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

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