Welcome to the Real World

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Come on then.’ Carl pulls me to my feet. ‘If you’re not going to ravish me on this bench, then we’ll go and dish out carbohydrates to people who probably don’t need them.’

  We walk back towards the railings. ‘I won’t forget this, Carl.’

  ‘I should think not,’ he says. ‘You owe me.’

  I pull him close to me. ‘Thank you for being you. You’re so lovely. I’d never have the confidence to do this if you weren’t behind me.’

  ‘And you’d never get back over those railings, either.’ He holds out his hands and I put a foot into them, while he hoists me over.

  My friend puts the remaining pizza inside the box on the back of the scooter and we both climb on.

  ‘Did they give any reason why?’ Carl asks without looking at me. ‘It wasn’t my playing?’

  ‘Of course not. You know you could give Eric Clapton a run for his money. It was your image,’ I tell him. ‘It didn’t fit with my image.’

  ‘Wow,’ he breathes. ‘I didn’t know either of us had an image.’

  ‘You mean that seventies-rocker look is an accident?’

  Carl tuts ruefully. ‘If I’d known they were going to be so shallow, maybe I would have had a haircut.’

  ‘When you were buying me that knockout glittery top, maybe you should have got yourself one, too.’

  ‘Nah,’ Carl says. ‘It wouldn’t have suited me.’ He pushes the scooter back from the kerb and glances over his shoulder at me. ‘I know because I tried it on first.’

  I punch him.

  ‘If they’d ridiculed my talent, that really would have hurt.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. They just don’t appreciate sheer genius when they see it. All they see is an outdated denim jacket and hair in need of gel.’

  ‘This look will be back in fashion one day,’ Carl advises me. ‘And then who’ll be laughing?’

  Before I can comment further on his choice of clothing, we set off. Whizzing through the streets, I wish I knew what Carl is really thinking about this. I wish I could make sense of my own thoughts, too. And then I know that I have to do this. I have to do it for me. I have to do it for both of us. Carl is right. As he always is.

  Minutes later, we pull up outside one of the few rundown houses in among the posh terraced homes of Haverstock Hill, and Carl turns to me. ‘You okay?’

  I nod. Carl takes the pizza and rings the bell. Eventually a dishevelled young guy opens the door. Possibly a student. Definitely pissed. Carl hands over the pizza. The guy claps him on the back as if he’s a long-lost brother. My friend wanders back to the scooter, a bemused look on his face.

  ‘My, my,’ he says, ‘here we are. You’ve got the pop world at your feet and I’ve just been given a ten quid tip for a half-eaten pizza by a drunk. I think that makes us quits.’

  He looks down at the crumpled ten pound note in his hand and gives me a brave smile. Which makes me break down and cry again.

  Twenty-seven

  Carl drops me off at my flat. Dad has gone out, thank goodness. Probably in search of a pub that won’t refuse his custom. This, at least, means that I have the bathroom and the trickle of hot water from the shower to myself. Taking advantage of this, I luxuriate under it for the three minutes it takes for the water to turn icy cold again. Ali keeps promising to do something about the dodgy boiler, but, like most men, his well-intentioned promises lack a certain practical element.

  Squeaky is sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, emboldened by the absence of my dad’s presence. Dad not only abuses my mouse with a stream of obscenities but has also taken to throwing inanimate objects at him whenever he appears, no matter how strongly I object. My dad, of course, blames this on his fake Tourette’s syndrome. In return for Squeaky’s continued loyalty as my ad-hoc pet mouse, I break off a square of my emergency bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate, hidden in the recesses of my cupboards, for him. Ignore everything you’ve ever seen in kids’ cartoons, mice—or at least this one—don’t give a fig for a triangular lump of cheddar cheese. Squeaky will, however, jump through hoops for a bit of Mars bar. Perhaps Squeaky’s a female mouse, rather than a bloke, and it’s that time of the month. Whichever sex he is, he now holds the chocolate possessively in his tiny claws and nibbles frantically, his dark eyes wide with apprehension. I worry about Squeaky. He isn’t like one of those silky, pink-pawed, cutesy field mice with a perfect, twitching snout. No, he’s a scrawny, battle-scarred, edgy city mouse who looks as if he’s been chewed up and spat out by one too many cats. Danger waits for him at every turn. Relaxation is as alien a concept to Squeaky as it is to me. Perhaps that’s why I have such an affinity with him. Both of us world-weary city-dwellers, scratching out a living. This is the only time I get to stop and think, when I’m watching this tiny mouse and his fight for survival in a harsh environment. I wonder where he sleeps. Not in a small comfy bed with a mouse-size duvet, as Jerry of Tom and Jerry would have us believe. I’m anxious about where Squeaky goes at night. Carl says I’m too soft, but he understands nevertheless.

  Squeaky finishes his chocolate then disappears and I get on with my chores. There’s a message on my phone to say that Joe and Nathan are at Mum’s place, so if I get a scoot on, I’ll still just about have time to see them before heading back to Evan’s apartment. With trembling fingers, I call Alana at the Fame Game and tell her that I’m going to proceed to the next round all by myself. She sounds suitably delighted—having manipulated me so skilfully, she should give herself a pat on the back—and tells me that the next audition is the following Saturday. Yet another day to try to wangle off. I know that Carl will want me to practise every night, which will eat further into my rapidly dwindling time. It’s going to have to be when I get back from the pub, as I currently don’t have another spare minute to my name. I can’t even bear the thought of failing at this now that he’s put so much faith in me. I should also find time to pray to the god of pop stars to allow me to join their ranks.

  Running round, I put some slap on and then the fab top that Carl bought me, together with my very smartest trousers. Hope this is an adequate outfit for a Royal Variety Performance. If it isn’t, it’s hard lines, because it’s the only one I’ve got. I check myself out in the mirror. Once upon a time, I used to think that I looked young for my age—in fact, people used to regularly comment on it. Not anymore though. My age is definitely catching up with me. Too many late nights and too many early mornings are starting to take their toll on me. Apparently, if you earn a salary of more than £150,000 a year, it can add up to three years to the length of your life. Less than £15,000 and you’re looking at shortening your time on this mortal coil by a good two years. I’m afraid I definitely fall into the latter category. And I’m sure if you have to work at three jobs to even earn that measly amount of money then the sums are even worse.

  I put on my coat, wishing I had a posh one, pick up my bag and set off at a brisk pace for Frodsham Court. The warmth embraces me as Mum opens the door.

  ‘Hello, darlin’,’ she says, and gives me a hug.

  We’ve always been a close family and it breaks my heart to think that Dad is somewhere doing who knows what, outside of our cosy circle. I open my mouth to speak.

  ‘If you’re going to say anything about your father, then don’t,’ Mum warns. ‘He’s got no one to blame for this but himself.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything about Dad.’ The coat gets shrugged off. I was, but I hadn’t bargained on my mum’s mind-reading skills. ‘But now that you’ve mentioned him, I think I should. He’s struggling without you, Mum. Really struggling.’

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Cup of tea?’

  I give up the fight, realising that I’m never likely to win. ‘Yeah. A quick one. I haven’t got much time.’

  In the lounge, Joe and Nathan are already tucking into chocolate biscuits.

  ‘Hey.’ I go over and kiss them both and then slide onto the rather threadbare sofa next to Nathan. He’s looking pale and drawn. Rath
er than devouring the biscuit as most boys of his age would, he’s nibbling at it listlessly. Nathan doesn’t eat well because of his asthma. I don’t know if it’s the drugs or what, but I’ve yet to see him wolf down a plate of food like most boys his age do. I stroke his fringe from his forehead. There are dark shadows under his eyes. When his chest is bad, his sleep is disturbed, too. Come to think of it, Joe looks exhausted as well. ‘How’s my favourite boy?’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, with an effort.

  I look over at Joe, who gives me a resigned shrug. Same old, same old, I imagine. ‘Tired, tetchy, but not completely downtrodden,’ my big brother tells me.

  For whatever reason, the doctors at the hospital are still struggling to get Nathan’s asthma under control. And, for once, it isn’t a failing of the NHS—the staff at the asthma clinic are brilliant with Nath and have tried everything at their disposal. My poor nephew seems doomed to huff and puff his way through life no matter how many drugs they pump into him.

  ‘I’ve got a favour to ask of you, sis.’

  Joe knows that I never deny him anything and, consequently, he doesn’t ask me to do too much for him unless it’s important. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘I’ve got the chance of some work next week,’ he tells me. ‘Nice job. Cash in hand.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘But I need you to collect Nath from school and look after him until I get home.’

  ‘You know that I’ve got a daytime job myself at the moment,’ I remind him. ‘Can’t Mum do it?’

  Mum sweeps into the lounge carrying a tray bearing the tea pot. ‘I’m away.’

  ‘Away?’

  ‘I’m off to Brighton for a few days.’

  ‘Brighton,’ I say. ‘Why Brighton? What’s there to do in Brighton?’

  ‘Lots of things,’ Mum says as she pours our tea. ‘The nightlife’s wonderful.’

  Joe and I exchange a glance. Nightlife? Why would she be interested in nightlife?

  ‘Who are you going with? How long for?’

  ‘Now, Little Miss Nosy.’ My mum gives me a look. Normally she would be gushing to tell us about any organised break, not see it as an infringement of her liberties to have to share the details. ‘I’m going on my own. And I’m going for a three-day break.’

  My mum has never, ever taken herself off for a three-day break before.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I’ve forgotten the milk.’

  When she pops back to the kitchen, I turn to Joe and lower my voice. ‘Do you think she’s acting strangely?’

  ‘First she kicks out her husband of forty-odd years and then she takes off on a mini-break by herself?’ My brother purses his lips. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think she’s acting strangely at all.’

  My dad going to pot is bad enough, I couldn’t cope if my mum did, too. What’s happened to the backbone of this family? The one that previously saw us through all manner of adversity. I hate it now that we’ve moved onto this shaky, shifting ground.

  ‘Have you seen the new Mr Patel at the newsagent’s?’ I ask Joe.

  ‘He was here when we arrived,’ Joe whispers.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Having tea. He ate the last of Mum’s homemade cakes.’

  That to me is damning evidence enough. No one gets their hands on my mother’s butterfly fancies without good reason.

  ‘I think there’s something funny going on,’ I say.

  ‘Where?’ Mum asks as she comes back in with the milk.

  Joe and I fidget guiltily.

  ‘At work.’ I hope that Nathan doesn’t spill the beans. ‘Ask me where I’m going tonight,’ I say to change the subject.

  Now I have Mum’s attention.

  ‘To the Royal Variety Performance!’ I announce.

  ‘I wondered why you were looking so spruce,’ she says.

  ‘What’s that?’ Nathan asks.

  What exactly do you have to do to impress a five-year-old these days? ‘It’s a concert where the queen goes along to watch.’

  ‘Oh,’ Nathan says. ‘Will you sit next to her?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Oh.’ My nephew’s interest wanes now that he knows I’m unlikely to be in the royal box hobnobbing with our sovereign, and his eyes drift back to the television.

  ‘You can watch it tonight, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’ll try to park myself in front of a camera and give you a wave.’

  Mum fusses with her hair. ‘I can’t do that, love. Not tonight.’

  Joe and I give her a questioning look.

  ‘I’m going out,’ she says and then makes it clear she’s not going to be drawn further. This is not looking good. Where is my mum skulking off to that she can’t tell us? I’d like to bet that Mr Patel has had his hands on more than her fancies. It’s hard to imagine my mum as a wanton sex kitten—she’s more into bedsocks than bondage—but there’s no doubt that she’s up to something. Dad would be frantic if he had any idea of what was going on in his own home. I don’t want to be the one to break it to him.

  ‘Set the video,’ I say crisply.

  ‘That was always your dad’s job,’ she admits, slightly cowed. ‘I don’t know how to work it.’

  Well, I’m not going to offer to do it. If she prefers to go out gallivanting with her bit of stuff rather than stay in and see if her only daughter pops up on television, then let her suffer.

  ‘So what about Nathan?’ Joe interrupts my thoughts. ‘I don’t want to let this guy down. If I do a good job, maybe he’ll give me some more work.’

  I’m torn. How can I let Evan David slip to the bottom of my list again? Yet if I don’t help Joe then he won’t be able to take this job, and I know how desperate he is for the cash. Plus I love to spend time with Nathan. I’ve seen far too little of him during the last week.

  ‘I’ll be home in time for your shift at the King’s Head,’ he says. ‘I swear. And I’ll be for ever in your debt.’

  I throw up my hands. ‘Okay, sweet-talker. I’ll ask if I can get away for a couple of hours,’ I promise as another part of my brain tells me that I must be mad to agree to this. Will Evan David really understand why I’m having to skive off to collect my nephew? Do small children even exist in his world? ‘I’ll pick him up from school and take him home.’ Home to that dismal, damp flat…

  I realise that I’ve been so mixed up in worrying about everyone else that I’ve forgotten to tell them my other news. ‘Hey,’ I say, feeling a surge of excitement. ‘I’m through to the next round on the Fame Game. They called to tell me today. One more hurdle and then I could be on the telly.’

  Nathan cheers and throws his arms round me. ‘You’re very clever, Aunty Fern.’

  ‘Cool,’ Joe says. ‘A rock chick for a sister. My street cred will go up no end. Carl must be pretty pleased with himself, too.’

  And somehow, I can’t find it in my heart to tell them that to do this, I’ve had to dump my dear Carl. I realise that Mum hasn’t yet said anything. ‘Mum?’

  She is frowning. ‘And when exactly are you going to find time to be a pop star, young lady?’ she tuts.

  And although I laugh, I wonder whether she might be right.

  Twenty-eight

  I make it to Evan David’s apartment by the skin of my teeth—thanks to delays on the Tube due to signalling failures. These are the things that trouble people in my world and I now know why Evan David travels everywhere by limousine.

  He’s pacing the floor when I arrive. He gives my outfit the once-over but doesn’t say anything about it, and I’m not sure whether this is a good sign or a bad one. His face is impassive.

  ‘You made it here,’ is all he says.

  ‘Yes.’ I’m still breathless and all my rehearsed apologies blaming the Tube for my lateness go completely out of my head.

  ‘Come on, Rupert!’ he shouts and his agent appears at his side.

  Without further ado, we collect the pile of bags and Evan’s suit-holder and head for the door. Then I’m whisked into the aforementioned waiting limo
—the front one in a short convoy of two—and we’re off to the London Pavilion Theatre where the Royal Variety Performance is being held this year. The Pavilion is the home of the British Opera Company and they’re celebrating their centenary—one of the main reasons they’re having Evan David headline the bill this year. As well as the fact that he’s an international megastar, of course. Plus it’s common knowledge that he’s the queen’s favourite tenor.

  I don’t know what to say to Evan on the journey, so say nothing—but I’m more than aware that we’re alone together. The neo-classical facade of the theatre looms ahead of us and the limo swings soundlessly to a halt. We jump out at the stage door. I can’t believe that this is the second time in a week that I’m arriving somewhere in a limo. Oh, how I could get used to this life! The pavement is lined with barriers, and crowds are screaming for Evan David. He gives them a cursory wave and one of his reluctant smiles. But all women like a man who plays hard to get, don’t we? And, so, the women scream even louder. From the car behind, Izak, the man-mountain of a security manager, emerges and hustles us into the theatre. I scuttle behind Evan, clutching his bags. Rupert follows in our wake. Evan is greeted like royalty and then we’re all shown through a maze of corridors to a door with a big star on it marked Mr David’s Dressing Room. A security guard stands at the door; Izak ushers him away and takes over.

  ‘Good to have you back here,’ the theatre manager says.

  ‘It’s good to be back.’ Evan clasps his hand and then turns to me. ‘This is my assistant, Fern. I’d like her to watch the show from the wings.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mr David. Just let me know if there’s anything else you require.’

  How I wish people would speak to me like that. The manager doesn’t even glance in my direction, I’m so below his radar. Evan sweeps into the dressing room with me in tow. I’d expected it to be more palatial, but it’s clean, comfortable and functional. A chestnut-coloured leather sofa graces one wall. A small shower cubicle is slotted into the other side. It’s a good job that Pavarotti isn’t headlining, as he’d never fit into it. Hollywood-style lights surround a huge make-up mirror in front of which a make-up box waits patiently. There’s a tiny television and a giant bouquet of lilies.