Kicking Up My Heels...in Heels

by Liam Livings

  “I’ll get my cheque book.” And he was gone, upstairs.

  The whole pub stared at me, leaning against my suitcases.

  Wanting to make the most of the attention, I said, “Weddings, hen, stag nights, birthdays, I’ll do them all. Everard has my card. I’ll leave a few on the bar if anyone’s interested.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  OCTOBER 2000

  I couldn’t wait to go back to London to see Kieran and Julie again. I loved the whole do anything you want and no one bats an eye attitude. No one in Kieran’s street looked out their doors to find out who had a cleaner every week.

  Mortified Geri Halliwell, aka Ginger Spice, had left the Spice Girls, and caused all that heartache, I had disposed of my ginger wig and Union Flag dress and instead plumped for a Victoria Beckham, Posh Spice for the weekend. My armour for the weekend of a little black dress, shiny red leather high heels and a sleek straight brown wig, I was emboldened by the drinks we’d all had at Kieran’s before we hit London.

  We went to cocktail bars, bear bars, straight bars, gay bars, pubs, clubs and even dropped into a restaurant near Kieran’s place on Saturday night. We were all glammed up in my second, slightly different little black dress and heels, because we’d decided it was too much like hard work to cook after spending the best part of three hours getting ourselves ready.

  In one of the bars, on either Friday or Saturday night, I lost track, we were sipping very expensive cocktails from conical-shaped glasses, frosted with salt, the cloudy green liquid taking away the salty taste slightly.

  Julie flicked her sleek brown bobbed hair forward, then said, “So, I’m all about tackling the elephant in the room, with you guys. Where’s the men? What’s the man situation at the moment?”

  Sarah nodded, “Very unlike you, Kev, from what I’ve heard about you.” She smiled, then took a sip from her cocktail, pursing her lips afterwards, then taking a deep drag on a cigarette.

  I couldn’t believe what lies I was hearing. What exaggerated claims I was having to put up with. “Well, I don’t know where you’ve got that idea from. I have been the soul of modesty, practically living like a nun I have been, haven’t I, Kieran?”

  Kieran said nothing, instead sipping his cocktail, his eyes above his glass betraying what he really thought. “He had a Brighton Pride to be proud of. Let’s say that.”

  The bitch. “Who told you that? Lies! All lies! Every one of them.”

  “I have my sources.” He winked.

  “Tell us, what happened!” Sarah’s eyes lit up and she offered me a cigarette.

  Under great duress, I eventually told them about my escapades of Brighton Pride. How among all the responsibility of being a youth group leader, I’d felt the need for some light relief, which had happened to take the form of a very nice-looking gentleman who had taken me for a brief, but pleasurable date in the woods on the edge of Preston Park.

  “And then what?” Sarah shook her hair out, trying to give it more volume and impact.

  I leant forward into my handbag, handing her a special brush I knew would do the trick. “After my disastrous love life, I’ve had enough. I want my men like tissues, strong, large, and disposable.”

  “And white?” Sarah was brushing her hair, giving it a right good going over, to good effect.

  “Not necessarily, love. I’m all for equal opportunities. I don’t discriminate, if you’ve got a nice body and lips, I’m Kev, fly me. That’s my motto.”

  Julie leant towards Kieran. “And what about you sweetie?”

  He shook his head, put the cocktail back on the shiny table, then said, “After what Sean did, I don’t think I can ever…”

  Julie and Sarah rubbed Kieran’s neck, I handed him a tissue from my bag. I shook my head, offered Kieran a cigarette he waved away. “Not even on a special occasion, sweetie?”

  He shook his head.

  “You know that’s not true, don’t you? You know, eventually you’ll want to get right back on that…err…horse, and ride again.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “He’s right you know, my beautiful,” Julie said, with a smile.

  I’d wanted to say this to Kieran since I found out what had happened, and now seemed like as good a time as ever. “Drink up, I’ve got something I want to say. You might not like it. But you’ve gotta hear it.”

  Kieran followed instructions, finishing his cocktail in a few gulps, wiping his mouth on a tissue on the table.

  “What’s even worse than what Sean did, and don’t get me wrong, sweetie, that was pretty fucking awful, is what Jo did. That’s the real kick in the guts. We both know boyfriends come and go. Tissues, like I said. But best friends, like you and Jo. Well, like me and Tony are, and me and you too. That doesn’t just come and go, that’s for life. Or at least it’s meant to be, isn’t it?”

  Kieran said nothing but instead nodded more slowly, reaching onto the table for a tissue to wipe his eye.

  “And it’s no more Jo too, which is a good result from a shit situation I reckon, don’t you?” I squeezed Kieran’s shoulder. “So, for us two, it’s no men at the moment.”

  Sarah pulled a face. “Nothing, no one. You’re bolting the gate, no one can enter?”

  “We’re off men, love, we’re not stupid. I mean boyfriends. The disposable ones, that’s different. That doesn’t need any emotional commitment. Kieran’s getting better at those aren’t you love? It’s a matter of becoming a vessel waiting to be filled, emptying out your brain of all emotions and thoughts and going with the feeling of it.”

  “Very Zen, sweetie,” Julie smirked. “Did you light a joss stick when you were with this guy in the woods in Brighton?”

  I took a drag on my cigarette, blew the smoke out the side of my mouth, finished my cocktail in a big glug, then said, “I am, a responsible adult now. Don’t you know I am a guide for the young people of Wiltshire and part of Hampshire. I’ve got to at least pretend to be all life is a journey and Zen about it, even if I’m really in the bushes noshing off some man with jangly keys. Give me some chance, at least.”

  TOWARDS THE END of the weekend of debauchery, I asked Kieran if he minded me staying on his sofa next time I was in London performing. “Ian’s got me more bookings and it would be so helpful. He’s started at the M25 and he’s working his way in. Maybe by this time next year, I’ll be at The Black Cap in Camden, with Sandra.”

  “’Course, you don’t even have to ask.” Kieran smiled, checking his watch. “What time’s your train?”

  “Plenty of time yet, love. I know, I don’t need to ask. Mum says you should never assume.”

  Kieran nodded.

  ON THE TRAIN back home, I thought about the bars we’d visited as I looked at the high-rise flats around Waterloo. I remembered the drinks and cigarettes we’d shared as the flats gave way to rows of Victorian houses. I remembered the confessions we’d shared between the four of us as they gave way to large detached houses with bay windows as the train cut through the suburbs. Once in the open countryside, down to Wiltshire, I began to imagine the curtains twitching as I arrived in a taxi on Mum’s street late on a Sunday evening, the odd door opening slightly as I would wheel my suitcase towards the front door. I felt sad as I realised I couldn’t stay there forever if I wanted to really live my life. I’d held my own with the other two London acts near Heathrow; I’d not been taken in by the barmaid trying to take the piss about payment. Olivia and Marilyn said I was wasted only working near home, explained I could earn double once I worked places up London. Suave Charles wouldn’t have taken me for a ride now. I might have played up the west country yokel act, but without really knowing it before, now I thought about how far I’d come, I was actually quite shrewd, a professional, with a manager, a diary of bookings, and a pile of paperwork for tax purposes.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  31 DECEMBER 2000

  Another New Year’s Eve, followed by another new year, only this one was a bit different. Ian knew someone who knew
someone else, who used to do the hair of the man who was friends with Sandra, so I was asked to do the New Year’s Eve gig at the Gloucester, in Greenwich, Kieran’s local gay pub, where he’d gone with Sean, and Jo. It was marvellous, right next to Greenwich park, and exactly like on the film, Beautiful Thing.

  I’d been getting more and more London suburbs gigs in the intervening few months, sofa surfing at Kieran’s each time. I was grateful to not have to drive back all that way after finishing at one or two in the morning—these London venues wanted me to go on at eleven or later and didn’t close until the small hours. It was a whole new world from the Duke, but it was a world I loved, one I wanted to be a part of, so just as Ian had told me to do, I said yes to everything, every booking, every appearance, every stag or hen do he got me, everything. Ian had me in North London, South London, East London, West London—once I’d got to the M25, I decided I might as well plough on into the city that never slept—so I’d done Enfield, Bromley, Ealing, Uxbridge, Hendon, and now Greenwich.

  I stared at my reflection in the mirror with its Hollywood style light bulbs round the edge. Eva Perone stared back at me. I was bringing out the big guns. I was going to open with “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina”, get them all singing the chorus, doing the arms in the air with me. And I knew I could do it, I’d done it to a packed pub in Ealing the week before, so this, this was no different. Then I’d throw in a bit of Pulp for a modern twist, not Disco 2000 as it had been done to death, but instead, some “Sorted For Es and Wizz”, with a few more offensive changes to the lyrics as I sang away—it had gone down very well in Uxbridge, so I knew I’d be fine tonight. The manager had popped his head round as I arrived tonight, saying the crowd were well up for it, and he’d had to put a bouncer on the ladies and gent’s toilet to stop people nipping off in pairs into the cubicles and “Doing unmentionable illegal things.”

  I adjusted my blonde side parted wig. I was pleased with the dress Mum had found for me in a vintage clothing shop. It was perfectly 1940s, and she’d adjusted it to fit a slightly over-sized bosom I liked to wear when doing a Madonna impression. Mum had handed it to me as I’d left earlier that night and said, “I’m having the cleaner round this week.”

  “What for?” I was wary, even after a few months of the same cleaner this time round.

  “I’m thinking of buying a new Hoover, but I want to get her take on it first. See she’d be happy with it, the weight. I’ve got some stuff I copied from the library in town. Them Which magazines are such a mine of information aren’t they, love?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Drive safe, love. Say hello to that Kieran from me will you.” She waved me off.

  Now, I looked at the flyer for the evening’s New Year’s Eve party. Near the middle, among the names of other drag acts, and details of the DJ, it said “The One and Only, Kev. The Slag from Salisbury” and in smaller writing below it said, “noshing off builders since 1996”.

  Make the most of your life for material, I’d been told. Find out what you are, and do it, deliberately, I’d been told. A great piece of advice from Dolly Parton apparently. My act was an exaggeration of my life, a bit, obviously. Not much though.

  There was a knock on the dressing room door.

  “Come in if you’re good looking.” I laughed, it made me laugh every time I said it.

  “You’re next. Intro’s playing now.” The backstage hand held the door open.

  The instrumental from the start of “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” boomed from the stage, a few feet away. I took a deep breath, walked from the dressing room and onto the stage, where I was greeted by shouts and cheers of my name as the music played. “Sorry I’m a bit late, I was just noshing off a plasterer, he’s doing the spare bedroom upstairs.” I wiped my lips with the back of my hand then flashed a cheeky smile to everyone.

  The room filled with applause and cheers as I waited for my cue to start singing along with the backing track.

  Acknowledgements

  To all my readers who’ve followed Kev’s journey to this, the third, and possibly final book, thank you! I hope you’ve enjoyed what’s been a bumpy ride with Kev’s ups and downs, terrible decisions, and endless optimism.

  Of course thanks to Kev for being such enormous fun to write too.

  Thanks to my memory and old diaries which ended up proving a rich seam to mine for inspiration with Kev’s stories.

  Love and light,

  Liam Livings xx

  About the Author

  Liam Livings lives where east London ends and becomes Essex. He shares his house with his boyfriend and cat. He enjoys baking, cooking, classic cars and socialising with friends. He has a sweet tooth for food and entertainment: loving to escape from real life with a romantic book; enjoying a good cry at a sad, funny and camp film; and listening to musical cheesy pop from the eighties to now. He tirelessly watches an awful lot of Gilmore Girls in the name of writing 'research'.

  Published since 2013 by a number of British and American presses, his gay romance and gay fiction focuses on friendships, British humour, romance with plenty of sparkle. He’s a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and the Chartered Institute of Marketing. With a masters in creative writing from Kingston University, he teaches writing workshops with his partner in sarcasm and humour, Virginia Heath as www.realpeoplewritebooks.com and has also ghostwritten a client’s 5 Star reviewed autobiography.

  Email: liamlivings@gmail.com

  Twitter: @LiamLivings

  Website and blog: www.liamlivings.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/liam.livings

  Other books by this author

  The Journalist and the Dancer

  Unlocking the Doctor’s Heart

  Adventures in Dating…In Heels

  Rocky Road of Love…in Heels

  Also Available from NineStar Press

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