Devil in Disguise (3 page)

For the
last few weeks his drinking had been getting just a little worse and he was
sure it was because, without Molly, he was unravelling. She was his best
friend, his soulmate. She had abandoned him to go cavorting around the country
in some dreadful show and his increasing intake of alcohol was the consequence.
Usually he and Molly spoke at least twice a day and met up almost as often.
When she was between jobs they practically lived together, spending hours in
cafés, endlessly chatting, always able to amuse each other and never bored in
each other’s company. Without her, he was lonely. It was as simple as that.

He
looked at his watch. Molly was going to call him as soon as she had settled
into her digs in Northampton. It was her custom to ring him during the
afternoon that she settled into a new place so that they could have a giggle
over the latest hole she was staying in — another of the little pleasures they
shared. But if she guessed he’d been drinking, he knew what would happen.
Disapproval would creep into her voice, and she’d very often cut the conversation
short, as if there was no point in talking to him in his inebriated state, and
he would be left feeling more deprived than ever.

Hopefully,
she’d phone soon. He looked again at the glass of wine in his hand, luscious
and inviting. He was dying to sip and savour it, roll it over his tongue and
swallow it. He could just about hold himself together on three glasses of wine,
as long as he enunciated clearly and didn’t start rambling. Four glasses and he
was liable to start going on about the BBC, the Post Office, the DSS, British
Gas or any other organisation that drink seemed to transform into the enemy
du
jour.
Both he and Molly knew very well that if he started ranting, he was
most definitely pissed. If she didn’t call soon there would be no point in
answering the phone.

The
third glass of Sicilian red was risky, therefore. He was still sober enough for
lucid self-recrimination, not drunk enough to be lost and pain-free. It was the
tipping point.

With
the glass in hand, he wandered into the lounge and sat looking out of the
window across the railway tracks towards Camden High Street.

Simon had met Molly on
their first day at Goldsmiths College in London when they were both freshers,
starting out on their university lives. The welcome meeting had just begun in
the college theatre and Simon was sitting in the back row, listening intently
to the head of the English department, who was explaining how they were all on
the threshold of an exciting new future. The door behind him flew open and a
rather flustered Molly crashed through it. ‘Sorry I’m late!’ she announced, in
a breathless Liverpudlian twang. ‘1 had the wrong room. I’ve been sat with a
load of geeks in Geography!’

Simon
stared at her. Immediately she turned her head and saw him. She gave him a grin
and headed straight for the empty seat next to him, plonking herself down
without ceremony. ‘Have you got a tissue, mate?’ she asked, in a loud whisper.
‘I’m sweatin’ like a bloody ‘orse ‘ere. I’ve just run the one-minute mile in
these.’ She showed him the big stacked heels on her boots.

‘Not
easy,’ Simon agreed.

‘You
can say that again.’ Molly rifled through her bag and pulled out her
information pack. ‘Now — what have I missed?’

‘Quiet,
please, at the back!’ called the head of English crossly. Simon and Molly
exchanged looks and snorted quietly.

They
were friends from that moment on. It was only natural that they should go
straight from the welcome session to the cafeteria where, over what claimed to
be chilli con cane, they filled in their course-option forms identically, thus
ensuring they’d be attending all the same seminars.

‘Shall
we opt for Dickens or Sylvia Plath?’ Simon asked, wrinkling his nose and
chewing the end of his Biro.

‘Sylvia
Plath. No contest. I can’t be doing with Dickens — all them Mr Fartpants and Mr
Chuzzlepricks. Drives me insane. Plath is much easier, just bumble-bees and
bell jars. Then she had the good sense to top herself. Didn’t go on and on and
on, like Charlie boy.’

‘No
contest, then,’ Simon agreed. ‘What’s next?’

‘Medieval
poetry or the complete works of Piers Morgan?’

‘Medieval
poetry,’ they said simultaneously.

She’s
fabulous! Simon thought. He was already falling in love with her, if in a
strictly platonic way, and that was a very novel experience indeed. He had
never mixed with girls much, as his boarding school had been all boys and his
life afterwards, in the years before he’d decided to come to university, had
been decidedly male-centric. He’d thought that was the way he liked it, but
there was something about Molly’s extraordinary energy and her throbbing
vibrancy that drew him to her. She was larger than life, a big girl with
fabulous cheekbones and a cascade of dark blonde curly hair piled on top of her
head and trailing halfway down her back. She wore men’s shirts and jackets but
always with a chunk of impossibly large diamanté on the lapel and bold, punky
makeup. Simon, who was tall and willowy and rather delicate, complemented her
look, and they were soon inseparable, always together in the refectory or the
college bar, laughing, whispering about something or clinking their glasses to
toast their brilliant futures.

They
were rather disdainful of their fellow students, whom they perceived to be
over-studious and boring, at least in comparison to themselves. They were the
arbiters of style in their world, and gossiped indiscreetly about those around
them, creating witty but disparaging nicknames for all and sundry, ‘Anorak
girl’, ‘Psoriasis Boy’ and ‘Hunky Hughes’ being just a handful of examples.
They gave each other knowing looks and spoke in coded catchphrases. They were
far too caught up in their own fabulousness to bother much with course work or
writing tedious essays.

Apart
from their looks, behaviour and exclusivity, something else that drew
everyone’s attention to them — whether they were interested or not — was
Molly’s habit of letting out screeching, ear-piercing soprano notes anywhere
and everywhere she went. Simon thought it was hilarious. Sitting in the bar or
walking down the corridor she would, without warning, launch into an aria or an
obscure line from one opera or another, culminating in a glassshattering top C
that would stop all conversation, all movement around her. Once delivered, she
would give a grand wave in all directions and carry on with what she had been
saying or doing before this impressive musical interlude. Simon thought she was
amazing and wonderfully talented, even if some of the other students found
Molly’s habit a little less enchanting than Simon did. Some even took to
wailing like fighting cats when they saw her. But Simon loved attention of all
kinds, even the negative variety, so he and Molly saw it as further evidence of
how special they were.

The
bubble they had created for themselves was impenetrable by others, a two-person
tent made from the Emperor’s new clothes, with no zip, no buttons, no means of
removal. They were utterly dependent on each other, their emotional well-being
knitted fast together. Simon loved this dangerous new coexistence, and he was
thrilled and excited by Molly.

The only
thing that might have come between them was men. But in that first year at
university, Molly was recovering from a broken heart and still pined for her
lost love. Many were the evenings that they opened up the vodka and Molly got
nostalgic, telling Simon over and over again about Jezza and how much she loved
him. Usually she’d end up weeping in an alcohol-fuelled crying jag, wondering
why Jezza didn’t love her any more.

‘Because
he’s a fool, that’s why. You’re an extraordinary creature, a tropical flower
among the weeds of womankind. He couldn’t handle that. Most men, sooner or
later, want to be in charge. They want their woman at home scrubbing the
doorstep and making their dinner. You were never going to do that.’

‘No, I
bloody wasn’t!’

‘Well,
there you are, then. You were too much for him to handle. Besides, you have me
now,’ Simon would say, hugging her and stroking her unruly curls. ‘You don’t
need men any more.’

‘It’s
not quite the same, though, is it?’ Molly would sniff. ‘I have needs, you know,
and you can’t pretend you can do anything about those, can you?’

‘No,’
Simon said honestly. ‘I can’t. But I do love you, Molly. You can get a shag
from anyone, but you’ll only get true love from me.’

Then
Molly would get all emotional and cry and say she loved him too, and no man
would ever come between them.

No man
ever had, either. Yes, Molly had fallen in love plenty of times, once she’d
managed to get over Jezza, and when she did, it would cause an irritating
hiatus in their ongoing devotion to each other, but in the end she always came
back to him. The men in Simon’s life never seemed to last much longer than a
few hours, so there was no problem from that side of things. It was Molly and
Simon, together for ever.

Simon
took another large slurp of his wine. Of course he and Molly were going through
a rough patch at the moment — another reason for the medicinal administration
of Sicilian red. It was all because of the dreary builder, Molly’s latest love
interest and rival for his attention. It was a bore, that was all, having to
think about it, talk about it and deal with it — Daniel this, Daniel that,
Daniel all bloody day long. Simon really couldn’t be doing with the way Molly
threw herself into her relationships. He dreaded hearing the catch in her voice
when she announced there was a new, perfect man in her life because he knew
what it meant: the sparkling eyes, the dreamy expressions, and the endless
breathless gush. She couldn’t just date someone once a week, take it slowly and
let things develop. No, she always had to be devoured by the new lover,
investing all her emotional well-being in a romantic ideal that, sooner or
later, turned sour. And she never seemed to learn her lesson. Why, within a
month of meeting this Daniel she had given up the lease on her own flat and
moved in with him! Just like that, if you please. It was all too cosy and too
sudden. There weren’t enough hours in the day for Molly to devote to Simon
and
her latest beau, and it was always the squeeze who got her attention. It
was unfair, Simon thought. They had vowed to go on life’s journey together and,
in his frequently intoxicated opinion, Molly was breaking her promise. Simon’s
love for Molly was eternal, but it was far from unconditional. She must, at the
very least, be available to him.

Simon
knew he was having a bitter and twisted moment. Perhaps he was already a little
drunker than he’d realised. But he couldn’t help it — he felt deeply neglected.

He was
still staring out of the window, now feeling rather cross, when the telephone
interrupted him. He put the almost empty wine glass down on the table and took
a deep breath. Yes, he decided, he was sober enough to speak. He picked up the
receiver.

‘Hiya,
chuck!’ came Molly’s familiar greeting. ‘How’s tricks?’

‘Oh.
Yes, hello there.’

‘You
all right?’ Molly asked. There was a pause and then she said, ‘You on the
sauce?’

‘No,
no. I was deep in thought, that’s all. How’s Northampton?’

‘I
think it’s all right, actually. My landlady’s German, claims to have been a
huge star in her day. All silk dressing-gowns and heady perfume. Very
Sunset
Boulevard.
You’d love her. Her name’s Lilia — bright orange hair and heavy
makeup. Traditional bungalow affair: knick-knacks everywhere, photos of the
good old days, lots of pink, lots of lace. My room’s okay — clean and no used
condoms or filthy knickers under the bed like the last time, so that’s a plus.
Masses of doilies and china ladies but that’s all right, I don’t mind that.
Sheets and blankets on the bed, not a duvet, and gold-brocade scatter
cushions. She’s got a huge slavering Hound of the Baskervilles called Heathcliff,
and a sad old husband who’s had a stroke and can’t move or talk. Sits like a
statue in the corner of the room, poor love. It’s ever so sad, Si. I haven’t
had the full story yet, but I intend to — the place is dripping with posters
and photos. I bet she’s had a fascinating life.’

‘Fabulous,’
Simon said slowly, concentrating on not slurring. ‘You must investigate fully.’

‘Oh, I
will, God love her.’

‘Are
you ever coming home?’

‘Last
week now, then I’m on my way. I can’t wait. Have you missed me?’

‘I feel
like a cheese sandwich without the pickle. I’m inconsolable. I may not last
until the weekend.’

‘I miss
you too, something shocking. Whenever I go away, you get yourself into trouble.
Talking of which, have you heard from your married man?’

‘No,’
said Simon, dismissively. ‘Nor do I expect to.’ This was not a subject he wanted
to talk about, as he was rather embarrassed by his weeping and wailing of a few
nights ago when Molly had called from Stevenage. Drunk as a skunk, he’d howled
down the phone, said he couldn’t live without Justin, that he was going to do
something silly — all the usual histrionics Molly had heard many times before.
Suddenly he’ felt a little hypocritical over the things he’d been thinking
about Molly and her love life: if he was honest, he had to admit that she had
put up with her fair share of listening to the same old nonsense from him, just
on a slightly different theme. ‘I don’t particularly care if I never hear from
him again, actually.’