Devil in Disguise

Very
special thanks to Kirsty Fowkes, my editor, whose confidence and enthusiasm
never wavered.

Thanks
also to Andrew Goodfellow and Gillian Green at Ebury, Hazel Orme my copy
editor, Eugenie Furniss my agent, Allan Rogers for his knowledge of torch
songs, Nicholas Reader, Paul O’Grady and Barb Jungr for their advice, Ian
Mackley for staying away and Peter and Carol for feeding the chickens.

And, of
course, Valerie, who answered my sighs with her own.

For
Jackie

Molly carefully painted
her nails blood red, three vivid stripes on each neat oval to make a flawless
finish. As the polish hardened, she gazed down admiringly at her hands. She had
looked after them well: the skin was soft and moisturised, the cuticles a
healthy pale pink with no breaks or hang-nails. When she sang on stage that
night, these hands would sweep and flourish expressively around her, enhancing
her performance and conveying the required emotions with skill and subtlety.
They were tools as valuable as her voice, and must be treated with respect. She
lifted each one in turn to her mouth and gave it a little kiss, rather like a
cat might with its paws. A pity, really, that her role required her to wear
gloves.

Her
hands might be her best feature but the rest of her, she knew, scrubbed up
well. She had a pretty, plumpish face, with regular features that carried heavy
stage makeup well, and her dark-blonde curls gave her the look of a cheerful
country lass not overly concerned with matters of grooming or personal hygiene.
She was fleshy and voluptuous. Her cleavage, when pushed up and powdered down,
could heave and pant fetchingly as she filled her lungs with air — she had
noted the admiring looks of her fellow performers, unable to resist the
occasional furtive glance. She had a hefty rump and Rubenesque thighs, but
these were usually hidden under the full-length robes that most of the musicals
and operas she was cast in required her to wear. Her boyfriend Daniel said she
had an hourglass figure. He lusted after her naked body, ripe breasts and big,
wobbly thighs, and he would kiss them, bite them, part them at every
opportunity.

As
Molly waited for her nails to dry, she went through her usual pre-performance
ritual, making a conscious effort to think with gratitude about her life thus
far. It was a trick her social worker had taught her when she was growing up in
the children ‘5 home in Liverpool. Positive thinking. The glass must always be
half full, not half empty.

I’m
twenty-three, she thought. I’m in my prime. I’m earning a living doing what I
love — singing. It might be small-time at the moment but who knows what plans
Fate has waiting down the line? Nobody hung out the bunting when Cilla Black
was born but she made the big-time — and how! If she can do it, why not me?

It was
simply a question of willpower and determination, of being in the right place
at the right time.

Molly
felt a sense of destiny hovering about her. One day she would be a successful
recording artist or a West End star; for now she was honing her craft with a
third-rate weekly touring company. She wasn’t proud. Community centres still
had stages, and the punters still came to hear singing, even if it was in
places as uninviting as Chatham, Port Talbot or Swindon. No matter. Sooner or
later, things would change for the better.

And
there was Daniel, a handsome painter and decorator with a sexy Cockney accent.
He had helped her to her feet when she’d slipped over in the street on her way
to an audition almost a year ago. He picked her up in more ways than one. After
a few dates and some rampant, adventurous lovemaking, she had moved in with
him. She loved him with all her heart and he loved her too. Professionally and
in her personal life everything was hunky-dory.

‘Thank
you, God,’ she said aloud, her voice still carrying a strong trace of its
original Scouse accent. ‘I’m made up. Work, sex, love. Cheers!’

As if
by way of an answer, the Tannoy in her dressing room crackled into life:
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the Midlands Operetta Company, this evening’s
performance of
The Mikado
will begin in five minutes. You have five
minutes. Thank you.’

It was
Saturday night, the last performance in glamorous Stevenage. After the show it
would be time to pack her things away and move on. Next stop, Northampton.

Oh,
shit! thought Molly, staring at her own wide blue eyes in the mirror. Digs.
I’ve forgotten again.

She
scolded herself as she gave her makeup one last check and straightened her
thick black wig. She never remembered to arrange her accommodation for the next
stop on the tour, and by the time she got round to it, all the best places had
been snapped up by other, more organised members of the cast and crew.

Oh,
well, she thought, as she needlessly added a touch more blusher, comforted by
the soft cool touch of badger hair. I’ll worry about Northampton tomorrow.

She
said goodbye to her perfect nails, pulled on her pink, elbow-length gloves and
headed for the stage.

Two days later Molly was
wheeling her battered, dark-blue suitcase up the pathway of Kit-Kat Cottage in
a village called Long Buckby. The theatrical-digs list for Northampton had been
dismally short and, because she had left it so late, all the cheap and cheerful
rooms near to the theatre were taken. In fact, she had been unable to find
anything suitable at all.

In
desperation, she called the Derngate Theatre and spoke to a very helpful
stage-doorman called Roger. Once he’d heard that she was about to be reduced to
sleeping in her dressing room and washing herself and her smalls in the
hand-basin, he’d come up with Kit-Kat Cottage’s phone number. ‘It’s not on our
proper listings because it’s so far out most people don’t want to stay there.
It’s a bus journey or two into town.’

‘I’ve
got a car,’ she said quickly. ‘Tell me more.’

‘I
don’t know much about it, if I’m honest. No one from here has stayed there for
ages. They’re an elderly couple making some cash out of their spare room, I
think, and the old girl had theatrical inclinations once. A bit eccentric. Do
you want the details?’

‘I’m
all ears,’ Molly said, her eye-liner pencil poised over a crumpled envelope.

So here
she was. It was late spring, and either side of the pathway leggy daffodils and
grass in need of a trim brushed her ankles. It wasn’t really a cottage at all,
she noted, but a prefabricated bungalow, pebble-dashed in the same pea shingle
as the path, giving an all-over mottled blond-caramel effect. Either the gravel
or the Tarmac underneath it was giving off a curiously restful metallic scent
in the afternoon sunshine. She heard a bee buzzing on a nearby rose.

This is
nice, she thought, taking a deep breath of fresh, country air. She had spent
all her life in the city where everything was concrete, glass and asphalt, and
had only ever peered at green fields from train windows. The closest she’d got
to a farmyard animal was doing panto with Jim Davidson a few years ago.

The
path led to a small, pointed porch open to the elements. On either side there
were generous bay windows. Both sills, she could see, were crammed with
ornaments: ceramic ballerinas, glossy china Siamese cats, even a wax owl-effect
candle, all facing outwards to the path. Behind them, shielding any further
investigative glimpses into the rooms inside, hung startling cerise-pink lace
curtains.

Hmm.
It’s all a bit Blackpool, thought Molly. But if that was the worst that could
be said for the place, she was in luck. The relentless weekly searches for
somewhere to lay her head had forced her to lower her standards, as far as
aesthetics were concerned. She could cope with anything as long as her room was
clean and her bed comfortable.

She
rang the bell and heard a cheery ding-dong inside, which made her smile. There
followed two low barks and a woman’s voice saying something soothing but
unintelligible. A moment later the door swung open, and revealed her landlady,
or at least the top of her head. A full crown of henna-red hair greeted Molly.
‘Mrs Delvard?’ she ventured.

Slowly
the scarlet head tilted upwards and a pale, powdered forehead appeared,
followed by perfect painted eyebrows, milky green eyes, with matching emerald
eye-shadow, a button nose and unnaturally flushed lips. The old lady was
wearing a dark-blue, heavily embroidered kimono that had clearly seen better
days; the slow raising of the torso, like a geisha girl recovering from a
stately bow, was mesmerising.

‘Wilkommen!’
she breathed, as soon as she was upright. ‘You must
be Molly. Do come in. But, please, do not call me Mrs Delvard. I am Lilia.’

‘Thank
you, er… Lilia,’ said Molly. From that accent, the old lady was obviously
German. She hadn’t noticed it on the phone, but it was only slight, so perhaps
that was why. As she stepped into the hallway, she inhaled a strong jasmine
scent and noted the old framed theatre posters on the walls and the bunches of
dried roses hanging upside-down. It was all strangely familiar. She had met
dozens of aged theatrical landladies during her few years of touring. They were
often retired from ‘the business’ themselves, and loved nothing more than to
reminisce about their glory days. She hoped Lilia was of this ilk, as she
enjoyed hearing tales of high jinks and hilarious acting mishaps from
productions gone and long forgotten.