Devil in Disguise (15 page)

Suddenly
he had a thought and opened a cupboard in the hallway where he began pulling
out the broom, the Hoover and assorted junk. ‘Aha!’ he said at last. ‘I knew it
was somewhere.’ He pulled out a large roll of two-tone purple and green shot
silk that he’d pinched from the Old Vic on the day he was dismissed. He’d
concealed it under his coat imagining he’d make some fabulous curtains with it,
but had never quite got round to it. His experience in the wardrobe department
had taught him a fair bit about how costumes were made, and now it was time to
put those skills to the test. Holding one end, he flung the roll down the hall,
then draped himself in the gorgeous fabric, turning this way and that to allow
the light to shimmer over the silk. Still swathed in it, he went back to the
lounge to pour himself another drink. ‘Genita Genita,’ he murmured, between
sips.

Where
does one begin? he thought. Here was a creature conceived in the final throes
of drink-induced stupidity. Now he had to flesh her out and produce some sort
of performance in record time. A thought flashed into his mind and he couldn’t
stop himself speaking it aloud. ‘A vile, vindictive, unstable woman, though
rather fabulous with it.’

Whoever
she was, she liked a drink, certainly: the bottle was empty in no time. ‘Greedy
bitch!’ he declared.

He
started work on his dress at once.

During the hours that
Simon sat alone and sewing, he began to meditate upon Genita and who she was,
like a broody seagull doggedly nesting high up on a craggy cliff, sitting on
her clutch of eggs in stormy weather, willing them to hatch. It was not until
he felt an ache in his cheeks that he realised he was smiling. The creative
process — the sewing of the dress and the dreaming up of a new persona — had
energised him and gladdened his heart. He felt alive about something other than
sex for the first time in his life. He was happy!

Well I
never, he thought. I’m all of a flutter and there’s not a cock in sight.

It was
a different sort of excitement too, not the tingle in the loins or the
blood-pumping readiness of the predator moving in on his prey: it was a
prouder, deeper, more soulful excitement. As Genita L’Warts took shape in his
mind, he felt the empowerment a sculptor must feel when he’s chipping away at
bare rock, making something new and unique. He had three days to prepare, to
conceive and develop his
alter ego.
He didn’t go out once in that time,
apart from a few trips to the off-licence to buy bottles of Grey Goose vodka.
Only the best for Genita.

The
more he drank, the more Genita thrived inside him, like an air bubble in a
spirit level.

‘Who
are you?’ he asked.

‘Just a
visiting friend,’ replied Genita, through the very same lips. ‘Nothing to be
concerned about. I shall be performing at the Black Cap on Friday. Don’t fret
about it. I’ll take care of everything. Vitriol and filth, that’s what they
want at the Black Cap and that’s exactly what they’re going to get.’

‘They’ll
love it,’ said Simon, convinced that his appearance would be awesome.

‘I
don’t want a wig,’ continued Genita, once Simon had replenished her glass with
Grey Goose. ‘I only wear turbans. If you shave your head it’ll be a boon. My
eyebrows are black and extend like antlers way above the hairline. My makeup is
extreme, some would say grotesque. The dress is fine but needs some sequins and
crystals sewing on … This vodka’s terribly weak. Are we on rations, or
something?’

Simon
added an extra slurp to the glass.

Genita
took a sip. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Now, where was I? My performance — the first
of many, I trust — won’t be for the fainthearted. I intend to call a fist a
fist. If you get me well oiled enough I’ll take care of everything. I’m a tart
with no heart. No one messes with me.’

Simon
felt the alcohol overpowering him and lurched towards his unmade bed, even
though it was only eight o’clock in the evening.

‘I
shall let you rest,’ said Genita. ‘I will still be here when you wake up. Shall
we say nine thirty? Threshers closes at ten and you’re perilously low on Grey
Goose.’

Simon
sank into a deep slumber, only to awake suddenly at the appointed hour as if
someone had tapped him briskly on the shoulder. He rubbed his eyes, picked up
his debit card from the bedside table and set off down the high street to the
off-licence, pausing to be sick in a public bin outside Argos. Genita must be
obeyed.

It took Simon two days to
turn the stolen fabric into a regal, full-length gown with a matching turban.
It was loosely based on a dress he had helped to make for Gertrude to wear in
the Old Vic’s production of
Hamlet
a few years back. Charles, in a rare
appearance outside the bars of Soho, came to Simon’s flat to help with the
fittings, then dashed to the Oxfam shop to get some glittery black shoes and to
Boots to acquire makeup. When the costume was ready, they had a dress
rehearsal.

‘You
look divine!’ cried Charles, when Simon emerged in his full get-up. ‘Like a
vision. But have you thought about what you’re going to do on stage? You can’t
just stand there like a straight man in the Vatican. You need to do something.
Perhaps you could mime to Eartha Kitt singing “Monotonous”?’

‘Genita
doesn’t mime, said Simon, firmly, looking himself up and down in the mirror. He
felt slightly alarmed at what he saw, at how strangely familiar she seemed. He
had become the very antithesis of what he sought: a drag queen. A strange
feeling came over him, a rare combination of excitement and self-loathing.

‘Who is
Genita?’ asked Charles.

Simon
closed his eyes. ‘I am possessed by a dark and daring spirit. John Leslie and
Bette Davis rolled together in one terrifying package,’ he replied. A sombre
silence descended on the pair.

‘I feel
a little nervous for you,’ said Charles, at last.

‘Don’t
worry. Genita will be wonderful. She’s promised me, and I believe her.’

On the night of the
competition, the dressing room at the Black Cap was crowded with jittery
amateur drag queens, squealing with excitement and smoking nervously. Simon
staked his claim to a far corner and hung his dress on a light fitting. He was
icy cold towards his fellow competitors, variously attired as Dannii Minogue or
Dame Edna Everage, or others he couldn’t quite recognise. He unpacked his
makeup and had a swig of vodka from the silver hip flask he had inherited from
his father. Genita fluttered inside him like a moth in a lampshade. It would
not be long now before she was released.

‘Touch
my frock with that cigarette and I’ll save you the trouble of going to Bangkok
for a sex change.
Comprendo?’
he said, to what could only be a very
unconvincing Davina McCall looky-likey. ‘And if you think Davina would be seen
dead in a cheap top like that then … you’re probably right.’ Is this me
speaking or is Genita here already? he wondered.

‘I’m
not supposed to be Davina!’ said the naff queen, indignantly. ‘I’ll have you
know you’re looking at Penélope Cruz!’

‘Pass
me the bucket,’ said Simon.

According
to the list on the dressing-room door, Simon was to appear seventh, right after
an act called Maud Boat. He sat down in front of the mirror and gazed at his
reflection. Already he looked quite different: that afternoon he had carefully
and ceremoniously shaved his head. Now he set to work. Starting from the nose
and working outwards, he applied a pale foundation to his face and smoothed it
outwards from the nose to the ears, forehead and beyond; then he powdered
himself liberally. He rubbed soap into his eyebrows and reapplied the
foundation, causing them, to all intents and purposes, to disappear. Now his
entire head was a blank canvas.

I look
like a corpse, he thought.

He
started with the eyebrows, painting a steady arch from the inner point of the
original, just above the bridge of the nose, up and out like a swan’s wing. He
repeated the procedure on the other side. Next, the eye sockets were similarly
exaggerated to run parallel with the brow and also coloured black, the outer
edges of each eye fanning out luxuriously like feathers. A white pencil ticked
between each quill enhanced the effect. Long, thick black eyelashes added
another dimension.

He
moved to his mouth, using a deep red pencil to create a severe pout, although
the outer edges were turned slightly upwards to add a knowing, cheeky touch.
Once the outline was complete, a gash of Russian Red lipstick was applied and
topped with matching Kryolan glitter. The original outline was then redrawn
with black. Now his mouth was a shimmering cushion of lush stickiness.

He
dipped a brush into white iridescent powder, stroked it along his cheekbones
and added a cold grey shading immediately underneath. The final touches were a
whisper of pink blusher dabbed either side and two beauty spots, one under
Genita’s right eye and the other on the left jawline, just an inch below her
lips.

Face
done, Simon took off his shoes, trousers and T-shirt and folded them neatly.
Wary of leaving anything on show in a dressing room filled with queens, he
rolled them up, placed them in his holdall and zipped it shut. Next he put on
two pairs of extra thick tights — even though his legs would not be on show —
and released his dress from the plastic cover it was restrained in. A couple of
his rivals gasped at the sight of it.

‘Oh, my
sweet Jesus!’ lisped someone, from the other side of the room.

‘Get
her!’ said another. ‘I thought this was amateur drag, not Vivienne Westwood’s
spring collection!’

Simon
ignored them and stepped into the dress. ‘Would you be so kind?’ he asked
Penélope Cruz, who was busy snorting a line of cocaine from a Woolworths
mirror.

‘I’ve
got a terrible case of the runs,’ she said, as she fastened the back of
Genita’s dress.

Simon
settled himself down to wait, staring at his reflection from time to time,
completely satisfied with it. Eleven o’clock came, and he watched with serene
indifference as, one by one, each hopeful tottered nervously on to the stage
and was greeted with cat-calls and jeers by the drunken crowd. Here was an
audience ready for a real star. Genita swelled inside him and the contractions
started. Instead of gas and air, Simon took vodka and tonic in liberal
quantities. One by one the acts returned, bedraggled and forlorn. The only one
who had been mildly well received was a Madonna tribute with exploding tits.
‘How predictable,’ came Genita’s voice from somewhere within. Simon wiped the
sweat from his brow and re-powdered.

Finally
it was time.

‘Ladies
and gentlemen,’ shouted Jimmy down the microphone, ‘please welcome on stage —
Miss Genita L’Warts!’

Genita
swept on to the tiny stage and stood there, shimmering in the follow-spot. She
peered at her audience disapprovingly, as if they were youths caught sniffing
glue in a bus shelter, and took a swig from the vodka bottle she held tightly
in one hand. Eventually the crowd quietened, but still Genita didn’t speak. She
took an air-freshener out of her handbag and sprayed the people at the front.
Finally she lifted the microphone to her lips and spoke: ‘I am Miss Genita
L’Warts, the patron saint of homosexuals.’

It was the morning after
the party. Lilia was sitting at the kitchen table when Molly came in for her
morning muesli. She gave her a warm smile. ‘Good morning, sweet child,’ she
said, in a girlish voice. ‘I am concerned that I kept you up late last night
with my performance.

‘Oh,
Lilia,’ said Molly, crossing the kitchen and grasping her hands. ‘You’re not to
worry about me. In fact, I want to thank you for such a wonderful evening.’

Lilia
released her hands and folded them in turn around the younger woman’s. They
smiled at each other.

‘Goodness!’
said Lilia, letting Molly go, then clapping once. ‘Such kindness on an empty
stomach. And you have a matinée to perform in a couple of hours. Have a cup of
coffee.’

Lilia
sat while Molly ate her breakfast and the two of them talked over the previous
night and what a success it had been. ‘It quite makes me long for the old
days.’ Lilia sighed. ‘When I was the
chanteuse du jour,
a star of the
cabaret. But it’s too late for me now.’