Devil in Disguise (39 page)

‘Are
you sure he doesn’t just want to be my agent because I’ve been in the same
dressing room as Julian Clary?’

‘Don’t
be silly,’ snapped Lilia. ‘Boris Norris is the best in the business. Shirley
Bassey, Nina Simone, Kathy Kirby — he’s heard of them all.’

‘Great,’
said Molly. ‘If you think he’s right for me, then I’m happy.’

Lilia
removed her gloves and coat. She sat down on the simple brown sofa and looked
seriously at Molly, who came over and sat opposite. ‘In another month, we will
reach the end of our six-month agreement. I would like to propose that, before
you sign with Boris, we make a pact. We will extend our partnership
indefinitely, and there will be certain terms I would like you to agree with —
to do with my status as your mentor and manager. When you begin to earn money,
I will need to be sure that my efforts are rewarded. That is fair enough, is it
not?’

‘Of
course, Lilia! I’m your creation so of course you must share in the rewards
when it begins to pay off,’ said Molly. The idea of their agreement coming to
an end appalled her: she couldn’t imagine living without Lilia now. To put it
simply, she needed her.

‘Good.
I will have a lawyer draw up our agreement — it’s best to have these things
done properly. It can save much heartache in the long run. Now…‘ she looked
mischievously at Molly’… I have other news, too. There is something else that
Mr Norris would like us to consider.’

Molly
recognised her portentous tone. Something major was about to be announced.
‘What is it?’ she asked, almost nervous. She sensed that whatever Lilia was
about to say would change her life.

‘How
would you like to play a week at Ronnie Scott’s?’

Molly
gasped and her hands flew to her mouth. ‘Really?’

‘Really,’
said Lilia. ‘Ronnie Scott’s. The most famous jazz club in London. The world and
his wife will be there. Press. Reviewers. Record labels. Boris will make sure
of it. Mia Delvard will perform her heart out and everyone — the whole world —
will fall in love with her. Everything we have ever wanted is about to come
true.’

‘Oh,
Lilia!’ said Molly, overcome. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much! I knew you could
make this happen. I always believed you.’

‘This
is it, my little canary,’ said Lilia, gravely. ‘This is your big chance. We are
an unbreakable team and you are about to become a star!’

A delicate-looking man
with yellow skin and a stoop shuffled through the excited crowds outside the
London Palladium. Despite the mild autumn weather, he was wearing a woollen
coat and scarf and would stop occasionally to allow a rumbling cough to work its
way out of his lungs. He checked his coat pocket and found the single ticket
for the back row of the stalls. Yes, it was still there. In a little less than
an hour he would see the legendary Mia Delvard on the final night of her world
tour. He had followed her career with interest over the years: he had listened
a million times to all of her recordings, watched her rare television
appearances (Mia was disdainful of the medium) and avidly read all the articles
and interviews he could find. But he had never, until now, experienced her
live.

Simon
had made a special effort to be there that evening. He rarely went anywhere,
apart from the off-licence, and felt decidedly panicky about being away from
his flat. It had taken great discipline and courage to get himself a ticket and
then to the Palladium, relatively sober, in time for the performance.

Outside
the theatre, touts were asking everyone in low, urgent voices if they had any
tickets to sell. This night had been sold out for months, and if he had been
interested, Simon could have sold his single ticket for several hundred pounds.
But he had no intention of doing that. He suspected, and rather hoped, that he
did not have much time left, and one thing he wanted to do before he became
incapable was see his old friend Molly in action.

Simon
stopped for another cough and studied the poster for the show he was about to
see. At the top, in huge gold letters, it read, ‘MIA DELVARD World Tour 2009’,
followed by the title of the show:
Losing My Mind.
Across the right-hand
top corner a sticker proclaimed, ‘Last Sensational Night!’ Above Mia’s name
were the small but important words: ‘International Artists in grateful
association with Lilia Delvard present …‘. The rest of the poster featured a
full-length image of Mia standing, sylph-like, in a single spotlight, dressed
in her usual figure-hugging black dress. She held a microphone in one hand
while the other was stretched out towards the camera. Her eyes, heavy with
charcoal, were closed and her mouth open as she sang one of her show-stopping,
anguished notes. At the bottom there were a few choice words of praise from her
many rave reviews. ‘A star of the brightest and most illuminating kind,’ gushed
the
New York Times.
‘Her voice is the eighth wonder of the world,’ opined
the
Guardian,
and ‘A star for our times,’ said the
New Statesman.

Simon
pondered this last quote. The title of Mia’s show was indeed clever. She was
touring at a time when most of the world was in the grip of an ominous
depression, and people were indeed losing their minds, their jobs, their homes
or their pensions. Mia Delvard’s dark songs expressed their mood. She seemed to
speak to all of them individually. But no one could know her the way he did.

Like
most of her fans, Simon knew all of Mia’s recordings by heart. But, unlike
them, he had a window into her past. Sometimes he would get out his old photos
and compare the groomed and sculpted Mia with the bubbly Molly he remembered.
There was one particular photo of her and him sitting on the steps of the
National Portrait Gallery. He remembered that afternoon, soon after they’d left
Goldsmiths. They’d been in high spirits after drinking a bottle of rosé in St
James’s Park and had just been curtly asked to leave the gallery for laughing
at a Beryl Cook exhibit.

‘What
on earth were we expected to do?’ Simon had said indignantly, as they sat on
the steps to recover themselves. Between howls of laughter he had stopped a
passing Japanese tourist who had obligingly taken that picture of them. They
had clearly tried to stop giggling while they posed for the camera, but their
faces were tipped up towards the sun and their eyes were shining with
suppressed amusement. Molly’s mass of wild dark-blonde curls framed her pretty,
round-cheeked face and she was stunning, in a friendly, northern sort of way.
He looked back to the show poster. You would never guess this was the same
girl: Mia was all cheekbones and pouting lips, with soulful, sorry eyes.

But
then, he thought ruefully, lighting a cigarette, I’ve changed a bit myself.

The
cigarette only made him cough again, but he persisted and was eventually able
to inhale the invigorating smoke. The coughing set off a burning sensation in
his stomach that spread in all directions until he had to close his eyes and
clutch at his waist, willing the agony to subside, which it did after about
thirty seconds. He sighed with relief and popped two Gaviscon Extra Strong
tablets into his mouth. The excruciating stabbing pains happened all day and
all night now, and he lived in fear of them.

Time
for a drink, he thought. He threw his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter,
then elbowed his way through the theatre doors and eventually into the heaving
bar. This was really a bit much, he thought. He wasn’t used to crowds or,
indeed, to physical contact of any kind, these days, and being pressed against
all and sundry made him irritable.

He had
almost reached the bar when he got wedged between a big actressy woman in a
vintage floral dress with an unfeasibly large red handbag, and a small-framed
wiry little man wearing a pork-pie hat. Simon studied his options and decided
he’d stand a better chance if he pushed in front of the man. He took a deep
breath and lunged, thrusting the pork-pie hat into the people behind him, and
got one hand, clutching a ten-pound note, across the bar.

‘Oi!’
said the pork-pie hat, squeezing angrily back. ‘I was before you!’

‘Oh,
piss off, you little runt,’ said Simon.

The man
looked ready to punch him, but suddenly his expression changed and he stared at
Simon, astonishment on his face. ‘Simon?’ he said. ‘Is that you? It is, isn’t
it? I remember those eyes! Well, fuck me pink. Still as rude as ever, I see.
You haven’t forgotten me, have you? It’s Roger. How are you?’

‘Roger?’
Simon blinked, then realised that the face of his old friend was beneath the
ridiculous hat. ‘I don’t believe it! Roger. It’s been years.’ He shook his
head. ‘You can buy the drinks, then.’

‘That’s
bloody typical, that is.’

‘I knew
something awful would happen if I came out tonight. But I had no idea it would
be as bad as this. I’ll have a large vodka and tonic.’

Roger
appraised his old friend. ‘You all right, girl? How’s life treating you?’ He
seemed concerned now.

Simon
shrugged. ‘I have endured. And you? Did you tire of the Midlands, or did the
Midlands tire of you? Didn’t you move there in pursuit of everlasting love?
Please don’t tell me it didn’t last.’

Roger
managed to get served and they moved away from the bar scrum to stand in the
corridor.

‘Freddie
developed dementia,’ Roger confided, handing Simon his drink.

‘Oh
dear. You don’t want that.’

‘The
maisonette became too much for him.’

Not a
sentence you’ll hear very often, thought Simon.

‘I had
to put him in a home,’ Roger continued. ‘He kept mistaking me for John
Barrowman.’

‘We all
have our snapping point. That must have been hell for you,’ said Simon, resting
a hand sympathetically on Roger’s shoulder.

‘It’s
all been rather awful, actually,’ said Roger, his eyes filling with tears. ‘I
visit at weekends but he keeps asking me if I’ve ever worked with Denise van
Outen.’

‘You
poor thing.’

‘So I
moved back to London. There was nothing for me in Northampton once Freddie was
in the home. I’d had enough of my stage-door duties, so I decided it was time
for another fresh start. I’m a window dresser.’

‘How
glamorous. Who for?’

‘Poundstretchers,’
said Roger, looking momentarily uncomfortable. ‘But it’s just a
stepping-stone. What about you? What have you been up to in the last eight
years?’

‘Nothing.
Absolutely nothing. My father left me some money so I bought a flat. I’ve got a
roof over my head and that’s enough for me. Other than that, I please myself.’
There was much more to tell but Simon couldn’t begin to go there.

‘You’re
looking a bit yellow, if you don’t mind me saying so. And you’ve put on a bit
of weight by the look of your stomach. You sure you’re okay?’

Simon
drew his coat closed over his distended belly. ‘Of course I am. I’m fine. I had
that motherfucker of a flu virus that’s been going round. Shall we have another
drink before we go in? I’ll buy.’

‘All
right, then. Thanks. You must be a Mia Delvard fan as well. Have you seen her
before?’ asked Roger.