Welcome to the Real World (9 page)

W
hen Rupert blew his nose for the third time. Evan stared at him, eyes narrowed. 'You're not getting a cold are you, Rup?'

'No. No.' His agent shook his head vehemently. 'Just a sniffle. Maybe a touch of hayfever.'

'In London? In winter?'

Rupert withered under his gaze. Evan pulled the neck of his black cashmere sweater round his throat and unconsciously massaged the muscles with his hand. His temperature had been perfect this morning when he'd taken it, as he did every morning. You could never be too careful. Catch a bug early enough and, with some judicious care, you could sometimes nip it in the bud. Did his throat feel sore at all? Evan did a test swallow and felt for any sign of swollen glands. No. All seemed fine.

The press were always keen to point out that he was completely paranoid about protecting his voice. But who wouldn't be when it was their fortune? It was only this talent that was keeping him out of the gutter and away from obscurity. You didn't take something like that lightly. It meant that he had to avoid dairy products and smoky atmospheres and anyone with germs or who might have come into contact with anyone with germs. He didn't touch alcohol, either, but other than that he lived a normal life. Didn't he? And it was the first question that Rupert asked him every morning'How's the voice?' Not how was he as a person. Just the voice. The rest of him could go to hell in a handcart. The voice was everything.

'Just keep your distance,' Evan said. 'Take some vitamin C. Get some from Dermuid. Ask him to take your temperature, too.'

Rupert gave him a look of weary acquiescence.

Evan's chef had been with him for some time now and the arrangement was working out fine. Not only did he turn out great, nutritious meals, but Dermuid had taken an interest in Evan's general well-being and made sure that his vitamins and supplements were always on hand. He also tried, mostly in vain, to keep Rupert in line, too. Dermuid had never let him down, which meant all that Evan had to concentrate on were his performances. And he needed people around him whom he could trust. Evan hated to admit it, but he felt safe with regular staff around him who understood his ways. And speaking of staff...

'Have you heard anything from Fern?' Evan tried to sound casual as he asked Rupert.

'Who?'

'Fern,' he repeated, failing to keep the note of exasperation out of his voice. 'The new temp. She scuttled out of here yesterday and didn't come back.'

Rupert raised an eyebrow. 'Perhaps she's naively assuming that you give your staff weekends off.'

'Whatever gave her that impression?'

'I never had time to discuss terms and conditions with her,' Rupert said. 'I was going to do it today. Then she would have known that it's a full-time nanny you need, not a personal assistant.'

'Rupert...' he said in warning. His agent was the only person who could get away with teasing him, but sometimes even Rupert pushed it too far.

'Okay. Okay.' Rup held up his hands. 'If she doesn't turn up, I'll ring the next candidate on the list.'

'Can't you phone the woman yourself?'

Rupert looked puzzled. 'Yes. I've got her number. But...'

'I thought she was quite good.'

'She forgot to remind you of an important appointment and then scarpered without warning yesterday. How are you quantifying "good"?'

Evan had the grace to look sheepish. 'She was fun to have around.'

'Oh, dear,' Rupert sighed. 'Oh, dearie, dearie me.'

A frown darkened Evan's forehead. 'What?'

'Do we need someone whose sole qualification is being fun? I'm not sure that it will help your situation to go chasing after this woman.'

'I'm not chasing after her,' Evan scoffed, even though he felt he might be. How could he explain to Rupert that she'd sparked something in him that he hadn't even realised was long dead? That somehow she was the only person he'd met in a long time who didn't drain his creativity but added impetus to it. Fern was fun and she was funny. That was something that had been missing in his life for a long time. 'And exactly what "situation" are you referring to?'

'The "situation" where we've got an increasingly deranged woman chasing
you.
'

Evan sighed.

'Lana has been on the telephone a million times this week already,' Rupert expanded. 'I'm running out of excuses for you.'

'I'll call her back,' Evan said. 'I promise.'

'You said that last week.'

'I have to be in the mood for Lana. You know that.'

'I know that if you don't ring her, there'll be trouble. Big trouble.'

Lana was an opera singer, too. If Evan was nicknamed
Il Divo,
then Lana Rosina was definitely
La Diva Assoluta.
The fiery Italian was one of the most stunning and out-spoken figures in the world of international opera stars today.

In a rave review of her last performance in EnglandTosca in Puccini's opera of the same nameshe was described in the
Independent
newspaper as having the vocal strength of Maria Callas, the dramatic delivery of Edith Piaf and the body of Angelina Jolie. A heady combination which made heras a womanvery hard to handle. Her performances were always critically acclaimed as nothing less than perfect, her off-stage behaviour was legendary as less so. She was known as an outstanding singer and a mean left hook. Her favourite pastime seemed to be making the paparazzi eat pavement. Lana was also the most charismatic soprano that Evan had ever had the pleasure of sharing the stage withand, subsequently, his bed. At best, she was wickedly funny and wilful. At worst, she was a neurotic witch with an inferiority complex. She needed to be adored and became demanding and difficult when she felt she wasn't. There were days when Evan definitely didn't adore Lana. To say that their relationship was mercurial was understating it. Her singing was always full-throated, her timbres loaded with variety and her glinting top register couldn't fail to move the audiencebut have that voice turned on you in a torrent of Italian abuse and then it was a different matter altogether. It was something he'd been subjected to a number of times over the years. The hairs stood up on the back of Evan's neck just to think of it. Her voice was often described as colourful and fluentit was never more so than when screaming invective.

They'd met a long time ago in San Francisco, at the California Opera House when she was singing Cassandre in Berlioz's opera
Les Troyens
at short noticea performance which sent the critics into a frenzy of delight. And Lana had been wowing them ever since. Their own association, however, had been more erratic. She'd attended a closing night reception at his home over there and he'd been drawn to her passion and vibrant beauty. They were both classed as the hardest-working opera stars today, kept in demand on the international circuit more than either of them could ever have dreamed of at the start of their careers. The downside was that it meant relationships, even with the best will in the world, were sporadic. Lana made it clear, on many occasions, that she didn't think this was ideal. They hadn't spoken now in weeks, since their rehearsals for
La Traviata,
which they were due to perform in Wales together very soon.

'Call her,' Rupert urged. 'She's getting cross.'

That was never a good thing. Lana was like a pot of pasta left on the stove for too longeventually everything would boil over and create a terrible mess everywhere. But Evan didn't want to speak to Lana now. If she was angry with himand it was likely that she wasthe whole experience would be draining. He'd need to psyche himself up to phone her.

'Later,' he said evasively. 'I've got things to do.' He was due on stage for a full dress rehearsal of
Madame Butterfly
in a few short hours and he needed to gather his thoughts, make preparations. As Evan went to leave the room, he saw Rupert muttering under his breath. 'Don't forget to call Fern,' he called out.

'Later,' Rupert echoed. 'I've got things to do, too.'

'I
can't accept this,' I say to Carl. 'It's too expensive.' It's also too sexy.

He blushes furiously beneath his mop of freshly washed hair. My friend is clearly taking this very seriously. His very best frayed blue jeans are in evidence and he's standing awkwardly in my kitchenand Carl never stands awkwardly anywhere.

'When did you buy it?'

'Yesterday,' he mumbles. 'I thought it would suit you.'

'That's a fine piece of kit,' my dad says over his bacon sandwich. The all-pervading smell of curry in the flat seems to have fuelled his appetite. He gives an approving nod. 'It'll knock them dead.'

'No one's asking you,' I tell him. His snoring from the sofa kept me awake all nightit was absolutely nothing to do with nerves about today's audition for the
Fame Game.

'Just try it on,' Carl urges.

And, as I seem to be doing so much to please everyone else these days, I march through to the bedroom, strip off my T-shirt, which I thought looked absolutely fine, and put on the silky top that Carl has purchased.

Slipping it over my head, I wonder whether he's nicked it or gone without food all week to pay for it. Then I stare at myself in the mirror. My goodness, it's wonderful. If I didn't know me, I might fancy me.

It's a wisp of silver chiffony stuff, gathered in full folds over the bust, giving me the voluptuous breasts of a page three girl. Never a bad thing. The bodice is boned, tightly fitted and laces up the back like a corset. It flares enticingly over the black trousers I'm wearing, giving me a cinched waist and curvy hips. I would never have believed that a piece of clothing could transform my shape so much, and I wonder why I don't entrust my future wardrobe to Carl. That man definitely has hidden talents.

I dash back into the kitchen and shout, 'Da, da!' which sends Squeaky scurrying back to his hole in the skirting board.

Carl's eyes pop wide open and he looks like he might spit out his cup of tea. 'Wow!' he manages.

'It's fabulous.' I go over and kiss him on the cheek. 'You are a great mate. I don't know how to thank you.'

'If your dad wasn't here,' he murmurs, 'I might be able to come up with a suggestion or two...'

'Put your tea down and lace me up properly.' I proffer my back to him. He takes hold of the laces of my corset. His hands are warm and are shaking slightly. I hope that Carl isn't worried about today, because that truly would make me go to pieces. His fingers brush against my skin and give me very strange feelings. I move away from him.

'Are you okay?' Turning to look at him, I see his eyes are shining bright.

'I'm great,' he says huskily. 'You look wonderful.'

'We'd better get a move on,' I suggest. 'We don't want to be late.'

'Let me look at my little girl,' Dad says, breaking into Carl's mooning.

I give him a twirl.

'Lovely,' he says.

I take a bit of Dad's bacon sandwich, not caring that it will ruin my lipstick. 'What are you doing today, troublesome parent?'

'Oh, nothing much.' Dad adopts his shiftiest face. 'A little bit of this and a little bit of that.'

Sitting in the pub until he's pissed, then blowing the rest of his money on the horses before he finds some blowsy tart to fund him for the rest of the day. No wonder my mum has her eyes trained on Mr Patel with his movie-star looks and surfeit of charm.

'Wish us luck, Derek,' Carl says as he picks up his guitar.

'Ah, you won't need it,' my dad assures us. 'You'll be coming home with a contract in your hand. No one else will stand a snowball-in-hell's chance.'

I wish I had everyone else's confidence in our abilities. To me we're just another middle-of-the-road pub act.

I give my dad a kiss on his thinning hair and then wink at him as we head for the door. 'Notice that you've not got Tourette's syndrome today.'

My father folds his arms grumpily and frowns. 'Fuck off,' he says.

T
he open auditions for the
Fame Game
are being held at Shepherd's Bush Empire, a wonderful old theatre turned music venue that still retains a lingering air of its original elegance. Carl and I turn up hours early only to find that the queue is already out of the door and is snakinganaconda-sizedown the road. By the time we get to the judges, they'll already be bored to tears and may possibly have lost the will to live. I let out an unhappy huff.

My dear friend is unperturbed. 'We always knew it was going to be manic, Fern.'

'Yes,' I capitulate. I also always knew that most of the auditioning hopefuls would be under twenty and would look like pop stars already. But it's still a shock to see quite how many of them there areand quite how much flesh is on display. It's not exactly warm in London at the moment and they must be frozen. The fact that if it wasn't for Carl's prompting I'd have dressed for comfort and warmth above sex appeal also marks me out as someone fifteen years older than the average wannabe. I gaze along the constantly lengthening line and also note with horror that there's not an ounce of fat to spare anywhere.

Although I'm looking considerably sexier than I would have done left to my own devices, I'm bucking the trend by not having my midriff, my legs or my entire cleavage on display. 'Look at them,' I complain to Carl. 'They're all so young.'

'It just means that we're so much more experienced than they are.'

Sometimes I could batter my friend because he's so relentlessly optimistic. For some strange reason, he's convinced that one day our talent will win out. We will be 'discovered' by some fantastic pop impresario and our miserable little lives will be transformed into one of wealth and wonderment. For Carl, all that means is that he will buy designer jeans rather than ones from Matalan. But then he also buys a lottery ticket every Saturday and gaily assumes that one day his boat will come in if only he believes hard enoughdespite the fact that he's not won so much as a tenner in the last three years, proving that the odds are very definitely piled against him.

There are boy bands, girl bands, too many Britney look-alikes to mention, but very few long-haired hippies accompanied by ageing barmaids. All the men look gayapart from Carland none of them look as if they've wandered out of the line-up of Black Sabbath. This is a dreadful, dreadful mistake. We are people in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'd really like to go home now and have some hot chocolate and put my feet up and pretend that this never happened, but I know that Carlhaving managed to get me herewon't be that easily dissuaded. He might look laid-back, but that man is blessed with a core of steel. I'm going to have to go through this whole unhappy ritual just to please him.

Despite my misgivingsand there are many of themwe join the back of the queue. A camera crew wanders up and down, recording our misery. Everyone else waves and pouts in a suitably hysterical manner. I can't be the only one who feels like giving them the finger. Even Carl gives them a peace sign and a goofy grin for heaven's sake! The only solace I can take is the fact that it isn't raining. Which is just as well, because an hour later than the auditions were due to start, a couple of harassed-looking assistants totter out on impossibly high heels and slap stickers bearing numbers on us all. Carl and I are, collectively, number 342. How long, I wonder, is it going to take to get through all the 341 acts before us? Darkness will surely have fallen. We'll have to take it in turns to go out of the queue to visit the loo in the Kentucky Fried Chicken place down the road and to get sustenance. I glance down at our number.

'We haven't got a name,' I say suddenly.

Carl looks shocked, while I panic. In the pub we're just known as Carl and Fernnot exactly cool. Shouldn't we have spent more time thinking about calling ourselves something suitably trendy and happening to grab the judges' attention?

'Bollocks,' Carl mutters.

'Not catchy enough.'

My friend gives me what I can only class as 'a look'.

'The Winning Couple?' I suggest, trying to bolster my rapidly failing bravado.

'"Just the Two of Us",' Carl says. 'That's what I feel it's always been like. Just the two of us against the world.'

I can see that he's serious, so I say, 'Okay. Just the Two of Us, it is.' Or do I mean Just the Two of Us, we are. And, rather late in the day, our duo is born. It doesn't sound very showbiz to me, but I say nothing.

And then, with nothing much else to do, we settle in for the long wait. Carl amuses himself throughout the day by smoking a dozen fags and strumming his guitar. I amuse myself by thinking of Evan David in faintly erotic situations until I realise that it is doing me absolutely no good at all. I wonder if he's noticed my absence today. Does he think that I'll be back on Monday as if nothing has happened? I have no idea, and I'm sure that he won't mark it down as a significant loss in his life when I'm not. Still, I can't help wondering what might have been. In my fantasy land, Evan David would have been so impressed by my personal assistant skills that he would have sacked the chicken-poxed Erin and would have given me her job instead, whisking me around the world in five-star comfort for the rest of my days. And we would have flirted endlessly and hopelessly, like James Bond and Miss Moneypenny.

After a while, when Carl and I are bored with each other, we chat to a couple of the other hopefuls in the queue, and it's fair to say that none of them are blessed with our wealth of experience, as Carl predicted. We've been singing in pubs for years. Too many years. For most of them, this is the first time they've ever auditioned for anything. And I can't help but admire their sheer optimism that all they need is a belief in themselves to carry them through. A lot of the people queuing for their five minutes in front of the judges seem to have no particular talent but are here fuelled only by blind ambition and a desire to grab fame in whatever shape they can get it. None of them seem to have my inhibitions despite the fact that I could probablywhen I'm feeling confidentsing most of them under the table. But so many people want to achieve celebrity status these days without having to work for it and without doing anything of merit to warrant it.

The
Fame Game
phenomenon has gripped the nation and, whether we like it or not, the entire population of the UK is glued to the telly at six o'clock every Saturday night to watch the struggling pop artists of the future in their quest for fame. Sometimes it is a supportive and fun show. Sometimes it's positively gladiatorial. But I guess, as they say, that's entertainment! As long as it keeps pulling in the viewers, they'll keep running it.

A mere five hours have passed while we've been standing in the queue, and we're finally nearing the front. Carl has kept me going by nipping off to nearby cafes to ply me with regular supplies of hot tea and chocolate. I wish I'd let him bring a couple of joints and we could have smoked them. Or even a hip flask of booze might have helped for Dutch courage. To do this stoned would be infinitely preferable than doing it stoned-cold sober. Already a stream of weeping girls have been dispatched from the bowels of the Shepherd's Bush Empire. Some are begging the high-heeled assistants for another chance. Some are rejoining the queue at the end, probably in the hope that the judges will be so addled by the time they perform again that they won't realise they've already seen them three hours previously.

'Feeling okay?' Carl asks.

'No.' My hair has gone flat in the damp air. My feet hurt. Inside my coat, my lovely chiffon top is getting crumpled.

He puts his arm round me and squeezes me tight. I can feel the tingle of excitement running through him and wish I could share it. 'It'll be fine,' he says confidently. '
We'll
be fine.'

Will we? All I can do is wait.