Devil in Disguise by Julian Clary Page A

was smitten.
    Simon
seemed perfectly content to stay on at the Kennington squat until the day he
lost his job at the Old Vic. He’d made the mistake of having a few Bacardi
Breezers between shows one afternoon. Bacardi always had a particularly
strident effect on his mood, so when the company manager ticked him off because
he was ten minutes late for his evening call, Simon picked him up and threw him
down the stairs. The man was not badly hurt and decided not to involve the
police — on the condition that Simon was fired on the spot.
    Simon
never considered getting another job. He signed on and he had somehow convinced
his doddery father that he was still a student, now studying for a PhD on
Albanian theatre practitioners. He moved to a new squat north of the river and,
between the dole money and the cash his father sent, he was able to support
himself and, more importantly, his drinking habit, which, without the
restraining influence of Molly, was considerable. He had his first drink of
the day earlier and earlier, and ended the night drunker and drunker. It became
commonplace not to know what he’d done or how he’d got home.
    Simon
and Molly still met frequently and spoke on the phone, especially once they
both had mobiles (even if Simon’s pay-as-you-go was always running out of
juice), but she was not there to see the state he was in when morning dawned.
She scolded him if he sounded hung-over, but she didn’t know the half of it and
Simon was careful to hide it from her.
    If
anything they were more affectionate with each other on the telephone than they
had been when they lived in each other’s pockets.
    ‘I love
my Molly!’ Simon would declare several times a week.
    ‘Are
you missing me?’ Molly would ask.
    ‘I feel
like the Marquis de Sade without a whip. And how is life in the cosy seclusion
of heterosexual coupledom?’
    ‘Apart
from your and my forced estrangement, it’s fantastic. Paddy has issues with athlete’s
foot, but no one’s perfect.’
    ‘That’s
why I prefer my men to keep their shoes on.’
    ‘Paddy
is gorgeous and kind and I love being with him,’ said Molly, dreamily.
    At this
point Simon always lost interest in the conversation. Hearing about the walks
hand in hand on the common, Paddy’s prowess in the lasagne department or their
pet names for each other made Simon want to heave.
    ‘The
thing is,’ Molly was saying, ‘because he goes to the gym three times a week
there’s an awful lot of laundry.’
    ‘You
don’t say?’ remarked Simon. ‘I have a lot of laundry too, but that’s mainly on
account of all the bodily fluids I’m drenched in by the time I’ve strolled
innocently home through the park.’
    ‘Thank
you for sharing that, Simon.’
    But
only ten months later things went wrong with Paddy. While Molly was away
appearing as the Good Fairy in Sleeping Beauty at Brighton’s Theatre
Royal, Paddy fell in love with one of his private pupils. Molly moved in with
an actress friend of hers called Jane, and there was much weeping and wailing
down the phone to Simon.
    ‘Well,
look on the bright side,’ he offered. ‘You’ll never have to eat lasagne again.’
    Molly
choked. ‘Your flippancy isn’t funny at all sometimes. I’ve got a broken heart
here! I thought I was going to spend the rest of my days with Paddy…’ She
dissolved into tears.
    ‘Listen
to me,’ counselled Simon. ‘There are bumps and bruises in all walks of life. I
let this real beauty slip through my fingers the other day at the swimming
baths. I was devastated. I could hardly roll my towel up afterwards. But I
dealt with it. Move on, I say. Next! Don’t let the bastards get the better of
you.’
    ‘I’m
trying,’ said Molly.
    ‘Let’s
exorcise him with a trip to Soho. Meet me at eleven o’clock at Revenge.’
    While
Molly’s career was blossoming, Simon’s energy went into maintaining his
‘interests’. He didn’t aspire to anything, as long as he could feel the first
flush of