Devil in Disguise (46 page)

‘I’m
here because Molly invited me. We’ve put the past behind us.’

‘Have
we?’ she said threateningly. ‘How convenient for you. ‘She gave a sinister
little laugh. ‘I, on the other hand, know all about
your
past. And I
have no intention of forgetting a single thing. What goes around comes around.’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘If you
hang around here longer than is good for you, you’ll find out. And don’t go
blurting silly tales to Molly — you’ll only frighten her and, besides, she’d
never believe you.’

‘I have
no intention of upsetting Molly,’ Simon said. ‘She thinks you’re just a sweet
old lady. You and I both know there’s more to it than that. As long as you have
her best interests at heart, we have nothing to argue about.’ He pulled on a
pair of dark glasses and lay back on the sun-lounger. ‘I’ll be heading off in
due course, don’t you worry about that. I have outpatient appointments to
keep. But I’d just like to add that if you hurt Molly, you’ll have me to answer
to.’

‘I am
shaking in my boots,’ snorted Lilia. ‘What will you do? Strike me with your
Lucozade bottle?’ She got up and he heard her chortling gently to herself as
her heels tripped across the stone patio.

Molly loved being at home
and looking after the children. It was true that life was not as easy as it had
been with Michelle but, after all, she had wanted more time with Leo and Bertie
and, anyway, Lilia wouldn’t hear of another nanny. She was surprised that Lilia
was proving so useful around the house: as usual, she was able to manage
everything perfectly. She could tell that Lilia didn’t like having Simon about,
but she might have expected that. It gave Molly so much pleasure to be able to
look after her old friend and help nurse him back to health. He was far from
well and there was no guarantee he’d ever be anything more than a sickly, pill-popping
invalid, but she hoped that the countryside, good food and sleep would work its
magic on him. He looked healthier and happier every day.

One
afternoon, as Molly came in from the garden carrying a wriggling boy in each
arm, Lilia got up from her armchair. ‘I was just wondering, my dear,’ she said,
‘which flight you would prefer to Toronto. There is one at nine in the morning
with BA or another in the afternoon with Virgin. Maybe the later slot would
suit you better.’

‘Toronto?’

‘Yes.
We have a six-date tour there just after Christmas. If we go on the later
flight you will at least have the morning with the brats.’

Molly
put the children down and they ran off, then turned to Lilia. ‘Don’t call them
brats, please. And what trip to Toronto? I told you to cancel all my
engagements.’

‘Don’t
be silly,’ said Lilia, with a light laugh. ‘We can’t simply call a halt to your
career. Besides, this has been in the diary for a year or more. I assumed you
would want to honour it.’

Molly
took a deep breath. ‘No. I’m not going. I told you, I’m exhausted and I need
some time off.’

‘You
are nothing of the kind. We shall go to Canada and then on to Hollywood to meet
some very important movers and shakers. Boris is organising it.’

‘No,’ said
Molly, simply but firmly. ‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience but I’m staying put
here, with my husband, my children and Simon. They all need me.’

Lilia
frowned. ‘Don’t you see, Molly? If you take your eyes off the ball and allow
vulgar domestic matters to interfere with your superior destiny then you might
as well retire and become a session singer. We were on a journey, you and I. We
have not yet reached our destination.’

‘I
can’t argue my point any more. I’m tired, and I’m staying here. Nothing you can
say will alter that.’

Something
like a snarl seemed to pass over Lilia’s face, but then she relaxed. She
shrugged helplessly. ‘You’re wasting your time over those children. What can
they add to your career in the long term? They’re very sweet and ideal for a
photo opportunity, but let’s keep it real. It’s not as if they’re sextuplets.
However, if that’s your choice—’

‘It
is,’ Molly put in firmly.

‘—then
you must live with the consequences,’ finished Lilia.

It was Molly’s turn to
cook that night, and while she was not an accomplished chef, she always did her
best. Rather ambitiously she attempted pork chops in Gorgonzola, but the meat
was a little undercooked and the cheese seemed to curdle a bit once it was
melted.

‘Delicious,’
Rupert said manfully, swigging down a gulp of wine after each mouthful.

‘My
appetite hasn’t really come back,’ said Simon, apologetically, as he put his
fork down on an almost untouched plate.

‘Unusual,’
Lila pronounced, as she pushed hers away, ‘but, then, so are shark bites. Now,
is that a Pavlova I can see winking at me? More of a Wayne Sleep from the look
of it, but shall we make a polite attempt?’

She
approached the sideboard where Molly’s burnt offering rested on a glass dish,
like an elderly tortoiseshell cat asleep in a fruit bowl. ‘Shall I be mother?’
she asked, picking up the pie knife and clutching it like a dagger above the
scorched meringue. She made tutting noises as she spooned it into the Victorian
glass dessert dishes. She even tasted a tiny morsel, scooping it up with her
little finger and saying, ‘Poo!’ quietly and discouragingly, wrinkling her nose
at Rupert. She carried three dishes over to him, Molly and Simon, then sat down
in her chair and crossed her arms.

‘Are
you not having any?’ said Molly, her voice trembling. The failure of the main
course and now this attack on her Pavlova had quite undermined her self-esteem.
First she had been judged negligent in allowing Michelle to care for the
children. Now she couldn’t even rustle up a decent meal.

‘Delicious
though it looks, I shall decline. Gooseberries do not agree with me,’ said
Lilia.

‘They
aren’t gooseberries, they’re kiwi fruit,’ said Molly, defensively.

‘Well,
they look like genetically modified gooseberries, ‘snapped Lilia.

Rupert,
meanwhile, had swallowed his first mouthful. ‘It’s very nice,’ he said.

‘Well
done, Molly,’ said Simon, eating some of the less burnt bits.

‘I don’t
understand!’ burst out Molly, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I cooked it at the
lowest heat as usual. How could it have burnt?’

‘Perhaps
it was another of those long phone conversations you so enjoy,’ Lilia put in
sweetly. ‘You were talking to your publicist today, weren’t you? Two hours, I
think it was.’

‘I was
on the phone for two or three minutes,’ protested Molly.

Lilia
shook her head. ‘Dear Molly. So lost in her showbusiness world. She can talk
about herself for a hundred and twenty minutes and it seems like five!’

Rupert
gave Molly a quizzical look. ‘Were you really on the phone for two hours? What
about the children?’

‘They
were with me,’ said Lilia, ‘at the doctor’s surgery. Bertie hurt himself badly
on Molly’s luxury home-manicure set, which she left carelessly on the sofa. I
took the boys to have an anti-tetanus injection. I thought it best.’

‘What?’
said Molly, surprised. ‘Bertie’s hurt?’

‘Didn’t
you even notice?’ Rupert said, sounding cross. He pushed his pudding away.
‘What are you playing at, Molly? I thought you wanted time off to look after
the children, not while away your time chatting on the phone.’

‘Nothing,
I… I…’ She looked at Simon. ‘Did you see Bertie get hurt?’

‘I was
asleep most of the afternoon. Sorry.’

Molly
thought she caught the ghost of a smile flutter across Lilia’s face.

The next day Simon had an
important hospital appointment in London and Molly offered to go with him. ‘How
was it?’ she asked, when Simon got back from his examination.

‘Sobering,’
said Simon, ironically. They turned and walked towards the hospital exit.
‘Apparently my liver is heavily scarred. I felt rather proud, when the doctor
told me. Battle-scarred, I was thinking. Scars to be worn like trophies,
testimony to my internal organ’s tenacity in the face of two bottles of vodka a
day. But it seems these scars are not as decorative as I’d thought. After this
it all gets very technical, but suffice to say that my darling liver has fought
bravely on, but now, sadly, is facing a future of special needs.’

Molly
grasped his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Simon.’

‘I’m
thrilled!’ said Simon, jocularly. ‘I’ve always wanted to say, “I don’t have
long”!’

‘That’s
not true, though, is it?’

‘Well,
I haven’t done myself any favours.’ They walked out of the hospital, headed
across Euston Road and towards Camden Town.

‘But
you’re recovering, I can see that.’

‘Yes,’
Simon concurred. ‘I do look better. My skin’s gone from healthy tan to
magnolia, then rather suddenly into sunflower, and now I’ve emerged a pleasant
Sahara sand. Very on trend. The tests show the liver has some function, bless
it. But it’s a bit like Kenneth Williams towards the end: miserable and doesn’t
want to be here.’

‘How
sick are you?’ asked Molly.

‘Well,
let’s just say I’m not putting anything away for the future. There was talk of
a transplant. Just think, I could have some leather-clad motorcyclist’s organ
inside me at long last. But it may not come to that. I’m booked in for a
counselling session tomorrow morning. I expect they’re going to say the dreaded
words “Alcoholics Anonymous”.’

‘Does
that mean you can’t come back to Kent with me?’

‘So it
seems. I must return to my bachelor flat and face reality.’

‘What
about your medication?’

Simon
held up his canvas messenger bag. ‘I’ve got most of what I need with me here. If
you could send the rest of my things up by car later, I’d be most grateful.’

‘Of
course.’ Molly nodded, then shot him an anxious look. ‘I’m worried you’ll go
straight to the pub the moment you’re out of my sight.’

‘Only
if I feel like dropping dead on the spot — and
Hollyoaks
is particularly
gripping at the moment. So, no. I’m quite keen on living all of a sudden.’

‘Come
on, then. I’ll get my driver to drop us off. I’d like to see where you live.’

‘Er, I
don’t know if that’s a good idea. It’s a bit of a mess.’

‘Then I
can help you to tidy up.’

‘No,
really. I’ll be fine. Just drop me outside.’

‘You’re
being shifty, Simon. What is it?’

‘You
can’t see my flat. It’s a disgrace. I’d be embarrassed.’

‘Don’t
be. I’m your friend.’

When
they got to the front door, Simon paused. ‘I haven’t been here since the night
of your concert at the Palladium. The night I had my dramatic collapse. I
didn’t really have time to tidy up. Brace yourself.’

The
fiat was like a bombsite. The hallway wasn’t too bad, but as soon as they
entered the lounge they were confronted with a six-foot mountain of paperwork —
letters, bank statements, poetic jottings, ideas for plays and final demands
for household bills. Plates of half-eaten food led the way into the kitchen,
which was piled high on every surface with more dirty plates, saucepans, empty
tins and thick, greasy grime on and beneath everything.

In
Simon’s room the bed was unmade. Indeed, it was naked —a bare, stained mattress
only partially covered with a similarly naked but dramatically bloodstained
duvet. An incongruously luxurious eight pillows were piled at one end, under
the window; they were relatively new but strangers to a pillowcase. Beside the
bed there was an overflowing ashtray, a packet of Marlboro and a lighter. Next
to them a heavily fingerprinted wine glass held an inch of stale brandy.

‘Oh, my
God,’ said Molly, looking about. ‘You weren’t joking. How on earth did it get
like this?’

‘I can
make you a cup of herbal tea without too much risk to your health, if you wish.
I must apologise for the state of my home. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’