Welcome to the Real World

by Carole Matthews

  ‘If you don’t take it a little easier,’ Jacob advised, ‘our next visit will be to the physio.’

  With an unhappy grunt, Evan gave up on his presses and wiped a towel over his face. The gym was set up in another one of the vast apartment’s rooms, but he’d only just managed to stagger in there bleary-eyed today. He’d hardly slept a wink last night. After his performance he was still wired, and he’d done nothing useful to help himself come down. Dinner had been forgotten and his churning stomach had only served to keep him tossing and turning. Whether it was down to hunger or to something else entirely was another matter that he didn’t want to dwell on. Then he’d lain awake until the early hours going over his fractious conversation with Fern. Not that it had done him much good, either. She was right—the reason she’d been so attentive and at his side last night was because he damn well paid her to be there. It was easy to labour under the mistaken belief, in a world where he was surrounded by people he paid for, that occasionally one of them might stick around because they actually enjoyed his company.

  The truth was that he’d wanted her to stay and he’d hoped that she would because she wanted to be with him. Instead, she’d blown him out and, in turn, he had treated her to a display of his sparkling repartee and innate charm. He wanted to hang his head in his hands. This woman was starting to get under his skin, and that was a very bad place for any female to be.

  He realised that Jacob was still watching him. ‘Do you want to call it a day?’ his trainer asked.

  Evan nodded. It was ten o’clock and he hadn’t yet been able to settle to anything. ‘Sorry, Jacob,’ he said. ‘Just not in the mood today.’

  ‘Don’t punish yourself,’ the other man replied. ‘You can’t put in a hundred and ten percent every day.’

  But that’s what he did, Evan thought. That’s what he did with everything, and it pained him when he couldn’t give of his best. He had built his name, his reputation, on being the best at everything, by going the extra mile. ‘Come back later today and we’ll go for a run.’

  ‘Four o’clock?’ Jacob asked.

  ‘Four’s fine.’

  When his trainer left, Evan showered and changed, forcing himself to stay out of the main living room of the apartment for as long as possible. Fern hadn’t yet arrived last time he looked, and he wanted to appear casual, as if nothing untoward had passed between them last night. On the other hand, he wanted to see her as soon as possible to set things right between them again. He’d spoken to her too harshly and that was unfair. This was ridiculous, she was supposed to be here to help him focus on his work, not distract him from it. Shaking his head, he finally emerged into the living room.

  Rupert was sitting at the desk, leafing through the day’s newspapers looking for reviews of last night’s Royal Variety Performance. ‘Good morning, Mr David,’ his agent said with mock formality. ‘How’s the voice?’

  ‘The voice is fine.’ He sat down opposite Rup.

  ‘Good performance last night.’

  His agent was clearly referring to his talent on the stage and not to the fracas in the dressing room afterwards.

  ‘A five-minute standing ovation,’ he continued with a smug grin. ‘That very nearly tops the time when you brought the house down at La Scala.’ Rupert flicked over the pages. ‘Great picture of you.’ He held up the newspaper for Evan’s approval. ‘Great caption, too. “The Man Who’s Making Opera Sexy.” I like it. In fact, I love it!’

  Evan tried to look as if he was unconcerned both by the reviews and the obvious absence of his assistant. ‘No sign of Fern?’

  ‘No,’ Rupert said. ‘I got the feeling that we wouldn’t be seeing her again after you dispatched her last night—rather unceremoniously, I have to say. She looked very downhearted.’

  ‘Damn,’ Evan muttered. ‘Why don’t you call her?’

  ‘Why don’t you call her?’ Rupert wanted to know. He put his feet up on the desk and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Remind me. Haven’t we been in this same place before with this particular young lady?’

  ‘I seem to be messing it up all the time with her,’ Evan confessed.

  ‘That doesn’t usually worry you unduly,’ Rupert pointed out. ‘You have a shouting match with Erin every other day and you both carry on as if nothing has happened.’

  ‘I never shout at Erin,’ Evan contradicted him. ‘I have to take care of—’

  ‘—the voice,’ Rupert finished for him. ‘And very sensible, too. I take it that this is more to do with pleasure than business then?’

  Evan refused to be drawn. Truth to tell, he wasn’t quite sure what the situation was himself anymore.

  ‘You haven’t yet phoned Lana,’ Rupert reminded him. ‘And she’s still calling a dozen times a day. Let’s do one lady at a time, please. Call Lana before we go down to Cardiff, or our beloved Diva will be hissing at you like a cornered alley cat. How will you manage to be Alfredo to her Violetta then? You’re supposed to be in love on and off the stage. Remember?’

  ‘We’ve worked together before when we haven’t been speaking.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rup sighed. ‘And didn’t the press have a field day with that. This is an important performance…’

  ‘They’re all important.’

  ‘…and it would be nice if it were all sweetness and light between you.’

  Evan massaged his brow.

  ‘For once,’ Rupert added.

  ‘I’ll call her later.’ And as his agent gave him a disbelieving look: ‘I promise.’

  ‘If we can turn to matters other than your tortured love life, I have a few proposals that I’d like to discuss with you.’ Rupert put on his most placating tone. ‘Come out onto the terrace. Do you want a drink? Let me get Chef to squeeze you some orange juice.’

  ‘That would be fine,’ Evan said. ‘Get Dermuid to do some for you, too—or are you still only drinking fresh blood these days?’

  ‘I’ll ignore that comment,’ Rupert grumbled. ‘Go out. Take in the smog. I’ll follow you in a minute.’

  The air on the terrace wasn’t smoggy, it was fresh and cool. The silver thread of the River Thames snaked by, heading into the heart of London. England was great, but Evan was beginning to pine for the long, hot summers of Tuscany. Maybe he could find time to go to his villa there. It had been over a year since he’d last visited it. His weary spirit could do with a few days lounging by the azure-blue swimming pool in the heat of the lavender-scented air. If he tried very hard, he could almost smell it. What was the point in owning a handful of mansions if you never got to spend any time in them?

  Rupert followed him out, sat down and opened his laptop. Evan pulled himself away from the balcony and joined his agent at the table, just in time to be presented with a glass of freshly squeezed juice by his chef. Rupert had stuck to his usual tipple of extra-strength black coffee.

  His agent flexed his hands and cracked his fingers, indicating that he was now in business mode. He launched into his pitch without preamble: ‘The time is right for a new generation of the Three Tenors. Pavarotti has retired. The other two are over the hill.’

  ‘They’d be pleased to hear you say that.’

  Rupert shrugged. Sometimes his friend was more obviously an agent than others.

  ‘It’s time for some new blood to take their place. Do you know how many people bought that DVD worldwide?’

  ‘I’m sure that doing another would swell your coffers considerably,’ Evan said wryly.

  ‘Hey,’ Rupert said. ‘Don’t you want me to retire comfortably?’

  ‘Luciano would never forgive me if I tried to usurp him.’ The highlight of Evan’s career had been when Pavarotti had first embraced him, telling him to nurture his God-given talent and saying that he’d never heard a young tenor with such clarity and brightness in his voice. It was a moment he had always cherished. Since then, he’d sung with the maestro many times over the years—usually at his annual Pavarotti and Friends concerts in the great man’s home town
of Modena.

  ‘You wouldn’t be usurping him,’ Rupert said with a frown. ‘You’d be carrying on his work for a new generation.’

  ‘Agent-speak,’ Evan sighed. ‘We’d be ripping off his idea.’

  ‘So you’ll do it?’ Rupert asked.

  ‘Will you ever let me rest until I do?’

  ‘I’ll call Emilio Rizzi and Jacques Franz this afternoon. They should be the other two tenors, don’t you agree?’

  They were both shining stars on the opera circuit and Evan admired their considerable talent immensely. He waved a hand at his agent. ‘Whatever.’

  Rupert stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Now,’ he said warily, ‘one other thing—and I don’t want you to dismiss this out of hand. It would be very easy to be far too hasty and say no.’

  ‘Which means you think I will.’

  ‘Keep an open mind.’

  ‘I want to say no before I’ve even heard this.’

  ‘The Fame Game called me this morning.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hear me out,’ Rupert pleaded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘They want you to be on their panel of judges for the television show.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They say they’ve got some great acts for this series. It’s not all blond bimbos and failed club singers. There are some kids with real talent out there. They’ve found some bird with a golden voice that they reckon could be the next Madonna.’

  ‘How lovely for her.’

  ‘They’ve got a boy band singing opera classics.’

  ‘Marvellous.’

  ‘Come on, Evan,’ Rupert whined. ‘At least think about it. They thought you’d give some weight to the show. Some maturity.’

  ‘God only knows, they need it.’

  ‘I said that you’d consider it. Very carefully.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘They’re offering a lot of money.’

  ‘You’re thinking of that retirement place in Spain again.’

  ‘A lot of money.’

  ‘Money is something I don’t need any more of.’

  His agent looked affronted. ‘How can you say that?’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and put on his sincere face. ‘Do it. Please. For me.’

  ‘No,’ Evan said. ‘I can’t do it. The programme’s a pile of crap.’

  ‘When did you last watch it? It got better. Really it did. They had Sharon Osbourne last time. Would she do crap? Don’t answer that.’

  ‘You’re wasting your breath, Rupert.’

  ‘It would be great for your profile. Prime-time Saturday-night television. It would blast your market wide open. You have a natural touch with the common people. Think of all the yummy mummies who would dash out and buy your latest CD. Please do this. Just for me.’

  ‘No. No. No.’ Evan shook his head emphatically. ‘Nothing you say can persuade me. I won’t do it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rupert looked sheepish. ‘That’s a shame, Evan. A real shame.’ His agent reached into his briefcase and pushed a contract across the table. ‘Because I’d kind of agreed that you would.’

  Thirty-one

  I do not want to sing this bloody song ever again.

  ‘One more time,’ Carl says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s not quite perfect yet.’

  ‘It’s as good as it gets,’ I tell my friend, as I flop back on the sofa. ‘That will have to do.’

  ‘Oh, man. That’s not the attitude, Fern.’ Carl tries to look stern, but he puts his guitar down nevertheless.

  ‘If you make me sing any more I’ll be hoarse by the time the audition comes around.’

  Carl flutters his eyelashes. ‘Just once more.’

  ‘There is a very real phenomenon known as overrehearsing,’ I say. ‘I’m frightened that we’re rapidly approaching that point.’

  My tormentor only laughs. ‘We could stop for a cup of tea,’ he suggests.

  If I have a cup of tea, it means that I’ll have to go into the kitchen again and face my dad. He’s sitting at the table with a rapidly diminishing bottle of whiskey and a miserable face. A three-day growth of grizzled, grey beard is covering his wavering chin. Plus he’s still insisting that he’s got Tourette’s syndrome, so he may well tell me to go forth and multiply the minute I put my head round the door, and I don’t think I can cope with that right now.

  ‘A pizza and a couple of glasses of wine would be better.’ I give Carl my most endearing smile, the one that he can never resist. His stern mask slips and I can see that he’s weakening. This man will do anything for a bit of pepperoni. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘Me, too,’ he admits and reaches for the worn denim jacket that always graces his person.

  ‘My treat,’ I say even though I’m not going to be flush with money now that my glamorous job in the world of opera seems to have evaporated into thin air.

  ‘Do you think we should have written our own song for this?’ Carl asks, a worried frown crossing his brow.

  Not in the mood I’m in. It would have been about driving very fast into a big tree, and all the judges would have felt like slitting their wrists by the time I’d finished with them. Not quite the impression I want to make. It’s Monday morning and I haven’t bothered to return to my job with Evan David after I was so summarily dismissed last night following the Royal Variety Performance and my tactless comments. I wonder what might have happened next if only I’d kept my mouth firmly zipped. Personally, I thought it was looking likely that a bit more than dinner was on the cards. I keep a heavy sigh to myself.

  Unlike last time, I didn’t get a call from Rupert asking me to return to my post. I’m sure that Evan David has found that he can manage perfectly well without me. And the other thing that I need to take into account to soothe my wounded heart is that Evan David was only ever going to be in my life for a few weeks. My loyalty should lie with Ken the Landlord at the King’s Head, who will have the dubious pleasure of employing me long after the aforementioned opera superstar will have moved on to break other susceptible hearts with his rather obvious brand of charm in numerous countries around the globe. All these things I can rationalise, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like complete shite. Can you miss someone so much that your eyeballs ache? Or that your fingernails yearn for him? Sounds strange? Well, take it from me, it’s something that’s never happened to me before.

  ‘I think it’s safer to stick to a classic,’ I say in answer to my friend’s question.

  Carl has chosen Roberta Flack’s old hit, ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’ as my pièce de résistance and I’m so grateful for his input, even though I might not be demonstrating it at the moment. Although I’m going to be the one up on stage by myself, at least I don’t feel as if I’m doing this alone.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘If you ply me with cheap Chianti, then you might be able to persuade me to do some more rehearsing later.’

  ‘Could I persuade you to do anything else later?’ he says with an evil wiggle of his eyebrows.

  ‘One day I’ll surprise you,’ I warn him. ‘I’ll say yes and then you won’t know what to do.’

  ‘I’ll give it my best shot,’ Carl assures me earnestly.

  I kiss him on the cheek. ‘I value your friendship too much to want to spoil it by introducing condoms into the equation.’

  ‘Playing hard to get is not attractive in a woman of your age,’ he tells me as we head for the door.

  ‘And greasy Italian food isn’t normally considered an aphrodisiac,’ I counter.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spy my morose—and possibly insane—parent sitting drowning his sorrows in the kitchen. It’s on the tip of my tongue to invite him to come out with us, and then Carl gives me a warning look. He’s right. It would only end up in a shouting match.

  ‘We’re off, Dad,’ I tell him.

  He lifts his head and glares at me. ‘Lucky old you.’

  ‘This won’t do any good,’ I say, casting a withering g
lance at his rapidly diminishing bottle of Jameson’s.

  ‘Arse. Bum. Tit,’ he says, but with a certain lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Can’t you try another illness?’ I ask. ‘This one is becoming rather tiresome.’

  ‘I think I might be getting a touch of vertigo, too,’ he confesses dourly, spreading his hands on the table as if to maintain his balance.

  I can feel my teeth grinding involuntarily. ‘What about rabies? There must be more mileage in that,’ I suggest. ‘You could use the washing-up liquid to create the foaming mouth effect.’ Plus it might help to clean out all the rubbish that’s been spewing forth from it this last week.

  His red-rimmed eyes grow ever more doleful.

  ‘None of this is working with Mum, either,’ I remind him. ‘She’s not interested.’ I decide not to inform him that she’s much more interested in the attractive Asian gentleman who’s now running the shop where she works and is disappearing on late-night and weekend assignations without telling her family where she’s going. It might make my dad shape himself up a bit more if I did, but try as I might, I can’t be the harbinger of doom. Perhaps Joe and I need to have a family conference about this with him when I have more evidence of our mum’s infidelity.

  Despite my more base instincts wanting to let him stew in his own juice, I go over to my dad and give him a hug. He’s a solid, stocky bloke, but somehow he feels shrunken and small. ‘We won’t be long,’ I say. ‘Have a shower. Perk yourself up a bit.’ Try to rejoin the human race. I give him a jocular nudge. ‘Faint heart never won fair lady.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ he offers in return.

  As steam starts to come out of my ears and I’m building up for a major eruption, Carl curls his fingers around mine and pulls me towards the door.

  ‘I could batter him,’ I say with a weary shake of my head. ‘I really could.’ Outside in the street, the cold evening air slaps my face.

  ‘Faint heart never won fair lady, eh?’ My friend gives me a quizzical look when he asks, ‘Does that advice count for me, too?’

  Thirty-two