Devil in Disguise (41 page)

The afternoon sun was
lowering in the sky, and the chill of a September evening was rising up from
Romney Marsh nearby. Molly picked up the tattered bamboo stick she kept by the
back door and made her way down the acre of garden towards the mulberry tree.
The three hens and Blake, the cockerel, usually dozed in the shade under the
low-hanging branches. When she reached the tree, Molly stirred the leaves above
them with her stick, and after a few indignant burbles, Blake popped out, alert
and outraged as only a cockerel can be. Jodie, Jordan and Maureen followed.
They were big, brassy, white Sussex Light chickens, although Blake had a
handsome, tapering dark grey collar of feathers and a spray of dramatic dark
blooms at his tail.

‘Come
on, girls!’ she called. ‘Let’s be ‘avin’ you. Bedtime!’

Familiar
with the routine, the four birds squawked and scuttled across the croquet lawn
and into their pen. Molly flung a handful of corn after them and fastened the
gate with a sturdy Y-shaped stick stuck through the padlock catch.

‘Be
good. I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said. She left the chickens to their
roosting, envying them their simple existence.

She
felt like roosting herself, drawing in, closing her eyes and sleeping for days
on end. The night before had been more draining than any performance she could
remember, perhaps because it was the last on the tour that had taken her round
the world over the last six months. Or perhaps it was because she knew that she
had stored up trouble for herself with the announcement she had made. Lilia had
been so livid that she hadn’t spoken a word to her at the party afterwards, and
Molly had come home alone. Where Lilia was now, she had no idea.

She
made her way back across the lawn and up the crazy-paving pathway towards the
house. A patio nestled against a semi-circular bay, around which grew a profusion
of ice-white roses. There she paused. From inside the house she could hear the
children laughing with Michelle, the nanny. In a minute she would go in and see
them, but first she wanted to savour a few more peaceful moments looking out
over the garden on a perfect late-summer evening.

Her
life had turned round so dramatically, and her happiness had blossomed so much,
that she had trouble taking it all in. It had all begun eight years before,
when she’d stepped out onto the stage at Ronnie Scott’s. Moments before she was
due to go on, Lilia had come to her dressing room with the terrible news that
Pancho, her little Chihuahua puppy, was dead. He had leapt from Lilia’s arms in
front of an approaching tube when she was waiting for the Bakerloo line train
to Oxford Circus. ‘He gave just one little yelp and was gone. Under the wheels
like a dropped sandwich. I’m so very sorry,’ Lilia had said sadly.

‘Oh,
poor Pancho!’ Molly had cried. ‘That’s just dreadful. I feel sick!’

‘I
know,’ said Lilia, comforting her with a hug. ‘Such a sweet, loving little
chap. How about we get you a kitten? Would you like that?’

Tears
flowed down Molly’s cheeks but just then the stage manager knocked on the door
to tell her it was time to go on.

‘Be
brave,’ Lilia had said, helping her dry her eyes and pushing her towards the
door. ‘Be strong. You know you can do it.’

When
she had stepped out into the spotlight, she had sung with such sensational
sadness and heartbreak that the whole audience was moved to tears. The next
day, she woke up to rave reviews and an ecstatic agent whose phone wouldn’t
stop ringing. She was, overnight, a star.

The
next few years passed in a whirl of hard work, dressing rooms, stages, studios
and all the other places her career required her to be. There was hardly time
to breathe. More than ever she depended on Lilia to advise and guide her, to
help her manage her overcrowded diary, to sit at her side in interviews or just
to book her hair and beauty appointments. Molly Douglas gradually disappeared
completely as Mia Delvard took over. Sometimes it was hard to remember who she
really was. It was only when she was here, at home with the children, that she
felt she was Molly again.

Sighing,
she turned to go inside. Stooping slightly, she went through the bleached-oak
door that led into the half-timbered Elizabethan house. She crossed the boot
room, then the small lounge, which led into a rambling drawing room and from
there to the office and TV room, where she heard her sons gurgling and laughing
with Michelle.

Four-year-old
Leo was a ray of joy, as happy as the day was long, forever smiling and amused
by life. He jumped up as his mother came in, leaving the puzzle he was doing,
and rushed over to her for a hug. ‘Leo! Hello, gorgeous!’ said Molly, taking
him into her arms. ‘How have they been, Michelle?’

‘Wonderful.’
The nanny was holding eighteen-month-old Bertie, who was clutching a toy train
and chattering happily at the sight of Molly. ‘They’ve both been very good.’

‘Great.’
Molly smiled at her nanny. They had formed a strong bond over the last few
months when she and the boys had accompanied Molly on various parts of the
tour. ‘Why don’t you get off home now? I’ll do bath and bed.’

‘Are
you sure?’

‘Of
course.’

‘I’ll
see you in the morning, then.’ Michelle kissed the children and said goodnight
to them, while Molly set about getting their tea, humming as she bustled about
the kitchen. She loved this humdrum domesticity after the weeks of hotel rooms
and planes. She savoured these moments, filing them in her memory under
‘blissful contentment’. She would never have guessed that marriage and
motherhood would suit her so well.

Molly had met her future
husband at the Jazz and Blues Awards at the Grosvenor House Hotel where she had
won the Best Newcomer trophy. Lilia had grabbed her by the arm and led her
through the crowd of fashionable people until they were elbow-to-elbow with a
good-looking well-upholstered man in his early forties.

‘Oh, Mr
Shawcross!’ declared Lilia. ‘What a pleasure. May I introduce you to my client,
Mia Delvard?’

Molly
smiled while Rupert Shawcross looked at her appreciatively. ‘Of course. The
pleasure is mine. Congratulations, Miss Delvard. I’m so glad you won. I was
rooting for you,’ he said, with a generous smile.

‘Thank
you,’ said Molly, swimming in his handsome brown eyes.

‘Mia,
this is Rupert Shawcross, the well-respected producer.’

‘Of
course.’ Molly smiled at him. ‘Congratulations to you, too.’

Rupert
was clutching his own award for his inspired musical version of
Gaslight.
‘Thank
you. Will you join me for a glass of celebratory champagne?’

Molly
considered. She’d heard, of course, of Rupert Shawcross, successful theatrical
entrepreneur and producer, not just because of
Gaslight
but because of
his high-profile divorce, which had only just faded from the front pages. She
knew that his wife Sheila had separated from him after he’d had an affair with
the leading actress in one of his shows, and it had cost him dear. He’d lost
the family home in Chalfont St Giles, complete with stables, swimming-pool and
staff bungalow in the grounds, with the second home, a state-of-the-art villa
in Ibiza, and had to pay annual allowances amounting to several million pounds
each year. Sheila had revelled in her triumph, and been interviewed
sympathetically on several daytime TV programmes about her love-rat
multi-millionaire ex-husband and the effect of it all on their son. Did Molly
really want to get involved with someone who had so much baggage, even if so
far he was just offering her a glass of champagne? She could already feel the crackle
of chemistry between them and, if she was honest, she was desperate for
romance, sex and a little sensual stimulation, and was likely to fall wildly in
love with the first man who gave her a good seeing-to.

‘Yes,
please!’ Lilia said eagerly. ‘We’d love to.’

To
Molly’s delight, Rupert was nothing less than utterly charming to Lilia, and
didn’t seem to mind that their drink together was a threesome. He toasted Molly
with champagne, and when he went to order another bottle, Lilia grabbed her
arm. ‘He is the one!’ she said urgently. ‘He is the man we have been waiting
for! He has love in his eyes, love for you. A man might have everything,
wealth, fame, success, looks, even, but if he does not have that fire, that
longing for you in his soul and his loins, then he cannot help you. Rupert is
yours for the asking. Look at his teeth. He is worth a fortune!’

‘Really,
Lilia, how can you tell he has love for me? We’ve only just met!’

‘I can
see it, believe me. He fulfils all our requirements. Don’t let this one get
away.’

When
Rupert returned, Lilia made her excuses and left them together. They fell in
love that night over champagne and success. He kissed her before dispatching
her home in his chauffeur-driven car, then sent white roses at dawn and more
roses every hour on the hour for the whole of the next day, then three times a
day for the next week.

‘What a
gentleman!’ said Lilia. ‘Such tenacity! Such taste! What a life he is offering
you! All we can hope is that he soon abandons the theme of roses and takes up
diamonds instead.’

Molly
hardly heard her — she was in love.

After a
whirlwind romance Molly, too, had known that Rupert was the one, and she was
pregnant almost as soon as their relationship was consummated. They were
married just a month before Leo was born, in a quiet ceremony with only their
closest friends present and the paparazzi outside, hoping for a glimpse of the
very pregnant bride.

Molly
had always thought that Simon would give her away at her wedding but, as it
was, she asked Lilia to do it. Jane, reconciled to her old friend after Molly
had called and begged forgiveness for the episode at Kit-Kat Cottage, was her
bridesmaid, and Boris Norris attended with his family.

Lilia
made a memorable speech at the reception. ‘I know that Molly’s parents would be
very proud of her and very happy for her on this day. They are not here, so I
speak for them.’ She closed her eyes, as if channelling the thoughts of Molly’s
absent mum and dad. ‘Rupert, they say, “We give you the precious gift of our
daughter, and entrust her to your keeping. To have and to hold, to keep and
cherish, spoil and lavish. Spare no expense in the care of our beloved Molly.”
A top-of-the-range BMW will do very nicely for starters. Pension schemes and
life insurance are something I’ll discuss with your secretary.’

Now Molly had the life
Lilia had promised her. Slumming it (as Rupert said) in darkest Kent, they
nevertheless lived in a romantic and imposing house, all rambling roses and
latticed windows.

Lilia
lived on the top floor of the picturesque home. The sweet, cosy, self-contained
flat had been the deciding feature when Molly and Rupert first viewed the
house. ‘This is perfect!’ Molly had said, clapping her hands in pleasure.
‘Lilia can live with us but we’ll have our privacy. What do you think,
darling?’

Rupert
had already been charmed by Lilia and was aware that his wife came with an
attachment. He had been thinking about buying a cottage down the road from
wherever they moved into, but the granny flat upstairs solved the problem and
saved him a few bob too. ‘I think it’s the one,’ he replied.

When
they’d first moved in, Lilia had been happy to keep to herself, pottering about
her kitchenette. In fact, Molly had had to insist that she dine with them in
the evenings. ‘I don’t like to impose,’ Lilia had said graciously. ‘Thank you
for thinking of me, but you and your husband need time alone together. You
couldn’t possibly want me sitting between you like the Shroud of Turin. I shall
stay upstairs alone and nibble an oatcake. Maybe a radish too, if I have one.’

All of
this carry-on only made Molly more insistent. Before long, she had persuaded
Lilia to join them for dinner each night, and thereafter the old lady would
enter the dining room at precisely eight o’clock every evening. She was always
slightly overdressed in something elegant but fussy, with freshly applied
makeup and her ruby-red hair combed up into several improbable curls, lacquered
to the resistance of a wicker basket.

With
Lilia in the house, and then the arrival of Bertie, Molly had what she’d always
dreamt of: a family. Just when she thought life couldn’t get any better, it had
trumped itself: first weight loss, sudden professional success, fame and
financial rewards beyond her wildest dreams. Then falling in love. Marriage.
More wealth. A dream home in the country. Motherhood. Whatever next? Ascension
to heaven?

‘Come
on, boys, time for tea!’ called Molly, dishing up spaghetti Bolognese. The
children giggled and shrieked as they ran and toddled for the table, their
blond heads gleaming in the early evening sunshine. Molly let out a long,
contented sigh and smiled.

But
after a moment or two the smile faded and her forehead puckered into a frown.
Despite her wonderful husband, her gorgeous children and the beautiful house
they lived in, Molly couldn’t hide her growing anxiety any longer.

Over
the years, as Molly’s success had grown, Lilia had become grander and grander,
declaring herself solely responsible for her student’s professional triumphs.
‘You came to me a frumpy pantomime actress and you left a charismatic firework!
All this is down to me and me alone.’ In the meantime, she was trying to work
some of her transformative magic on herself and was no stranger to the
surgeon’s knife and the sumptuous Harley Street practices where physical
perfection and eternal youth were on offer at the right price. The various
procedures she had undergone had plumped and smoothed her skin, any deeper wrinkles
removed with fillers, so that she looked much younger than a woman in her early
eighties. Her hair, though still thin, was persistently red and enhanced with a
selection of weaves and clip-in tresses that added lustre and fullness. She
wore a corset, more to hold her upright than to hold her in, which gave her the
posture of a much younger woman. She made the most of her new 36C breasts, and
the killer heels gave her height with a feminine totter. She was certainly a
world away from the bent, limping old lady who had opened the door of Kit-Kat
Cottage all those years ago.