Q Is for Queen

The gig was outside the town in a place called Caunston, in a converted pub which had been turned into some sort of supper club. So I was adapting the act for a cabaret rather than just the stage show. I liked that. Being able to interact with the audience, play up the gender confusion aspect of my act. After getting in touch with the guy with the keys and arranging to get in to do a sound check and start changing at about six, I realised I had a few hours to spare so I drove into town.

I parked and looked round. It was just like any other town centre really, they'd started becoming so similar about a decade ago. The same stores, same designs, same street signs. Not many local trades-people any more. Even the town hall looked like all the other late seventies town halls, so did the library next door.

The library. Something clicked in my head. Stisson. Stisson?

I'd heard the name before. An unusual name, why was it sticking in my mind? I went into the library and got myself access to one of the computers round the perimeter of the bookshelves. Once, in a library in King's Lynn I think, I'd actually found a copy of one of my CDs on the shelves! So I'd got some royalties from whichever local authority that was, but what really got me was that it had been catalogued under 'female, vocal, solo'. I never actually looked for it again anywhere, I think that was maybe a one-off.

I Googled 'Stisson Paul' and it came up with several thousand responses. The first page didn't look very hopeful so I re-did it with 'video' and got a few hundred. And the outline for the second on the list told me what I wanted to know. Or reminded me, rather, I'd seen the stuff in the press about a year earlier. I clicked on the link and got an article from the Telegraph, and a couple of photos. One was of the guy himself, Paul Stisson, and the other was of his wife. Or ex-wife really. Then I remembered what all the fuss had been about.

He'd had to sell his company, some hostile take-over whatever that meant. He'd been forced off the board and then right out by some Americans who'd bought the whole lot. PSI Communications, maybe the 'PS' was for Paul Stisson. But it had hit the headlines because he'd been paid a big ex-gratia sum out of court and the actual signing was done a few days after his divorce got finalised. His ex-wife had sued for a share of the sum and he'd maintained, or at least his lawyers had, that she wasn't entitled to it. They'd said she'd been treated fairly, that she'd got her fair share of his capital at the time of the divorce.

It ended up being settled out of court as well when the lawyers had negotiated a settlement of a quarter of the big payment he'd received for the company. The brunt of the article had been that she'd been very fortunate, especially since it was she who had done the dirty on him by having a torrid affair with some other guy about half his age.

I rapidly read the last bit of the article, then followed another Link and discovered that he'd sold Caunston Hall quite quickly after the divorce but he still lived locally. He'd kept on a big house on the edge of what had been his estate and walled it off as a smaller, self-contained residence. So, he'd sold off Caunston Hall? That explained the expensive suit and the very proper, polite manner. That and the money he'd been forced to accept for the PSI company, that is. He was really an old fashioned country gentleman now in slightly estranged circumstances. Comparatively speaking, that is.

The polite quiet coughing behind me reminded me that I was hogging one of the machines. I closed down the bit I'd been surfing and smiled weakly at the anaemically thin, baby librarian who had been behind me, and left. It had started raining just a little so I hied me to a burger bar and had a bit of a meal. Mrs Watkins's breakfast will nearly get you through the whole day but not quite. And sitting there eating meant that I didn't have to just walk round a strange town in the rain. Anyway, I got to the Hall just before six after one small detour.

Though the town centre did seem to be entirely McDonalds and Boots and Poundland and Top Shop and all chains, my attention was grabbed as I passed one shop quite close to where I'd parked. I suppose in the past it might have been called a draper's, ladies clothes and fabrics and so on. Well, it had gone a little way down the road of trying to emulate Dotty P's or something similar but its window display was still of the old style. And there, next to a mannequin in a long evening gown which I knew damn well wouldn't suit me, and another in gorgeously sexy gold lurex mini-dress which I'd have loved to try on, was a 'business-suit'. It wasn't the suit that caught my attention though, the model was poised with jacket over shoulder and was wearing a lovely blouse.

It reminded me straight away of the picture I'd signed for Paul Stisson the previous evening. Quite large yet delicate gold buttons down the front, long-sleeved, a tailored look. I knew I'd mislaid the original from the photo, I'd probably left it in a dressing room somewhere. But the photo had been a good one. The whole outfit had indeed given me a very feminine appearance. I went into the shop and found it in my size, and bought it.

The assistant had looked hesitant. She was probably thinking I was buying it for a wife or maybe a girlfriend and maybe wondering if that meant she'd have to deal with a return in a few days time. She looked shocked when I told her I didn't want to try it on there and then, I knew the size would be OK. I glanced up to her left. She followed my gaze towards the flier pinned on the wall just near the door, the one advertising 'Marie Queen' at the Caunston Hall that night. Then she looked at me.

"Is that you?"

I think she'd actually seen some sort of resemblance between the glamorously-dressed diva on the flier and the man standing in front of her. That, added to the fact that I'd revealed the blouse was for me.

"Yes," was all I said, handing over my credit card.

She just swiped it and waited while it processed, then looked at the card while I did my PIN.

"Mr M King," she read.

"Martin King, as in Marie Queen," I replied.

"Oh, right."

And the way she said it convinced me that firstly she hadn't intended going to the show tonight and I'd not impressed her anywhere near enough to get her to change her mind. And secondly that she'd never before heard of either Martin King or Marie Queen.

At five to six I was at the venue, meeting yet another so-called Stage Manager and again recruiting a group of locals, three girls this time, to deal with the CDs and T-shirts. Those T-shirts had nearly all gone, thankfully. I didn't like the way the designer had put it together. At the time I'd been down with the flu and hadn't had the chance to veto the final version. The idea was good, me in full songstress mode against the background of an ocean liner. The intended pun on my stage name didn't really work if you looked very closely at the background image and saw that it wasn't even the Queen Mary, it was the Aurora.

The Stage Manager was OK even though he didn't have an actual stage to prepare. But I got things sorted, my small table at the rear of my performance area, with some of my make-up on it and a decanter of what looked like scotch and was really just coloured water. Both there for effect, the latter so I could walk round the floor with a glass in my hand singing 'One for the road' in something close-ish to a Billie Holliday style. And the makeup because occasionally I liked to add a little humour to the proceedings by touching up my lipstick on-stage and over-doing the actions involved.

Though I say it myself that show went even better than the one in Cannock, and I'd thought the previous night had gone well. There was a bigger crowd. It may even have been a sell-out, and I chose well in picking people, all guys except one, for the audience interactions which are almost de rigueur in the cabaret setting. The best one was the last, the one I did in the blue dress while doing a Dolly Parton song. The guy I'd picked on was really up for it, as I sidled up to him and crooned in his ear while stroking his almost-bald head, he was grinning and looking round. He really did deserve the embarrassing peck on the cheek at the end of the song.

I'd noticed Paul Stisson earlier. He seemed to know quite a few of the people there, and was sat with a group of four others though I imagined he hadn't actually come to the show with them. They were two married couples, almost certainly, and just for a moment I'd thought of choosing him to sing one of my songs to. But I didn't, somehow it seemed not to be the right thing to do.

After the show, after my 'Summertime' encore-closer, I curtsied and took my applause and, as is the fashion these days, lifted my arms to applaud my audience as I walked through them towards the long bar which ran down one side of the hall. As I did so, there at my side was Paul Stisson himself.

"Hello again," I said, smiling.

No kiss, though, I was still a little worried about the exact manner in which we'd parted company the previous night.

"Hello Marie. Great show, really great. Even better than last night. Can I buy you a drink?"

He seemed more in control. Maybe because he was on familiar turf, being in Caunston and all that. As I said his manner in Cannock had rather disturbed me.

"Thank you," I replied, keeping up the smile. "Vodka and tonic, please. Mr Stisson, isn't it, I remember the odd-ish name."

"Please. Paul."

The instruction to call him by his first name was only natural really. I did my usual trick for the benefit of any lewd punters there, lifted my bum onto the stool by the bar and crossed my legs to show a fair amount of thigh and maybe my stocking tops. Yes, some men are weirdoes but they still might buy CDs and T-shirts and indeed they had paid to come and see me.

"Marie, I know you'll have fans to see and so on. I just needed to mention, after what I said last night. About the video."

"Yes, I remember. John Garner, you said, I've still got his number."

I remembered the surname from an old western series on TV.

"Jim Garner. But I rang the video company this morning, just to check in with him. I didn't know, he's left the firm so they might not be the ones to use, if you thought of going ahead, that is."

I sipped my vodka and peered over the edge of my glass at Paul. He was persistent, I'll give him that. Whether he was just a big fan or whether this might end up in some sort of stalker situation I didn't know. I'd only ever come across that situation once before, not with me but with my friend Jeannine. She's a regular girl, a proper one I mean, a 'GG' as they say. We'd done a bit of an act together doing 'Sisters' as my last song and her first. She'd had a stalker, a guy who kept appearing at her gigs and sending flowers and rather crude letters. Eventually she'd actually got the police involved and he'd been dealt with but she'd gone through quite a bit of heartache on the way. It's different, though for a GG.

But Paul didn't seem like the stalker type. I slid off my stool carefully when I saw the SM coming over towards me. Clearly there was something of a queue backstage waiting to get things signed and have a word. It was just as I was going that one of the couples who had been with Paul trapped me briefly.

"We enjoyed the show, Marie" said the wife, I assume, staring at my cleavage! "That Dolly Parton song was just great, you really did do the voice so well."

"And the tits!" muttered her husband, with a wide lascivious grin across his face.

In other circumstances I might have challenged him there and then, the tone of his comment deserved some sort of put down. But I wanted to get backstage so I just turned briefly to Paul.

I thanked him for the drink, but didn't do any sort of kiss or hand-squeezing. It's a fine line I have to tread taking on the role of a woman sometimes. The kiss or squeeze or even fondle is OK in public as part of the act, and of course it's all right to do that sort of thing in private. I have to be careful though, in semi-public if you see what I mean. Paul had bought a drink for a drag performer and that was acceptable because it was in public and it was a bit of a thank-you for the performance.

Yet it wouldn't have done to be in any way intimate there and then at the bar. I'd walked that tightrope for years and I knew just how far it would be appropriate to go in almost any situation. Even with at guy in Exeter I'd been in control. I'd gone for a few drinks in the bar and a bit of flirting and then some necking and heavy-duty fondling of his cock up against the wall behind the pub but I'd not gone too far. Though I'd been feeling pretty low before the groping it had done me a power of good and I'd known exactly how far to push him.

I walked the usual sexy walk, in my high heels, behind the SM and back towards my dressing room. I have to say it was really a bit large and to some extent opulent really, not quite what I was used to in village halls and small theatres and Centenary Centres and so on. I skipped in front of the SM and closed the door behind me, having said I'd be ready in just a couple of minutes. And as soon as I had shut the door and turned round, well, the surprise I'd not been expecting greeted me. There just beside the mirror, and they'd not been there earlier, they must have arrived during the performance, was a large bunch of roses. Red roses.

In my whole career that had never happened before, it really did take my breath away for a moment. There was a card. I think I knew where they'd come from - and I was right. I slid it out, noticing in fact that the colour of the roses almost exactly matched my long fingernails. I read it out, aloud for some reason but quietly.

'For Marie, good luck. Paul XXX.'

It really did throw me. I poured a small glass of water and sat down - I'd had my post-gig vodka already and I was going to be driving back to my small hotel later. Paul Stisson had sent me roses. Wow!

I got interrupted just then by the usual triple-tap on the door. Why do all stage managers tap three times?

"Hello?" I called, basically relieved not to have to think about the roses.

The SM came in and asked if I was ready. I asked how many were outside and got the same answer as the previous night - 'four or five'. So I set to it, the usual brief conversations, people saying nice things about my act and my singing and my dresses and so on. One woman asked how I managed in such high heels. I didn't actually say I'd been wearing then on and off since I was seven, I just replied that I'd got used to them by now. And no nutters. Not a one. That was a relief.

After the interviews the three girls came in with my merchandising stuff. Eleven CDs and four T-shirts, amazingly. So I gave them a fiver each again since they'd done a job for me in packing everything together in my bag. I turned and picked up the bouquet. They really were lovely roses and I took a moment to savour their fragrance. I turned to move towards the door in order to lock it before starting to get changed. There was a double-tap at the door just as I put my hand on the key. I opened it.

"Hello again, I just wanted one more word. I won't keep you, I know you have to change and so on."

It was Paul Stisson. I wanted to hug him, to kiss him even. I just stood there with the big bouquet in my arms and felt a tear begin to roll down my cheek.

"Paul, thank you so much. Nobody has ever given me such a beautiful bouquet ever before, they are just lovely."

I was gushing, and I really was wondering if I was going to cry. But I couldn't kiss him. We weren't in private, the SM and one of the three girls were just down the corridor. I daren't cross the line even though I was so grateful to Paul for appreciating my femininity.

And I was puzzled. OK so I had that blue dress on and high heels and very long nails and my gold jewellery and so on. The body was definitely female, I know I always do an extremely good job on decorating and wrapping up my figure. But the face and the make-up were those of a typically over-the-top DQ. OK so I felt female at that moment though I knew very well I didn't really look it.

I just reached out, almost certainly out of the sight of the two on-lookers, and squeezed his hand and tried not to cry. Very luckily he didn't stay long, he never even came right into the dressing room. If he had I'd probably have flung my arms round his neck for the first time in a long time. With a man I mean.

But he realised something of my plight, he maybe saw a tear in the corner of my eye. Maybe.

"It's just that, if Jim Garner can't help out with the video maybe I could. I'm not involved with that company any more but it might be nice to do something like that myself. If you'd like, that is. I've not done it hands-on for years, always had people to do it for me. Or maybe you don't like the idea."

He really was being kind. I didn't want to say no.

"All right Marie. Maybe I'm being pushy. But on your flier about the tour the date for tomorrow is crossed off. With a thick black pen."

I'd had to do them all myself. I'd been due in Barrow the next night but they'd had a small fire in the venue the previous weekend and had to cancel all their gigs for a couple of weeks. I didn't need to tell Mr Stisson that, though.

"Yes, there was a cancellation. So I get a night off."

"I see. Well, where are you staying?"

"At the Armada Hotel," I replied, too quickly and without thinking.

Was this the stalker-thing coming up again?

"Well, if you don't mind - er - Martin - how about we meet up tomorrow? Late in the morning maybe, or the afternoon, have a chat about the video. It would be fun to shoot again, that's how I started out."

Again, he was persistent. But maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all, so I agreed. We settled on two-o-clock in the pub opposite the Armada. After he left the SM peered towards me inquiringly. I knew he wanted me out sharp-ish.

"OK. Fifteen minutes."

So it took me twenty again but I was relieved to get out of there in the end. The show was good and so were the sales, I'd definitely come back there again if I got invited. But I wondered about Paul Stisson. I could see his point about making a video really, and I supposed that after his divorce and losing his company the thought of getting back into something like video production might have been quite appealing to him. Maybe the dollar signs were rolling in front of his eyes, use this drag queen as a tester and then move onto proper videos like he had when he'd first set up PSI. It had, I remembered from my library research, started out like that, small videos of minor pop stars, before expanding into all sorts of multimedia after a few years.

I smiled a little to myself at the 'er- Martin' when he'd said my name. I just wondered if he'd recognise me in the pub the next day. He probably would, that sales assistant in the shop where I'd bought the blouse had seen the similarity, I was sure.

I didn't think I'd sleep that night but I did, a tribute to the beds in the Armada hotel really. The breakfast wasn't up to Mrs Watkins's standard but it was more than acceptable. I went back up to my room and packed my two bags, the red and the blue, ready to move out. Two cases, one male and one female if you see what I mean. It would have been catastrophic, after all, to turn up at a gig with the case with all my male clothes in having left the other behind. Who'd want a drag queen with not a thing to wear? Hence the red and the blue.

I walked across to reception to settle my bill, then back to my room to get the cases. I recalled the 'er - Martin' comment again and smiled. I looked in the mirror, at Martin. Handsome enough really though not a great one with the ladies. I'd had my share though, never married but still managed to 'put myself about a bit' even in my youth. And then there had been Brenda only two months earlier, the landlady's mother would you believe. Forty-five going on twenty-five and dynamite in bed.