This newsagent’s shop has been here for as long as I can remember, and my mum, Mrs Amy Kendal, has been one of the fixtures for just as long. It’s a tiny place, every spare inch crammed with sweets, birthday cards and magazines. The shop has a long history of loyal customers even though it has looked like it needed a good clear-out for the last twenty years. When I round the corner, I’m astonished to see that a man in overalls is painting the façade an attractive shade of blue. I’m astonished not because it isn’t long overdue, but because someone is actually doing it. The man is whistling as he works and wishes me a good morning.
My mum is behind the counter when I swing into the shop, and something about her demeanour stops me in my tracks. Usually, she wears a work-weary expression, there’s a permanent slump to her shoulders and a frown comes easier to her than a smile. Today, by contrast, she is looking positively sprightly. She’s wearing make-up—something she saves for high days and holidays—and for some reason, this appears to be a blue eye shadow day. It looks as if she’s been to the hairdresser’s, too, as there are unnaturally tight curls in her freshly dyed hair. A red jumper that normally languishes at the back of her wardrobe—‘for best’—has also been pressed into service on a weekday. All of this is very strange—nearly as strange as my father shouting obscenities every five seconds.
As I approach, my mum pats her hair self-consciously. ‘Hello, darlin’.’
‘Mum?’ I can’t help but blink in surprise. ‘What’s got into you?’
She looks around shiftily. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You look great…not that you don’t always look great,’ I blunder on, ‘but you don’t normally look this great to go to work.’
‘That’s because I’ve got more time to spend on myself now that I’m not having to look after your lazy, good-for-nothing father.’
This is not a good set-up for me pleading a case for him to return to the marital bed.
‘I thought I might even take myself off and have one of those facials,’ she tells me with a rather defiant nod.
This is my mother who eschews all types of face cream—even Nivea—as a profligate waste of money. Then I look round the shop. Someone has definitely tidied it up. Dust no longer lurks in every corner. The magazines lining the racks somehow look more perky. The ancient birthday cards that rotated forlornly in a wire carousel have been swept away, and brightly coloured ones in protective plastic wrappings have taken their place. Gone is the cracked lino, giving way to that wood-effect laminate stuff.
‘We’ve got new owners,’ my mum says in answer to my questioning look. ‘They’re doing the place up. Mr Patel—Tariq—has big ideas.’
‘Tariq?’
‘My new boss.’ Mum’s face takes on a girly flush.
Oh, no. Oh, very no. My heart drops to my shoes and there’s a bad, bad feeling in my bones. Tell me this is all a terrible dream. Not only has my dad developed an imaginary illness, but my mum now has a fancy man.
‘Mum,’ I say pointedly. ‘I’ve come to talk to you about Dad.’
‘I’ve nothing to say, darlin’.’
‘He’s in a terrible state.’
‘That’s his own fault,’ she tells me with a startling lack of sympathy. My mum is one of life’s carers—the Florence Nightingale of Frodsham Court flats. When did she get this sudden personality transplant?
‘I’m sure he’s having some sort of mental breakdown.’
Mum shakes her head, unmoved by my plight. ‘All this rubbish about him being ill is just another one of his silly scams. I’ve given him enough chances over the years. He’s used them all up.’
‘I just wish you’d see him.’
‘No,’ she says in a voice that would be difficult to argue with. ‘Look, darlin’, I’m sorry that you’ve been landed with him. But me and your father, we’re over. He’s not coming home no matter what he does.’
At that moment, a stately Asian man comes out of the back room and stands next to my mother in a proprietorial manner. He has a look of Omar Sharif about him—eyes that are limpid brown pools, skin the colour of caffè latte, strong wavy hair flecked with silver—and even I, a good thirty years younger than him, can see the attraction.
‘This is my daughter, Mr Patel.’ My mum’s voice has suddenly gone all breathy.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Fern. I have heard a lot about you.’ I wish I could say the same about him. My mum has been extraordinarily quiet about the subject of her new boss until now. This is the first I’ve heard about it, and yet normally she’s so keen to share all the gossip from the shop.
He takes my hand and brushes it against his lips, but not in a smarmy way. Hmm. Charm personified. My mum giggles alarmingly. If only my dad could see this, he would let out a stream of blood-curdling expletives that he wouldn’t have to put on.
Nineteen
When 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?’
R
upert 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 England—Tosca in Puccini’s opera of the same name—she 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 her—as a woman—very 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 with—and, 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 audience—but 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 fluent—it 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 notice—a 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 long—eventually 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 him—and it was likely that she was—the 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.’
Twenty
‘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 kitchen—and 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 night—it 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, nothi
ng 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.
Twenty-one
The 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 snaking—anaconda-size—down 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 are—and 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.
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