Welcome to the Real World

by Carole Matthews

  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.

  Eight

  On 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, so—not really knowing what else to do—I 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 man—without a bead of sweat on his shaved head—who 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 can—otherwise 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 gre
at 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 eyes—which he can’t have got from smiling—and a fine weave of grey in his dark hair. He raises an eyebrow at me and I realise that I’ve been studying him, too—and 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.’

  Nine

  Derek 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 of—his 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 scale—too 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 that—she 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 year—in 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 fun—days out and the like. Take Nathan, too. Brighton was always nice—she’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 End—she 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 relationship—they were no Burton and Taylor—but 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.’