Welcome to the Real World (4 page)

M
y dad is lying on my sofa in his underpants and vest, which is a sight I don't want to see at the best of times, let alone at seven o'clock in the morning. I head straight for the kitchen. We both look the worse for wear. Dad because he's been drinkingdouble whiskies on Carl's accountand me because, at my age, four hours of beauty sleep is nowhere near enough.

My dear friend Carl isn't coming round this morning because he doesn't realise there
is
any time before ten in the morning. He is blissfully unaware that life occurs before thenas, usually, am I. So no tasty bagels or treats today. There's no milk in the fridgeor food, come to think of itso I'm going to have to go to work on black coffee and the inhaled vapours of onion bhajis from the restaurant below.

Braving the vision of my father's underwear, I stick my head round the door to the lounge. On the sofa, Dad stirs. He does cartoon rubbing his eyes and overexaggerated stretching. This is my father pretending that my couch is every bit as comfortable as his marital bed. But I'm not fooled. I have, in the past, spent an uncomfortable night or two on that sofa and, believe me, there are springs where you do not require springs to be.

'Make a cup of tea for your old dad, sweetheart,' he pleads.

This 'old dad' act is going to wear off very rapidly, too. My patience is already hanging by a thread.

'We've no milk,' I say, at which he frowns. The thread frays a bit more and I sound defensive when I explain, 'I wasn't expecting company.'

'I'll get some things in for you later,' he promises.

'Later,' I tell him, 'you're going to go home and beg Mum to take you back. She always does.' Although I skirt round the fact that she's never physically and forcibly evicted him from their home before now. 'You might just have to work a bit harder at it this time.'

Dad grunts.

'Are you going to tell me exactly what you've been up to?' I'm not sure I buy this story about playing cards at Mickey's. Mum has had to put up with that for years and has never cracked in this way.

He folds his arms across his chest, indignantly. 'Nothing more to tell. Swear to God, I haven't done a thing. I'm just the same as I've always been.'

That's just cause for divorce on the grounds of emotional cruelty
and
unreasonable behaviour.

I turn to go into the kitchen and Dad follows me, sheet wrapped round his waistwhich does nothing to disguise the fact that he's slept in his socks. I shake my head. No wonder Mum has had enough of him. One night with my dad and already I feel like stabbing him.

'Bloody hell,' Dad shrieks as he comes into the kitchen. 'There's a mouse in here.'

'Calm down,' I say. 'It's Squeaky.'

'It's vermin!'

'Don't be rude. He's family.'

'I'm not sharing a flat with a bloody mouse.'

'Fine. Get your complaining backside home then.'

Squeaky comes out to say hello.

'Do you know that mice can't control their bladders? They leave a constant trail of wee everywhere they go.'

'A bit like ageing parents, then.'

'You are just like your mother,' my dad tells me crisply. 'As a family we have saved a fortune on encyclopaedias over the years because you both know everything there is to know about anything.'

'I'm going to be late for work,' I say. 'Make your own tea.'

'What time will you be back?'

'I don't know. I might have to go straight from this job to the King's Head again. It depends how my high-flying day unfolds.' I get a buzz when I think that this might well be a real, exciting opportunity for me. 'What time are you working?'

Dad looks rueful. 'I might not go in today. Feeling a bit under the weather. Stress,' he says. 'And the back's feeling a bit dodgy.'

I refrain from telling my father that everything about him is dodgy.

He rubs at his back, wincing theatrically. 'I'll probably catch up with you at the King's later.'

I snatch up my bag and coat, heading for the front door. 'If you've got any sense' which is always doubtful with Derek Kendal 'you'll be taking Mum out tonight to make up for whatever it is you haven't done.'

And with that relaxing little exchange, I launch myself into my day, wishing that I had the energy to sashay down the street like someone in a hairspray advert.

O
n the Tube, I sing along to Maroon 5 on my iPod all the way to work, which I know is deeply irritating to other passengers and that makes me feel so much better. As I trundle past the usual busking pitch that Carl and I nab, I see there's a saxophonist there and wonder if he's making more money than we usually do. His open case contains a pile of scattered change, and I try to do a rough calculation.

Bizarrely, I quite like playing in the Underground. The acoustics are good, and it gives us a chance to practise while earning a bit of spare change. We also throw in one or two of our own songs because we're less likely to be lynched than we are in the King's Head. There are legal pitches now controlled by London Underground, but we choose to tread the well-worn path of starving artists and still do it on the fly.

Eventually, I get off the Tube and skip over to the Docklands Light Railway at Bank, whizzing out to Canary Wharf hemmed in by City boys and girls in their sharp suits and even sharper shoes, arriving just before eight. Announcing myself at Evan David's apartment, I'm buzzed in and then I realise that I meant to make more effort with my appearance and, in my haste to depart, forgot.

'Hi,' the guy opening the door says. 'I'm Dermuid, the chef.'

'Chef?'

'
Il Divo
has to eat.'

'Of course. I'm Fern.' I shake his hand. 'I'm his...I'm not sure what I am. His assistant? I only started yesterday.'

'And you've come back for more? That's brave.'

I slip off my coat and then have no idea where to put it that won't make the place look messy, so I hide it behind the desk. This joint still makes me want to gape. There are no curtains to obscure the view, and the morning sun floods the room. I wonder how on earth anyone can earn enough money to afford somewhere like this. A lifetime of busking in the Underground wouldn't even pay for one of the rooms. There's nothing on the desk that looks like it's meant for my attention, sonot really knowing what else to doI follow Dermuid to the kitchen, which is, of course, a state-of-the-art stainless-steel affair replete with the very latest in gadgetry.

The front door bursts open again and this time it's the man himself, Evan David. He's looking hunky, if a little sweaty, in shorts and a muscle top. And I notice that he has a good pair of legs; a healthy flush stains my cheeks even though I appear to be the only one who hasn't been exercising. Behind him is an equally handsome manwithout a bead of sweat on his shaved headwho looks like he's just come straight from running a boot camp.

'Hi. Felicity,' Evan says.

I try a smile. 'Fern.'

'Fern.' He shrugs an apology. 'Good morning. This is Jacob, my personal trainer.'

A huge man-mountain of a black guy follows them both in. He looks like one of the baddies in a James Bond film. He's wearing dark shades in a menacing way and is clutching a walkie-talkie. The mountain, too, hasn't broken sweat.

'And this is Izak,' Evan tells me. 'My security manager.'

Chef? Personal trainer? Security manager? Agent? Voice coach? Massage therapist? Whatever I am? How many people does this man need to help him through his day? Does he float through life on a raft of minions?

No wonder I can't get out of my rut. Carl is the only person who supports me. Other than that I have a layer of people crushing me from above and keeping me down. No, that's unfair. I shouldn't feel like that about either my brother or my lovely nephew, Nathan. They haven't orchestrated their current situation on purpose. Thinking of them reminds me that I must call in to see them as soon as I canotherwise they'll think that I've been abducted, as rarely a day goes by without me popping in on them.

'Have you had breakfast?'

I realise that Mr David is speaking to me. 'Er...' Does aroma of Indian food count? 'No,' I confess. Frankly, I'm too hungry to pretend otherwise.

'Get Chef to rustle you something up.' He glances back at the personal trainer. 'Join us, Jacob?'

Jacob holds up a hand. 'I have to fly. I have an eight-thirty at Lloyd's.' And then he takes up his holdall and flies.

'I'll shower and be with you in five, Chef.'

Chef nods his acquiescence, then turns to me. 'Your order, madam?'

I shrug. 'What's he having?'

'Fresh fruit. Egg-white omelette. Mango and blueberry smoothie and this shite.' Dermuid holds up a glass of green gloop.

'Yuch.'

'It's supposed to be equivalent to eating five portions of raw vegetables.'

'Nice.'

'He doesn't eat meat or dairy products or carbs.'

'Doesn't that leave fresh air?'

Dermuid grins. 'Or anything out of a packet.'

Trying not to think about how many times Pot Noodles feature in my diet, I reach for the kettle. 'Caffeine?'

'Definitely off the menu.'

'Why doesn't that surprise me?'

'These are all the vitamins he takes every day.'

There is an array of pills and potions set out on the counter like a window display in a pharmacy. 'He must rattle.'

'Complete hypochondriac,' Dermuid says. 'Don't sneeze anywhere near him or you'll be out on your ear in five minutes.'

'Why's he so neurotic?'

'His voice.' Dermuid goes about the business of separating the tasty part of the eggs from the whites. 'He thinks that a lot of these things encourage mucus production.'

'That is too much information.'

'I guess if your voice was your fortune, you'd look after it, too.'

I'm so not tempted to tell him about my smoke-filled nights in the King's Head belting out popular hit tunes. I look at the slimy egg whites. Perhaps I should start taking my health more seriously for when Simon Cowell comes knocking on my door.

'Evan David is a lean, mean singing machine,' Dermuid tells me. 'He runs, meditates, practices martial arts and works out.'

'You're making me hungry just thinking about it.' To confirm it my stomach groans. 'So what am I allowed?'

'Bacon sarnie?'

A bacon sandwich sounds quite appealing. 'Now you're talking.' I sit down on the stool next to him.

'Better eat it quick before he comes in though.'

'I'll bolt it,' I promise. 'I don't care if it gives me indigestion. Just so long as I don't have to drink any of that stuff.' I eye the green gloop warily.

'It's good for you.'

'I'll take your word for it.'

As Dermuid flings two rashers of bacon in the pan with a flourish, I ask, 'How long have you worked for the great Evan David? Is this a temporary gig for you, too?'

Chef shakes his head. 'I'm on the permanent payroll and have been for two years,' he tells me as he continues to prepare Evan David's healthy feast. 'I travel with him when he's on tour. Which is always. He never stays in hotels. Hates them. Too many nasties. We always hire a place like this. Palatial, minimalist and Erin has it practically fumigated before he arrives. I trail all my own stuff with me in three great trunks.'

'He doesn't believe in travelling light then?'

'The only thing he believes in is getting exactly what he wants exactly when he wants it.' The wonderful smell of bacon fills the kitchen. 'He's a great bloke, really. Underneath it all,' he adds darkly.

'What do you mean?'

'He likes to shout,' Dermuid expands. 'Except on the days when he's performing, and then he might not speak at all.'

'Must make it fun for his wife.'

'He isn't married. I don't think that anyone would have him. His relationships always seem to be troubled. Evan reckons that the three worst karmas you can have are to be beautiful, successful and wealthy. He says they play havoc with your personal life.'

'Yeah?' I try not to laugh. 'This is from a man who's never tried poverty, crap jobs and doesn't exactly look like the back end of a bus.'

Dermuid looks slighted. 'I didn't say I bought into it.' He slaps my bacon sarnie onto a white, Japanese-style plate and decorates it with flat-leafed parsley and some sort of cherry tomato salsa.

It's difficult to stop myself from slavering, and I remember that last night's dinner was a packet of cheese and onion crisps. 'I don't suppose there's any ketchup anywhere?'

'No, there certainly isn't!' Evan David's voice booms out behind me.

I have no idea how to disguise the fact that I have a bacon sarnie in front of me and resort to flushing guiltily.

'So,' he says, rubbing a towel over his damp hair, 'I can't persuade you to join me in my healthy living plan while you're here?'

'Er...'

'Don't mind me,' Mr David says. 'Tuck into it. Enjoy.'

I smile weakly and lift the wonderful-smelling concoction to my lips. 'Even though it will shorten your life by five years,' he adds.

He sits down opposite me and studies me, which tends to reduce the enjoyment of my cholesterol overload. The jogging gear has been replaced by casual black linen, but the perpetual frown that he wears is still in place.

I'd say that Evan David was about forty-four or forty-five years old. There are a few crinkle lines around his eyeswhich he can't have got from smilingand a fine weave of grey in his dark hair. He raises an eyebrow at me and I realise that I've been studying him, tooand he knows it.

Dermuid hands him his breakfast, which does looks sickeningly healthy compared to mine. 'So, Fern,' he says after he swigs down his gloop. 'You're an opera buff.'

'Er...Well...I...' We exchange a glance and I can't help but laugh. 'Did I really say that?'

'You did.'

'Then I'm a liar,' I say. 'I've never been to an opera in my life. I'd probably be hard pushed to even name one. The only time I've ever seen you is in the
Royal Variety Performance
or interviewed on
Parkinson.
'

'Then you have a lot to learn,' Evan David tells me crisply. He finishes his breakfast and dabs at his mouth with a linen napkin. 'You might as well start today. I have a Sitzprobe rehearsal.'

I try to put an intelligent look on my face.

'A run-through with the full orchestra,' he explains. My intelligent look has clearly translated as completely blank. 'Come with me.' He glances at his watch. 'Get the laptop. We'll do some work in the breaks.'

'Right,' I say, jumping up.
'Right.'

'You have bacon grease on your chin,' Evan David tells me. He points at the place with a slight grimace.

'Oh.' I rub frantically at it. 'Sorry. Sorry.'

He laughs and walks out of the room.

'Bloody hell,' Dermuid says, staring after him in astonishment.

'What?'

'Someone must have slipped him some happy pills,' he says as he clears away the plates. 'I've never ever seen him laugh at breakfast.'