‘Take those out,’ Evan instructs me. ‘The pollen affects my voice.’
I whip the lilies out quick-smart and find a place to put them in the corridor where no one will kick them over. By the time I open the door again, he’s stripping off his clothes. His jacket and shirt have already gone and he’s barefoot and undoing his belt. I freeze in the doorway. What am I supposed to do now?
‘Come in, come in,’ Evan barks. ‘Close the damn door. I don’t want the world to see me in my underwear.’
I’m not sure I want to see him in his underwear, either, at this particular moment in time. I slide into the room and close the door behind me. ‘Sit down, sit down, for heaven’s sake,’ he says. ‘We’ve got a while yet.’
He’s getting very tetchy and I wonder whether this is usual before his performances. Is it at this time his famous short fuse will blow? I do as I’m told and sit down. If I could make myself invisible, I would.
‘Hand me my trousers, Fern.’
I stand up again and take Evan’s dinner suit out of the leather suit-holder and hand the trousers to him, which he slips on. At this distance I can’t help but notice that he has a finely honed torso. Broad shoulders, toned pecs, bulging biceps. It’s getting a bit hot in here. I wonder if Evan wants a window opened?
There’s a knock at the door and I open it again. A pretty young woman bearing a workman’s toolbox appears.
‘Hi, Mr David.’
‘Ah, Becks.’ They exchange an air kiss.
‘Becks does my make-up when I’m in Britain. We go back a long way,’ he says to me over his shoulder. And I mentally add yet another minion to his ever-growing list. This guy probably employs more people than Marks & Spencer. ‘This is my assistant, Fern. She’s standing in until Erin can join me.’
Becks puts down her box of tricks and sets about her preparations. ‘I heard that Erin was unwell.’
‘She’s got chicken pox.’
‘Oh. Poor love.’
I don’t know whether she means me for standing in or Erin with the chicken pox. ‘Hi,’ I say. We shake hands.
‘Ready for some slap?’ Becks asks Evan.
He sits down at the make-up mirror and she slips a white, wide-necked T-shirt over his head, then fusses with foundation and sponges which she pulls from her toolbox. I retreat to the sofa to watch the process of transformation.
Evan sits perfectly still with his eyes closed, hands in a relaxed steeple while Becks fusses and flirts with him. They’re clearly comfortable in each other’s company and she has a very soothing effect on him. I wish I could do the same. He makes me such a nervous wreck that I can’t behave normally in his presence. She coos and cossets him while she takes her time turning him an alarming shade of orange.
‘Switch the television on, Fern,’ Evan tells me. ‘The performance will be starting soon.’ When Becks has finished, she air kisses him and takes her leave.
Evan comes to join me on the sofa. On the television, the crowds waiting on St Martin’s Lane go wild as the royal Rolls-Royce pulls up outside the theatre. The queen and Prince Philip emerge, waving regally to their subjects. Our monarch is resplendent in white brocade and a glittering diamond tiara. They glide up the red carpet and into the theatre.
For the next hour we watch as the show unfolds, sitting in Evan’s dressing room. It’s a bit like watching it at home, except occasionally Evan will stand up, pace the room and run through a few scales or bars of his aria. Sharing the billing tonight are Michael Bublé, Donny Osmond, Gwen Stefani, Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne, the Cirque du Soleil, Katie Melua and sketches from hit shows The Producers and Billy Elliot The Musical. I sit transfixed that this is all going on outside our dressing room door. You cannot believe how much I want to be a part of this world. My stomach flutters with anxiety. The next act is the winner of last year’s Fame Game competition—a cheeky Irish chappy called Thadeus, who captured the nation’s heart. His single, ‘I Can’t Do This Without You’, is currently at number one in the charts. There’s a cheer from the audience. My heart leaps in my chest. I can hardly dare think this, but play my cards right at the Fame Game audition and this could be me.
‘Talentless shit,’ Evan David sighs next to me. ‘Look at him.’
Thadeus is dancing about on the stage, looking a bit demented I have to admit.
‘Why does everyone think they can be a singer these days?’
My mouth drops open, but before I’m required to speak, Evan David continues, ‘Do you know how long it took me to train as an opera singer?’
I shake my head, but it’s clear that my input really isn’t required.
‘Eight years. Eight long years. Working my way up, being paid a pittance. Giving up all of my social life, sacrificing relationships to learn roles. Spending everything I ever earned on vocal coaching to learn my craft and improve my technique. The voice of a tenor is not born, it has to be moulded, sculpted, built into a great instrument. It takes hours and hours of endless work, refining, honing, to make it as perfect as humanly possible. I have studied and practised and lived the roles that suit my voice, making them mine. This is why I bring La Scala to a standing ovation. Do you know the things I’ve given up to be where I am today?’ He sneers at Thadeus on the screen. ‘And now they want to make it overnight. The women do nothing but flaunt themselves half-naked. The men think they can make up with hair gel what they lack in talent. What does it matter if they can’t hit the right notes? They’ll edit that out in the studio.’ Evan David points a finger at the screen. ‘He can’t even sing live.’
Now that I look closely I can see that Thadeus is, as accused, miming to the music. His lips are going up and down not quite in time with the words on his backing track. I feel embarrassed for him. He fought so hard to get through to the end of the Fame Game, supposedly singing live every week to avoid being thrown off the show, and now he can’t cut the mustard without faking it. I sink lower into the sofa. No wonder Evan David feels free to ridicule him.
‘I don’t blame the kids,’ he says. ‘It’s these bloody facile talent shows. They give everyone the impression that they only have to wiggle their butts to be famous. No one wants to put in the hard work anymore. No one wants to bleed for it.’
I want to tell him that queuing up in the rain with thousands of other hopefuls just to get your one minute chance of fame isn’t a barrel of laughs and that for people like me it might be the only opening we’ll ever get. But then, I guess that isn’t quite the same as eight years of relentless struggle when you’re clearly gifted.
He looks at Thadeus again. ‘Next year, no one will remember his name.’
It makes me want to cringe. And I try very hard to dredge out the name of the guy who won on the series before Thadeus, but I can’t. His name has gone for ever. A one-hit wonder who’s headed straight back to Oblivion City and a lifetime of, ‘Didn’t you used to be…?’ I think of Carl struggling to make ends meet doing sets at the King’s Head and dodging the traffic on a scooter to deliver pizza. That’s real life. That’s my life. Is the pursuit of this stupid dream the reason why I’ve sold my most important friendship down the river?
Thankfully, before I can dwell on this further, there’s a knock on the door. ‘Fifteen minutes to go, Mr David.’
He stands up and stretches. ‘I’d better get dressed now, Fern.’
Evan slips off the white T-shirt and I go to get his wing-collared dress shirt. He’s bare-chested again and I can feel myself gulp as I slip the soft material over his shoulders. He buttons it briskly and, with fingers that are more trembly than I’d like, I help him to fasten his cufflinks. I hand over his bow tie. Evan swivels it expertly until he produces a perfect knot and then I hold open his jacket for him while he shrugs it on.
‘How do I look?’
Reaching up, I smooth down the shoulders of his jacket and check that the collar of his shirt is sitting properly. I give the bow tie a minuscule tweak to make sure it’s absolutely perfectly in place. There are pin-t
ucks on the front of his shirt and, before I realise what I’m doing, I run my fingers over them so that they’re all lying straight. I can feel the heat of Evan’s body through the fabric and my hands stop abruptly in their journey, coming to rest on his chest.
‘Please continue.’ Evan gazes down at me. ‘I was quite enjoying it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I was getting a bit carried away. Over-doing my duties. You look fine as you are. Wonderful.’
His dark eyes twinkle and I can tell why he’s a pin-up on a million office walls across the globe. ‘Thank you.’
‘I hope it goes well tonight.’
‘I’m sure it will.’
I know that Evan David has performed a million times before, but my hands are clammy with nerves for him. I feel exactly like I do when I have to take Nathan to the asthma clinic. I wish it was me that had to go through it, not him.
He tugs his shirt cuffs into place. ‘We never did discuss whether that was you singing before you had to dash off.’
‘Yes,’ I confess. ‘It was me.’
‘Do you have aspirations to become a singer?’
I can feel myself burning up. After what he’s just said about Thadeus, I’d be mad to admit to anything. He raises a questioning eyebrow at me.
‘What? Like the sad muppets on the Fame Game?’ My laugh is too loud and too shrill. ‘No. No way. I save my singing for the shower. And maybe the odd family wedding if I’ve had enough to drink.’
‘You have a good voice,’ Evan says. ‘It shows promise. We were harmonising perfectly.’
And now I know that he’s spinning me a line. Oh, yes, me and Evan David in perfect harmony. Before I’m subjected to further humiliation, there’s another knock. ‘We’re ready for you, Mr David.’
Evan David takes my hand and puts my fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. ‘Wish me luck,’ he murmurs.
And I would if I could only find my voice.
Twenty-nine
The spangly curtain goes up and the crowd roar their approval. They’re on their feet applauding before he’s uttered a note. He takes a bow before the royal box and then walks to the front of the stage. My insides are in a thousand knots.
The audience take their seats again and fall into a reverent hush. All the fidgeting stops—even the obligatory round of coughing has ceased. Rows and rows of the beautiful people have fallen under his spell. And they’re not alone. I, too, am transfixed. Evan lets out his first soaring note and I suck in all my breath. His enraptured audience collectively hold theirs.
As the beautiful sounds of ‘Nessun Dorma’ fill the auditorium, you could hear a pin drop. Evan’s control is perfect, he has the audience eating out of his hand and I’m not sure that a thousand singing lessons could ever produce something this good. What Evan has is star quality—the elusive X-factor that so few people possess and, yet, when you experience it you know that you truly are in the presence of something very special. That’s something that you either have or you don’t. No one on this earth can teach you how to be extraordinary.
Evan’s aria reaches its haunting crescendo and the audience are on their feet again. Tears spring to my eyes and I join the tumultuous clapping. He looks towards the wings, and I’ll swear that our eyes meet and he smiles just for me. Then he turns and takes a last long, low bow towards the royal box where the queen and the duke of Edinburgh are sitting. From here, I can see that even the queen has been moved by his performance. Although she hasn’t jumped up like the hoi polloi, her hands are raised high in the air as she applauds him.
Every time he goes to leave the stage, the crowd cry for more. Evan is the last performer and his standing ovation lasts for a full five minutes before the curtain comes down for a final time.
He comes towards me and I can’t help myself; without thinking what I’m doing, I rush to him and throw my arms around his neck. After a moment’s hesitation, I feel his warm arms slide around my waist and he hugs me to him.
‘That was fantastic,’ I say. ‘Truly fantastic. You’re fantastic.’
Evan looks down at me. I can’t read what is in his eyes, and then the stage manager comes for him, clipboard in hand.
‘You’re needed back on stage, Mr David.’
We break our embrace and Evan walks briskly back onto the stage where the other artists are assembling, ready to meet the queen. He joins his fellow performers, all of whom he has knocked into a cocked hat. And I’m not the only one who thinks that. A shimmering Elizabeth II is escorted onto the front of the stage by a dozen toadies. It takes an age for our monarch to move along the line of eager, waiting performers, offering each one a word of thanks or encouragement, pressing the flesh as the royals do so well. And then it’s Evan’s turn and the queen lingers to chat with him, clearly thrilled by his performance, and I guess it’s never going to hurt to have a fan like that. Eventually, the queen takes her leave of the theatre and the audience claps as the string of completely hyper artists depart the stage in her wake.
Evan comes back to me. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he says, and he takes me by the arm as we retreat to the dressing room amid much back-slapping and praise. Despite his moving performance, he’s a lot calmer than I am. I’m still shaking inside, and I wonder how people manage to come down after something which must take so much out of them. Perhaps that’s why so many artists turn to drink and drugs and goodness only knows what else. I didn’t see much evidence of booze in Evan David’s dressing room. He seems to thrive on nothing more shocking than green algae drinks and water.
We close the door behind us, blocking out the frantic hubbub backstage. After the chaos, the silence in here is all-encompassing. I lean against the door and sigh heartily.
‘Can you put my clothes out while I take a quick shower?’
I nod wordlessly. What happens now?
Evan starts to undress again. ‘Perhaps we can go somewhere for dinner,’ he says, as he undoes his bow tie. ‘Are you hungry?’
I nod again.
‘I know somewhere we can go. Somewhere quiet.’ He slips off his jacket, and I busy myself with gathering up the clothes that he discarded earlier.
Suddenly, Evan comes to me and stills my fussing. He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me towards him. Then he clears his throat. ‘Thank you for being there for me tonight, Fern,’ he says. ‘It meant a lot to me. I’ve never had anyone waiting for me before.’ He hesitates again. ‘I didn’t realise that it makes a difference. Thank you.’
His mouth is close to mine. That beautiful, powerful mouth, and it frightens me. I’m not sure that I’m ready for this. He scares me as much as he enthralls me. My body is shaking beneath his hands, and I try a careless shrug to lighten the moment. ‘It’s my job.’
His face darkens and he recoils slightly. ‘Yes,’ he says, as his hands fall to his side. ‘I’m sorry. I forget. You’re here because I’m paying you to be.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ I mumble hurriedly. ‘I mean that it’s my pleasure. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
But I can tell from his tight lips and the sudden tension in his shoulders that I haven’t lightened the moment, I’ve fucked it up completely. Bugger. Why am I not better at this relationship shit?
Evan briskly strips off his shirt. ‘Maybe we’ll skip dinner,’ he says. ‘I’m tired.’ He glances towards me. ‘And I need some privacy. Get Rupert to organise you some transport home.’
‘I…’ I start to speak, but I don’t know what to say, so I shut my big fat stupid fuck-up mouth again.
‘We’ve got a busy week ahead,’ Evan continues crisply. ‘I take it you’ve checked the schedule?’
I nod meekly. Of course I haven’t checked the fucking schedule. I’m the most useless personal assistant known to mankind. I’ve got a gob the size of a bucket and a brain the size of a pea.
‘Then you’ll know that starting tomorrow I’ve got three performances of Madame Butterfly at the Royal Albert Hall. Then we’re in Cardiff for t
he opening of the new National Welsh Opera House at the end of the week. There’s a whole list of back-to-back press and PR appointments. Erin has organised it all, so I’m sure it will go smoothly, but I’ll need you there. We’ll leave Friday, stay for the weekend and come back perhaps Tuesday. Double check all the arrangements are in place.’
‘C-Cardiff…’ I stammer, sounding as if he’s just asked me to visit another solar system.
‘Yes. Is there a problem?’
‘Er…’ What do I say now? I was going to try to blag Saturday off to attend the Fame Game auditions. How on earth can I mention that now? Especially as I’m fully aware what high regard Evan David has for talent shows. It might be the one big chance in my life, but as Mr David has already let me know, he views this sort of thing as a complete waste of space. Well we can’t all be bloody mega-bucks opera stars. I have to do this! I have to do this for me, for Carl, for my family and for every other bugger that might be depending on me.
Instead of unleashing my pent-up frustration and coming clean with Evan, I go down this route: ‘As you know,’ I say rather feebly, ‘I do have other commitments. It may be difficult for me.’ For that, read nigh on impossible, mate.
‘Difficult.’ Evan David makes a curt little humphing noise. ‘Then may I remind you of something you said a moment or two ago. This is your job, Fern. Think about that.’
Then he turns his back on me and it’s clear that I’m dismissed. So I really have little opportunity to do anything else.
Thirty
Evan David was pumping iron—with a little more venom than was strictly necessary.
‘Who are you mad at this morning?’ Jacob, his personal trainer, asked.
Evan kicked viciously at the leg-press machine.
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