‘He was?’
‘He wanted to know if he could expect you tomorrow.’
Tomorrow’s Sunday. I was hoping to see Joe and Nathan, who I’m neglecting at the moment. I chew at my lip. If Evan wants me to go to work tomorrow though, it means that I still have my job. This, I should be thankful for.
‘Are you still there?’ Rupert enquires.
‘Tomorrow’s fine,’ I say. ‘And I’m sorry that I didn’t make it today.’ I didn’t realise I had to work the weekend, too. I’ll let them assume that I was absent due to my continuing crisis. They’ll never find out I’d been skiving off to audition for Fame Game. Evan David might not have been so worried about me if he’d known where I was.
I hang up and turn to Carl. ‘It wasn’t fame and fortune knocking, but at least I have my job back.’
‘I don’t know whether to be disappointed or pleased,’ Carl says.
‘Me, neither.’ We rejoin my dad at the bar. Call me shallow but I’m getting quite a buzz from knowing that Evan David was thinking about me at all. I cup my chin in my hands and stare wistfully into the middle distance.
‘Fern!’ Ken the Landlord shouts. ‘You might have to take a pay cut if you don’t serve your customers.’
I shake myself out of my reverie and adopt a smiley pose behind my beer pump. ‘What can I get you?’
The tattooed man is back. He’s at the front of the queue and is eyeing my dad with deep suspicion. ‘A pint of Guinness.’
Oh, no. That will take ages to draw. Why couldn’t he have had a Diet Coke and then I could have had him away from the bar in a thrice.
‘La, la, la…’ my dad starts.
‘Shut up,’ I say.
‘Are you talking to me?’ the tattooed man growls.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘I think my father’s having one of his funny turns.’
I shoot Dad a glance that says, ‘you dare!’
‘La, la, la,’ my dad continues tunefully. ‘Lard arse.’
The tattooed man spins around. His face has gone very black and there’s a throbbing pulse started up in his thick neck. This does nothing to thwart my dad, who is in full flow. ‘La, la, la. You are a lard arse.’
‘And you’re a gobshite.’
I think I’m going to have a heart attack.
The tattooed man pushes my dad off his bar stool and onto the floor.
Dad looks up in surprise. ‘Fuck me,’ he says.
The punters of the King’s Head need no further encouragement. Someone shouts, ‘Fight!’ Within seconds, fists are flailing, glasses are flying. My dad, the instigator of it all, is crawling towards the front door, head down, bottom up.
Ken the Landlord phones the police. He looks over towards me. ‘Your dad’s barred.’
I fume silently. That’s not all he is.
Twenty-four
Dad and I aren’t speaking this morning. I do moody banging and crashing round the kitchen while he sits glumly at the table. Having crawled, unscathed, out of the fracas he caused at the pub, he isn’t sporting a black eye, but he jolly well deserves one if you ask me. How my mum has put up with him for so long, goodness only knows. If she doesn’t take him back soon, I might be tempted to black his eye for him.
It takes me most of my Tube journey to calm down, and then I have an unexpected surge of joy as I’m let into Evan David’s apartment. I can’t believe how pleased I am to be back here. It’s like stepping into an oasis of calm when all else around me is utter chaos. A waft of classical music greets me, and relief seeps out of me in an audible sigh. Evan is in black sweats and a T-shirt. He’s towelling his crop of dark hair dry with lazy, rhythmic movements. When he sees me, he stops in his tracks.
‘Hello,’ he says with a tight smile, draping the towel around his neck. He starts towards me and I think for a moment that he’s going to kiss me. Then he pulls up abruptly and we’re suddenly shy with each other.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Sorry about yesterday’s misunderstanding.’
‘I’m just glad everything’s okay.’
I’m not sure I’ll expand on my version of okay.
‘Is your father better?’
‘He’s improving,’ I reply somewhat cagily. I hope that by the time I get home this evening, my dad will have come to his senses and will have set about saving his marriage in a rational manner, rather than going down the imaginary mental-illness route. If not, I might have to drop into the conversation a few snippets of information about Mr ‘Omar Sharif’ Patel. ‘It’s good to be back.’
I feel as if I’ve been away from a treasured friend for weeks instead of having just returned after a couple of days AWOL from a new job.
‘There’s not much to do today,’ Evan tells me.
I wonder why Rupert wanted me here then. Perhaps Evan is so incapable of functioning in the real world that he needs some form of attendant 24/7.
‘Join me for breakfast?’
I shrug. My dad had eaten the last of the bread, so no toast for me or Squeaky the Hungry Mouse this morning. ‘I’d love to.’
‘I’ve had Dermuid set the table on the balcony.’
‘Sounds great.’ Why have none of my previous jobs been so civilised?
‘I took the liberty of ordering breakfast for you,’ he says.
Ah. So no bacon sarnie then.
Taking my arm, Evan leads me out onto the balcony. A table is set with a white linen cloth and proper linen napkins, not the crappy paper sort. Red roses fill a small glass bowl—the stamp of über-florist Jane Packer is all over them. I only know this because I’d seen a feature about her ages ago in a tattered magazine in the dentist’s waiting room. She has a certain style that’s instantly recognizable, and I wish that someday someone will be able to say the same thing about me.
The morning is still wearing its daybreak chill, but a giant patio heater is working full-time to dispel it. There’s no sign of the winter sun and the sky is white, dappled with grey clouds like a piebald horse. I keep my jacket on as Evan picks up a cashmere sweater from the back of one of the chairs and slips it on. It strikes me again just how handsome he is with his angular cheekbones that look as if they’ve been fashioned by a sculptor and full sensuous lips that are terribly reluctant to come to a smile. Today his grey eyes reflect the colour of the River Thames as it slides beneath the balcony. There’s an intensity to him, a contained power in his body waiting to be unleashed at any moment, as if it’s a struggle to hold all the strength of his powerful voice inside. An alpha male of the highest order. I thought I was immune to all that macho rubbish—but, hey, I was wrong. This man is opera’s answer to George Clooney.
We sit down, the warmth from the heater blowing over us, which, strangely, gives me goosepimples. Following an awkward moment of silence between Evan and me, Dermuid brings us breakfast.
‘Hi, Fern. Good to see you.’ He turns his face away from Evan David and winks at me. A lecherous comedy wink.
I smile back guilelessly. What did that mean? Is there a joke I’m missing out on? Dermuid drifts away, leaving us alone once more.
My attention is drawn to the feast laid out before us. Fresh berries and yoghurt to start. My word, I haven’t eaten this healthily in years. This beats long-life white bread with green, furry edges.
Evan David lift his glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and clinks it against mine. ‘Good to have you back.’
I’m already wading into my luscious strawberries. ‘Good to be here,’ I mumble.
I look around me, feeling overwhelmed by the setting. This is how movie stars take their breakfast or—it seems—opera stars. It makes my own harried life of constantly eating on the hoof look rather pathetic. Standing up stuffing a stale slice of toast into your face just can’t compete. I look over at Evan David. He seems inordinately pleased to see me. Does he treat all his personal assistants like this, I wonder?
Evan’s strawberries remain untouched. His wonderful eyes lock onto mine, his slow-burn smile widens and then the penny
drops. It drops from a great height. And lands with a loud clatter on the floor. So that’s what all this is about. I’m on the menu, too. My heart and my self-esteem plummet. He thinks once he’s plied me with a healthy brekky that he’s going to shag me! I sigh to myself. My goodness, I wish I’d got the details of this job sorted out before I started it. That will teach me to lurch into things unwittingly. Little did I realise that my duties would extend to keeping Evan David amused in all areas of his life. That smile suddenly takes on a new meaning.
My strawberry sticks in my throat. What am I going to do now? I’m out of my depth in this glamorous sort of lifestyle. I had no idea that this would be expected of me. Perhaps if I’d been working for a rock legend, I’d have seen it coming, but I thought opera bods were more moral than that. Just because they sing posher songs I guess that doesn’t make them any better than the rest of us. I somehow thought it would. It only goes to show I’m naive in the ways of the world. Or in the ways of this world. If someone behaved like this at the King’s Head, I’d more than likely deck them.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine. Fine.’ I start to cough. ‘Lodged strawberry.’
I fancied the pants off him five minutes ago. Five minutes ago when we were both single, red-blooded people who might move forward with a mutual attraction and a bit of respect. Now that I know he sees me as some sort of paid-up plaything to use as and when he sees fit, this casts a very different light on it. Plus I haven’t had sex in such a long time. There’s never been anyone I’ve fancied that much or who’s been prepared to give me some love or commitment. If I’ve held out for so long, I’m certainly not going to jump into bed with someone simply because it’s expected of me—even though he’s possibly the only person I have considered jumping into bed with in recent memory. What does he think I am, for goodness sake? Oh, God—what if he pounces on me? No wonder Dermuid was giving me that weird wink. He’s clearly seen it all before.
I cough again. If I’m not careful I’m going to compound my embarrassment by spraying half-chewed strawberry everywhere. Good grief, why was I born with my sophistication gene missing?
Evan David dabs at his mouth with his napkin and goes to stand up. There’s a concerned look on his face. ‘Do you want me to pat your back?’
‘No. No!’ Keep your damn hands off me, mate! ‘Loo. I need to go to the loo.’ Bolting for the patio doors, I slam them shut behind me.
‘Bathroom!’ I shout to Dermuid in panic and, without questioning my urgency, he points me in the right direction.
The nearest bathroom is a palatial marble room as big as my flat, of course. Grabbing a glass from the side of the double sinks, I fill it with water—once I manage to work out how the hi-tech taps work—and take a swig. My strawberry slips down smoothly out of harm’s way.
Red-eyed and flushed, I stare at myself in the vast expanse of mirror. What should I do about this? Is another disappearing act on the cards? I could probably sneak straight out of here without being noticed at all. Sneak out and never come back. But do I want that? This was shaping up to be a nice job. If I could have walked away from it so easily, I wouldn’t have come back here today. And, goodness only knows, I need the damn cash. But do I need it that much? I take a deep breath and realise that I’m probably overreacting. He’s hardly going to try to ravish me over his egg-white omelette, is he. If I can handle the frisky punters at the King’s Head, surely I can keep Evan David at arm’s length for a few weeks.
While I’m struggling with my moral dilemma, my mobile phone rings. This is a bad, bad time. Which probably means that it’s my dear old dad.
I snatch it up and snap, ‘Hello?’
‘Fern Kendal?’
At least it’s not my dad. ‘Yes.’
‘This is Alana from the Fame Game.’
My knees go weak and I stagger back until I’m perched on the edge of the enormous marble bath. I can’t remember who Alana was, but I’m sure she was one of the squad of polished PR people. ‘Hi,’ I breathe back. ‘Hello. Hi. Hi.’
‘We’ve got some news for you.’
My heart is racing, but I think my breathing has stopped.
‘We want you to go through to the final selection,’ she says brightly. ‘If you get through this, then you’ll be on the television show.’
Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Ohmigod. I think I say something banal into the phone but I’m not sure. We’ve done it. We’ve bloody well done it! Carl and I have done it. I can feel tears rolling down my cheeks. We’ve beaten all the Britney look-alikes with nonexistent bottoms and we’re through to the next round. I have to phone Carl. I have to phone him right now! He won’t believe it, either.
‘Fern?’ Alana is talking to me on the phone. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m just so…so…’ So pleased to see a glimmer of hope that could bring an end to my miserable life of drudgery. ‘I’m so thrilled.’
‘There’s just one thing,’ she says.
My tears of joy halt sharply. Isn’t there always ‘just one thing’? My euphoria seeps away like water down a plughole.
‘Go on,’ I prompt.
‘It’s your partner.’
‘Carl?’
‘There’s a bit of a problem,’ she tells me. ‘We think you should proceed as a solo artist.’
‘A solo artist?’
Alana clears her throat. ‘Carl has to go.’
I never expected this. Out of all the ‘just one things’ it might have been, I never thought they’d tell me that Carl and I couldn’t go through together.
‘We realise this will be difficult for you.’
‘I can’t,’ I blurt out. ‘I can’t go through without Carl. We’re a team. We’ve been together for years. He’d be devastated. What’s so wrong with him?’
‘At Fame Game we don’t feel that he fits with your image,’ Alana tells me coolly.
I don’t even have an image. I have one smart top which I wore for the bloody audition. Is that now my image?
‘We want to give you the best possible chance to succeed. Carl would only hold you back.’
My brain is whirring. Carl wouldn’t hold me back. He’s the one that bullied me and cajoled me into going for the audition. How can he be blamed for holding me back? Without him I’m a shambling wreck. Does this woman know that there are days when I wouldn’t even eat if it wasn’t for Carl? Of course she doesn’t. She just sees him as another guitar-playing hippy who can easily be disposed of. But I don’t see it like that. I don’t see it like that at all.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog that’s settled in it. First I seemed to have my chance and now there are catches, there are always bloody catches. My voice sounds feeble when I say, ‘I’m not sure that I could do it without him.’
There’s a long silence at the other end.
‘Well,’ Alana says, and I hear a deep breath. ‘One thing is for certain, you won’t be able to go through with him.’
My tears start to roll again.
‘There’s no negotiation on this. We want you to perform on your own or not at all.’
A sob catches in my throat. What do I do now? ‘I can’t do this to him,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t.’
‘You can have some time to think about this.’ Alana’s voice has softened slightly. ‘You must be absolutely sure that you want to pass up this chance. You have a great voice, Fern. Don’t blow this. We could make a huge difference to your music career. Call me back on this number tomorrow.’ She reels off a phone number. I have nothing to write it down on so rely on the fact that it will be logged in my phone’s memory rather than mine.
‘Thanks,’ I say dully, and then she hangs up.
I lean my head against the cold marble tiles. Music career. The words reverberate in my head. She thinks I’m good enough to have a music career. But not with my dearest, darling friend, Carl. I can’t get my brain around this. Is this the sort of ruthless world that I want to belong to? One that encourages you—no
, insists—that you dump your closest friends, the people who have helped you most, without a second thought. Suddenly, fending off Evan David seems the least of my worries. If only I knew him well enough to be able to talk to him about this, I wonder what he’d advise me to do? Perhaps he wouldn’t see it as a problem. To be the biggest and best star in the world, do you always have to trample on other people?
Carl will be crushed. I can’t think of a worse thing that I’ll ever have to tell him. Or perhaps I won’t tell him at all. Perhaps I’ll just pretend that the Fame Game judges thought that neither of us could make the grade. It would mean that I’d have to pass up my one slender chance of stardom, but if I have to sacrifice that, then so be it. I’d rather have my own dreams dashed than callously ditch Carl. I nibble nervously at my nail. That would be the best thing to do, I’m absolutely sure.
Twenty-five
I don’t know how I’m going to get through the rest of the day—or even through breakfast, come to that. But I do. In a slight daze. But I get through it, somehow. Perhaps Evan David senses a change in my demeanour when I come back to the table because we both hurry through our food and he keeps the conversation to the banalities of his schedule—frantic as always—and then he disappears into the depths of the apartment for the rest of the morning.
I sit at the desk, open the laptop and stare at it, doing nothing remotely useful. All I can think of is the ultimatum, delivered by Alana, from the powers-that-be at Fame Game. Carl has to go. Hours pass and I still haven’t come to a decision and I still haven’t done any work, but the papers are all rearranged neatly on the desk. Eventually, Evan David comes out of his lair again and prowls around the room.
‘I’m singing at the Royal Variety Performance tonight,’ he tells me.
And if I’d been paying any attention to his diary at all then I would have realised that. It’s the one time in the year when the Royal family are wheeled out to watch the cream of the British entertainment business be put through their paces. Millions watch it on television. It’s probably one of the few times I’ve seen Evan David perform before. This must be a big night for him and yet he’s as cool as a cucumber.
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