Welcome to the Real World

by Carole Matthews

  ‘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.’

  Ten

  ‘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 everywhere—of course—but 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 Fern—if ‘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 night—women 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.

  Eleven

  Sometimes I am the biggest jerk you can imagine. I follow Evan David into the rehearsal room with a heavy heart. Do you think—to use a musical term—that 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 them—like Evan David—but 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 building—strings 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.

&
nbsp; ‘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 away—even 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.

  Twelve

  I have a big, fat hour all to myself to fritter away before starting my shift at the pub and, therefore, have a choice between visiting my brother and my sweetie-pie nephew, Nathan, or my mum on the way. I’m still feeling absolutely wrung out after listening to the Sitzprobe rehearsal today. Even when they were going over and over the songs during the afternoon, I was close to tears each time. Inside I’m trembling as if I’m coming down with flu, and this has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I can still feel the strength in Evan’s arms as he held me, or that if I close my eyes, I can still capture the scent of his skin. Pulling my coat around me, I have a pleasant little shiver to myself.

  I wonder what it feels like to perform at that level. Does it shake you to the core as it has shaken me? I have to say that I’ve never been moved to the depths of this emotion when bashing out a few tunes on stage at the King’s Head, and it makes me realise that there’s a world of difference between what I’m trying to do and what Evan David has achieved.

  As I rattle along on the Tube, I come to my decision. I’m not sure that I can face the next instalment of my parents’ marital shenanigans, so opt to see my brother and Nathan instead. Normally, I see them every day, and they must be wondering what has happened to me. I can grab a quick cup of tea with Joe and have a freshen-up before my shift. Jumping off the Central Line at Lancaster Gate, I enjoy the cold evening air as I walk up Westbourne Terrace.

  Joe lives in a flat just along here. It’s quite a salubrious area, near Bayswater, but the endless, meandering road has an eclectic mix of high-end places, squats and properties that definitely should be condemned. My brother’s flat seems quite nice inside, if you don’t inspect it too closely. Joe keeps it clean and tidy—he has to because of Nathan’s condition. But the building is crumbling, the management company don’t care and there’s way too much damp for someone with a severe medical condition to be living there. The rent that Joe pays is horrendous—although it’s covered by housing benefit at the moment—and my dearest wish is that one day I will earn enough to be able to get them both out of there. The smart terraced house in Cricklewood that was previously his marital home had to be sold to pay off his dearly beloved ex-wife and her not inconsiderable debts.

  Joe will be delighted to hear that I’ve got another job—particularly as the job, at the moment, doesn’t seem to involve anything other than eating a nice breakfast and listening to music all day. I think Evan David was still miffed that I left after the rehearsals this afternoon, especially as I turned down a lift in his limo, but he didn’t mention dinner again. I’m going to have to get an advance on my wages from Ken the Landlord as I’m currently spending all my income on Tube fares.

  The front door of Joe’s building is broken, so I push inside and, as the lift is in a similar state of disrepair, climb the stairs. Some of the doors have black rubbish bags outside and there’s a general air of neglect. Had my parents dreamed of my brother and I going to university and getting great jobs and living in four-bedroom detached houses in suburbia, then they must be sorely disappointed. My clutch of middle-range GCSEs proved to be three quarters of useless when it came to getting a good job, but my two-year foundation course in Fashion and Textiles means that I do very tidy hems on curtains when required. And, as I’ve already explained, my poor brother’s steady job in the bank went out of the window when he was forced to become a full-time caregiver.

  I know that Mum worries that both of her children are living in homes that are one step up from slums, but house prices in London are so expensive that I’d have to move miles away from my family to ever have any hope of buying a place of my own and I couldn’t bear that. I want to be where I’ve grown up, with all my friends and loved ones around me. That’s surely more important than having your own pile of bricks and mortar. I wouldn’t want to be in, say, Northampton or Norfolk or Nottingham, when everyone else was here. Besides, I’m not sure that Joe and Nathan could manage without me. Wherever I went, I’d have to take them, too.

  I knock on the door of their flat and, moments later, Joe lets me in. ‘Hi, sis.’ He pulls me to him in a nonchalant hug. ‘Haven’t seen you for days. Thought you’d run off with a rich Arab sheik.’

  ‘I did consider it,’ I say, ‘but they couldn’t cope without me at the King’s. Betty’s on holiday and we’re short-staffed.’

  ‘Ah. Same old story,’ my brother commiserates.

  Nathan is sitting upright on the sofa, breathing rhythmically through his asthma inhaler. The big clear plastic globe that he uses as a spacer for the drugs nearly obscures his tiny face. I go over and subject him to a kiss, which he tolerates graciously as it’s only on his forehead. ‘How’s my favourite nephew?’

  He pulls his inhaler out. The tube has a smiley clown’s face on it. ‘I’m your only nephew.’

  His voice is always slightly husky due to his medication and is punctuated by a breathless wheeze.

  I hug him to me. ‘That’s why you’re my favourite.’

  Nathan giggles and, abandoning his inhaler, flops back onto a cushion. My nephew is possibly the nicest-natured child in the world. He has a mop of blond hair, blue eyes. Nathan looks and behaves like an angel. Despite the difficulties his illness brings, he’s never been one of these tantrum-y children that you see being dragged through supermarkets screaming—probably because he’s been aware from a ver
y young age that any overexertion brings on an asthma attack. He’s borne all his troubles with stoicism beyond his tender years and my heart breaks for him. When all his friends are running round like things possessed, Nathan sits quietly on the sidelines waiting until they remember to come back to him.

  I ruffle his hair. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Yuck,’ Nathan says.

  ‘Finish your medicine.’ Obediently, he takes up his puffer again.

  Following Joe back into the kitchen, I jerk my head back towards Nath. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Good,’ Joe tells me brightly. ‘Not bad.’ Some of the light goes out. He shrugs with a certain hopelessness and says dully, ‘You know how it is.’

  Only too well. Next to Joe on the work surface is the sizeable stash of drugs that follow him and my nephew wherever they go.

  ‘Has he been to school today?’

  ‘No.’ My brother shakes his head. ‘Not today.’

  My nephew misses a lot of school. Not through any fault of his own. The overstretched teachers at the school he attends have too much to do to keep their eyes permanently trained on him and his care is sometimes erratic. When he’s bad, Joe has no choice but to keep him at home. I wonder whether the hospital will ever be able to get his condition under control and whether he’ll be able to enjoy normal schooling one day. I do worry so much for what his future holds. I’m hanging on to the hope that he might suddenly and miraculously grow out of it.

  Nathan has been asthmatic since he was a baby. The so-called Wheezing Baby Syndrome he developed while still in his pram was rapidly diagnosed as something more serious. For a time it was thought he might have cystic fibrosis, and the stress of having a sick baby and spending too much of their time on hospital wards took its toll on my brother’s marriage. There was more than one argument about the fact that Carolyn had smoked twenty cigarettes a day throughout her pregnancy and continued to do so even when their child sounded like he was coughing his little life away. Joe might not feel the same but, personally, I was delighted when the selfish cow cleared off. I never knew what my brother saw in her—she might have had model girl looks but she was a right royal pain in the arse from day one. Mother material she was not. Confirmed by the fact that she has had no contact whatsoever with Nathan since she left, not even a birthday or Christmas card. How could anyone be so callous? Still, her loss is our gain.