Welcome to the Real World (12 page)

He looks down at the crumpled ten pound note in his hand and gives me a brave smile. Which makes me break down and cry again.

C
arl drops me off at my flat. Dad has gone out, thank goodness. Probably in search of a pub that won't refuse his custom. This, at least, means that I have the bathroom and the trickle of hot water from the shower to myself. Taking advantage of this, I luxuriate under it for the three minutes it takes for the water to turn icy cold again. Ali keeps promising to do something about the dodgy boiler, but, like most men, his well-intentioned promises lack a certain practical element.

Squeaky is sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, emboldened by the absence of my dad's presence. Dad not only abuses my mouse with a stream of obscenities but has also taken to throwing inanimate objects at him whenever he appears, no matter how strongly I object. My dad, of course, blames this on his fake Tourette's syndrome. In return for Squeaky's continued loyalty as my ad-hoc pet mouse, I break off a square of my emergency bar of Cadbury's milk chocolate, hidden in the recesses of my cupboards, for him. Ignore everything you've ever seen in kids' cartoons, miceor at least this onedon't give a fig for a triangular lump of cheddar cheese. Squeaky will, however, jump through hoops for a bit of Mars bar. Perhaps Squeaky's a female mouse, rather than a bloke, and it's that time of the month. Whichever sex he is, he now holds the chocolate possessively in his tiny claws and nibbles frantically, his dark eyes wide with apprehension. I worry about Squeaky. He isn't like one of those silky, pink-pawed, cutesy field mice with a perfect, twitching snout. No, he's a scrawny, battle-scarred, edgy city mouse who looks as if he's been chewed up and spat out by one too many cats. Danger waits for him at every turn. Relaxation is as alien a concept to Squeaky as it is to me. Perhaps that's why I have such an affinity with him. Both of us world-weary city-dwellers, scratching out a living. This is the only time I get to stop and think, when I'm watching this tiny mouse and his fight for survival in a harsh environment. I wonder where he sleeps. Not in a small comfy bed with a mouse-size duvet, as Jerry of
Tom and Jerry
would have us believe. I'm anxious about where Squeaky goes at night. Carl says I'm too soft, but he understands nevertheless.

Squeaky finishes his chocolate then disappears and I get on with my chores. There's a message on my phone to say that Joe and Nathan are at Mum's place, so if I get a scoot on, I'll still just about have time to see them before heading back to Evan's apartment. With trembling fingers, I call Alana at the
Fame Game
and tell her that I'm going to proceed to the next round all by myself. She sounds suitably delightedhaving manipulated me so skilfully, she should give herself a pat on the backand tells me that the next audition is the following Saturday. Yet another day to try to wangle off. I know that Carl will want me to practise every night, which will eat further into my rapidly dwindling time. It's going to have to be when I get back from the pub, as I currently don't have another spare minute to my name. I can't even bear the thought of failing at this now that he's put so much faith in me. I should also find time to pray to the god of pop stars to allow me to join their ranks.

Running round, I put some slap on and then the fab top that Carl bought me, together with my very smartest trousers. Hope this is an adequate outfit for a
Royal Variety Performance.
If it isn't, it's hard lines, because it's the only one I've got. I check myself out in the mirror. Once upon a time, I used to think that I looked young for my agein fact, people used to regularly comment on it. Not anymore though. My age is definitely catching up with me. Too many late nights and too many early mornings are starting to take their toll on me. Apparently, if you earn a salary of more than PS150,000 a year, it can add up to three years to the length of your life. Less than PS15,000 and you're looking at shortening your time on this mortal coil by a good two years. I'm afraid I definitely fall into the latter category. And I'm sure if you have to work at three jobs to even earn
that
measly amount of money then the sums are even worse.

I put on my coat, wishing I had a posh one, pick up my bag and set off at a brisk pace for Frodsham Court. The warmth embraces me as Mum opens the door.

'Hello, darlin',' she says, and gives me a hug.

We've always been a close family and it breaks my heart to think that Dad is somewhere doing who knows what, outside of our cosy circle. I open my mouth to speak.

'If you're going to say anything about your father, then don't,' Mum warns. 'He's got no one to blame for this but himself.'

'I wasn't going to say anything about Dad.' The coat gets shrugged off. I was, but I hadn't bargained on my mum's mind-reading skills. 'But now that you've mentioned him, I think I should. He's struggling without you, Mum. Really struggling.'

'Good,' she says. 'Cup of tea?'

I give up the fight, realising that I'm never likely to win. 'Yeah. A quick one. I haven't got much time.'

In the lounge, Joe and Nathan are already tucking into chocolate biscuits.

'Hey.' I go over and kiss them both and then slide onto the rather threadbare sofa next to Nathan. He's looking pale and drawn. Rather than devouring the biscuit as most boys of his age would, he's nibbling at it listlessly. Nathan doesn't eat well because of his asthma. I don't know if it's the drugs or what, but I've yet to see him wolf down a plate of food like most boys his age do. I stroke his fringe from his forehead. There are dark shadows under his eyes. When his chest is bad, his sleep is disturbed, too. Come to think of it, Joe looks exhausted as well. 'How's my favourite boy?'

'Okay,' he says, with an effort.

I look over at Joe, who gives me a resigned shrug. Same old, same old, I imagine. 'Tired, tetchy, but not completely downtrodden,' my big brother tells me.

For whatever reason, the doctors at the hospital are still struggling to get Nathan's asthma under control. And, for once, it isn't a failing of the NHSthe staff at the asthma clinic are brilliant with Nath and have tried everything at their disposal. My poor nephew seems doomed to huff and puff his way through life no matter how many drugs they pump into him.

'I've got a favour to ask of you, sis.'

Joe knows that I never deny him anything and, consequently, he doesn't ask me to do too much for him unless it's important. 'Ask away.'

'I've got the chance of some work next week,' he tells me. 'Nice job. Cash in hand.'

'Great.'

'But I need you to collect Nath from school and look after him until I get home.'

'You know that I've got a daytime job myself at the moment,' I remind him. 'Can't Mum do it?'

Mum sweeps into the lounge carrying a tray bearing the tea pot. 'I'm away.'

'Away?'

'I'm off to Brighton for a few days.'

'Brighton,' I say. 'Why Brighton? What's there to do in Brighton?'

'Lots of things,' Mum says as she pours our tea. 'The nightlife's wonderful.'

Joe and I exchange a glance.
Nightlife?
Why would she be interested in nightlife?

'Who are you going with? How long for?'

'Now, Little Miss Nosy.' My mum gives me a look. Normally she would be gushing to tell us about any organised break, not see it as an infringement of her liberties to have to share the details. 'I'm going on my own. And I'm going for a three-day break.'

My mum has never, ever taken herself off for a three-day break before.

'Oh,' she says. 'I've forgotten the milk.'

When she pops back to the kitchen, I turn to Joe and lower my voice. 'Do you think she's acting strangely?'

'First she kicks out her husband of forty-odd years and then she takes off on a mini-break by herself?' My brother purses his lips. 'Oh, no, I don't think she's acting strangely at all.'

My dad going to pot is bad enough, I couldn't cope if my mum did, too. What's happened to the backbone of this family? The one that previously saw us through all manner of adversity. I hate it now that we've moved onto this shaky, shifting ground.

'Have you seen the new Mr Patel at the newsagent's?' I ask Joe.

'He was here when we arrived,' Joe whispers.

'Here?'

'Having tea. He ate the last of Mum's homemade cakes.'

That to me is damning evidence enough. No one gets their hands on my mother's butterfly fancies without good reason.

'I think there's something funny going on,' I say.

'Where?' Mum asks as she comes back in with the milk.

Joe and I fidget guiltily.

'At work.' I hope that Nathan doesn't spill the beans. 'Ask me where I'm going tonight,' I say to change the subject.

Now I have Mum's attention.

'To the
Royal Variety Performance!
' I announce.

'I wondered why you were looking so spruce,' she says.

'What's that?' Nathan asks.

What exactly do you have to do to impress a five-year-old these days? 'It's a concert where the queen goes along to watch.'

'Oh,' Nathan says. 'Will you sit next to her?'

'Probably not.'

'Oh.' My nephew's interest wanes now that he knows I'm unlikely to be in the royal box hobnobbing with our sovereign, and his eyes drift back to the television.

'You can watch it tonight, Mum,' I say. 'I'll try to park myself in front of a camera and give you a wave.'

Mum fusses with her hair. 'I can't do that, love. Not tonight.'

Joe and I give her a questioning look.

'I'm going out,' she says and then makes it clear she's not going to be drawn further. This is not looking good. Where is my mum skulking off to that she can't tell us? I'd like to bet that Mr Patel has had his hands on more than her fancies. It's hard to imagine my mum as a wanton sex kittenshe's more into bedsocks than bondagebut there's no doubt that she's up to something. Dad would be frantic if he had any idea of what was going on in his own home. I don't want to be the one to break it to him.

'Set the video,' I say crisply.

'That was always your dad's job,' she admits, slightly cowed. 'I don't know how to work it.'

Well, I'm not going to offer to do it. If she prefers to go out gallivanting with her bit of stuff rather than stay in and see if her only daughter pops up on television, then let her suffer.

'So what about Nathan?' Joe interrupts my thoughts. 'I don't want to let this guy down. If I do a good job, maybe he'll give me some more work.'

I'm torn. How can I let Evan David slip to the bottom of my list again? Yet if I don't help Joe then he won't be able to take this job, and I know how desperate he is for the cash. Plus I love to spend time with Nathan. I've seen far too little of him during the last week.

'I'll be home in time for your shift at the King's Head,' he says. 'I swear. And I'll be for ever in your debt.'

I throw up my hands. 'Okay, sweet-talker. I'll ask if I can get away for a couple of hours,' I promise as another part of my brain tells me that I must be mad to agree to this. Will Evan David really understand why I'm having to skive off to collect my nephew? Do small children even exist in his world? 'I'll pick him up from school and take him home.' Home to that dismal, damp flat...

I realise that I've been so mixed up in worrying about everyone else that I've forgotten to tell them my other news. 'Hey,' I say, feeling a surge of excitement. 'I'm through to the next round on the
Fame Game.
They called to tell me today. One more hurdle and then I could be on the telly.'

Nathan cheers and throws his arms round me. 'You're very clever, Aunty Fern.'

'Cool,' Joe says. 'A rock chick for a sister. My street cred will go up no end. Carl must be pretty pleased with himself, too.'

And somehow, I can't find it in my heart to tell them that to do this, I've had to dump my dear Carl. I realise that Mum hasn't yet said anything. 'Mum?'

She is frowning. 'And when exactly are you going to find time to be a pop star, young lady?' she tuts.

And although I laugh, I wonder whether she might be right.

I
make it to Evan David's apartment by the skin of my teeththanks to delays on the Tube due to signalling failures. These are the things that trouble people in my world and I now know why Evan David travels everywhere by limousine.

He's pacing the floor when I arrive. He gives my outfit the once-over but doesn't say anything about it, and I'm not sure whether this is a good sign or a bad one. His face is impassive.

'You made it here,' is all he says.

'Yes.' I'm still breathless and all my rehearsed apologies blaming the Tube for my lateness go completely out of my head.

'Come on, Rupert!' he shouts and his agent appears at his side.

Without further ado, we collect the pile of bags and Evan's suit-holder and head for the door. Then I'm whisked into the aforementioned waiting limothe front one in a short convoy of twoand we're off to the London Pavilion Theatre where the
Royal Variety Performance
is being held this year. The Pavilion is the home of the British Opera Company and they're celebrating their centenaryone of the main reasons they're having Evan David headline the bill this year. As well as the fact that he's an international megastar, of course. Plus it's common knowledge that he's the queen's favourite tenor.

I don't know what to say to Evan on the journey, so say nothingbut I'm more than aware that we're alone together. The neo-classical facade of the theatre looms ahead of us and the limo swings soundlessly to a halt. We jump out at the stage door. I can't believe that this is the second time in a week that I'm arriving somewhere in a limo. Oh, how I could get used to this life! The pavement is lined with barriers, and crowds are screaming for Evan David. He gives them a cursory wave and one of his reluctant smiles. But all women like a man who plays hard to get, don't we? And, so, the women scream even louder. From the car behind, Izak, the man-mountain of a security manager, emerges and hustles us into the theatre. I scuttle behind Evan, clutching his bags. Rupert follows in our wake. Evan is greeted like royalty and then we're all shown through a maze of corridors to a door with a big star on it marked Mr David's Dressing Room. A security guard stands at the door; Izak ushers him away and takes over.

'Good to have you back here,' the theatre manager says.

'It's good to be back.' Evan clasps his hand and then turns to me. 'This is my assistant, Fern. I'd like her to watch the show from the wings.'

'That's fine, Mr David. Just let me know if there's anything else you require.'

How I wish people would speak to me like that. The manager doesn't even glance in my direction, I'm so below his radar. Evan sweeps into the dressing room with me in tow. I'd expected it to be more palatial, but it's clean, comfortable and functional. A chestnut-coloured leather sofa graces one wall. A small shower cubicle is slotted into the other side. It's a good job that Pavarotti isn't headlining, as he'd never fit into it. Hollywood-style lights surround a huge make-up mirror in front of which a make-up box waits patiently. There's a tiny television and a giant bouquet of lilies.

'Take those out,' Evan instructs me. 'The pollen affects my voice.'

I whip the lilies out quick-smart and find a place to put them in the corridor where no one will kick them over. By the time I open the door again, he's stripping off his clothes. His jacket and shirt have already gone and he's barefoot and undoing his belt. I freeze in the doorway. What am I supposed to do now?

'Come in, come in,' Evan barks. 'Close the damn door. I don't want the world to see me in my underwear.'

I'm not sure I want to see him in his underwear, either, at this particular moment in time. I slide into the room and close the door behind me. 'Sit down, sit down, for heaven's sake,' he says. 'We've got a while yet.'

He's getting very tetchy and I wonder whether this is usual before his performances. Is it at this time his famous short fuse will blow? I do as I'm told and sit down. If I could make myself invisible, I would.

'Hand me my trousers, Fern.'

I stand up again and take Evan's dinner suit out of the leather suit-holder and hand the trousers to him, which he slips on. At this distance I can't help but notice that he has a finely honed torso. Broad shoulders, toned pecs, bulging biceps. It's getting a bit hot in here. I wonder if Evan wants a window opened?

There's a knock at the door and I open it again. A pretty young woman bearing a workman's toolbox appears.

'Hi, Mr David.'

'Ah, Becks.' They exchange an air kiss.

'Becks does my make-up when I'm in Britain. We go back a long way,' he says to me over his shoulder. And I mentally add yet another minion to his ever-growing list. This guy probably employs more people than Marks & Spencer. 'This is my assistant, Fern. She's standing in until Erin can join me.'

Becks puts down her box of tricks and sets about her preparations. 'I heard that Erin was unwell.'

'She's got chicken pox.'

'Oh. Poor love.'

I don't know whether she means me for standing in or Erin with the chicken pox. 'Hi,' I say. We shake hands.

'Ready for some slap?' Becks asks Evan.

He sits down at the make-up mirror and she slips a white, wide-necked T-shirt over his head, then fusses with foundation and sponges which she pulls from her toolbox. I retreat to the sofa to watch the process of transformation.

Evan sits perfectly still with his eyes closed, hands in a relaxed steeple while Becks fusses and flirts with him. They're clearly comfortable in each other's company and she has a very soothing effect on him. I wish I could do the same. He makes me such a nervous wreck that I can't behave normally in his presence. She coos and cossets him while she takes her time turning him an alarming shade of orange.

'Switch the television on, Fern,' Evan tells me. 'The performance will be starting soon.' When Becks has finished, she air kisses him and takes her leave.

Evan comes to join me on the sofa. On the television, the crowds waiting on St Martin's Lane go wild as the royal Rolls-Royce pulls up outside the theatre. The queen and Prince Philip emerge, waving regally to their subjects. Our monarch is resplendent in white brocade and a glittering diamond tiara. They glide up the red carpet and into the theatre.

For the next hour we watch as the show unfolds, sitting in Evan's dressing room. It's a bit like watching it at home, except occasionally Evan will stand up, pace the room and run through a few scales or bars of his aria. Sharing the billing tonight are Michael Buble, Donny Osmond, Gwen Stefani, Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne, the Cirque du Soleil, Katie Melua and sketches from hit shows
The Producers
and
Billy Elliot The Musical.
I sit transfixed that this is all going on outside our dressing room door. You cannot believe how much I want to be a part of this world. My stomach flutters with anxiety. The next act is the winner of last year's
Fame Game
competitiona cheeky Irish chappy called Thadeus, who captured the nation's heart. His single, 'I Can't Do This Without You', is currently at number one in the charts. There's a cheer from the audience. My heart leaps in my chest. I can hardly dare think this, but play my cards right at the
Fame Game
audition and this could be me.

'Talentless shit,' Evan David sighs next to me. 'Look at him.'

Thadeus is dancing about on the stage, looking a bit demented I have to admit.

'Why does everyone think they can be a singer these days?'

My mouth drops open, but before I'm required to speak, Evan David continues, 'Do you know how long it took me to train as an opera singer?'

I shake my head, but it's clear that my input really isn't required.

'Eight years. Eight
long
years. Working my way up, being paid a pittance. Giving up all of my social life, sacrificing relationships to learn roles. Spending everything I ever earned on vocal coaching to learn my craft and improve my technique. The voice of a tenor is not born, it has to be moulded, sculpted, built into a great instrument. It takes hours and hours of endless work, refining, honing, to make it as perfect as humanly possible. I have studied and practised and
lived
the roles that suit my voice, making them mine. This is why I bring La Scala to a standing ovation. Do you know the things I've given up to be where I am today?' He sneers at Thadeus on the screen. 'And now they want to make it overnight. The women do nothing but flaunt themselves half-naked. The men think they can make up with hair gel what they lack in talent. What does it matter if they can't hit the right notes? They'll edit that out in the studio.' Evan David points a finger at the screen. 'He can't even sing live.'

Now that I look closely I can see that Thadeus is, as accused, miming to the music. His lips are going up and down not quite in time with the words on his backing track. I feel embarrassed for him. He fought so hard to get through to the end of the
Fame Game,
supposedly singing live every week to avoid being thrown off the show, and now he can't cut the mustard without faking it. I sink lower into the sofa. No wonder Evan David feels free to ridicule him.

'I don't blame the kids,' he says. 'It's these bloody facile talent shows. They give everyone the impression that they only have to wiggle their butts to be famous. No one wants to put in the hard work anymore. No one wants to bleed for it.'

I want to tell him that queuing up in the rain with thousands of other hopefuls just to get your one minute chance of fame isn't a barrel of laughs and that for people like me it might be the only opening we'll ever get. But then, I guess that isn't quite the same as eight years of relentless struggle when you're clearly gifted.

He looks at Thadeus again. 'Next year, no one will remember his name.'

It makes me want to cringe. And I try very hard to dredge out the name of the guy who won on the series before Thadeus, but I can't. His name has gone for ever. A one-hit wonder who's headed straight back to Oblivion City and a lifetime of, 'Didn't you used to be...?' I think of Carl struggling to make ends meet doing sets at the King's Head and dodging the traffic on a scooter to deliver pizza. That's real life. That's
my
life. Is the pursuit of this stupid dream the reason why I've sold my most important friendship down the river?

Thankfully, before I can dwell on this further, there's a knock on the door. 'Fifteen minutes to go, Mr David.'

He stands up and stretches. 'I'd better get dressed now, Fern.'

Evan slips off the white T-shirt and I go to get his wing-collared dress shirt. He's bare-chested again and I can feel myself gulp as I slip the soft material over his shoulders. He buttons it briskly and, with fingers that are more trembly than I'd like, I help him to fasten his cufflinks. I hand over his bow tie. Evan swivels it expertly until he produces a perfect knot and then I hold open his jacket for him while he shrugs it on.

'How do I look?'

Reaching up, I smooth down the shoulders of his jacket and check that the collar of his shirt is sitting properly. I give the bow tie a minuscule tweak to make sure it's absolutely perfectly in place. There are pin-tucks on the front of his shirt and, before I realise what I'm doing, I run my fingers over them so that they're all lying straight. I can feel the heat of Evan's body through the fabric and my hands stop abruptly in their journey, coming to rest on his chest.

'Please continue.' Evan gazes down at me. 'I was quite enjoying it.'

'I'm sorry,' I say. 'I was getting a bit carried away. Over-doing my duties. You look fine as you are. Wonderful.'

His dark eyes twinkle and I can tell why he's a pin-up on a million office walls across the globe. 'Thank you.'

'I hope it goes well tonight.'

'I'm sure it will.'

I know that Evan David has performed a million times before, but my hands are clammy with nerves for him. I feel exactly like I do when I have to take Nathan to the asthma clinic. I wish it was me that had to go through it, not him.

He tugs his shirt cuffs into place. 'We never did discuss whether that was you singing before you had to dash off.'

'Yes,' I confess. 'It was me.'

'Do you have aspirations to become a singer?'

I can feel myself burning up. After what he's just said about Thadeus, I'd be mad to admit to anything. He raises a questioning eyebrow at me.

'What? Like the sad muppets on the
Fame Game?
' My laugh is too loud and too shrill. 'No. No way. I save my singing for the shower. And maybe the odd family wedding if I've had enough to drink.'

'You have a good voice,' Evan says. 'It shows promise. We were harmonising perfectly.'

And now I know that he's spinning me a line. Oh, yes, me and Evan David in perfect harmony. Before I'm subjected to further humiliation, there's another knock. 'We're ready for you, Mr David.'

Evan David takes my hand and puts my fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. 'Wish me luck,' he murmurs.

And I would if I could only find my voice.