Devil in Disguise Read Free Page B

in
the college theatre and Simon was sitting in the back row, listening intently
to the head of the English department, who was explaining how they were all on
the threshold of an exciting new future. The door behind him flew open and a
rather flustered Molly crashed through it. ‘Sorry I’m late!’ she announced, in
a breathless Liverpudlian twang. ‘1 had the wrong room. I’ve been sat with a
load of geeks in Geography!’
    Simon
stared at her. Immediately she turned her head and saw him. She gave him a grin
and headed straight for the empty seat next to him, plonking herself down
without ceremony. ‘Have you got a tissue, mate?’ she asked, in a loud whisper.
‘I’m sweatin’ like a bloody ‘orse ‘ere. I’ve just run the one-minute mile in
these.’ She showed him the big stacked heels on her boots.
    ‘Not
easy,’ Simon agreed.
    ‘You
can say that again.’ Molly rifled through her bag and pulled out her
information pack. ‘Now — what have I missed?’
    ‘Quiet,
please, at the back!’ called the head of English crossly. Simon and Molly
exchanged looks and snorted quietly.
    They
were friends from that moment on. It was only natural that they should go
straight from the welcome session to the cafeteria where, over what claimed to
be chilli con cane, they filled in their course-option forms identically, thus
ensuring they’d be attending all the same seminars.
    ‘Shall
we opt for Dickens or Sylvia Plath?’ Simon asked, wrinkling his nose and
chewing the end of his Biro.
    ‘Sylvia
Plath. No contest. I can’t be doing with Dickens — all them Mr Fartpants and Mr
Chuzzlepricks. Drives me insane. Plath is much easier, just bumble-bees and
bell jars. Then she had the good sense to top herself. Didn’t go on and on and
on, like Charlie boy.’
    ‘No
contest, then,’ Simon agreed. ‘What’s next?’
    ‘Medieval
poetry or the complete works of Piers Morgan?’
    ‘Medieval
poetry,’ they said simultaneously.
    She’s
fabulous! Simon thought. He was already falling in love with her, if in a
strictly platonic way, and that was a very novel experience indeed. He had
never mixed with girls much, as his boarding school had been all boys and his
life afterwards, in the years before he’d decided to come to university, had
been decidedly male-centric. He’d thought that was the way he liked it, but
there was something about Molly’s extraordinary energy and her throbbing
vibrancy that drew him to her. She was larger than life, a big girl with
fabulous cheekbones and a cascade of dark blonde curly hair piled on top of her
head and trailing halfway down her back. She wore men’s shirts and jackets but
always with a chunk of impossibly large diamanté on the lapel and bold, punky
makeup. Simon, who was tall and willowy and rather delicate, complemented her
look, and they were soon inseparable, always together in the refectory or the
college bar, laughing, whispering about something or clinking their glasses to
toast their brilliant futures.
    They
were rather disdainful of their fellow students, whom they perceived to be
over-studious and boring, at least in comparison to themselves. They were the
arbiters of style in their world, and gossiped indiscreetly about those around
them, creating witty but disparaging nicknames for all and sundry, ‘Anorak
girl’, ‘Psoriasis Boy’ and ‘Hunky Hughes’ being just a handful of examples.
They gave each other knowing looks and spoke in coded catchphrases. They were
far too caught up in their own fabulousness to bother much with course work or
writing tedious essays.
    Apart
from their looks, behaviour and exclusivity, something else that drew
everyone’s attention to them — whether they were interested or not — was
Molly’s habit of letting out screeching, ear-piercing soprano notes anywhere
and everywhere she went. Simon thought it was hilarious. Sitting in the bar or
walking down the corridor she would, without warning, launch into an aria or an
obscure