Read Online Devil in Disguise by Julian Clary - Free Book Online Page A

in his voice, love grows towards the light, and the glow of a
Benson & Hedges behind a rhododendron did not suffice.
    Molly
sighed and put her worries about Simon Out of her mind. She would deal with all
that when she got back to London next week. In the meantime there was the
weekly challenge of working out how the shower operated. Some she’d come across
seemed more complicated to master than flying a helicopter.
    She
took her faded avocado-green towel from the chair where it was neatly folded,
put on her dressing-gown and padded across the hall to the guest bathroom. It
was a tiny space, with only a lavatory, a miniature basin the size of a
sandwich box and a plastic shower as narrow and claustrophobic as an upright
coffin. After several attempts, Molly managed to open the door, which suddenly
folded in two like a trouser press. Squeezed inside, she looked at the various
buttons and levers, mystified. After several exploratory jabs, she pressed a
small frosted orange button and, with a sound like a lawnmower, the shower
churned into action. Several lukewarm jets fell like light rain. She moved an important-looking
lever downwards and the flow increased until it hissed and steamed, scalding
hot. It seemed that in this particular model of shower, the temperature was
inextricably linked with the water pressure, so if she wanted to shower, the
only answer was to stand patiently under the equivalent of a dripping umbrella
or lose her skin under a boiling torrent. She chose the umbrella. Washing the
soap off took ages, but she managed in the end, dried herself and got dressed.
    It was
nine o’clock — exceptionally early for theatre folk — when Molly ventured into
the kitchen. It was empty, with no sign of Lilia or her husband. A selection of
breakfast cereals was lined up on a shelf-like library books, each one decanted
from its cardboard box and put into secure see-through Tupperware containers,
and the labels from the original packaging Sellotaped to the tops. Molly chose
Somerfield’s own-brand muesli, and poured some into a bowl. She saw the milk jug
on the table and went to pick it up, then noticed an envelope, with her name on
it in sweeping handwriting, propped against it. Inside she found a tasteful
retro drawing of a black-headed seagull with the words ‘Bonne Chance!’ printed
underneath. On the reverse was written, ‘Wishing you the greatest of success in
Northampton, and a happy stay at Kit-Kat Mansion, Lilia xxxx’.
    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