Devil in Disguise (7 page)

‘This
is dead nice,’ said Molly when they first went to look at it. ‘Makes a bit of a
change from the dog shit and used needles we’re used to.’ She’d been becoming a
little depressed in their last place, wondering if she’d made a really serious
mistake in leaving university. The improvement in their standard of living restored
some of her usual cheerfulness. They moved in as soon as they could.

Simon
and Molly spent a week splashing the walls with white paint and making novelty
tables and chairs out of old orange boxes and bits of hardboard.

‘It’s
all about lighting,’ said Molly, when she brought home a small red-painted lamp
with a fringed shade. It cast a warm pink glow around her room. Simon opted for
a bare blue-tinted lightbulb.

‘I
guess the time has come to stop talking and get on with it,’ said Molly, one
evening, as they sat in her room, she with a cup of tea, Simon drinking a can
of Special Brew.

‘That
sounds rather ominous.’

‘We’ve
got to do something, though. Don’t you agree? We’re running out of money for a
start.’

‘Can’t
we just be fabulous wherever we are? Or is that too gay?’

‘You’re
all talk and no knickers, you are.’

At
least Molly knew what she wanted from life. Singing, as anyone within earshot
could testify, was her main interest. But what were Simon’s plans exactly? He
was undoubtedly clever and perceptive, but how did he intend to apply these
talents? His vision of a marvellous life involved no career or particular
prosperity. If he was to take a piece of paper and write ‘Interests’, alcohol
and anonymous sex with straight men would have been at the top of his list. ‘I
suppose I could become a Welsh politician,’ he joked, ‘or I might be the
reincarnation of Truman Capote,’ he added, a glimmer of seriousness just
detectable in his tone.

When
Molly was faced with an empty purse she was far more practical and dynamic.
‘Well, I’m getting my glad-rags on tomorrow. I’m taking my sheet music with me
into town and I’m going to march confidently into every bar or restaurant that
has a piano and ask if they want a singer. Or a waitress. Or a barmaid.’

‘If
that’s my cue to say I’m coming too, forget it.’

‘We
can’t live on fresh air. Or drink it.’

‘In
that case I shall make my weary way to the DSS and sign on.’

Molly
found work almost immediately as a singing waitress at Joe Allen’s in Exeter
Street, a restaurant popular with musical-theatre types. Simon’s dole money was
not enough to keep his bottomless glass full so he reluctantly phoned his
contacts at the Old Vic and got part-time work as a backstage dresser.

‘Pulling
down some West End Wendy’s trousers six nights a week is not my idea of a
fulfilling life,’ he announced, after his first night.

‘Neither
is dipping my thumb into Christopher Biggins’s gravy, but needs must,’ replied
Molly.

Most
nights after work, Simon would go drinking. He would have a couple in the pub
next to the stage door, chatting with the wardrobe girls and the front-of-house
staff. Then, after a while, he’d say, ‘Time for me to slip into the night,’
make his way to Soho and spend a few hours touring the gay bars and clubs.
Simon had various ‘drinking buddies’ — friends he only ever saw in these
places, after dark and under the influence. Some evenings Molly would meet up
with him when she finished at Joe Allen’s. Their nights out together could get
quite wild, if the wind was-in the right direction, but he always steered clear
of his drinking pals on those occasions. They were part of a world to which he
couldn’t take Molly, much as he would have liked to.

Simon
was always Molly’s biggest fan. When she sang for the diners at Joe Allen’s he
would often turn up after his shift at the Old Vic and lean against the bar,
listening intently while keeping a firm eye on the gentlemen’s latrine. He
alone would holler and cheer when she finished a number and, emboldened by
drink, he would often shush a particularly noisy table and tell them to show
some consideration for the poor girl singing her heart out by the piano. Simon
watched Molly’s confidence as a performer grow and soon he suggested she get an
audition song ready.

‘Audition
song?’ said Molly, rather taken aback.

‘Yes.
It’s time you offered your services to the professional theatre, don’t you
think?’

So one
night at Joe Allen’s, when someone approached Molly after hearing her act and
asked if she would be interested in auditioning for a musical, she was all
ready. Better than that, she got the job, playing the stripper Tessie Tura the
Texas Twirler in
Gypsy,
singing ‘You Gotta Get A Gimmick’. It was hardly
the West End — four weeks’ profit share in Milton Keynes. It turned out there
was no profit but lots of sharing. Still, Molly returned with an agent, a list
of auditions to attend and a boyfriend called Paddy, a musician who played sax
in the
Gypsy
band. Within a few weeks she had a part in the National’s
production of
Candide
and had given up her room at the squat to move in
with Paddy. Simon was invited over to their love nest in Wimbledon, but it
wasn’t to his liking. He thought Paddy was a crashing bore who smoked too much
dope, but he could see Molly was smitten.

Simon
seemed perfectly content to stay on at the Kennington squat until the day he
lost his job at the Old Vic. He’d made the mistake of having a few Bacardi
Breezers between shows one afternoon. Bacardi always had a particularly
strident effect on his mood, so when the company manager ticked him off because
he was ten minutes late for his evening call, Simon picked him up and threw him
down the stairs. The man was not badly hurt and decided not to involve the
police — on the condition that Simon was fired on the spot.

Simon
never considered getting another job. He signed on and he had somehow convinced
his doddery father that he was still a student, now studying for a PhD on
Albanian theatre practitioners. He moved to a new squat north of the river and,
between the dole money and the cash his father sent, he was able to support
himself and, more importantly, his drinking habit, which, without the
restraining influence of Molly, was considerable. He had his first drink of
the day earlier and earlier, and ended the night drunker and drunker. It became
commonplace not to know what he’d done or how he’d got home.

Simon
and Molly still met frequently and spoke on the phone, especially once they
both had mobiles (even if Simon’s pay-as-you-go was always running out of
juice), but she was not there to see the state he was in when morning dawned.
She scolded him if he sounded hung-over, but she didn’t know the half of it and
Simon was careful to hide it from her.

If
anything they were more affectionate with each other on the telephone than they
had been when they lived in each other’s pockets.

‘I love
my Molly!’ Simon would declare several times a week.

‘Are
you missing me?’ Molly would ask.

‘I feel
like the Marquis de Sade without a whip. And how is life in the cosy seclusion
of heterosexual coupledom?’

‘Apart
from your and my forced estrangement, it’s fantastic. Paddy has issues with athlete’s
foot, but no one’s perfect.’

‘That’s
why I prefer my men to keep their shoes on.’

‘Paddy
is gorgeous and kind and I love being with him,’ said Molly, dreamily.

At this
point Simon always lost interest in the conversation. Hearing about the walks
hand in hand on the common, Paddy’s prowess in the lasagne department or their
pet names for each other made Simon want to heave.

‘The
thing is,’ Molly was saying, ‘because he goes to the gym three times a week
there’s an awful lot of laundry.’

‘You
don’t say?’ remarked Simon. ‘I have a lot of laundry too, but that’s mainly on
account of all the bodily fluids I’m drenched in by the time I’ve strolled
innocently home through the park.’

‘Thank
you for sharing that, Simon.’

But
only ten months later things went wrong with Paddy. While Molly was away
appearing as the Good Fairy in
Sleeping Beauty
at Brighton’s Theatre
Royal, Paddy fell in love with one of his private pupils. Molly moved in with
an actress friend of hers called Jane, and there was much weeping and wailing
down the phone to Simon.

‘Well,
look on the bright side,’ he offered. ‘You’ll never have to eat lasagne again.’

Molly
choked. ‘Your flippancy isn’t funny at all sometimes. I’ve got a broken heart
here! I thought I was going to spend the rest of my days with Paddy…’ She
dissolved into tears.

‘Listen
to me,’ counselled Simon. ‘There are bumps and bruises in all walks of life. I
let this real beauty slip through my fingers the other day at the swimming
baths. I was devastated. I could hardly roll my towel up afterwards. But I
dealt with it. Move on, I say. Next! Don’t let the bastards get the better of
you.’

‘I’m
trying,’ said Molly.

‘Let’s
exorcise him with a trip to Soho. Meet me at eleven o’clock at Revenge.’

While
Molly’s career was blossoming, Simon’s energy went into maintaining his
‘interests’. He didn’t aspire to anything, as long as he could feel the first
flush of intoxication, which swept over him like bleach on a greasy floor every
time he had a large glass of Chardonnay. That was what Simon lived for. The
liberating douche. That, and urgent sexual gratification.

‘It
sounds horribly primitive,’ said Molly, when he tried to explain it to her.

‘It
is,’ agreed Simon.

‘And I
worry about you. I worry that one day you’ll meet the straight man who takes
real offence when you make a pass and decides to duff you up.’

‘I’ve
had the odd unfortunate encounter but I can run fast. I want you to understand.
You like safe, steady men and I like dangerous, unsteady men. Each to their
own.‘

That
Christmas, Molly gave Simon a St Christopher medal with his initials engraved
on the back. ‘To keep you safe on your travels,’ she told him. Simon laughed,
but he promised to keep it with him just in case.

Molly
soon acquired another boyfriend and entered into another, what he called
‘warts-and-all’, relationship. And then another. Simon would meet them, shake
their hands limply and suffer their company at the occasional party, but he was
resolutely cool with them. He much preferred to meet Molly alone because he
hated to see how needy and loved-up she got, forever leaning into her boyfriend
for a reassuring peck and gazing longingly at him across a crowded room if they
should be separated for more than a few seconds. It never rang true to Simon.
Molly was a vivacious, sexy woman. Why was she squandering her charisma on
these dreadful men? She devoted so much energy and emotion to each relationship
that she must be exhausted! Given how predictable the eventual outcome was, it
didn’t seem like a wise investment to Simon. If that was the price you had to
pay to get a cup of tea made for you in the morning and have someone to rub
your feet when they were sore, it wasn’t worth it.

One
night the following spring they fell out of Heaven nightclub at three in the
morning and Simon insisted they go for a stroll by the river. Molly was more
street-wise than Simon, but they linked arms as they walked over a deserted
Charing Cross Bridge and were soon sitting on a bench by the inky Thames just
in front of the National Theatre. Everything seemed incredibly peaceful. They
could see and hear traffic crossing the bridge to their left and the distant
whoops of other late-night revellers. Even faraway sirens seemed just a part of
the great cacophony of the metropolis.

‘Do you
ever wonder where we’ll be in ten years’ time?’ asked Simon. ‘Or twenty? Or
thirty?’

‘We’d
be in our fifties,’ said Molly, sounding appalled at the very thought.

‘Grey
hair and grey skin,’ said Simon. ‘If we’ve been successful in life we’ll be
trying to cling on to what we’ve achieved, fighting off young pretenders. If
we’ve failed to make our mark we’ll be full of self-loathing and
disappointment.’

‘That
depends at which point you give up on life, I guess,’ replied Molly, resting
her head on Simon’s shoulder as she looked at the streetlights reflected in the
water.

‘I
imagine it’s a gradual procedure,’ said Simon. ‘Preceded by a period of
self-delusion. I’ve always thought the ageing process is far worse for
beautiful people.’

‘Are
there any preparations I should be making?’

‘I
somehow think you’ll manage,’ said Simon tartly.

‘Well,
there’s no shame in getting older. It happens to everyone.’

‘It
does. But there’s no one so self-aware as a homosexual. We tick off every day,
watching for decay — little signs of death. We welcome them home like stray
dogs. It’s thought we party more than other folk because we have no breeding
responsibilities. We don’t live in supportive family groups so we seek and
satisfy our human social needs through the so-called gay community. We’re also
the lucky dispensers of the mythical pink pound, so it’s assumed we can afford
to go out swinging from the chandeliers every night of the week.’