Welcome to the Real World (3 page)

W
ell, you've really done it this time, Fern!
I slump back into the huge cream leather chair and close my eyes. I have spent the last hour or more telling ten disgruntled and very well-dressed wannabe personal assistants that the role has already been filled. I didn't dare to mention that it had been filled by me, as most of them looked at me as if I was a bit of doggy doo. And
all
of them looked as if they would have been a darn sight better at the job than I'm destined to be.

I can feel my lip wobbling. I want tea and I want chocolate. Both in large quantities. I want Carl to talk to me and tell me that I actually have a hope in hell of doing this damn job. My skills will certainly have to involve better clothing. I wish I'd put a suit on. I wish I
had
a suit to put on. There have been very few occasions in my life that have called for suit-wearing, and I realise that my existence has been very casual up to now. I wonder if I'll get a clothing allowance? In fact, I wonder what my pay is and what hours I'll be expected to work and what I'll have to do while I'm doing it.

After my interviewsuch as it wasthe great Evan David and the other weird-looking guy with the big hair had simply grinned at me and left. They're now closeted in the next room with the door firmly shut. I've taken two dozen telephone messages from people who all insist the matter is of
utmost
urgencynot just normal urgencybut I haven't dared to disturb them.

Glancing around me, I try to gather my scattered wits. This place is amazing. It's like something you see in...in...well, I've never seen anything like it before. It's certainly a far cry from my own mouse-infested hovel (apologies to Squeaky). My entire flat would fit into this one room and still have space left over for a football pitch.

I can hear a few soaring notes drifting from the other room. Did I really say to the great Evan David that I'd seen him on the telly? Yes, I believe I did. I want to bang my head on the desk. What a lamebrain. I try to think what my duties might involve. There's nothing on the desk except a phone, a diary, a notebook and a laptop, so I guess that should give me a clue. My eyes are drawn to the direction of the singing. He sounds as if he's only warming up, but his voice is amazing. And I have to say that in the flesh, so to speak, Evan David is a lot more attractive than he looks on the television. I've never really taken much notice of him before, but that's mainly because I turn off opera the minute it comes on. I'm beginning to wish I'd paid more attention to it now. I'm an artist, too, I should cultivate a broader view of world music, not just diss opera as stuff for posh gits.

The apartment buzzer sounds and I go over to answer it.

'It's Anton,' the disembodied voice says.

Anton is Mr David's voice coach. I learned that much from the diary, so I let him in. While he's coming up in the lift, I knock on the closed door. Evan David opens it.

'Your voice coach is here.'

'Thank you,' he says. 'I'll be out in a few minutes.'

When he arrives, Anton turns out to be slight with shoulder-length curly hair, and he wears a red velvet scarf.

Evan David breezes out a moment later and they hug each other warmly, batting French greetings between them. Anton takes off his scarf and goes over to the piano, which is at the other side of the room, set in a bay by one of the huge windows and angled to catch the best light, I would guess.

Mr David strides towards me and my knees set up an involuntary knocking. He brings me a list, which he slaps down on the desk. 'Journalists,' he says. 'Can you fix up interviews for the end of the week? And send a bouquet to my permanent assistant, Erin. She has chicken pox.'

I nod.

He tries a smile, which doesn't seem to come easy. 'Settling in?'

I nod again.

'You might have taken your coat off.'

'I feel rather underdressed,' I explain.

'You're fine.'

Everything he's wearing probably came from Armani or Versace or somewhere like that. What he paid for his watch would probably feed my entire family for five years. He has dark, cropped hair and deep grey eyes. His features are sharp and stern.

'I have an appointment tonight.' I'm not about to tell him that I work in a pub. 'Is it okay if I leave soon?'

'Yes,' he says.

'What time do you want me in the morning?'

Mr David shrugs. 'Not early. Eight o'clock.'

'Eight o'clock.' That will give me nearly five hours' sleep. Fab. 'Fine. Fine.'

He leaves me and goes over to the piano. There's such a presence to him that when he moves away, he leaves a vacuum in his wake. That's my excuse for being a quivering wreck, anyway.

Anton already has some music set up on the stand. Without preamble, he starts to play and Evan launches into the most beautiful song I've ever heard. All the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and the power of his voice almost takes my breath away. If I had any idea what this song might be then I'd tell you, but I haven't a clue. I try to drag my brain back to the list of journalists and the appointments that I'm supposed to be making, but it's impossible. Evan David's voice commands attention. All my senses have sharpened. My ears are pinned back, my scalp is tingling and even my nipples are standing to attention. I feel as if I've been slammed back into my seat and paralysed by pleasure.

And I have to go. I have to tear myself away from this onslaught of sensation. I have to pick up my handbag and make my feet walk out in the middle of this to leave and pull pints and do my measly set with scraggy Carl at the King's Head. And I can't imagine that my audience will be quite so enraptured.

I
sit reeling on the Tube, still humming that song to myselfwhich is enough to create a large space around you in London. All things considered, it has been quite a successful afternoon. And then, in my blissed-out haze, I make the mistake of calling into my parents' flat on the way to the pub for five minutes to tell them about my great new job.

When I open the door, they're in the middle of World War Three. In the kitchen, my mum is flicking Dad on the head with the tea towel in a vicious manner. Not an easy feat as she is a good deal shorter than him, even in heels. Two bulging suitcases stand in the hall.

'Hey. Hey!' I call out. 'What's happening here?'

Mum snaps the tea towel at Dad again. She looks as if she's about to start foaming at the mouth. 'Your father's leaving me.'

'What? Leaving? What for?'

'I'm not leaving,' my dad insists, sheltering from the blows under the umbrella of his hands. 'Your mother's throwing me out.'

I turn to Mum. 'Throwing him out?'

'I've had it,' she snaps, both verbally and with her dish drying weapon.

'I've had it with the years of drinking, gambling and womanising.'

My eyes pop out on stalks. Drinking and gambling, yes. But womanising? This is news to me. I know that my old man likes to look, but I don't think he's ever touched.

'He's a no-good, fit-for-nothing old git,' my mum elucidates.

'But he's been like that for the thirty-odd years that I've been around,' I remind my mother. 'Why are you throwing him out now?'

'I want to be my own person.' Oh, no. My mother had been taking advice from
Richard & Judy
again.

'Think about this,' I say, trying to introduce a note of calm into the storm. 'You've been married for forty-odd years. You wouldn't survive without each other.'

'I'd like to give it a try,' Mum mutters darkly.

'You'll laugh about this in the morning.'

'The only reason I'll be laughing in the morning is if I turn over and find
he's
not here.' She jabs a finger in Dad's chest, and he puts on a mortally wounded face.

'Fern's right,' Dad says. 'You'd be lost without me.'

'Ha!' Mum trills. 'I've had to manage this family all of my life. Exactly what couldn't I do without you?'

Dad pauses. For way, way too long. We all do. There is a look of triumph on my mum's face.

'I came to tell you that I've got a great new job,' I say.

'Wonderful.' My mother heads towards the cases. Dad and I exchange a glance.

'Amy, don't,' he begs. 'You know you don't mean it.'

Mum has the cases in her hands. They're well past their best, stickers for Spain, Portugal and Ibiza all tattered and torn.

'I'll change,' Dad tries.

Even I've heard this speech too many times before to be convinced.

'Amy, please.' Dad looks stricken.

Mum's heart must have turned to stone since, as small as she is, she heaves the cases to the door and throws them out into the concrete corridor that overlooks the rest of the flats. 'Get out,' she says.

Now
I'm
panicking. 'Where's he going to go?'

'Back to that whooore!'

'What whooore? Whore.'

Dad shakes his head. 'There's no whore, Amy. There never has been.'

My five-foot, two-inch mother manhandles my six-foot father out of the hall and after his bags.

'I want to stay and sort this out,' I say. 'But I'm going to be late for work.'

Mum folds her arms across her chest. 'As far as I'm concerned, it's sorted out.'

'I'm coming round tomorrow.' Then I wonder how, when my days as well as my nights are now no longer my own.

I follow Dad out of the door and Mum slams it behind me. Dad is leaning on the brick balcony, puffing furiously on a cigarette.

'It's bad for you,' I tell him.

'That woman will be the death of me first,' he retorts.

'Would you like to tell me what this is all about?'

'I didn't come home last night,' he admits.

I give him an Oh-Dad look.

'But I wasn't with another woman. I definitely wasn't with another woman.'

'So where were you?'

'Playing cards at Mickey's. I was on a winning streak,' he says. 'How could I walk out?'

'It looks like your winning streak has ended. I suggest you get in there and tell Mum the truth.'

'How can I? She'd only throw me out for that, too. I'd promised her that I wouldn't play poker anymore. Best to give her some time to cool off.'

'Well,' I say, eyeing my dad's baggage, 'what now?'

'I'll be no trouble.' Dad picks up his cases.

So my dad is moving in with me. Fantastic.

'I wouldn't dream of you giving up your bed for your poor old dad,' he says magnanimously. 'I'll have the sofa.'

I take one of the cases from him and sigh. 'Too right you will.'

I
rush into the King's Head, stripping my coat off as I go. Ken the Landlord gives me a glare. In response, I flick my thumb at Dad, trailing in my wake. 'Family crisis.'

'Again?'

'She's never actually thrown him out before.'

With a glance, Ken takes in my dad's cases. 'Brilliant.' My boss rubs his hands together. 'My profits always go up when your old man's around.'

Yeah. And the meagre amount in my bank account always goes down.

Carl is in his usual place, propping up the bar and my dad goes and sits down next to him. 'Hello, son,' Dad says, clapping him on the back.

'Mr Kendal. Man,' Carl responds, giving him a peace sign.

'Let me buy you a drink,' Dad says, full of bonhomie.

'It's cool.' Carl shakes his head. 'My round, Mr Kendal.'

'Don't mind if I do,' Dad says. 'And it's Derek to you, young man. A double whiskey,' he shouts to Ken.

'Make it a single,' I instruct as I get myself together behind the bar. 'You can have a double when you pay for it yourself.'

'I'm not sure I like the implication implicit in that statement,' Dad says haughtily.

'Tough.' I reach for a glass. 'If you're going to be my house guest, you play by my rules.'

'I have no need to question whose daughter you are,' my father mutters.

So while I catch my breath, let me fill you in on the details about my parents. Derek and Amy Kendal have been married, mostly unhappily, for about forty years. My mum has worked full-time in the same newsagent's shop at the end of their street for the last thirty of them. The benefit of this when Joe and I were kids was that we occasionallyif we'd been better behaved than the angels above uswere slipped free sweets. My dad is a cabbie on the verge of retirement. And I'd hate to be a fare in Dad's taxi, as he's one of these cabbies who'd natter your ears off, giving his opinion on everything from the state of world politics, global warming, the Royal family,
Celebrity Big Brother
and the size of Jordan's chest. My parents have lived in the same flat on the same council estate just behind Euston station for all of their married life, in the days when it used to be a good, old-fashioned London community and not the graffitied, drug den that it now is. The flat is clean, cramped and everything in it looks slightly threadbareand that includes my mother.

Amy Kendal is a woman who is best described as careworn. She has been the rock of our family throughout our lives, and she does more than her fair share of caring for her grandson, Nathan, too. Derek 'Del' Kendal, on the other hand, hasn't a care in the world. My father is undoubtedly adorable. He's the sort of bloke who's the life and soul of the party and also the sort of bloke who makes you want to kill him after an hour in his company. He lives on Planet Derekpopulation: one. It's governed by a benign dictatorship, and there's no room for anyone else on it. He drinks too much, talks too much and gambles or gives most of his money away. And he does have an eye for the ladies, but that's all there is to it. There were times when he used to stay out all night and my mum would be hollow-eyed and worried sick in the kitchen in the morning when he'd come waltzing in singing at the top of his voice. The tea towel would see some action once again, and he'd retire to bed to sleep it off, repentant. But I'm sure that his dalliances with the opposite sex have never been anything more than platonic, no matter what Mum's current opinion is.

I'm not really surprised that her patience with him has worn out, I'm just surprised that it has taken so long. You tend to take certain things for granted, and if your parents have lasted together for forty-odd years, then you can't really envisage anything upsetting the status quo.

It just goes to show how wrong you can be.

'Now sit there and try to behave,' I instruct my dad.

'Will do,' he says meekly as he concentrates on his whiskey, and I know from past experience that his penitence won't last.

'How did the job interview go?' Carl asks in the gap between my thoughts.

'Great,' I say. 'I started this afternoon. And don't say groovy.'

Carl closes his mouth again. 'So who's the opera guy? Some bald, bearded salad-dodger?'

'Quite the opposite. It's Evan David. Handsome and with a full head of hair. Far from being overweight, he's as fit as a butcher's dog, as my old Nan used to say. Not an excess calorie in sight.' I turn my head so that Dad can't hear me and whisper, 'Very shaggable.'

Carl looks distinctly put out. Perhaps he thinks that my mind doesn't turn to such base thoughts these days. And, quite frankly, it doesn't. Not that often. My sex life involves infrequent intimacy with a piece of 'soft-feel' plastic. Which I must remember to hide before my dad moves in.

'So what does this job involve?' Carl goes on.

'Not much,' I say. 'Answering the phone, that sort of thing. Should be a piece of cake.' How can I confess to him that I'm frozen with fear at the very thought of it?

'I'll let you have my bill for commission,' Carl says.

I lean over the bar and kiss him. 'Thanks for fixing me up with this.' And I really do mean that.

'Don't let me down,' Carl warns me, 'or my sister will kill me.'

'I won't. It seems I just have to sit there and make appointments and let people into the apartment.'

'Like who?'

'His voice coach...'

Carl raises an eyebrow approvingly.

'And he has a beauty therapist.'

This generates a horrified frown. 'A what?'

'A beauty therapist. He has massages and facials.'

My friend is stunned. 'Men have facials?'

'Yes.' I laugh at him. 'This isn't the Dark Ages, my dear Carlos. Some men care about how they look.'

He's unconvinced.

'Some men even believe they can change their socks more than once a month.'

Now Carl looks very sceptical. 'No way.'

But I can tell you that he's joking. Carl might want to give the impression that he and water have a very on-off relationship and his sole attempt at style seems to be to make Bob Geldof look like a vain dandy; however, he isdespite his outwardly scruffy appearanceone of the most fastidious people I know. I don't think he even enjoys smoking, he just does it to be antiestablishment.

Carl stubs out his cigarette and downs his drink. 'Nearly time for our set.'

A lump comes to my throat and tears prickle my eyes. 'Evan David lives in a very different world from ours, Carl.'

Looking across at the tatty stage and our equally ragged audience, I realise that more than ever, I want a piece of it for myself.