Welcome to the Real World (7 page)

'H
ow's she working out?'

Evan turned to his agent, Rupert, as he fiddled with his tie in an effort to stop the knot from lying crookedly. 'Who?'

'Your new assistant. Fern.' Rupert had been waiting for him for ages.

'Oh. Fine,' he said dismissively.

'But she didn't remind you about the dinner tonight?'

'No,' Evan had to concede. Perhaps Fern
wasn't
working out too well. It had completely slipped his mind that he was attending a reception with the Blairs at Downing Street. That wouldn't have gone down too well if he'd missed an important party with the prime minister of England. If she'd done her job properly and jogged his memory, then he wouldn't have embarrassed himself by asking Fern out to dinner. 'I think I distracted her.'

'And would you like to tell me how?'

'Not really.'

The last thing Evan wanted his agent to know about was his rather gauche approach to his new assistant. Rupert usually had more than enough to worry about without Evan adding to it.

Evan was even less likely to confess that since this afternoon he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Fern. It had been a shock to him to see the way that she had responded so honestly to the music today, but rather a pleasant shock. Perhaps he'd been in this business too long, but the music somehow failed to move him like that any longer. It was clearly the first time she'd heard opera at close proximity, and it was a potent reminder of how it used to affect him, too. He remembered times when tears would stream down his face as he was singingbut only just. It was years and years since that had happened. Was it surprising that some of his enthusiasm had waned when his whole world had revolved around singing since he was parcelled off to choir school at the tender age of eleven? The passion and drama hadn't gone out of his performances, but they had in recent years gone out of his heart. It would be nice to think that he might recapture that through Fern's eyes. If she did that for him, then whatever they were paying her was worthwhilehe allowed himself a rueful smileeven though she forgot to tell him about important appointments.

To inject some new life into his creativity was part of the reason he had agreed to come to Britain in the first place. One of the projects on the cards was recording an album with some of the up-and-coming stars of the future. Rupert assured him that it was a marvellous thing to do. Evan felt it was more like the sort of publicity stunt someone like Tom Jones would be involved in. Not that he blamed Tom. To be hanging in there in the entertainment business after all that time was something of a miracle and, no doubt, you had to use every trick in the book to do it. He just wasn't sure if he wanted that for himself. Already, he was criticised by the purists as being 'too commercial'. He wondered what they'd make of it if he started recording with Keane or Athlete or some of the other bands he'd only just heard of. What would it do for their street cred, too? It had never hurt Freddie Mercury's career to sing with Monserrat Caballe, he supposed. That, primarily, was why he'd allowed Rupert to set up some 'exploratory' sessions for him with a few new kids on the blockmainly acts that Rupert also represented. There was no harm in that, either. Over the years Rupert had made him one of the most sought-after and highly paid opera stars in the worlda long way from the impoverished chorus member he'd once been. So what if Rupert wanted to exploit him a little every now and then. His agent was always telling Evan that he had a unique talent that he should fully embrace, and it was true, there were very few people who were comfortable singing anything from contemporary songs to Broadway show tunes to Mozart arias. Perhaps it was time to unleash that on the world. Evan smiled indulgently at the other man. He'd drawn the line when Rup mentioned hip-hop though.

'We'd better get a move on, Evan.' His agent tapped his watch. 'If we want some money for the arts out of this wretched government, then I suggest we don't start the evening by being late.'

Without argument, Evan followed Rupert to the door and to the waiting limousine. The other reason that he was in Britain was to open the new National Welsh Opera House in Cardiff in a few weeks' time. This evening was a formal celebration of the forthcoming event and an excuse to go cap in hand to the tightwads in the Treasury who controlled the funding for developing arts. It had long been a pet project of Evan's to try to get opera to a wider audience. His dream was that it wouldn't be seen as some expensive, elitist pastime and that he could bring it to inner cities and to kids in schools. The California Opera House provided free 'brown bag' opera performances every year, which were staged in Yerba Buena Gardens, and a huge annual feast at the Golden Gate Park, which celebrated the opening of the fall opera season. Both were open to all comers and were some of the most exciting events that Evan had been involved inbringing opera to the massesand he'd be taking part in another one later this year. That was something he'd certainly like to see over here, but when this country didn't even seem to have enough money to clean its hospitals anymore, it certainly felt like an uphill struggle. Did people really feel that their life was the poorer for never having seen a performance of
Turandot?
Evan sighed. And yet the way Fern had reacted today...it was moments like that which gave him hope.

As the long black car pushed its way slowly through the evening traffic Evan wondered where Fern might be nowand, once again, surprised himself by doing it. This woman was starting to occupy his thoughts far too often. Maybe she could have even come along with them tonight. That would have got Rupert's radar twitching.

There was already a long line of people waiting outside the imposing iron gates at the mouth of Downing Street, which barred the general public from the prime minister's official residence. The glossy black front door of Number Ten lay tantalisingly inside, the days when the general public could drive straight up to it long gone in a frenzy of security clamp-downs.

'This is as far as we go,' Rupert muttered. 'Celebrity or not, you've got to queue up with the hoi polloi and have your armpits tickled by a policeman toting a machine gun.'

Evan stepped out of the limo after Rupert. There was the flash of paparazzi cameras. Magnanimously, he gave them a wave.

'Why couldn't you be a visiting head of state? They're the only ones who get straight in without all this nonsense,' his agent complained. 'There are times when being an opera singer is absolutely no bloody use at all.'

And Evan really couldn't have agreed more with him.

T
his morning I'm regretting agreeing to go to the
Fame Game
auditions with Carl. Mainly because I'm now going to have to ask Evan David for some time off work to attend them, and that seems rather foolish after only a few days in the job. I'm not even sure that he's happy with me sloping off early every eveningbut then he doesn't know about my second career in the leisure industry. Even I, who am not generally known as the world's most reliable employee, have the sense to realise that it's not a good idea.

Plus this job has the huge potential to be enjoyable, and I don't want to mess it up. For instance, this morning I've spent the time simply listening to Evan having another singing lesson. Now, I'm not sure if that's the technical term, because it seems to me that someone who can sing like he does has no need of lessons. I wonder if Madonna has a voice coach? Or J-Lo? I also wonder, miserably, if whether the only thing I will ever have in common with Jennifer Lopez is the not inconsiderable size of my arse.

Listening to Evan makes me feel overwhelmed by the things I know I will have to do in order to become a better singer. I think I have a good voiceI'm sure I dobut I've never had any coaching in my life. How could I be so stupid as to think that it involved nothing more than belting out a few tunes? Carl must be equally stupid to think that we have a chance of winning the
Fame Game.
Do I really want to put myself through this form of humiliation just to keep my dearest friend happy?

There's a fear in this because singing is the only thing that I've ever been any good at and, if we were to failwhich there's a very strong chance of us doing, as the odds are stacked against usthen it would simply go to prove that I'm absolutely useless at everything. It seems such a long time ago since Carl and I used to get together at our local youth club and put on impromptu shows to entertain our easily pleased friends. It was a quantum leap for me to go after paid gigsCarl had to bully me even thenand now I'm not sure that I have the courage to stick my head above the parapet and say that I want to be taken seriously for doing this.

Evan was a little cool with me this morning. Breakfast was over and done with by the time I got here, even though I wasn't late, so I'm starving already. We exchanged a few pleasantries, then Evan pointed out that I nearly made him miss an appointment at Number Ten Downing Streetwhich made me want to shrivel up on the spot. How could I do that? And then he disappeared to another room in the apartment with Anton to get down to work. I think there's a piano in every room in the place, though I haven't checked it out that thoroughly. To be honest, I'm too frightened to move from my desk.

Now, accompanied by Anton on the piano, his wonderful voice is filling the apartment through the crack of the open door. I have no idea what the song isperhaps I should start reading the reviews of operas in the daily newspaper to gen up a bitbut I've got goosepimples in places you wouldn't believe. On the one hand, this is cheering me up immensely but, on the other, it's very dispiriting as I realise that I'll never be anywhere near as good. Still, the wintry sun is shining through the windows and warming my cold toesthe heating is on the blink again in my flatand I'm trying to look busy while drifting away with the soaring music. My tired soul is in seventh heaven, letting the melody wash over me. My body is also dog-tired because it took me ages to drag my drunken, ranting dad home last night and pin him down to the sofa. I've never heard language like itat least not from my parents. I thought I was going to have to club him over the head with one of my shoes to get him to go to sleep. If my true and faithful friend, Carl, hadn't come along to help me, then I don't know what I would have done. Between us we managed to wrestle some of Dad's clothes from him and cover him with a blanket. Which is lucky, because I was considering putting a pillow over his face.

Evan starts to run through some exercises. His voice rises and falls, giving his tonsils a great workout, I'm sure. I start to hum along with him and surprise myself with some of the notes I can hit. Our voices sound good in harmony together. Another surprise. I stand up and throw my head back, imagining that I'm on the stage at the King's Head, giving my regular punters the shock of their lives. I'm getting quite into my stride, when suddenly the door swings wide, reverberating on its hinges, and Evan stamps in.

'Where's that noise coming from?' he demands to know.

'I...er...I...er...'

'Is there a radio on? I thought I heard singing.' His forehead is creased in an unhappy frown.

'I...er...I...er...' I have nowhere to hide.

'It's not a radio, is it?' He looks at me with something approaching horror. 'Was it you?'

I can feel myself blanching and flushing both at once. My goodness. I had no idea that he'd be able to hear me, but I was clearly getting more carried away than I thought. How much did he hear?

'Was it you?' he demands to know again.

I can see where he gets his reputation for being difficult from. This is my first glimpse of
Il Divo.
But no wonder he's furious. Fancy his assistant having the audacity to join in with his vocal exercises. I could curl up and die. Why will the floor never conveniently open up and swallow you when you want it to? Anton comes to stand in the doorway, too. He's also regarding me with a dark frown. I feel like a trapped animal. Maybe a lickle-ickle fluffy fox with a pack of nasty, snarling hounds bearing down on me.
Die,
I say to myself.
Just die, it would be so much easier.
'Er...'

And then my mobile phone rings. We all look at each other in a startled way. Never has the sound of that irritating Crazy Frog mad motorbike ring tone been so welcome. I owe the universe one.

'Hello,' I say with a voice that has a lurking tremor.

I glance over and though Anton has made himself scarce, Evan is now waiting, arms folded, one eyebrow raised in question. Obviously, he's not going to let this lie.

'Is that Ms Fern Kendal?' the voice on the other end of the phone asks.

'Yes,' I say. 'This is Fern Kendal.'

'This is Doctor Parry,' he tells me.

'Oh, hello.' Doctor Parry has been our family GP since time began. He has seen me without my clothes on more times than I care to rememberand not in a sexy way. In a way that involves rubber gloves and saying, 'Just relax'. I wonder if I'm overdue a smear test. Why else would he be calling me?

'I'm phoning about your father.' Which, I guess, answers my question.

'Dad?'

There's a sigh. 'We have him here. At the surgery.'

'Is he okay?' And, of course, he wouldn't be at the doctor's surgery if he was perfectly all right.

'No,' Doctor Parry says. 'He's not okay, Fern. Can you come down here right away?'

I risk a glance over at Evan David again. He's still doing a manly glower. 'I...er...' This might be a very good time for me to make a sharp exit. 'I'll come right away.'

Grabbing my handbag, hanging up and dashing towards the door all in one movement, I tell Evan David over my shoulder, 'I have to go.'

His mouth drops open slightly, but I have no time to worry about his reaction to my sudden departure. This is an emergency and he'll have to live with it. My dad is one of the most important people in my life, and if he needs me, I'll be there. Evan David can stuff his poxy job.

'Wait!' he shouts after me. 'Don't go like this. Tell me what's wrong.'

I stop momentarily in my dramatic exit. 'My dad's ill,' I say. 'Terribly ill.'

And I hope deep in my heart that this isn't true.