Devil in Disguise (47 page)

Molly
peered at the mess that surrounded them. ‘Fuck me, Simon. Quentin Crisp said to
ignore the dust, not garbage of every known perishable kind. This flat’s a
health hazard. What’s the matter with you?’

‘What
isn’t?’ said Simon, quietly, to himself. The shapes and swathes of the mess
spoke clearly of many nocturnal dramas, much as the ripples and dunes of a damp
beach tell all about the previous night’s storm. He must have done full-on King
Lears every other night, sweating at the sky and the universe, invoking chaos.
Domestic anarchy was the result.

Molly
looked at her friend, quivering before her. She couldn’t help herself— she put
her arms round him. It was Simon’s turn to cry. It was as if the dirty protest
he had been making for ages had finally been noticed and help was on the way.
He cried tears of thanks.

‘I’ve
been so frightened,’ he said. ‘I thought I was going to die here and no one
would notice. Thank you for coming to my rescue.’

‘Oh,
Simon,’ said Molly, ‘I wish I’d known. I wish you’d told me. We’ve wasted so
many years not speaking to each other. Thank goodness we’re together again. I’m
going to look after you. I’m going to help you to get better. Now, then,’ she
said, pulling away from him. ‘Let’s get this sorted. Bin-liners, scrubbing
brush, bleach. It’s just like the day we moved into the squat together.
Remember?’

The
clean-up operation took several hours. They filled ten bags with rubbish, threw
everything out of the fridge and cleaned the oven. They sorted the mountain of
paperwork, placed the books in stacks against the walls and made up the bed.

‘Well,
it looks better than it did,’ said Molly, wiping the sweat from her brow. ‘You
don’t expect to see that sort of domestic filth north of the river.’ When she
came to leave, she said, ‘I’m worried about you being here on your own. You’ll
be okay, won’t you? Promise me you’ll call if you need anything at all.’

‘I’ll
be fine,’ Simon said stoutly. ‘You’ve been wonderful and I’ve loved my time in
Kent, but I have to stand on my own two feet, you know. And Roger’s promised to
come over and keep me company. I’m lucky to have two such good friends.’

They
hugged again, then Simon gazed earnestly into Molly’s eyes. ‘There’s one thing,
though.’

‘Yes?’

‘Lilia.
Stay on your guard. I know you love her, but she’s trying very subtly to
undermine you at the moment.’

‘She’s
angry with me because I won’t go to Toronto. I think she imagined that after a
week or two I’d be dying to tour again. But I’m not.’

‘Just
watch out, okay? I’m sure you can handle her but she’s a funny old thing and
you don’t know what she’s capable of.’

‘I
will. Be strong and take care, Simon. I’ll see you soon. I shall miss you. Make
sure you come back to Kent as soon as you can.

Simon found it strange to
be alone and back in his flat. Although he was much better than he had been, it
was still just a matter of weeks since he had collapsed outside the stage door
of the Palladium.

Molly
was so concerned that, in his old environment he would take to the drink again
— with fatal consequences — that she had arranged for him to see a cognitive
behavioural therapist twice a week.

‘It
must be costing you a fortune,’ he said to Molly, on one of her weekly visits.
‘The place reeks of very expensive carpets.’

‘Never
mind that. As long as it’s helping you.’

‘She is
rather brilliant, actually. We’re doing the Twelve Steps.’

‘Is
that an AA term?’

‘Well,
it’s not a song by Robbie Williams. I’ve already admitted my addiction. I got a
gold star for that.’

‘Good
boy.’

‘I’m
dreading next week — I have to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of
myself.’

‘Hmm.
That should keep you busy till the end of the decade,’ said Molly.

Simon
studied her as they sipped their tea. ‘You look like you could do with some
counselling yourself. What’s up?’

Molly
rubbed her eyes. ‘Oh, well, it’s Lilia again, seeing as you ask.’

‘I knew
it would be,’ said Simon.

‘Perhaps
I’m being paranoid but it feels like she’s taking over everything: the cooking,
bathing the children. I came in the other day and she was giving Rupert a back
massage. I feel like the au pair.’

‘You’ve
got to fight back,’ said Simon, decisively.

‘How,
though?’ said Molly. ‘She’s unstoppable. She had me fetching her slippers
yesterday. And nothing I do is right — I’m a disaster round the house at the
moment. I seem to leave a trail of burnt food, broken china and crying children
wherever I go.’

Simon
raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re hardly Mrs Beeton, Molls, but that sounds extreme.’

‘She’s
eighty-two but she’s the one up a ladder hanging the Christmas decorations.’
Molly sniffed, wiping her eyes. ‘I don’t mean to cry, but I feel so useless. As
if I’m just in the way all the time. She’s taking the children to a carol
service on Saturday and I’m not allowed to go. It would be a good chance for me
to wrap the presents, Lilia told me.’

After
Molly’s tearful goodbye, Simon sat and worried. One of the things he relished
about his new alcohol-free life was the ability to think clearly. There was
something mysterious and sinister about the overbearing old lady. He needed to
find out what secrets she was hiding.

He
called Roger. ‘You know where Lilia’s old house in Long Buckby is, don’t you?’

‘I
think so. Just along the lane from Costcutter’s.’

‘Are
you busy today? Could you drive me there?’

‘Well,
I did pass my test eventually, and I drive a rather depressing Polo, but my
diary appears to be clear. What are you up to?’

‘There’s
something I don’t quite trust about Lilia. My hackles rise whenever I’m in the
same room as her. I have a feeling it would be worth knowing a bit about her.
Let’s go back to when she first appeared in Molly’s life.’

Roger
said he was doubtful how much they could learn from staring at Kit-Kat Cottage
but he’d take Simon there if he wanted to go. By two o’clock that December
afternoon the intrepid pair were travelling up the M1. ‘This is very Miss
Marple, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ remarked Roger.

‘It’ll
be dark soon,’ said Simon. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

‘Don’t
start whining. I’m doing you a favour here!’

Finally
they peeled off the motorway and wound their way along picturesque roads to the
village of Long Buckby.

‘Turn
right here, and there’s Costcutter’s!’ exclaimed Roger, triumphantly, driving
into a narrow lane. ‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed, as they parked outside the bungalow.
‘Her bush needs a trim.

‘It’s
deserted,’ said Simon.

They
climbed over the gate, which didn’t open any more, and walked up the overgrown
garden path.

‘It’s
like Miss Havisham’s gaff,’ said Roger, peering through the grimy windows. ‘So
they never did rent it out.’

‘I’m
going round the back,’ announced Simon.

‘That’s
not like you,’ quipped Roger. ‘Wait for me. This place is giving me the creeps.’

At the
back of the bungalow they waded through thigh-high brambles stiffened with
frost to the back door.

‘Look
at that,’ said Roger, reaching down to the moss-covered doormat. He lifted up
the dry skeleton of a bird by its feet and slung it into the dense mass of
undergrowth.

Simon
knew how to pick a lock from his days as a squatter, and within a minute he had
the door ajar.

‘Girlfriend,
this is illegal!’ hissed Roger.

‘We’re
not going to do any harm. I just want to have a look round, see if Lilia’s
hiding any secrets.’

Simon
was in the kitchen now, shining a torch he’d produced from his pocket on a
Welsh dresser stacked with plates, dishes and cereal boxes, now covered with
dust and strings of cobweb.

‘We’re
in a scene from
The Avengers,’
said Roger. ‘Is Emma Peel going to leap
Out of the larder?’

‘Which
way is the lounge?’ asked Simon, ignoring Roger’s schoolgirl excitement.

‘It’s
through there. At the front on the right.’

The
room smelt musty and sweet. Simon swung his torch round, illuminating it with
the beam.

‘I
don’t want to spoil your fun, but wouldn’t it be easier if we turned on the
light?’ Roger flicked the switch. Now the room was a lot less eerie, if still
grimy. Two empty brandy glasses, covered with dust and fungus, stood like
candelabra on the table.

Simon
picked up a dry, yellowed
TV Times
and blew on it. ‘April 2001. Nicky
Campbell’s on the cover.’

‘No
wonder they left.’ Roger sniffed.

Simon
looked about. So this was where Molly had spent all those months learning to be
Mia Delvard, locked behind those pink curtains and sitting next to her teacher
on the chenille sofa to receive her lessons. Everywhere he looked, he saw old
show posters and photographs. The room was dominated by a dusty oil painting of
a foxy redhead holding a cigarette. Was that supposed to be Lilia? It didn’t
look much like her — for one thing, the woman in the portrait had blue eyes.
And a much bigger nose.

‘Let me
get this straight. Lilia claims she was a big singing star in the sixties.’

Roger
nodded. ‘Oh, yes. She sang at the Café de Paris, toured London, Paris and
Vienna. She met everybody, all the greats. She gave it up for love when she met
her husband.’

‘Really?’
Simon shook his head. ‘Then how come I’ve never heard of her?’

‘The
world’s full of forgotten stars,’ Roger replied. ‘Look at Mike Smith. All
right, the old bird milks it a bit, but you know what these girls are like:
they can’t quite accept that it’s all over, can they? Besides, look what’s she
done for Molly. Silk purse out of a sow’s ear or what? You can’t deny Lilia
knows her onions.’

Simon
reached up to a shelf in the alcove and pulled out a photograph album. ‘This
should be interesting, then.’

He
opened it and flicked through the pages. There were dozens of black-and-white
photographs, mostly of glamorous, well-dressed showbiz types at parties. Nearly
all had Lilia, bat-dark of eye and backcombed of hair, somewhere in them.

‘Well,
well. Maybe you’re right,’ he said. He took the album to the sofa and sat down
with it. Roger perched next to him.

‘Isn’t
that her with Peter Sellers?’ said Roger, impressed.

‘Yes,
but she appears to be wearing Britt Ekland’s coat.’

Roger
pointed at another photograph. ‘Here she is with Grace Kelly!’

‘Let me
have a look. This light’s rubbish,’ said Simon. He switched on his torch and
shone it directly on to the image so that he could inspect it even more
closely. There was Lilia, aged about twenty, standing alongside Grace on the
set of
Rear Window.

‘How
remarkable!’ said Roger.

‘Wait a
minute,’ said Simon. He began to pick at the middle of the photograph.

‘What
are you doing?’ asked Roger. ‘I can’t be party to vandalism.’

‘There,’
said Simon, suddenly lifting Lilia’s head up from the picture and proffering it
on his fingertip as if it were the body of Christ.

‘Ugh!
What’s that?’ asked Roger.

‘Salome
— I give you Lilia’s head!’ said Simon, triumphantly. ‘The woman is a fake.
Look there,’ he said, eyes shining brightly. ‘Who do you see? Whose face was
underneath Lilia’s?’

‘Thelma
Ritter’s,’ said Roger, the penny dropping at last. ‘Oh, my God! You’re right!’

‘And
this isn’t her with Katherine Hepburn, either. Wondered why she was wearing a
suit and tie. That’s because it’s Humphrey Bogart. The deceitful old bag! And
this! It isn’t Lilia with Peter Purvis at all, it’s Valerie Singleton,’ said
Simon.