Welcome to the Real World (5 page)

D
erek Kendal put the key in the lock and gingerly eased open his own front door. 'Hello, darlin',' he shouted tentatively.

The saucepan hit the wood frame and bounced at his feet. Derek flinched. He raised his voice slightly. 'It's only me.'

One of Amy's best teacups followed the same trajectory as the saucepan. As Derek ducked behind the door, there was an unhealthy thunk, and shards of china showered the hall carpet. He was stunned. It was years since his wife had last thrown crockery at him.

Derek put his arm up to protect himself. He didn't really want to be here at all. Amy clearly needed a few more days to calm down, but there'd be hell to pay if he had to tell Fern that he hadn't been home and tried to put things right today. It was hard to tell who he was most afraid ofhis wife or his daughter. Derek shook his head. He'd spent his entire life surrounded by stroppy women who bossed him around. No wonder he needed to take a strong drink every now and again. Steeling himself, he risked another peep into his home. 'I just want to talk.'

'That's all you ever want to do,' Amy spat in return. 'What I want to see now is some action, Del. That's what speaks louder than words.'

Amy's action was to hurl another cup at him, which Derek barely managed to dodge. If only the England cricket team had such a good fast bowler, he thought, then they might not be in the trouble they were.

She was standing in the kitchen, arms folded, another domestic missile clutched in her in hand, all five feet of her looking as ferocious as Queen Boadicea. His heart squeezed at the sight of his red-faced, tight-lipped wife. She'd been a good woman over the years, and even he had to admit that he'd been a less-than-perfect husband. His indiscretions, to his mind, had all been small scaletoo many hours spent in the pub, too many pounds spent on useless gee-gees, too many meaningless flirtations that required him to stay out all night.

They'd had their difficulties over the years. In fact, most of their marriage had been conducted in some sort of adversity. So why had she decided to throw him out now? If anything, he'd mellowed over the last few years, or at least, not got any worse. So why now? Why on earth now? What had been the straw that broke the camel's back? He'd better not ask Amy thatshe wouldn't like being compared to a camel. She'd been through the menopause, he was sure. She was long finished with all that HRT stuff, so it couldn't be blamed on that.

They'd celebrated their fortieth anniversary last yearin style, with two weeks in Marbella. Had a great time. Barely an argument. Shouldn't they now be looking forward to growing old together? He was due to retire in a couple of years. Then they could have some fundays out and the like. Take Nathan, too. Brighton was always niceshe'd like that. And what would happen after that, when they were too ancient to go trotting round the country on picnics, if they were to split up? Who'd look after him in his old age if it wasn't Amy?

Neighbours were starting to gather on the landing. Derek waved at them, genially. Bloody nosy parkers. Mrs Leeson was always the first out for an eyeful if there was any sort of conflagration going on. Her cigarette quivered with excitement on her lip and she leaned towards him. Derek shuffled farther inside the door.

'Can't I come in, love?' he pleaded. 'People are starting to look.'

'Let them look.'

'What is it I'm supposed to have done?'

'If you don't know that, then it's pointless us having this conversation.'

He banged his head on the door frame. 'Let me in. I'll make it up to you, I swear. Whatever you want me to do, I'll do it.'

'Clear off, then,' Amy said. 'And stop bothering me.'

'I'm your husband.'

'Pah!'

'We've had forty years together, Amy. Forty good years. Doesn't that count for anything?'

'They might have been good for you, but who said they were good for me?'

'Think of the kids,' Derek begged. 'You don't want them to come from a broken home.'

'They're all grown-up,' she said. 'They don't need us. I've given the best years of my life to you and those children. Now it is time to do something for me.'

'What?' Derek said. 'What can you do by yourself that you can't do with me?'

Amy refused to be drawn on that one.

'Come on, darlin',' he wheedled. 'What's the point of splitting up now? We've got a nice home.' Admittedly still owned by the council. 'Neither of us are getting any younger.'

Amy's expression darkened. Perhaps that wasn't the best thing to point out. His wife was no longer in her first flush of youth as she had been when he'd first set eyes on her. Her golden hair now owed more to the products of Clairol than any genetic material. They had met when Amy was just twenty-one at one of the dance halls in the West Endshe was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen and one of the most accommodating. They'd had a wild time back at his digs and she was pregnant within weeks of them meeting. The wedding was already arranged and paid for when Amy lost the baby, but they decided to make a go of it and got married anyway. It had been a great party and he'd never regretted it. Not for a moment. There were two more miscarriages before she finally gave birth to Joseph, and then another two years later before they could eventually afford to have Fern. They might not have had the most passionate relationshipthey were no Burton and Taylorbut they'd rubbed along well enough all these years. Hadn't they?

Derek thought he'd try another tack. Amy had always been frugal. 'Have you any idea how expensive it is to get divorced?'

'No,' Amy snapped. 'Have you?'

'No, but...' Derek sighed. 'The worst years are behind us now. All the struggling's over. Think of the days when the children were young and we hardly had two pennies to rub together. Those were the tough times.'

'They were,' she replied. 'I had to work all day at the newsagent's and take in other people's ironing at night just to put food in our mouths.'

'I know,' he agreed. 'You've always been a worker.'

'But no matter how hard it got, it never meant you had to go without your booze or your little flutters, did it?'

That made him hang his head. There were times when he hadn't treated her right, but those days were behind them. Largely. 'We'll soon be able to sit back and enjoy ourselves a bit.'

'Perhaps I want to enjoy myself without you.'

'We've not got much longer to go, Amy. We're in the twilight of our years. Shouldn't we stick together now more than ever?'

'And that's the best you can offer?' Her hands went to her hips. 'It's better to be married to you than to be dead?'

It didn't sound right when she put it like that. 'Well...'

'Some of us might not agree with that,' she said.

He had a horrible feeling that he was losing this battle, and he didn't even know what had started the skirmish. She couldn't really mean that it was over between them? That would be madness. 'I know I've not been perfect, but I've tried, Amy. I've really tried.'

His wife sighed and he could see that there was a tear in her eye. 'I've tried, too, Del.' She wiped the tear away. 'And I just can't do it any longer.'

'I'
ve been in a limousine like this before,' Fern said, running her hand over the walnut door panels.

Evan had been humming gently to himself and staring out of the window onto the elegance of Park Lane as they swept towards the rehearsal rooms near the Albert Hall. Now he turned towards her. 'Excuse me?'

'On Jemma MacKenzie's hen night. Well, not quite like this. We're not sitting in the back listening to Abba hits at full blast or swigging cheap Cava and pretending it's champagne.' She fiddled with her hair, twining it round her finger. 'And there are no disco lights.'

'So what you're trying to tell me is that this limousine experience is distinctly more sedate.'

'Yes.' Fern twiddled with her thumbs and tried to sit nicely. She pulled her floral skirt over her knees.

Evan thought she might have smartened herself up today, but she still looked like a hippy. A cute hippy, but a hippy nevertheless. He wondered why he'd wanted to bring her to the rehearsal. And he
had
wanted to, even though the invitation was out of his mouth before he had a chance to consider it. His assistant, Erin, accompanied him everywhereof coursebut this was different. Fern certainly wasn't Erin. Despite Rupert's protestations to the contrary, Evan was sure that he could have managed without a temp for the time being. As it was, he was quite pleased that he'd chosen Fernif 'chosen' was the right word. But this woman was here for a matter of weeks. All she had to do was open the post and make some appointments, and yet here he was, for reasons best known to himself, trying to form some sort of bond with her.

Perhaps he was simply tired of spending all his time with Rupert. He was, after all, a good agent but a pretty awful companion. Evan took in Fern's appearance once again. There was no doubting she was a pretty little thing. And a good few years younger than him. Nothing wrong with that, these days. She was certainly a breath of fresh air. Everyone else he knew seemed to be in the same business, and here was Fern not knowing her
Turandot
from her
La Traviata.
Somehow that was quite appealing. Maybe it would be fun to mix business with pleasure for once. It was certainly a long time since he'd enjoyed a woman's company.

Before he could think of a thousand reasons why he shouldn't ask the next question, he leaned towards her and said, 'Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?'

Her eyes widened in shock. 'No,' she said, backing away from him. 'No. No. I can't. I've got a commitment tonight. I've got commitments
every
night.'

Evan felt himself tighten up. Well, she couldn't put it any plainer than that. An unexpected feeling of disappointment washed over him. 'I wanted to fill you in on some of your duties,' he said briskly. 'Nothing more. I thought it would be a good opportunity.'

'It's not that I don't want to,' she said, blushing. 'It's just that I can't. I've got...'

'Commitments.'

Fern fell silent.

With perfect timing to save him from further humiliation, they pulled up outside the rehearsal room.

'Okay, governor?' the chauffeur said.

'Fine. I'll call when I need you to come back for us, Frank.'

If he hadn't been so embarrassed, Evan might have smiled to himself. Normally, he had trouble fobbing females off. There was a queue of women at the Stage Door every nightwomen who were only too willing to share dinner and a lot more with him. And yet he'd very nearly been in danger of making a fool of himself with his young assistant.

Fern gathered her bag and the laptop to her, giving him a rueful smile as she clambered out of the car. 'I can't wait to hear you sing though,' she said.

He shook his head as he followed her. She was certainly different, this one.

S
ometimes I am the biggest jerk you can imagine. I follow Evan David into the rehearsal room with a heavy heart. Do you thinkto use a musical termthat he was making overtures to me? It's so long since I've been asked out to dinner that I'm not sure whether he did mean it to be purely work-related or not. The only experience I've had with men in recent years is with Carl, and dinner with my dear friend would involve stopping for a kebab or some chips on the way home from the pub.

Evan David is so sophisticated, while I must appear so gauche. Fancy blabbing about being in a limousine at Jemma MacKenzie's hen night. As if he was interested when it's his everyday mode of transport. Good job I had the sense not to tell him about the male stripper we kidnapped and bundled into the car. The lovely Jemma never did end up getting married. Hee, hee.

Evan David strides ahead of me and I notice that the crush of waiting people part as he approaches, rather like the Red Sea when Moses turned up. I'm not sure what I expected of the other opera singers, but I didn't think they'd look like common or garden people who'd just come out of Tescos. I thought they'd have an air to themlike Evan Davidbut they don't. They're all wearing jeans and T-shirts that have seen better days, and I blend in perfectly.

I suddenly realise that I don't even know what opera my new boss is here to rehearse. What a great assistant I am. So I scuttle after him, trying to catch up. 'What part are you playing?' I ask his left shoulder, hoping this is the right terminology.

'Pinkerton.' He stops and turns round, then smiles at my blank expression. 'In
Madame Butterfly.
By Puccini. The story of Cio-Cio-San.'

I clearly look none the wiser as he adds, 'It's a tale of tragically unrequited love.'

I'm not sure if he's putting me on, but I get no time for further questions as he marches on.

The rest of us mortals shuffle after Mr David and into the rehearsal room which looks rather like a branch of Homebase with all the garden furniture and tins of paint removed. It's a big steel hangar with a jolly red frame, lined with a barrage of mushroom-shaped pads which I assume are there to enhance the acoustics. There are rows of tiered plastic seats at the back with the mass of people filing into them.

'Sit here,' Evan tells me. Rather too loudly, I think. 'With the chorus.'

And, of course, I do as I'm told, slinking into a seat on the end of a row, hoping that I'm not in anyone's way and trying to avoid the enquiring glances. The orchestra are crammed in the middle of the vast buildingstrings at the front, woodwind, brass section and percussion behind. There are two separate rows of chairs and music stands marked Principal Artists, and Evan takes up his position there. A tiny Japanese woman stretches to kiss him warmly on both cheeks. If I had inherited my dad's love of gambling, I'd bet a week's wages that this is Madame Butterfly, herself.

She's extraordinarily pretty, with porcelain skin and a skein of glossy black hair that reaches down to her waist. And I get a pang of...what? Plain old-fashioned jealousy, that's what. I sigh and settle into my seat.

A tall, skinny man comes into the room carrying a baton, and everyone stands and claps. Not knowing what else to do, I join in.

Evan claps him on the back and they hug each other warmly. 'Maestro!' Evan says in his booming tones.

'Il Divo,'
the maestro returns, and they exchange small talk in what sounds like French from this distance. Then the maestro takes his place on the raised podium at the front of the orchestra.

'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,' he says. Then he taps the podium, finds his place in the score and announces to the assembly, 'We will run through once and then stop for notes.'

He takes up his baton and the orchestra commences. And I'm transfixed, from the very first note. I've never been in such close proximity to an orchestra before, and I can feel the sound vibrating through my body, speeding through my blood, reverberating in my chest. Time and place melt awayeven my uncomfortable plastic chair ceases to exist as I'm transported to another world.

When Evan starts to sing, my mouth goes dry. I thought I knew a bit about singing, but I've never heard anything quite like this before. The pure tones stir up emotions I didn't even know I had. My heart is pounding like a hammer drill and I hardly dare to breathe in case I miss anything.

Nearly two hours later, when Cio-Cio-San sings her sorrowful lament, I'm reduced to a blubbering wreck. I have no idea what she's singing because it's all in Italian, but I know instinctively that this is the unrequited-love bit and it has moved me more than any other piece of music ever has. I sniff too loudly into my handkerchief and some of the chorus smile indulgently at me.

When the session has finished, the maestro taps his podium again. 'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. We'll take a half-hour break now. Come back in fine voice.'

Chatter breaks out and everyone heads towards the cafeteria. I hang back and wait for Evan. I try to stop crying, but the tears stream from my eyes.

A few moments later, he comes towards me, a look of surprise on his face. 'You're crying.'

Nothing gets past this man.

'What's wrong?'

'I'm happy,' I manage to blub.

He's clearly taken aback. 'You enjoyed your first experience of opera?'

I can hardly bring myself to speak as there's still a lump lodged in my throat. I'm weak at the knees and quivering like a jelly. Nothing British will sum this up and I have to borrow an American phrase. 'Totally awesome,' I sob out loud. My mascara is halfway down my cheeks and, no doubt, my face is all red and blotchy. I'd like to be a contained and appreciative audience, perhaps make some intelligent observations. Instead I'm crying like a baby. 'That was totally awesome.'

Evan David looks quite shaken and then he does something that I really don't expect. He takes me in his arms and holds me tight.