend but, after all, they’d spent many years drinking
and cruising together. Of course he wished him well and cheered him on — he was
all for people getting what they wanted, good for Roger — but now it was just
him and Charles.

Simon
arrived at Brief Encounter on St Martin’s Lane to find Charles had got there
first and was already finishing a bottle of beer. Simon ordered his, and in no
time at all, they were on their fourth lager each.

‘What
do you say to a change of scene?’ asked Charles.

‘Like
where?’ Simon said warily.

‘Let’s
give the Two Brewers in Clapham a go. The trade can be a bit rough south of the
river, but that’s TV researchers for you. It’ll make a change from all the
sour-faced queens in here. Talk about minty! When I asked the barman for a
bottle of Becks he looked at me as if I’d told him I had a button mushroom
instead of a penis.’

‘I’m
game,’ said Simon, who knew the Two Brewers from his days in nearby Kennington.

They
finished their drinks and wove their drunken way down the street to Leicester
Square tube. Simon bumped into a lamp-post and Charles said it was a ridiculous
place to put one in the first place. On their way to the tube station Simon
stopped at a cash machine. His credit, he realised through his lager haze, was
now just six hundred pounds. Within a month he’d be broke. He felt a mixture of
panic and relief. Maybe the next chapter of his life was just about to begin.
He drew out fifty pounds.

The Two
Brewers was crowded and rowdy, but the atmosphere was happy and the music camp.
Simon and Charles managed to secure two bar stools and settled in for another
big night. It was several hours and a good four or five pints later when
someone shoved a leaflet into Simon’s hand. It was an entry form for a drag
talent competition the following Thursday at a pub in north London.

‘I
might go for this,’ slurred Simon.

Charles
blinked dozily at him. ‘A drag competition? But you’ve always hated drag
queens, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.
But there’s only one way to overcome a prejudice. Embrace it. I might be the
one to convert myself.’

Charles
peered hard at the leaflet, cross-eyed. ‘Looks fantastic! Go on, do it.’

‘I
will. Barman, do you have a Biro?’ So drunk he could hardly write, Simon
managed to fill in his name and telephone number. Under the section entitled
‘Drag Name’ he paused for a moment, then scrawled ‘Miss Genita L’Warts’. He
slipped his entry into the box provided and ordered another drink. Clapham
Common was just up the road and he could hear it calling him.