Virtue (29 page)

He glides over the thick cream carpet, opens up.

‘A package?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The concierge is wearing a tail-coat which hangs a bit tight over the shoulders; must be hotel issue. Certainly not made to measure.

‘Who brought it?’

‘A young lady, sir. She’s waiting in reception. She wanted to come up but as she didn’t have an appointment …’

‘What does she look like?’

‘Small – petite, I should say,’ begins the concierge with the assurance of one who notes everything about everyone who passes through his doors, ‘very, very blonde. Young. Not more than twenty-four I’d say. Holds herself beautifully, speaks well, well turned out. Pink suit, well-cut, good figure, though it’s probably not my place to say so. Ladylike. That’s the main impression.’

Ah. Another one trying to get round the audition procedure. All dressed up to suit the part. ‘What did she say her name was?’

‘Godiva, sir. Godiva Fawcett.’

‘Well, tell her to apply via her agent like everyone else. I’m a busy man.’

‘Er—’ The concierge stays in the doorway, looking uncertain. ‘She claims she knows you, Mr Wildenstein, sir.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘Well, if you’d be so kind.’ He offers a padded envelope. ‘She said if you look at this, you would remember who she is.’

Wildenstein sighs. Takes the envelope, tears it open with the paper knife thoughtfully provided on the baize-covered desk. Half-pulls the contents out, glances briefly at it and, face betraying none of the emotion he feels, says, ‘Send her up. Give me five minutes.’

The concierge bows, stands for a moment looking hopeful. Wildenstein sighs again, digs in his trouser pocket and palms the man five shillings. Feels a twinge of resentment: it’s bad enough that the guy should bring a situation like this without expecting a tip into the bargain.

In the five minutes left to him, he reassumes his jacket, combs his hair, quickly places a low, hard chair in front of the desk before assuming the power position in the padded leather throne behind it. Spreads out some papers, lights a cigar and waits.

Another knock.

‘Come,’ cries Leonard Wildenstein, and begins to stare intensely at his papers, chewing all the while on the stogie. He’s learned a trick or two in his years in the business; Leonard Wildenstein has never needed a self-help book to show him how to wrong-foot a rival.

Quiet steps across the carpet; the squeak of expensive leather shoes, then silence. ‘Gud eev’ning, Mr Vildenshtine,’ says a quiet voice of cut-glass precision, then nothing more.

He is strongly tempted to look up; this is not the sloppy cockney of last night. This chick has studied the greats: this is the voice of Audrey Hepburn in
My Fair Lady
, of Joan Greenwood in
Kind Hearts and Coronets
, the rose-garden nostalgia of
Mrs Miniver
. With an effort of will, he keeps his eyes clamped on the page, replies, ‘Wilden
steen
. Take a seat, why don’t you?’

‘Thenk yuh. I pruffar to stend,’ says Godiva. She’s learned a trick or two of her own. She continues to stand, quietly, waiting for him to make the first move; he can see the pink pointed toes of her stilettos held just so in first position.

Eventually, the waiting becomes too much. He crumbles, looks up, gets the surprise of his life. Last night’s cut-price Marilyn has transformed into a glassy Tippi Hedren: Nordic hair swept back into an elegant, understated beehive, the fuchsia lips now smeared with something palely pink and barely there. Classy, he thinks. The dame’s got class. And she can act, too, or so the evidence suggests.

‘So what’s with the Godiva thing?’ he says.

She shrugs, replies, ‘That’s my real name. For obvious reasons, I don’t use it in the club.’

‘Quite a name,’ he says.

She nods. ‘I like it.’

‘Chose it yourself, huh?’

She simply smiles, waits for the next move in the game.

‘So what do you want, young lady?’

‘Oh.’ She smiles once more, a quiet little smile where one side of her mouth only curls up and those emerald cats’ eyes do nothing at all. ‘I’m here for my audition.’

‘And what audition would that be?’ The cigar comes out of the mouth and is pinched between thumb and forefinger. Then he lays it quickly, slightly sheepishly, in the ashtray as a picture of her fingers doing something quite similar flashes across his memory.

‘I want to play the part,’ she says, ‘of Melanie DuChamp.’

He’s been expecting this. ‘Honey,’ he says, ‘I’ve got every actress in London chasing that part.’

‘Ah,’ replies Godiva, and the cats’ eyes twinkle merrily, ‘but I have special talents, as you know.’

Leonard Wildenstein picks up the envelope delivered by the concierge. Takes his lighter from beside the ashtray and sets fire to one corner. The photographic paper inside catches, blooms, burns blue and orange. He continues to hold it until the flame licks his fingers, then, smiling, drops it beside his cigar butt.

‘Oh, what a shame,’ says Godiva, and from her elegant little clutch bag comes another envelope. ‘I was afraid you might have an accident,’ she says, ‘so I brought you some more to replace those ones. And don’t worry. I have plenty more in a safe place if you should need them.’

She looks around the suite: the fresh flowers, the stark white of the billowing nets across the windows, the rich upholstery of the reproduction Louis Quinze sofa set. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘If I had a room like this, I’d want to show it off rather than spending an evening in a bachelorette flat in Soho. It’s so clean. You never know what you might catch on unfamiliar turf.’

‘You couldn’t even remember my name last night,’ he protests.

‘Well, no,’ says Godiva, and from the bag – it’s amazing what a woman can fit into a leather pocket the size of a paperback – comes a reel of audio tape. ‘That’s not strictly true. It was more that I wanted to hear you say it yourself for me. It’s always so nice when a gentleman introduces himself. Makes you feel more – I don’t know – secure. And a girl needs security in this tough old world, wouldn’t you say?’

Leeza’s march takes place on a deliciously sunny Saturday two weeks later. I go down to act as Harriet’s eyes and ears, drink in the sights and sounds to give back to her later. As usual they’ve closed Westminster tube station, so I schlep all the way up the embankment on foot and arrive five minutes before the march is due to move off. And as I emerge from round the back of the abbey into Parliament Square, the first thing I see is the drag queens. Magnificent drag queens, dozens of them, each one at least a head taller than the tallest of the rest of the crowd, platform shoes playing havoc with the grass on the square. And every single one a Godiva. They’ve come as every stage of her career; period Godiva, bikini Godiva, Western Godiva, Duchess Godiva in tiara and sash, Charity Godiva, cute and demure in ankle-cropped khaki trousers and an open-necked shirt, even a couple in white drapey dresses, wings and haloes, only their smooth white beehives and pussycat sunglasses suggesting that they have jumped the gun and become Sainted Godivas. Harriet would love this.

The drag queens are deeply excited by the presence of the TV crews, and are striking poses and waving their hands elegantly when asked, chattering like starlings to anyone who’ll listen. ‘Ooh, I loved her,’ they say, ‘even more than Joan Crawford. Even more than Princess Grace.’ ‘Darling, she was faaabulous.’ And as usual, the TV crews are reciprocating, ignoring the hundreds of normal people gathered in the square, tutting with impatience as a small child in dungarees runs, shouting with joy, into shot, saying, ‘Excuse me, we’re trying to film here,’ in pointed tones to anyone who dares to give tongue in their vicinity. But I can understand why. TV always favours the freak above the average, and media people find it hard to register enthusiasms as anything other than the province of the mildly cracked. There must be a thousand representatives of the ‘real’ world gathered on this lawn today; once the march reaches our screens tonight, it will seem as though the crowd consisted of forty-odd drag queens and Leeza Hayman.

I step over to take a couple of pictures. I know Harriet will be so happy to see that the Divettes are still in action, as Godiva would have loved it in her lifetime. Imagine: there can be no greater compliment than to have the world’s queens want to be you. A couple of Duchess Godivas spot me and start to cackle and point, putting one hand on their hips and the other behind their heads, thrusting their hips towards the camera and pouting.

As I press the shutter, a voice beside me says, ‘Well, I call it disgusting,’ and I know that I have fallen in among the hard line of the Fawcett Trust. I hadn’t even noticed I’d done it. That’s the trouble with Fawcetteers; they look so bog average that it’s hard to spot you’re among them before it’s too late.

‘Don’t you think it’s disgusting?’ says the voice again. Then, to me, ‘You shouldn’t encourage them.’

Oh, bugger: it’s the Solemnity of the Occasion group, the scariest and most hard line of the lot. These were the people who tried to tear down the gates of Belhaven to express their disapproval of the family’s ostracism of their idol, the ones who tune out all facts, however well established, that they find inconvenient. It will be from among this group that the hatemails are coming, the You should be ashamed to be alive, the You’ve let down her memory, the Your life’s not just your own, you know, it belongs to all of us, the I know where you live, the You don’t deserve to be alive when she’s dead, the Don’t you know how lucky you are? the Why did God take away an angel and leave us you? messages.

Actually, I should have spotted them, considering the reason that this crowd has gathered. They are the Byrite women, those women who have a plastic bag permanently welded to their wrist, who tart their crappy hair up with jaunty little plastic bows, who wear brave lipstick on their downturned mouths, who feel that life has dealt them out a hard card and are determined to make the point by refusing to waste money, ever. Their lives have been blighted by the fact that real men never produce the passion of the romance novel. They wear their victimhood like a sash of honour and honestly believe that, had Godiva met them, she would have been their best friend, would have understood their woe, brought them solace in their grief. Imitating Godiva, they talk about spreading love and understanding, about accepting people for what they are, and, when confronted with a Godiva drag queen, react like Klan members outside a synagogue.

I lower the camera and smile sweetly. ‘I think they look lovely.’ And then I add something that perhaps is unkind under the circumstances. ‘And anyway, Godiva was really proud that she had such a massive gay following.’

The air fills with the rustle of plastic bags as eight pairs of arms fold across chests. Eight chins retract like pigeons’ crops. Then, ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ says the main spokesperson, and her black plastic bobbles jiggle in dispute. As my eyes drift over her, I realise that I don’t look out of place at all, because she, too, is dressed all in black. And so are her companions. The gaggle of Godivas looks like a gang of rogue birds of paradise invading a convention of gannets. No wonder they stand out.

Suddenly I’m glad that Harriet has avoided coming down here. People have brought bunches of flowers, and are laying them, still in their cellophane, at the foot of Winston Churchill’s podium in the abscence of an image of the woman herself. They mill about, talking in hushed tones like guests at a funeral, spotting faces in the crowd and enfolding each other in sympathetic hugs. I guess that many of them turned up for the real thing fifteen years ago and are taking the opportunity to renew old acquaintances; the square is thick with the fug of nostalgia and a muted, but palpable sense of party.

The woman near me raises her voice so the drag queens can hear her, says, ‘It’s disgraceful. They should show more respect.’

A black Godiva, egg-sized diamonds setting off her rhinestone-covered slip dress, looks over with a brilliantly rehearsed look of contempt that I’ve seen on Harriet’s face a million times, raises her own voice and says, ‘Don’t worry, darlings. She’s not been out of the house in fifteen years.’

Oh, good, I think, a ruck. But then a microphone clunks on and everyone turns to hear what’s going to come from the platform over by the traffic lights.

‘Hello, people,’ says a voice, and I am immediately consumed by hatred. I don’t believe this. How the hell did she manage to get herself into pride of place? I edge closer to confirm that it really is her, and find myself standing near the Divettes. I am so embarrassed that I’m wearing black; they must think I’m one of them.

A bikini Godiva, balls strapped down so that only the Gymbody six-pack betrays her gender, cranes over her elegant shoulder and says, ‘Oh, God, girls, it’s the harlot Hayman.’

‘What’s she doing here?’ cries a Duchess Godiva. ‘We don’t want her!’

They start to boo and catcall, feet clattering like hooves on kerbstones. ‘Off! Off! Off!’ ‘Shut your catflap!’ ‘Moo! Moo!’ but the ego of Hayman fails to notice and she ploughs forward.

‘Thank you all so much for coming today,’ she says, and the thousand-odd mourners before her preen with gratification. ‘I know,’ she continues, ‘that Godiva would have been so proud to see you all here in her honour.’

This, at least, is partly true; Godiva liked anyone turning out in her honour. Then again, she would, perhaps, have liked the cream of showbiz to turn out in designer mantillas, rather than all these frowning matrons and two representatives of morning television. Even Christopher Biggins has failed to show.

‘I have no need to tell you,’ continues Leeza, ‘how important what you’re doing today is. We all know, deep in our hearts, that Godiva Fawcett was the greatest woman of our lifetime and that she deserves respect from the powers that be. I know it’s important to me, but it’s important to all of us.’

‘Yees!’ cry a few voices from the crowd. The Divettes let off a collective squeal and wiggle their hips. Then they resume their chanting. ‘Ditch the bitch!’ they cry. ‘ME! ME! ME! ME! ME!’