Devil in Disguise (17 page)

‘What
is it you’d like?’

‘I
don’t know. But I will tell you this much. Old age makes me reckless. I do not
stop and worry about the consequences of things any more. My mother’s genes,
perhaps. I give in to my desires.’

Molly
poured more wine. She raised her glass, signalling another toast. ‘To a happy
future!’

Lilia,
though, did not lift her glass to meet Molly’s. She looked bemused. ‘Happy?’
she said. ‘Spare me that. I gave up aspiring to happiness as a child. No. I see
my life as a film. I only want it to be a good one, that’s all. Happy doesn’t
come into it.’

Silence
fell. Lilia’s eyes drooped.

‘Are
you tired, darling?’ asked Molly. She must remember that Lilia was an old lady,
born in the nineteen thirties.

‘Yes,
my dear. Terribly.’

‘I’ve
been an exhausting guest, I do apologise.’

‘Oh,
no,’ said Lilia. ‘It does me good to talk about it. But let’s leave it there.
Suspended. The shows, the champagne, the cabaret.’

Molly
smiled and collected the now empty glasses. ‘Come on. Time to turn in.’

Lilia
looked relieved. ‘Yes, an excellent idea. Help me up, Molly, would you mind?’

Molly
offered her a crooked arm and led her out of the lounge to her bedroom door,
where they said a fond goodnight.

How
much more was there to tell? wondered Molly later, as she lay in her bed. What
had been the fate of Lilia’s parents? How had Lilia’s own cabaret career come
about? And how had she ended up married to Joey and living in a bungalow in
Northampton?

I bet
she won’t have time to tell me before I go on Sunday. How frustrating. I expect
I’ll never know.

On Sunday morning Molly
awoke with a thick head and no recollection of how she’d got home the night
before. She decided it was best to lie there and think for a while, without
even opening her eyes. Despite her hangover, she smiled to herself. It was
important to conclude a run with a good party. She hated those prissy shows
where everyone rushed off within half an hour of the final curtain. A
rollicking knees-up appealed to her Liverpudlian sensibilities. It concluded
things properly and
The Mikado
could now be filed in the recesses of her
mind as the show that had received a memorable send-off. She couldn’t quite
remember how it had ended. She had fuzzy memories of them all dancing around
the empty stage to something pounding out of the sound system, and there was
even the faint recollection of Peter yelling and screaming, then some kind of
punch-up with Duncan … She must ring him later and get all the gossip.

Funny
to think she’d never be dressing up as Yum-Yum again — at least, not in the
same way and with the same people.

And
The
Mikado
would now be for ever associated with the extraordinary Lilia. She
had grown very fond of the eccentric old woman who had lived such a vivid and
varied life. But Molly also knew that in showbusiness you got to know people
very well, swore undying love and never heard from them again. You were always
on to the next show and the next gang. Lilia, of course, wasn’t part of the
company, but she was part of the experience, and it was time to move on.

Finally
she opened her eyes.

‘Oh, my
God!’ she said involuntarily, her voice croaky and not at all ready to be used.

The
first thing she saw was a body lying next to her, and a mop of brown hair on
the pillow.

Of
course. That was how she had got home. There was the battered leather jacket on
the end of the bed. Marcus, the cute, teenage, stagehand, had offered her a
lift on the back of his motorbike. Or had she demanded one? Oh dear. She had a
sudden recollection of screaming at the top of her voice as they drove through
the sleeping village of Long Buckby.

Then
once that had found a chink through the armour of her hangover, several others
came busting through. Her arms round Marcus’s slender waist, reaching down to
his crotch as they drove through the darkness, Marcus parking outside and
helping her to stagger up the gravel path. Molly reached down and touched her
knee: yes, there was the fresh graze from where she had fallen over. And then —
oh dear. The next bit was truly mortifying. She had refused to let him go until
he had given her a kiss. No, not a peck on the cheek — that wouldn’t do. She
wanted a proper French kiss. Right now, or she’d scream her tits off — that was
what she’d said. And poor, embarrassed Marcus had obliged. His lips had been
cold from the ride home, but they were soft and tasted of cider and cigarettes.
She had held the back of his head, pressing him towards her, and her tongue had
explored the depths of his mouth as if it was trying to lick her palm through
his skull.

Eventually
he’d pulled away and said, ‘Jesus!’ but she had grabbed a clump of his thick
hair and pushed him roughly forward again. The second kiss had gone on and on,
and she had writhed and moaned, grabbed his hand and pushed it up her skirt. Eventually,
with her knickers round her ankles and Marcus’s fingers still inside her, she
had managed to get her keys out of her coat pocket. Then she and Marcus had
gone noisily down the hallway and swiftly to her room. Marcus’s muscular young
body and eager manhood…

Enough.
She covered her mouth in horror. She would never drink again.

There
he was. She peered over his shoulder and looked again at his youthful face. He
was sleeping soundly, breathing softly with his lips just parted and his
impossibly long, doll-like eyelashes resting on his soft cheeks.

Molly
solemnly shook his shoulder, said a polite ‘Good morning’ and explained, while
looking directly into the dilated pupils of her lover’s dreamy eyes, that it
was time for him to get dressed and leave. No, it was not possible for him to
visit the bathroom. He must be very quiet.

She
enjoyed watching him dress, noting with an erotic thrill the absence of
underpants, and responded with a Scarlett O’Hara smile when he leant over her
for a final, roguish kiss. She inhaled the sexy smell of his distressed leather
jacket and stroked his hair one last time. ‘Sssh!’ was her last communication.
Marcus slipped silently out of the room, out of the bungalow, on to his
motorbike and away.

As soon
as he was gone, Molly wiggled back down under her bedcovers, closed her eyes
and tried her hardest to go back to sleep. Maybe when she woke up she could
pretend the sordid incident had never happened. She felt regret. Her longed-for
reunion with Daniel was somewhat sullied. But now she was awake, her mind was
racing and full of memories of the night before that made her squeak with a
combination of embarrassment and pleasure. In the end she gave up and dragged herself
out of bed. At the window, she drew the curtains. Lilia was shuffling down the
garden path with Heathcliff at her side. As Molly watched, she paused and the
dog stopped next to her. She muttered something soft and held his big, square
head in both her bony hands, blowing him a kiss. Heathcliff gazed up lovingly
at his mistress and she looked back at him tenderly.

That
overweight Rottweiler is really a form of therapy, thought Molly. The affection
she lavishes on him — he’s probably what keeps her going.

Molly
took her time in the bathroom. She didn’t want Lilia’s final memory of her to
be a rough, hung-over one. She washed and conditioned her hair, exfoliated her
tired skin and drank glass after glass of water. Makeup was liberally applied.
By the time she appeared in the kitchen, she had a deceptively healthy glow, a
radiant smile and fresh, peppermint breath. ‘Morning, Lilia!’ she said perkily.

Lilia
was sitting in her usual place at the kitchen table, Heathcliff standing
patiently at her side, as if he was waiting for his cooked breakfast.

‘Molly!
Good morning, my dear. Do sit down. I have put a cushion on your chair. It is
nice and soft. I was pottering in the front garden this morning and I met young
Marcus. These country boys are the same the world over, don’t you find? So
feral.’

‘Our
last-night party got a little wild,’ said Molly, helping herself to some
muesli, then sitting down. ‘Thanks for the cushion.’

Lilia
leant forward and said confidentially, ‘I was once buggered by a Viennese taxi
driver.’

This
startled Molly, and she stared at her landlady for a long, awkward moment,
unable to prevent herself from visualising it. Then she said, ‘Poor you.’

‘Not at
all. It was the most liberating experience of my life. As I opened my mouth to
scream, my soul fluttered out and away. It was gone for a week. Happy days. So,
you see, I understand the extraordinary power of sex. And the tenderness it can
leave in the nether regions afterwards.’

Molly
wasn’t sure how to respond to such a surreal revelation at breakfast time. She
decided to bring the conversation back to more mundane matters. ‘I’m back to
London this morning, Lilia, as soon as I’ve finished packing. Thank you so much
for having me to stay here. I’ve had a brilliant week with you. I really can’t
thank you enough.’

‘Yes,’
said Lilia. ‘You are saying all the things an Englishwoman deems correct. The
perfect guest. I have enjoyed your company also.’

‘I’m
glad.’ Molly wondered if there was any orange juice in the fridge. She was
craving something sweet. Her hangover wasn’t holding up well.

‘No
doubt Daniel will be pleased to see you?’ said Lilia, the question loaded with
sub-text. Lilia knew all about Daniel and most aspects of Molly’s life. She had
slowly but firmly prised everything out over the days Molly had been at
Kit-Kat Cottage. When they’d been shopping in Sainsbury’s for the after-show
party, Molly had told Lilia everything about her lonely childhood, failed
university career and determination to make it as a musical actress.

‘He’s
busy working, I expect,’ said Molly breezily, stirring her muesli intently but
unable to consume a spoonful without the very real risk of retching.

‘I hope
you will keep in touch with me,’ said Lilia, suddenly. Her eyes seemed to
search Molly’s face for a positive response.

‘I
intend to,’ said Molly. ‘You’ve taught me a great deal. I leave here a wiser
girl. A Lilia Delvard graduate.’

Lilia
turned to stare out of the kitchen window. ‘Not a sign of my starling or my
dear little thrush. It is a dreary day. When it is grey and raining it is hard
to remember what the sun feels like on your skin. But if you try very hard you
can remember.’ She turned and focused on Molly. ‘Do not forget the things you
have learnt here. I have tried to impress you, Molly, not because my ego
demands it, but because I have suffered. There needs to be a payoff. A wise
and illuminating conclusion that benefits the world I leave behind. I don’t
know why I chose you, but I feel somehow we are connected.’

‘You’re
being very solemn and serious for this time of day,’ said Molly.

‘I may
never see you again,’ said Lilia. ‘I want you to remember me as a cabaret
artist, not a silly old German woman. Cabaret. That has been my life. I was
born into it, as I have told you.. It runs through my veins and is more than
just a few songs and a threadbare feather boa. Please remember me, tell others
about me. Don’t let me vanish into obscurity — not entirely.’

‘I
won’t,’ Molly promised.

‘Good,’
said the old lady, allowing a big sigh to billow out of her mouth. She seemed
satisfied.

Half an
hour later Molly had packed her cases and loaded them into the car. ‘Goodbye, Lilia,
and take care,’ she said, hugging her and kissing her on both cheeks.

‘I
will, my dear. And you — I wish you all good fortune. You are a special girl. I
am sure that great things await you. I hope I see you again one day.’

‘God
bless!’ said Molly, with finality, and wheeled her suitcase down the gravel
path towards the gate. She felt a slight twinge between her legs and resolved
to stop at the nearest shop for some cranberry juice.

Molly was at home in
London by lunchtime. After Lilia’s gloomy, cluttered bungalow, the fiat she
shared with Daniel seemed bright, sunny and minimal by comparison. It was
nothing special, just a second-floor, one-bedroom arrangement in a cheaply
built nineteen-seventies block in a nondescript side-street off Tufnell Park
Road, but it was affordable and bright, with laminate flooring and Ikea
furniture.