Devil in Disguise (43 page)

‘But
unfortunately,’ continued Simon, ‘the girlfriend is back in Poland and my
swarthy minder has to spend twenty-four hours a day with me. What’s a boy to
do?’

‘Get a
new agent,’ said Boris.

‘Oh,’
said Simon, thoughtfully. ‘It’s like that, is it?’

‘Yes,
I’m afraid it is,’ said Boris. ‘I have my reputation to consider. You’ve made
me the laughing stock of the industry. You’re a talented man but you have no
future in this business. You are that most terrible of things: unprofessional.’

‘Are
you sacking me because of one unfortunate evening?’

‘I am
sacking you before there’s another. My nerves can’t take it.’

‘What
if I say there won’t be another?’

‘I
wouldn’t believe you. Good luck with your career. Goodbye, Simon, goodbye,
Genita.’

Simon
was undaunted by the departure of Boris. Despite his no-show at the ICA, plenty
of agents were panting to get him to their books. He eventually signed with
Worldwide Artists, under the guidance of Portia Thomas. His first and last
booking via Portia was a high-profile appearance at the British Comedy Awards.
Such was Genita L’Warts’s profile at the time that the producers broke with
tradition and scheduled a seven-minute slot for one of her rants.

He’d
felt the danger signals while preparing in the dressing room. As he’d applied
his makeup and sipped his Grey Goose, he hadn’t felt that other personality
possess him as it usually did. When the time came and he took to the stage,
Genita was nowhere to be found. Instead of the glorious, triumphant crowning of
the mistress of post-modern comedic genius, twelve million people watching live
saw Simon mumbling, ‘Genita? Where are you?’ as he stared, mortified, into the
close-up camera. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, once the excited shouts and jeers had
died down. ‘I have nothing to say.’

Because
they had time to fill, and maybe because they thought this was all a prelude to
a hilarious bit of comic genius, the director kept the camera on Genita’s face.
There was a silent stare-out between Simon trying to summon Genita and the
cameraman. Eventually they cut to Jonathan Ross who did what he had to do to
reignite the audience.

That
was the end of Genita L’Warts. She never appeared again. Her spirit departed
Simon for good, just as he had predicted. She had evaporated into thin air.
Strangely, he didn’t mind. He wished her well and took great delight in
cancelling all his future engagements.

‘Genita
has gone,’ he told all bewildered enquirers. ‘May she rest in peace. Goodbye.’

Simon
withdrew from the world of showbusiness. He screened his calls and simply
ignored all messages and post. He was amazed by how quickly he was forgotten.
Once the bookings and appearances dried up, so did the invitations to parties
and first nights. He was even refused entry at the Shadow Lounge one night,
even though he explained who he was. He blended back into his old life, which
meant he stayed at home.

The
years passed and gradually Simon’s world grew smaller. He spent the money he
had made as Genita, then lived off social security and a small allowance that
came in from an investment his father had left him. Now poor, he could no
longer afford Grey Goose vodka so resorted to supermarket own brands.

Drinking
began to take its toll on Simon’s body: he gained weight and his startling eyes
were lost in puffiness and jowls. He knew he was becoming increasingly
unappealing, with his bloodshot eyes and musty breath. All his pretty hair
fell out, leaving hanks on the pillow and in the shower. His skin looked awful,
his fingernails became coarse and yellow, and he could see red cracks creeping
over his cheeks and nose, like sparrow’s footprints. He felt unattractive. His
sexual desire decreased and eventually he hung up his cap as far as cruising
was concerned. Without ever renouncing his former lifestyle, he just couldn’t
be bothered.

‘I
don’t have the stomach for it any more,’ he told a concerned Charles, when he
bumped into him one day in Sainsbury’s.

‘That’s
an unfortunate choice of words,’ said Charles, perusing the fresh-meat section.
‘But I know what you mean.’

‘I’ve
had enough cock to last me a lifetime,’ said Simon, failing to lower his voice
and rather shocking an elderly lady, who tutted, then scurried away with her
trolley as quickly as her legs would carry her.

‘You’re
not withdrawing your dance card, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is
that just because you’re getting fat?’

‘How
dare you?’

‘I’m
being honest.’ Charles looked worried. ‘You’re not looking at your peak, let’s
put it that way.’

Simon
didn’t want to hear it. The road back to his vibrant youth was too long to
travel now. He could only go forward into an alcoholic, fuzzy, almost unreal
future. By now he was in a permanent state of bleariness, incapable of caring
much about anything other than the next drink. He needed Molly more than ever,
but she had disappeared. What was he to do? He drank to calm himself. Sobriety
was one extended panic attack and he wanted nothing to do with it.

Then
one day he heard of Mia Delvard, whose fame and talent eventually pierced his
tiny, self-absorbed world. He heard her voice in a shop coming over the sound
system, and was at once fascinated by it. He asked the assistant who was
singing and she blinked at him as though he must have come from another planet
not to know that this was Mia Delvard. Simon scraped together enough pennies
for a CD and bought a Mia Delvard recording.

Back
home, he listened to the album while he sipped a glass of wine. Something about
the girl’s voice touched him like no other ever had. It was nostalgia and
bitter-sweet regret made into sound, a voice at once familiar and yet quite new
to him. Then he froze. The voice on the album had begun to sing ‘Molly and
Daniel were sweethearts, Molly and Daniel were one …’ He could hardly
breathe. When Mia sang ‘Along came Molly’s friend Simon’, he grabbed the album
cover and stared at the picture of Mia on the front. He suddenly saw who stood
behind the heavy-lidded eyes, glossy lips and long red hair. He listened to the
entire song, then drew a shuddering breath and wept.

The chest pains had
started as a vague, irritating burn in his chest, usually the day after a
particularly heavy session. Then he noticed that the pain spread, in gentle
ripples, up to his ears and down to his groin.

Simon
increased his water intake, assuming it to be the righter of all the wrongs he
had done to his body, though he didn’t reduce the amount of alcohol he drank.
He couldn’t now. He was beyond that.

Gradually
the pains got worse, taking over his whole body. He simply ignored them, coping
with them when they came and forcing himself to forget them when they passed.

By the
time he went to see Molly at the Palladium he was on two bottles of wine before
lunch, his stomach was hugely swollen and as tight as drum, and the abdominal
pains alarmed him.

Hurry
up, was all Simon had thought. This must be the slowest, most protracted
suicide there is.

Now he knew the lie of the
land. His body was shattered—beaten, scarred and pummelled — by years of
neglect and abuse. His system had done its best in the face of the poisonous
onslaught, but eventually it had had to crumble. No part of him, it seemed, was
unaffected by his alcoholism.

God, he
thought. I need a drink.

Roger
was staring at him, pity in his eyes. It was obvious now that time was short.

At
last, Simon said, ‘Roger, how well do you know Mia Delvard?’

‘I’ve
known her for yonks. I got her a singing gig at an Italian restaurant and she’s
never forgotten. There’s always a ticket and an after-show invitation for me,
although Lilia, the old bird, her manager, would happily have dropped me. Not
one for tender friendships. Why are you asking me this now?’

Simon turned
his head so he could look Roger in the eyes. ‘I need a favour. Could you call
her? Tell her Simon needs her. Tell her how ill I am.’

Roger
frowned. ‘Do you know Mia?’

Simon
smiled sadly. ‘I know Molly. We were at college together many moons ago and we
were friends.’

Roger
was clearly puzzled. ‘Yes, her real name is Molly — but I had no idea she was
friends with you, Simon … Oh.’ Roger’s expression changed as he made the link
between Molly and Simon and the words of Mia Delvard’s famous song. ‘I don’t
believe it. So you’re Simon. You done her wrong.’

‘I did.
I must speak to her. Please, Roger. Tell her Simon’s dying and needs to see
her. Bring her to me before it’s too late.’

Lilia appeared back in her
flat the following day with a suspiciously red face, which meant she had been
having facial peeling at her favourite dermatologist’s. Molly was relieved to
see her. She had worried that her announcement of a temporary retirement might
have made Lilia so furious that she would be impossible for weeks on end. But
she came down to breakfast quite happily and seemed her old self.

Molly
tried to mention her break but Lilia would hear none of it, and brushed away
her attempts to discuss with it with a breezy ‘Come, come! If you need a rest,
you need a rest. I’m not Pol Pot, you know.’

Molly
was delighted that harmony was restored.

A few nights later, Lilia
came down to the lounge to join Molly and Rupert for a quick drink before
dinner. ‘Good evening, Rupert, my dear,’ she said, going over to peck his
cheek. She looked elegant in a light blue dress with a glittering diamond
brooch. ‘I trust you have had a good day?’

‘Hello,
Lilia,’ said Rupert, cheerfully. ‘Not bad, thank you. I think we’ve got Tara
Palmer-Tomkinson to play Ophelia at Regent’s Park.’

‘An
excellent choice.’

‘It’s
what the punters want. Can I get you a drink? Your usual?’

Lilia
went to sit down opposite Molly. ‘I very rarely …’ she said, as she always
did’… but it would be rude to refuse. Just a small brandy to wake up my
tastebuds, if you insist. And when I say small, I’m talking continental
measures. Don’t just show the bottle to the tumbler if you don’t mind.’

Rupert
half filled the glass with Courvoisier and handed it to Lilia, who held it up
to the light and examined it as if it were an old donkey and she the keeper of
the knacker’s yard. ‘Well, it’s a start, I suppose.’

Molly
accepted another top-up from Rupert as she said brightly, ‘How was your day,
Lilia?’

‘Rather
marred by worry, if you must know.’

‘Really?
What about?’

‘It’s the
children.’

‘What
about them?’

Rupert
looked over from the drinks table, his eyebrows raised.

‘I
can’t help wondering if your nanny — Michelle, isn’t it? Such a pretty girl! —
is altogether wise to let the boys play in the way she does.’

‘What
do you mean?’ said Rupert.

Lilia
raised her shoulders. ‘It’s probably nothing. I’m an old woman. What do I know
of raising children? Except in my day we didn’t throw them in the air, let them
fall into ponds or eat chicken shit.’

‘What?’
exclaimed Molly, sitting up straight. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Nothing,
really,’ said Lilia, demurely.

‘No.
Explain to me what you mean, please. What’s Michelle done?’

‘I
spent most of the day in my flat and every now and then I looked into the
garden. What I saw shocked me. At one point, Michelle was throwing each child
up in the air like a Frisbee. Higher and higher she tossed them, catching them
as they plummeted to the ground only by the most fortuitous of good fortune.
Perhaps that was just good fun and high spirits and I’m silly to be concerned.’

‘But
what’s this about the pond?’ asked Rupert, coming over.

‘Oh,
they both took a tumble into the fish pond. Michelle seemed to be encouraging
them to balance on the ornamental edging. Naturally, at only four and almost
two, the boys hardly have the skill required. Luckily she hauled them out of
the freezing, filthy water before too long.’