Devil in Disguise Read online

  Ah, that’s nice of her, thought Molly, smiling. She was touched by the old lady’s thoughtfulness. She would take the card with her and stick it to her dressing-room mirror. There weren’t many on it — one from Simon, a lovely big one from Daniel, a small white one from her agent, which had been stuck to a bunch of flowers on the first night of the run, and a few from actor pals who remembered these things. But where other people had cards from their family, Molly had none — just a good-luck charm on a leather band from her favourite social worker that she always draped round her dressing-room mirror.

  She finished her breakfast alone. By the time she left Kit-Kat Cottage, there was still no sign of Lilia and the house was silent. Even the huge dog seemed to have vanished.

  The drive to the Derngate Theatre in Northampton took about twenty minutes through pleasant countryside, affluent villages and past the Althorp estate, home to the Spencer family. Molly was there by nine forty-five, ready to start rehearsals at ten. She parked her battered old Nissan by the loading dock at the rear of the theatre, took a small plastic holdall from the boot and walked round to the stage door.

  Just inside, a man sat in a cosy little room with a sliding-glass window on to the corridor. He was in jeans and a faded Sex Pistols sweatshirt, reading a magazine with a steaming cup of tea by his side. Molly knocked on the glass and he got up, came over and slid back the panel.

  ‘Hello, chuck. I’m Molly Douglas. You must be Roger. We spoke on the phone the other day and you were good enough to get me those lodgings at Kit-Kat Cottage.’ She gave him a big, warm smile, the one that always seemed to win her friends. It was important to be friendly — the stage-doorman was a personage of great influence and importance. He would gossip about her to the other theatre staff, and any rudeness or diva behaviour could result in deep unpopularity. A stage-doorman who was on side, though, oiled the machinery of life. He would pass on any letters and messages she might receive, send up flower deliveries and tell her, via the Tannoy, if visitors or admirers were seeking admittance to her dressing room. Best of all, he would relay the spiciest gossip and the best titbits of scandal.

  ‘Oh, yes, Molly Douglas,’ said Roger, consulting a list of names. ‘That’s right, I remember,’ he replied, polite but wary. ‘How are you getting on there?’

  ‘Very well, thanks. No problems so far, anyway.

  ‘Good. Welcome to the Derngate. Dressing room four is on this level, just down to the left.’ He passed a key, with a battered wooden brick attached to it, through the sliding-glass window. ‘That’s to stop you taking it home with you,’ he added.

  Molly judged him to be in his mid-forties and of Mediterranean origin, although he spoke with a north-London twang. His hair was short, and speckled pleasingly with grey just above his ears. His eyes were like an eagle’s, large and brown and darting around, taking in everything about her.

  ‘The dressing rooms are nothing special,’ he continued. ‘You’d think they’d spend a bit of money on them but it’s a dump, love.’ He shook his head wearily.

  ‘Oh, never mind. I’ve got some incense with me,’ said Molly, lifting her suitcase.

  Roger wrinkled his nose. ‘Can’t stand incense. Makes me retch.’ He shut the sliding window, picked up Take A Break, buried his nose in it and paid no further heed to the leading lady. I’d better tread carefully with that one, thought Molly. She pushed her way through a couple of fire doors and walked down a narrow, windowless corridor made of breeze blocks. Dressing rooms one to five were on the left, the doors painted navy blue. Access to the stage was on the right and the toilets were between rooms one and two, and four and five.

  No en-suite, then, thought Molly, grimly, stopping outside dressing room four. She turned the key, left it in the lock and went in.

  Her very first entering of a new dressing room was always an important moment for Molly: she felt it was vital to her performance and to the emotional fabric of the coming week. She put down her bag and stood in the middle of the room, looking about her, inhaling the previous occupant’s stale perfume and a whiff of disinfectant from the sink in the corner. There was a sagging metal single bed against one wall, its thin mattress covered with a tired pale-blue candlewick counterpane. Opposite this were two mirrors, a white Formica counter that ran the length of the room, and two grey plastic chairs. At the far end, opposite the sink, there was a long, narrow window. The curtains were rough and woolly, a mélange of messy grey and dirty turquoise. Ventilation could be achieved by pulling a lever at the side, which, Molly noted, would tilt open the louvred glass slats.

  She lifted her holdall on to the counter and set to work, personalising the cell-like room, as she did every week on tour, to give consistency and comfort to her travelling lifestyle. First she pulled out a dark-green Indian throw, heavily embroidered with beads and tassels in bright orange and purple, and laid it over the bed. She added a small, matching satin pillow, then set her incense holder on the counter and lit two sticks of sweet and sultry Nag Champa to give the room a thorough spiritual cleaning. She rang a little silver bell, waving it elegantly to tinkle across the floor, then as high up as she could reach and, most particularly, in all the dark corners where unhappy spirits might linger or bad vibes lurk.

  Next she took out a very small wooden electric lamp, hand-painted with tiny roses and topped with a camp fringed vanilla shade, which she plugged in and turned on. She placed her small portable radio in the middle of the bench and turned that on too. The sensible tones of Radio 4 filled the silence. It was the last five minutes of Book of the Week. Molly listened with half an ear while she set out her makeup just so in front of the mirror. Then she turned off the harsh overhead strip lighting and switched on the bulbs round the mirror. The room was transformed: the lighting was now soft and harmonious, it smelt delicious and looked homely and cheerful.

  ‘There!’ she said to herself. ‘Northampton, I’m ready!’

  Monday was always the technical-rehearsal day when the actors, the band (three tired, disillusioned musicians and a lot of click-tracks, frankly) and the technicians got used to the new space, rehearsed their cues, sound-checked and walked through the show, making sure of their entrances, exits and any alterations, such as a raked stage, that they needed to take note of.

  Having completed her dressing-room routine, Molly wandered to the Green Room to make a cup of tea and see who was about. A dear old actor called Peter McDonald, cast in the title role of the Mikado, was sitting at the dirty Formica table drinking coffee out of a polystyrene cup and reading The Times. He was in his seventies, dapperly dressed as always in a beige linen suit and pale green tie. He was vaguely known by the public from a popular series of the late sixties, The Butler.

  ‘Morning, Miss Molly. I trust you’re keeping well?’ he said, his tone implying that a certain Dunkirk spirit was required under the circumstances of the location.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Peter, as well as can be expected.’

  ‘Are your digs satisfactory?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Yours?’

  ‘A poky little arrangement ten minutes’ stroll from the theatre through perilous terrain, but somewhere to lay my head. I shall survive.’ He gave Molly a telling look and shuddered discreetly.

  Molly smiled at him She was fond of Peter, who was a seasoned repertory actor, and they had spent some happy hours in each other’s dressing rooms discussing the other actors or the latest theatre and its crew. Peter went some way to filling the gap that Simon left, although he was no gay best friend. Despite his camp playfulness, he was divorced with two grown-up daughters.

  ‘Now, Miss Molly,’ he said, putting his paper down, ‘are you excited? Because I am! Just a week! One week more. One little week to go.’

  ‘I know. Wonderful, isn’t it? If my wedding day dawns brightly many more times, I’ll go bonkers.’

  Peter rolled his eyes. ‘And if I hear “Three Little Maids From School” ever again after Saturday, I won’t be responsible for my actions. It ran th
rough my head all last night. Sheer torture.’

  They smiled conspiratorially. The last week was often the hardest to get through. The cast were all desperately tired of each other, the show had lost what little energy it had once had, and no one thrilled to the sound of the score any more, not even the paying public. It was work, plain and simple. Molly had both enjoyed and endured the experience but she would be glad when it was over, and she knew that Peter was tired of this uninspired production and the rigours of touring. ‘We’ve all had enough now, haven’t we?’ she said.

  Peter glanced over each shoulder, as if someone might hear him, and nodded conclusively. ‘I really don’t know how much longer I can put up with this shit!’ he cried, in tones of queenly dismay, then lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want to name names,’ he whispered, ‘but there’s a certain Pish-Tush in this show who is full of Pooh-Bah!’ His face twitched with irritation. ‘I’ll say no more. ‘He relaxed again, picked up his paper and studied the crossword in The Times. Molly was well aware of the rivalry between Peter and the middle-aged actor called Duncan, who played Pish-Tush, which often spilled onto the stage. Duncan took great delight in blocking Peter’s’ spotlight during his big number, and Peter’s revenge was to flap his sleeves distractingly whenever Pish-Tush had an emotive line. The two had first crossed swords sixteen years ago in a production of Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime in Norwich, and were sworn enemies. The result was a mini soap opera within the not-uneventful plot of The Mikado.

  ‘It’ll soon be over. You’ll be home before you know it, back in your bachelor flat in Southampton.’

  ‘Alone!’ said Peter exultantly. ‘But still alive!’

  The door to the Green Room opened and the stage manager, Kenny, stuck his head round it. ‘Everyone to the stage, please,’ he said. ‘We’re starting the tech in three minutes. Call to stage!’

  ‘And she gets on my nerves too. Runs this show like we’re all on a school trip.’

  ‘Kenny is Nurse Ratched, more like,’ said Molly, flicking off the kettle and abandoning her tea-making preparations.

  ‘And we’re all lunatics in the asylum,’ said Peter, tossing his newspaper across the room and standing up with a groan. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  The actors gathered on the stage, discreetly eyeing up the locals who were sitting about on the side. The company toured with its own sound and lighting operators but the stagehands and scene-shifters were employed by the theatre.

  ‘They kook as if they’d be more at home in a garden centre ‘muttered Peter to Molly, looking at a couple of portly men with faded black polo shirts tucked into their trousers. A group of three younger men were loitering on some piled-up packing cases. They wore black too, but they were cool and sexy in dark jeans and crumpled T-shirts. ‘They’re dolly, though,’ he added breathily.

  The tech started with a general introduction of the main players and the stage crew, but the boys on the packing cases weren’t considered important enough to get a name-check.

  ‘Okay, people!’ called Kenny, in his best school-mistressy voice. ‘Could I please ask everyone to give me their full attention for the next couple of hours? I know it’s tedious, but the sooner we get started, the sooner we can all break for lunch. Let’s work together.’

  ‘I’d rather be locked in a lift with Dennis Nielsen than work together with Duncan ever again,’ hissed Peter, standing at the back with Molly.

  ‘Right, could we have the Titipu men and Nanki-Poo standing by, please?’ continued Kenny. ‘Everyone else off-stage, ready for entrances.’

  ‘I’m ready for a large gin,’ said Peter, under his breath.

  Molly’s eye was drawn to the boys as the technical rehearsal began. When she, Pitti-Sing and Peep-Bo came tottering out of the wings for their first entrance, she watched them from the corner of her eye. Not only were they good-looking in a rumpled, stubbly way but, she noticed, when she was standing in the wings opposite, that occasionally one would let out a groan. It seemed they were playing some sort of cat-and-mouse game of endurance, wherein they would all sit in professional silence until one suddenly punched another on the thigh or upper arm, and the unlucky recipient would involuntarily whimper with discomfort and surprise. Eventually the stage manager told them to stop mucking about and they sat motionless and moody, with bowed heads.

  When she emerged from the opposite wing after completing a scene, she found herself a few feet away from the subdued youths. On impulse, she went over. ‘Hiya, boys. I’m Molly,’ she said brightly.

  They looked up, their eyes resting appreciatively on her chest, and mumbled their hellos. The tallest one made the introductions. ‘I’m Sam. Er… he’s Marcus, and that’s Michael.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you,’ said Molly. She was always friendly with the crew and loathed the way some actors treated them, as if they were unworthy of acknowledgement. She gave them a cheeky look. ‘I saw you getting told off earlier. If you can’t be good be careful, that’s what I say.’ With that she punched them all in quick succession, Sam and Michael on the arm, and Marcus, a brooding, fresh-faced cherub, saucily on the thigh.

  ‘Ouch!’ said Sam, as the other two moaned loudly. They stared at her in surprise for a moment, then laughed at her impudence.

  Kenny spun round angrily on his swivel chair. ‘Sssh!’ he said. ‘Can I please ask you to be quiet over there.’

  ‘Sorry, Kenny,’ Molly said quickly. ‘My fault.’

  Kenny tutted and swung back to position at Prompt Corner.

  Molly made a guilty face, then giggled naughtily. ‘Apologies for that, lads,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll make it up to you. I’d better go. I’ve my big scene coming up.’ The next time she emerged from the wings, she was disappointed to find they’d gone.

  The first night in a new town was always quite gruelling. The theatre would be packed and the local dignitaries would attend —the chain-gang, as Molly called them, because no one who had a mayoral chain of office could resist wearing it out — and it was ‘press night’, with the Northamptonshire local papers out in force. After the show, the cast were obliged to attend a ‘mix and mingle’ with the theatre club audience, who had paid over the odds for such an opportunity, in the stalks bar.

  ‘Ugh!’ said Peter, as he sailed past Molly in the wings just before the finale. ‘It’s shake and fake night. Cold sausage rolls and warm Chardonnay, no doubt.’

  He wasn’t wrong. The theatre manager, a bow-legged lesbian called Bertha, grasped Molly firmly by the elbow the moment she entered the bar and steered her round the room, introducing her to a succession of tight-skinned, overdressed ladies and their tired-looking husbands. It was nice enough to be complimented on her performance and her singing but it was wearing to have to answer the same questions time after time. Luckily, Bertha got her a glass of the warm Chardonnay to help things along, and once she’d shaken hands with everyone she was required to meet, she managed to slip away. Bertha was busy on the balcony smoking her pipe and chatting to a woman in tweed.

  Back to the bar, pronto! she thought, as she’d been clutching an empty glass for too long. She passed Peter on the way. He caught her eye and raised his to heaven. He looked rather glamorous, with the remnants of his heavy Japanese makeup still emphasising his eyes. She lifted her glass questioningly to ask if he wanted another, and he nodded vigorously, then turned his attention back to the little old lady who was chatting away to him, oblivious.

  She got to the bar, pushed her way between two men and found herself standing next to young Marcus, who was looking distinctly bleary.

  ‘Nothing stronger than a shandy for you, my lad.’

  ‘Course not, Molly,’ said Marcus, a sparkle in his intoxicated eye, which hovered, Molly observed, well below her neck. ‘Great show. Nice set of lungs you’ve got.’

  ‘Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it.’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘It’s not really my type of thing, if I’m honest. I prefer films.’ He grinned at her. ‘But you were cool.’
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br />   ‘I do my best.’ She ordered two extra large glasses of Chardonnay. ‘Are you boys having a good time?’

  ‘We’re sitting over there, getting as much of this free booze as we can. Wanna come and join us?’

  Molly passed Peter his wine and looked at the rest of the crowd, all the stuffy types talking importantly to one another. Then she saw Sam and Michael huddled round a table at the far end of the bar, laughing with each other while they waited for Marcus to get back with the drinks. ‘You know what?’ she said recklessly. ‘I would. Come on, I’ll carry that pint for you, if you like.’

  Molly spent the remainder of the evening joking with Marcus and the other boys, teasing them and horsing around. She felt guilty because she knew she was supposed to be mingling and being charming but, really, she’d done her bit, hadn’t she? Once she was actually enjoying herself, though, it all came to an abrupt halt. The free wine was swiftly withdrawn at eleven thirty and the bar shutters pulled determinedly down soon after. Bertha could be seen circling the room like a sheep-dog, slowly rounding up the crowd and pushing them towards the exit.

  A few too many Chardonnays over the limit, Molly said good night to her new friends and tottered to the stage door where she asked Roger if he’d be so kind as to order her a cab home.

  He made a quick phone call, then said, ‘It’ll be ten minutes. If you want my advice, you’ll keep talking to the driver on the way. They’re rubbish round here, sometimes fall asleep on the job.’