Murder Most Fab

by Julian Clary

  I spent the next few weeks sleeping and writing love letters to Tim that I never posted. I still felt grief-stricken, but my appetite returned and a sense of survival kicked in. I had to consider the future, however much I dreaded it.

  ‘You’ve had some replies. We’d better learn some audition pieces,’ Grandma Rita told me. ‘I think you’ll make a convincing Fool.’

  Auditions were duly arranged. I went along nervously, tripped over my speeches and stumbled through my unaccompanied song.

  The more prestigious ones sent me packing but eventually I was accepted. ‘You’ll fit in with us very nicely,’ said a lisping tutor at the Lewisham School of Musical Theatre. I was on my way at last.

  A week before my first term began, my grandmother announced that she had found me some lodgings near the school. ‘Your room sounds a bit Anne Frank, but that’s part of the experience. I’ve arranged a bank account for you and a minimal allowance.’

  ‘Can’t I stay here with you?’ I asked. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to leave.

  ‘Oh, no, Johnny,’ said Grandma. ‘If you don’t go and see what life has waiting for you it will be a waste of your grandfather’s St Christopher. You’d better go and pack your things.’

  The day that my life was to change, I had no warning or sixth sense about it. These things just happen, as if by the decree of a higher force. Nor did I know I was taking the first steps towards my finest and darkest hours.

  I had endured another gruelling day at college, tap-dancing, singing Bertolt Brecht songs and being sneered at by Sean, the evil anorexic. I had had enough, so I decided, rather recklessly, not to attend the evening rehearsals for Oklahoma!, which was to be our end-of-term show. There were so many brothers in that show I doubted that my absence would be noticed, and I was miscast anyway. Second husband from the left was never going to work for me. So, at five o’clock, I went home to the bedsit on Brownhill Road, intending to pass the evening quietly with a cup of tea and a book, and perhaps a cheeky vodka or two with Catherine later when she got in from her late shift. Now that I’d skipped my rehearsals, I had the evening off.

  At about seven thirty the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello, Johnny here!’ I said cheerily, hoping it was Madame with some work for me.

  ‘Johnny, it’s Miss O’Connor.’

  ‘An. Hello.’ Miss O’Connor was the principal at the Lewisham School of Musical Theatre. ‘Of course, Miss O’Connor. How can I help you?’

  ‘Mr Grey has just informed me that you’re not at this evening’s rehearsals for Oklahoma!. Apparently, without the extra man, the barn dance is a complete shambles. Why aren’t you there, Johnny?’ The enquiry was polite, but there was a steely, over-enunciated edge to her voice.

  ‘I’m not feeling terribly well, actually, Miss O’Connor,’ I bluffed. ‘I’m a bit snuffly and thought it would be best if I stayed at home. I didn’t want to spread any germs and jeopardize the whole production.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ said Miss O’Connor. ‘But I’ve already written three times to warn you that your persistent absence from both classes and production rehearsals will not be tolerated. We’ve reached the end of the line with you. Tonight’s absence means you no longer have a place with us. The contents of your locker will be returned to you in the morning. I’m sorry, Johnny. I always felt you had something but you don’t have the necessary application. Others want your place who are prepared to work. I regret that things didn’t work out for you at the Lewisham School of Musical Theatre, but I wish you every success in whatever path you decide to follow. Goodbye.’

  ‘But, Miss O’Connor—’ The phone was already dead.

  I went back to my room. It was rather disappointing to be thrown out of drama school, particularly on a one-year course. It didn’t say much about my staying power. Even though I’d felt I couldn’t face another week in the company of a bunch of dysfunctional theatricals, I’d never thought of leaving. I’d planned to stick it out for the remaining few months, get my diploma and see what happened. And now, just like that, I was history. No discussion, no chance of appeal. I was out, with the briefest dismissal. I could only imagine how exultant Sean and the others would be feeling.

  I sat on my bed, surprised to find I was rather hurt. In the minute it had taken me to go downstairs and answer the phone, I had lost my identity. I was no longer a musical-theatre student, just an aimless young man adrift in London and dabbling in the oldest profession.

  I couldn’t wait to confide in Catherine. She would put an interesting slant on things. My expulsion would appeal to her —she’d be thrilled by the drama. Anticipating our needs — particularly Catherine’s, as she could drink like a fish after a late shift — I nipped to the corner shop and bought us a bottle of gin. As she wasn’t expected back until ten, I called my mother to share the news with her.

  She answered with the usual tentative ‘Hello?’ She didn’t hold with telephones. She seemed to think they were on a par with battery farming and pulled a face whenever hers rang.

  ‘Mummy, it’s me.’

  ‘My precious peacock, my boy! How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine and dandy, but I have something to tell you.’

  ‘What’s the matter? I knew there was something. I can always tell from your voice if things aren’t good. Not more love trouble, is it?’

  ‘No, nothing that bad. They’ve dismissed me from college.’

  ‘Dismissed you? How silly of them! Was it that tutor of yours? Go and see Miss O’Connor at once. She’ll sort it out.’

  ‘It was Miss O’Connor who gave me the boot.’

  ‘Oh. How strange. She seemed such a sensible woman when I met her at your last production, that one where you were so brilliant as Salman Rushdie. Would you like me to call her and remonstrate?’

  ‘I was Badger in The Wind in the Willows, Mother. There’s really no point in you phoning Miss O’Connor. Her mind was made up. I’m afraid it’s a done deal. Don’t be upset.’

  ‘Upset? Me?’ My mother sounded incredulous. ‘Always look on the bright side, darling, that’s what I do. Are you going to come home and live in the village? I could put an advert in the post-office window advertising your services as a singing telegram.’

  ‘Tempting, but no. I want to stay in London for a while. I like it here. Maybe I can get some bar work,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes. That would be lovely. I’ll tell Grandma you’ve had a career change. Hostelry. It’s all the rage. I’d better go because the bird table’s empty and Sandra Sparrow isn’t looking too happy about it. God bless.’

  And she was gone.

  Since I’d left home my mother had been her bright and breezy self on the phone, unruffled by my departure. She showed only a polite interest in my life and couldn’t wait to fill me in on garden developments or village news. I think she thought of me as a migrating swan that would return in time. Nature would take its course. I was glad she didn’t appear lonely or depressed and I was only slightly put out not to be missed, even vaguely. As usual with my mother, it was style above content. Everything seemed fine, but I had no idea how she felt about anything other than the local wildlife.

  It was only eight o’clock when I heard a familiar knock on my door. I opened the door, puzzled. Catherine stood before me, her nurse’s hat crumpled in her outstretched hand.

  ‘Goodbye to Mr Pickering and his turds. I am, henceforth, an ex-nurse. Hello, world!’ She sauntered into the room, tossing her hat into the bin, then throwing herself backwards on to my bed and shouting, ‘Gin! Make it snappy!’

  ‘By an uncanny coincidence,’ I said, pouring her a potent G and very little T, ‘I myself am now an ex-musical-theatre student. I’ve been informed that my services are no longer required.’

  ‘Well, how’s that for synchronicity?’ said Catherine, chinking glasses with me. ‘This is God’s way of telling us to get a life and to ask all those miserable cunts to go fuck themselves.’

  ‘What happened to yo
u?’

  ‘It was a fair cop, I suppose. I was caught red-handed in the drugs cupboard. You know I’ve always considered the odd bottle of diazepam a perk of the job — well, Sister didn’t agree. “Show me the barmaid who hasn’t helped herself to the odd Malibu,” I said. “Find me a secretary who hasn’t got a cupboard at home full of manila envelopes,” I said. But Hattie Jacques didn’t see it that way. Frogmarched me off the ward like a common shop-lifter. Don’t tell me she got that fat without eating the leftovers from the anorexics ward. So I’m out. I’m supposed to be counting my blessings that no authorities were brought in. All for one measly bottle of pills! And a few packets of tablets. And all the other stuff they didn’t find out about. Oh, well. There is a bright side, though — I’ve got enough to see us through to the millennium. What about you?’

  ‘Sacked for failing to make up a set in a barn dance.’

  ‘Pathetic, isn’t it? Mind you, there is your handicap in the C-sharp department.’

  ‘It’s a wonder I wasn’t run out of town sooner.’

  ‘Let’s forget them all, the whole dreary pack of them. I know what we need.’ She took a bottle of pills from her handbag.

  ‘Valium. Two milligrams or five, Cowboy? I think we deserve a five each for starters. Here you go.’

  She tossed me a pill and we took our medicine with no fuss.

  We pushed my bed to the wall to make some space, put on an Alison Moyet record and danced our troubles away, thrilled to be thrown together in adversity. What would become of us? As the Valium washed over us, it dissolved our anxieties. Our dancing became fluid and relaxed, and then it became more of a stagger to the bed.

  After our fourth gin and tonic Catherine was a little less cheerful. ‘You know, Cowboy, I love excitement and living on the edge and all that, but part of me still craves a straight life, a normal life. I like the idea of being a nurse — it’s the perfect occupation for a future surgeon’s wife living in Hazelmere. And, what’s more, I’ve wasted the last six weeks making eyes at a skin specialist. He’s called Alan, and he’s single.’

  ‘What a waste. So you’ve lost your only claim to respectability and my career as a West End Wendy is completely up the Swannee.’

  ‘And there’s my wage, and your grant. They’ve gone too. What are we going to do for money?’

  We looked at each other.

  ‘I’m going to say out loud what we’re both thinking,’ said Catherine. ‘Fuck respectability. Let’s do that when we’re old and decrepit. Right now we’re young and gorgeous. Why don’t we go full-time on the game? At least for a little while. If we do that, we can easily afford a bit of the good life for as long as we want it.’

  ‘You’re mad, Catherine,’ I said. It was all very well fooling about turning tricks now and then — but a full-time prostitute? That wasn’t the future I’d dreamt of, to say the least.

  She produced a copy of the Evening Standard and turned to the accommodation pages. In less than a minute, she’d found an advertisement for a swish rented flat in north London. ‘Look, we could move in somewhere like this. Kit ourselves out, get expensive haircuts and pedicures. Start treating ourselves like a proper business. Ooh, I can just see it! What do you think?’

  We were both sitting upright now, awakened by the startling vision of our future that Catherine was conjuring up.

  ‘Well … I don’t know …‘ I looked at the ad. The flat did sound lovely, and although it was expensive we could easily afford it if we turned a reasonable number of tricks each week.

  ‘That flat’s winking at us, Cowboy. I don’t know why we’re living in a shit-hole like this, anyway.’

  She was serious, I could see. ‘You’re way ahead of me,’ I said. It wouldn’t do to tell her, but although I could imagine Catherine living the life of a full-time sex worker, I couldn’t picture myself doing so.

  ‘I’ve assessed our options,’ she said. ‘Yours as well as mine. The events of the day have given us the push we needed. We can do this.’

  She was right. Apart from returning to my mother’s or finding some poorly paid menial work, what else was there for me to do? I already had one foot in the door. I was young and Catherine would make it fun. ‘Well, if it’s just for a while, to see if we like it or not—yes.’

  ‘More gin!’ said Catherine, by way of celebration.

  ‘No more Sean, no more bedpans!’ I said. ‘That’s the way! You won’t regret it.’

  When we woke up the next morning, our heads pounding with gin hangovers, I had second thoughts. Did I really want to trade full-time in sex? It was different for a girl. Catherine just had to grease herself up and could lie there all day. I couldn’t. I had to get an erection, perform, ejaculate. Young and virile as I was, I had my limits.

  But Catherine had become even more convinced overnight that this was the way forward, the perfect occupation for the two of us.

  By the time I’d got up, she was already phoning landlords and had alerted Madame to our new availability. She exuded a steely determination, an absolute confidence that we were doing the right thing. She was so firm about it that soon I’d put aside my misgivings and joined in wholeheartedly. After all, I reasoned, why not? It was time to live life on the wild side.

  We signed up for a number of credit cards and immediately went shopping for a complete new wardrobe each.

  ‘It’s an investment,’ said Catherine. ‘Some people might request a slapper who buys his clothes at Deptford market, but not many. You need leather trousers, a dress suit, summer casuals and a balaclava. Something for every occasion. I need evening dresses and one of everything from Ann Summers. For the chic-but-still-a-bit-of-a-goer look, I’m going for Jasper Conran. I also need makeup, self-tanning cream and some expensive lotions. We’d both better get some condoms, flavoured, ribbed, extra strong, extra small and extra large, a whole box of lube, poppers, home-enema kits and some antiseptic wipes. It’s important to be professional.’

  ‘Masks?’ I suggested. ‘Dildoes, silk scarves, ropes?’

  ‘Now you’re talking! All of that stuff. Come on! Let’s go and spend some money and have some fun.’

  It was one of the best days we ever had. We began in Selfridges’ luggage department, where we selected two large, matching pony-skin suitcases on wheels. Then we went to the designer fashion departments and filled them with our smarter clothes, accessories and shoes. Later we caught a taxi to Soho where we breezed through the grubby-beaded curtains of the sex shops and noisily perused their sex toys, butt plugs and dildo selections, then asked if they had anything bigger.

  We bought all the equipment and tricks of the trade we could think of, and lots of small, expensive luxuries for ourselves. We peaked in Bond Street where Catherine declared we’d be considered half naked in our new jobs if we didn’t have his and hers Rolex watches on our wrists. We finished the day drinking champagne in Claridges, surrounded by our heaving suitcases and supplementary bags of loot, toasting ourselves and our new lives.

  We took a flat in leafy Gloucester Crescent, Camden Town, a spacious, Edwardian conversion, with high ceilings, ornate fireplaces and a bidet. It was a big leap from a bedsit in Lewisham, and we reinvented ourselves from the moment we moved in, as if we were Russian spies assimilating ourselves into an alien community. Play the part as we did, we couldn’t help pinching ourselves and collapsing into giggles the moment our interior designer or Oriental-carpet specialist left us alone.

  ‘This is a new beginning,’ declared Catherine. ‘You have dumped your dreary musical-theatre life and I have transferred my allegiance to a more hands-on aspect of the caring profession. From now on, we look after ourselves.’

  Catherine was concerned from the start that our ‘work’ be secret. Our rule was ‘No trade in the flat’. Landlord and neighbours were told we did promotional work. Even with me she referred to escort work and ‘personal entertainment’. I didn’t exactly lie to my mother when I told her I had a good job working for Help the Aged.

&nb
sp; From the day we moved in we were determined to play the part to the hilt. It was like being in a film, we decided. Everything must be done for effect, as if our every waking hour was being watched and recorded. We drank champagne for breakfast, caught taxis to Bond Street and staggered into wine bars weighed down with designer purchases, always imagining we were the stars of our own documentary. But after the excitement of the move and our unrestrained shopping sprees, we had to get down to the serious business of finding the cash to pay for it all.

  Slowly our earnings caught up with our expenditure. Catherine got plenty of work through Madame, but as there was only the occasional call for boys among her particular clientele I also advertised myself under the name ‘JD’ in gay magazines. It meant that I strayed from the safer environments of hotel rooms and private parties but in some ways it was better: as well as the transient foreign businessman who might remember me the next time he was passing through, there were the regular users of such services who booked me once a week or fortnight. Regular punters gave me job security and made the whole thing a lot less stressful — there was always the possibility of a nasty encounter every time I met a strange man in an anonymous room, but I was lucky: nothing worse than some stinging whipmarks ever blighted my working day.

  I took to life as a full-time prostitute much more quickly and easily than I’d expected. Slowly but surely I gathered wisdom, experience and knowledge. I learnt, for example, that a man’s mood might change after orgasm with alarming swiftness: sleep is often the next thing on his agenda. The married man might be overcome by guilt and in a hurry to pretend it had never happened. All this was fine, as long as I had witnessed their ecstatic flash in the pan. That was of ultimate importance to me. As long as they had experienced a moment of pure delight, they couldn’t forget me, even if they wanted to.