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‘That was fascinating, dear, but not for us. Thank you for trying out.’
Frankie watched Derek strike out another name on the audition list, as the latest reject picked up their literal box of tricks and huffed off the stage. ‘Close-up magic was an interesting choice of talent for a nightclub drag competition.’
Derek let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a cry of anguish. ‘We’re almost halfway through the list and we’ve barely got five queens that I’d feel confident putting up on stage. The show is meant to run till the end of November, we’ll be lucky to make it to Halloween at this rate.’
They sat with their fellow judges at a long trestle table on the dance floor of Destiny, which had been set up to face the “stage”, in reality a trumped-up platform mostly used for PAs from pop acts hoping to flog their latest single to the gays. Frankie was sat at one end next to Derek, then came Rupert Rushmere, the dapper arts critic for the local rag, and completing the line-up was Marleen McDaniels who, after decades of singing in Brighton’s pubs, had a brief brush with fame when she came third in X-Factor a few years back.
‘I liked Tickety Boo,’ Frankie said. ‘She had us all in stitches.’
‘Name another,’ Derek said.
‘What about the juggling one?’ Marleen asked. ‘She was entertaining.’
‘All a bit Cirque du So Gay for my liking,’ Derek replied.
‘I thought this was meant to be a drag renaissance,’ Rupert said. ‘I’m beginning to understand how your career has lasted so long, Derek.’
Derek slammed his clipboard on the table and stood up. ‘I need a drink.’ He headed off toward the bar.
‘I’m a bit parched, I’ll give him a hand.’ Marleen got up and followed him over.
Frankie looked at Rupert. ‘Please don’t agitate him. He’s stressed enough as it is.’
Rupert gave him a “what did I do?” look.
‘Don’t act the innocent, you’re about as believable as OJ Simpson.’
‘You used to like me being naughty.’ Rupert straightened his bow tie and ran a hand through his thick, jet black hair. ‘I do recall you enjoyed putting me over your knee.’
Frankie felt a flush come to his cheeks. ‘That was all a hundred years ago. And furthermore, Derek knows nothing about it, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. The next few months will be tense enough without any of that nonsense.’
Rupert lent over the empty chair and Frankie caught a whiff of that musky cologne he used to savour. ‘Is there a reason he doesn’t know? Surely if it is all in the distant past...’
‘When you start a new relationship do you list all your previous flings? Don’t read anything into it, dear. And don’t forget who ended it between us. Bit late to have remorse for your poor life choices, don’t you think?’
Derek reappeared with a tray. ‘Gins all round.’ He handed them out and retook his seat.
‘And I’ve got us some sustenance.’ Marleen shook some bags of salted peanuts at them.
‘This really is the high life,’ Rupert said. ‘A large gin and some salty nuts - what more does a boy need?’
Derek looked Rupert up and down. ‘Off the top of my head, I’m thinking dress sense and a personality. For starters.’
Frankie saw Rupert’s eyes flicker, just like they did during the blazing rows that peppered the final act of their brief fling. ‘I think we should get on; we have a great deal of talent to find.’
‘I’m sure there are some really amazing people coming up,’ Marleen said, ‘I can feel it in my bones.’
‘From your lips to Barbra’s ears,’ Derek said. ‘We need to scrape ten contestants together from this rabble somehow. The competition starts in a fortnight. Next!’
Onto the stage walked the most stunning human being Frankie had seen in many a day. Tall, thin, with limbs that seemed to all act independently of the body they were attached to, yet were graceful rather than gangly. If one person could define the word androgynous, this was it. The facial features were delicate, chiselled, yet the expression was strong. The hair was blue-white, short at the sides, but with a bouffant updo that was more formal than fabulous. S/he wore a tartan trouser suit that might have been vintage Westwood. S/he took position centre stage in front of the mic. It felt to Frankie like the air in the room had been transformed into champagne bubbles, fizzing with anticipation.
‘I am Belissima,’ the figure said, the hint of an accent adding to the enigma.
You certainly are. Frankie could hear the breathing of his fellow judges; it was suddenly that silent. The tall beauty flung their head back and threw their arms out to the side. Music began to play, Frankie instantly recognised it from his disco days. Belissima’s body began to move from side-to-side, snake-like, not to the beat, but around it. The arms were moving up and down balletically. The effect was completely hypnotic.
Belissima’s voice was like a French kiss followed by a punch. She sang of tainted love, twisted, dying to escape, to be captured. A song that had been sung by generations sounded like it was being created in real time.
Frankie was living the lyric. Every word rang true, every emotion deeply felt, every hurt feeling communicated. As the performance reached its climax, he moved to the edge of his seat and gripped the table. Such a wave of attraction was dragging Frankie under, not sexual, but rather a desire to orbit this other being, to be caught in their gravitational pull.
Finally, the song was over. Belissima ended in the same position s/he began. It took a second for a reaction to come from the judges.
Marleen was first to break into applause. ‘Bravo, girl, that was fierce. Marc Almond would love you.’ She attempted some snaps, but her fingers were a little too chubby to successfully pull it off.
‘Quite extraordinary,’ Rupert said. ‘A most unique presentation.’
Derek wrote on his clipboard. ‘Do you have anything to add, Franklin?’
Frankie’s mouth was dry, and he found it hard to get his lips working. ‘May I ask, where are you from?’
Belissima elongated her neck and moved her head around like a vigilant bird. ‘Brazil. But now I am living here.’
‘You understand this is a drag competition, dear,’ Derek said, ‘men dressed as women?’
Belissima smiled. ‘Yes. I understand this. They told me drag later.’
Derek nodded. ‘Yes, drag later. And you have permission to stay here, to work?’
‘I have papers, legal, yes. You put me in show, I make big success.’
‘Thank you, for now. We have your number; we’ll be in touch.’ Derek put his clipboard down.
Belissima gave a deep bow, turned on a heel and disappeared into the wings.
‘Bit much, don’t you think?’
Frankie’s mouth fell open. ‘She was spectacular.’
Derek shot him a look, pursed his lips, but appeared to think better of it.
‘If you ask me, we might as well give him the trophy now,’ Rupert said. ‘He’ll wipe the floor with the rest of what we’ve seen.’
‘That’s the trouble with democracy,’ Derek muttered. ‘Fine, she’s in. Next!’
As the next auditionee took the stage Frankie couldn’t shake Belissima from his mind. He couldn’t work out what Derek’s problem was with her. Admittedly it was a more modern form of drag, but anybody could see she was special. Frankie realised he’d answered his own question.