2: Blanche

"...and we've got a special treat for you tonight, all the way from the West End -- which may not sound like far, but believe me, in those heels..."

Too fucking right. On a wet November Tuesday in Essex, and for what? To sing "I am what I am" for fifteen disinterested queens and a fat dyke with a cocker spaniel. Blanche would be lucky if she made her train fare home from this shithole.

"...let's have a big hand, please, for the fabulous Blanche Du Theydon Bois!"

Forcing herself to grin like a cheshire cat on ecstasy, and nearly as believably, Blanche stalked up two and half steps to the so-called stage, a milk crate with delusions of grandeur.

"Darlings! Loves! Oooh!" An exaggerated trip. "Oops. Blimey. Hello, boys! Are we having fun yet?"

A couple of people grunted desultory greetings over the top of their Carling Black Labels.

"It's such a pleasure to be here on this fine autumn evening. Don't you just love autumn? I do. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Oooh, 'ello. Bloke down here's saying 'Mellow what? What's she on about?' Fruitfulness, dear. It's Keats. You know, poetry? Get me a double G & T and I'll show you my couplets. Ain't you got nice arms, darling? Ain't he got nice arms? What's your name, love?"

Christ. What was she doing here?

"John, is it? Pleased to meet you, John. You on the way to the bar, then? Oh, the toilet? Such timing: I'd join you but, you know how it is, the show must go on. Besides, kneeling down in this frock, well it's no laughing matter. You hurry back, now. We'll be waiting."

She watched him in mocking silence all the way to the toilet door.

"Bless him. If he's more than ten minutes, let's send out a search party. Now, where was I? Oh yes, autumn."

It already seemed hotter under the lights than it should. Blanche nudged a stray strand of wig out of her eyes, then plucked a lacy fan from her waistband, flapping it affectedly: too gently and too far away to make a difference, but it wouldn't do to block anyone's view.

"Thing that gets me, this time of year, is the kids. Little bastards, aren't they? And that's just my own. I still haven't forgiven them those stretch marks, you know. Thank fuck I was sleeping with a plastic surgeon."

She turned this way and that, gesturing to her flat stomach, eyebrows raised.

"Worth every sweaty, slobbering kiss."

A few people laughed. A little.

"I sent my boys out trick or treating the other night. Mickey, that's my youngest, wanted to be a witch. I was so proud. I made him a little banner saying 'Surrender, Dorothy' in fake smoke. And ruby slippers. Something tells me the family business is going to be in safe hands.

"But trick or treating? Whose idea was that? It's nothing but petty extortion. With menaces. I wouldn't mind if they made a bit of effort with the costumes, but most of them have no idea how to bead a lash. Makes a girl weep, I tell you. Just the sight of those vampire types has me reaching for my hairbrush and a bottle of fake tan. And when it comes to 'Penny for the guy?' Darling, it'd take more than a penny to make good that fashion atrocity. Just cos you're going up in flames next week is no excuse for not making an effort, know what I mean? That kind of occasion, you'd want to look your best. Brown polyester slacks and a beige shirt don't exactly cut it, do they? Burning's too good for 'em!"

Perhaps there'd been a time when she enjoyed this bitchy, malevolent bollocks, but if so she could no longer remember it. Was this her life?

"Listen to me, I'm like the spirit of SAD. Clocks go back and it's all doom and gloom. I'm even depressing myself. Sod that, let's have a song, eh? Maestro?"

The pub darkened and she was caught in a single tight spot, like a rabbit in headlights -- a rabbit in pink sequins and a platinum beehive. The music struck up.

"Once I was afraid, I was petrified..."

This was no better than sleepwalking, than being in a coma. She felt she might wake at any moment in a hospital bed, limbs atrophied, eyes no longer remembering how to see, her whole tacky career nothing but a lurid fever dream. Don't go into the -- flickering, flyspecked -- spotlight, Blanche! Don't go into the light!

"...I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key..."

John wandered back from the lav, and Blanche fixed him with a malign glare the whole way. He was sheepish, but not intimidated. She hated herself for trying to embarrass him... but not as much as she hated herself for failing.

"...I will survive! I will survive!"

And so she would.
Posted by matt at November 2, 2004 11:47 PM