This was Cardiff—the vibrant, cosmopolitan capital city of Wales. It was also the heart of Evan David Land—a place where his fame was fondly embraced as a son of this city. Millions of pounds of EU money had been pumped into its decaying landscape over the last ten years to transform it into a world-class tourist city and European centre of culture. Victorian shopping arcades stuffed with designer boutiques now rubbed shoulders with towering modern apartment blocks at prices that would make even the residents of the London Borough of Kensington and Chelsea shudder. A fairy-tale medieval castle in the city centre competed for visitors’ attention with a museum holding a superb collection of Impressionist paintings—one of the best outside of Paris. Yet, every time Evan came home, the place seemed more and more alien to him. Another landmark had been flattened to make way for a new stainless-steel sculpture.
This time his visit was organised to coincide with the opening of the new National Welsh Opera House, a building dedicated to the furtherance of the art of opera and the home of the National Opera Company of Wales—the company that had given him his very first job as a professional singer in its chorus. Now, whenever they required his services, he’d try to make sure that his diary was clear for them. Wherever he went in the world, his reception was never as warm as in this big-hearted city. The Welsh—his kinsfolk—certainly knew how to celebrate.
Crafted in the finest, heather-coloured Welsh slate to resonate with the surrounding landscape, and topped with a curving stainless-steel roof, the theatre—known affectionately by locals as ‘the armadillo’—stood proud on the edge of the stunning waterfront development of Cardiff Bay and was already firmly ensconced in the hearts of the nation. Six-foot-high poetry in the Welsh language emblazoned on the front offered words affirming artistic truth and inspiration: In these stones horizons sing. It would be a marvellous place to perform. A good time to renew old friendships.
While he surveyed the area, Rupert busied himself by lifting their bags from the limousine. Erin had organised for them to stay in the penthouse of one of the towering apartment blocks on the waterfront. The faint, salty scent of sea air clashed with the aroma of coffee from the myriad of bistros that were dotted about the area. He was here to star in a performance of La Traviata with the lovely Lana Rosina as his leading lady. As Rupert had muttered all the way down here from London, Evan had yet to call her.
Later today, there was a full list of media interviews to work through and a visit to the local BBC radio station to make pleasant noises. Tomorrow was the dress rehearsal, followed by another press frenzy the day after. The performance itself would be in two days’ time—allowing a respite for the singers’ voices. Evan fully expected that the last thing Lana would do when she saw him after so long was to give her voice a rest. The woman could talk for Britain—and Italy. No doubt there would be a lot she wanted to tell him. No doubt he wouldn’t get a word in edgeways. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Lana since the rehearsals for La Traviata. Where had she been since then? He could hardly remember what she’d told him. Was it San Francisco? Or maybe Rome? Or had she been performing at the Met in New York? Countries and cities had a tendency to blur together these days. And, it seemed in this case—for him, at least—absence didn’t always make the heart grow fonder.
He’d unpack, he decided, and then go for a run with his trainer, Jacob, who had come along with them. One thing he found in this place was that memories became too keen and he needed to pound the pavements to even have a hope of keeping them at bay. The older he got, the harder it seemed. Wasn’t that contrary to the way of nature? When you were older, weren’t the memories supposed to fade to grey, become as insubstantial as cobwebs fluttering in the mind? To Evan they were still too clear, too sharp, too raw. Perhaps that’s why he’d stayed away for so long. His last journey to Cardiff before the rehearsals had been several years ago, and only he knew the reasons why he was so anxious to avoid repeat visits. Evan kicked at the newly laid block paving at his feet.
Dermuid, as always, was here, too, and was currently unloading his portable kitchen, whistling quietly as he worked. The only person missing from his entourage was Fern. Beautiful, feisty, frustrating Fern. He hadn’t called her and had decided he wouldn’t. His fingers had hovered over the buttons of his mobile phone, but he couldn’t bring himself to press them. He had enough on his plate without the complication of trying to form a relationship. But hadn’t that always been the way? What chance was there that he could ever devote enough time to finding himself a wife? Success always came at a price. There were sacrifices that needed to be made to fill cavernous auditoriums to capacity—goodness only knew, he was more aware of that than most. The few women who had been in his life had never appreciated that. Why should it be any different this time? Fern was on the outside of his world. How could he expect her to understand what made him tick? She knew nothing about opera—absolutely nothing—though her joy in discovering it was obvious. And she knew nothing about him, either. It looked as if it was destined to stay that way.
‘Evan,’ Rupert said at his side. ‘Come inside. There are things we need to go over.’
Evan nodded at his agent, his manager, his only true friend in this world. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
‘Don’t let your throat get cold,’ Rupert said over his shoulder as he headed into the apartment block.
Evan looked out over the waterfront. He was constantly surrounded by people, yet so often in recent months he felt isolated. What had happened to him? Had the shell that he’d so carefully constructed around himself finally started to crumble? It was made of brittle material, glued together with pain. Perhaps it was inevitable that it wouldn’t protect him for ever. Why was it that the feel of Fern’s touch, her arms sliding around his neck, the tears of joy she shed for him were playing over and over in the back of his mind, tormenting him? Perhaps because it seemed to him at the time that it had been the most sincere affection and emotion that he’d experienced for longer than he cared to remember. And he’d been wrong. The wind stung his eyes, bringing tears to them. Complaining gulls wheeled on the sharp air, sounding as pained as he felt. He had everything that money could buy, so why did he so often feel empty inside? Despite millions of adoring fans around the globe, could it possibly be that he was lonely?
Thirty-three
Rather than the fifty thousand who queued up for the original open auditions all over the country, this time we’ve been whittled down to about fifty acts. If my maths are correct, that means that 0.1 percent of us have got this far. Horrifying odds, which I’ve somehow managed to defy. But even vying for my place against forty-nine other very talented folks still seems like a scary amount of people to be competing with. And there’s a tangible atmosphere of nervous tension in the air—apart from an occasional eruption of giggles that have a slightly hysterical edge.
We’re all crammed into a conference suite in the sumptuous Savoy Hotel in the Strand. I have never been anywhere this posh in all my life. It’s the sort of place that Evan David would frequent if he wasn’t so neurotic about germs. I’m doing quite well, I think, because that’s only the twenty-seventh time I’ve thought about him today. Still it is only ten o’clock, plenty of time to obsess yet.
The waiting around is a bit more civilised this time—we’re being plied with tea and chocolate biscuits, although the tea is in flimsy plastic beakers rather than the bone china I’m sure they normally use. I’m not complaining, though. You can’t believe how grateful I am to have made it this far.
One or two of the solo performers have brought companions with them. My dear friend, Carl, decided that he couldn’t stand the strain and has set up camp to wait for me in the Starbucks opposite the Savoy. I can picture him fretting over his caffè latte and granola flapjack. Secretly, I think that he was worried about them marking me down if he was seen to be accompanying me to the audition. I told him he was talking rubbish, but he may be right. Stranger things can and do happen. We have television cameras trained on
us the entire time, waiting to record our worst moments—and if you weren’t nervous before you arrived here, you would be by now.
I covertly eye my fellow competitors and, quite frankly, they all look much, much better than me. Better dressed, better groomed, better prepared and, of course, better performers. They’re younger, sexier and I bet half of them are sleeping with the judges. If I were a judge, I tell you, I’d be tempted. There are more breasts and bums on display than in a nudist colony. It might be to do with my age, but my breasts are the only ones that are firmly ensconced in my shirt—just over my heart, which is pounding against my ribs to get out. And while I realise that this isn’t a great time to be developing an inferiority complex, mine is coming on in leaps and bounds.
The blond-haired bimbo presenter and television überbabe, Kiera Karson, comes to talk to me, hugging and squeezing me, treating me as her new best friend, pushing her microphone halfway down my throat as she asks me some inane questions. I can feel my smile freeze on my face as I gibber back some banal rubbish about this being my big chance—as if they don’t know this. The torture seems to go on interminably—I have no idea what she asks me or what I say in response, but I know that it’s this sort of thing that will have me awake and shaking at three o’clock in the morning. This day will be my recurrent nightmare for years to come. The camera crew don’t even try to disguise how bored they are, yawning as they dream of me finishing my chirpy banter so they can get off to their next tea break. This truly is purgatory. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Pacing the floor between heaven and hell.
Then the next round of auditions starts and the team of Identikit PR women move into action, herding us nearer to the door ready to lead us up to the inner sanctum or lion’s den. I just want to get my turn over and done with—preferably before I throw up—and then run back to Carl to lick my wounds.
Not a moment too soon, but far too soon—if you know what I mean—my name is called by one of the slender-hipped lovelies, who then escorts me out of the room, to the carefully filmed shouts of encouragement from my fellow contestants. I bet they’re all wishing that I’ll fall flat on my face.
This feels as if I’m going to the guillotine. It will be a very short time before my career is cut short, my poor head plopping bloodied and lifeless into the basket of almost-might-have-beens.
My legs are shaking and my feet slide on the plush carpet as we pass beneath chandeliers that glitter with the dazzling intensity of a million stars. I think of all the famous people who must have visited the hotel in the past, walking the same carpet as I am—people who have made it in the harsh world of showbusiness. My PR person opens a pair of glass double doors and before I have time to hightail it out of here, she marches me inside.
‘Just the Two of Us,’ she announces and I realise that I should have changed our name now that I’m no longer part of a duo.
At the very front of the vast airy room, there’s a makeshift stage. Far too close to it, sit the row of judges. You’d know all their faces from the television series. There’s pop impresario, Stephen Cauldwell, and next to him is Jackson, the boy band manager who’s as famous as the pint-sized poppets that he manufactures. The other judge is Carly Thomas, one-time chart-topper who now spends her time penning the ultra-catchy hits for the likes of Kylie and Natasha Bedingfield.
‘Hi, Fern,’ Stephen says, casting me a cursory glance. He indicates the stage. ‘When you’re ready.’
And this is it. Somehow my legs manage to walk up to the microphone. As Carl was banned, I’m going to sing my song unaccompanied. With a quivering breath I then belt out ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’ as if my life depends on it. I close my eyes, blocking out my judges. Instead, I torture myself further by thinking of Evan while I sing and feel the notes deep in my chest. It’s as though time itself stands still, but then as soon as I’ve started it’s over. Looking up, I can see the panel conferring. There’s much whispering, nodding and shaking of heads while I stand there waiting to be put out of my misery.
Eventually, Stephen Cauldwell looks up. ‘Thank you,’ he says flatly. ‘You’re through to the next round.’
If Stephen Cauldwell doesn’t show any emotion as he announces my success, then my reaction certainly makes up for it. I collapse to my knees on the stage and I begin to cry and hyperventilate both at the same time. A television camera is pushed into my face. ‘Thank you,’ I sob. ‘Thank you.’
Then Kiera, the blond-bimbo presenter, rushes in and scoops me into her arms, helping me to my feet. Elation kicks in and we dance round together laughing. Even the panel are smiling.
‘We’ll see you on television next week,’ Stephen tells me and then Kiera rushes me out of the room. We dash back up the plush carpeted stairs, pursued by the camera crew, and burst into the room where all the other contestants are waiting.
‘Fern’s through to the next round!’ Kiera shouts to the assembled performers, and immediately I’m engulfed by a cheering mob. If I was in the same situation, I’m not sure I’d be so magnanimous—wouldn’t I be thinking that it meant one less place for me? If that’s how any of them feel, they’re certainly hiding it well.
‘I must phone Carl,’ I say. ‘I must phone Carl.’ With trembling fingers, I reach for my mobile phone and find his number. He answers instantly. ‘I’m through,’ I tell him breathlessly. ‘I’m through.’
‘I’ll be right there,’ he says and hangs up.
‘Be quick,’ I say to no one.
Moments later, the doors to the conference room crash open and my dear, dear friend is running in to meet me. His face is flushed with exertion, his grin jubilant. I start to cry again, and Carl grabs me by the waist and lifts me high into the air, twirling me round. I throw my arms round his neck.
‘You did it!’ he cries. ‘You did it!’
‘We did it,’ I murmur into his hair. ‘We did it.’
He lowers me to the ground and now we both look embarrassed. The cameras move away from us, seeking new prey.
‘I’m so pleased for you,’ Carl tells me. ‘What am I saying? I’m over the fucking moon!’
We both giggle self-consciously.
‘What happens now?’ I want to know.
Kiera Karson is by my side in a flash. ‘Congratulations,’ she says, more muted now that the cameras have departed. ‘We look forward to seeing you in the studios next week. You’ll spend the week doing media training and seeing an image consultant.’ I’ll swear she gives Carl a sideways glance at this point. ‘There’ll be sessions with a voice coach.’
I wonder how on earth I’m going to fit all this in. I shall have to beg some time off work from Ken the Landlord at the King’s Head again. But surely the fact that I’ve been a finalist in the Fame Game will draw in the punters to listen to us, so he should view it as a business investment. I’ll try to sell it to him that way.
‘I’ll hand you over to Melissa, she’ll tell you all about it.’
Another one of the Identikit PR girls pops up next to us, clipboard in hand, grinning wildly. ‘It’ll be great,’ she enthuses. ‘And we have a special surprise for this series.’
I’m all ears. I’m beginning to like surprises.
‘We have a fantastic guest judge who’ll be joining the regular panel.’ Kiera clasps her hands together with glee. ‘Evan David,’ she says. ‘The Evan David!’
And my bubble of joy goes pop right in my face.
Thirty-four
Lana Rosina, Evan was sure, had grown more beautiful since he last saw her. Her glossy black hair tumbled down her back in lazy waves, her red bee-stung mouth pouted more prominently than ever. And her voluptuous curves tightly bound into her costume—a scarlet leather corset—were, without a doubt, a sight to behold.
Evan’s leading lady had arrived late—her plane held up for hours by a security scare in Los Angeles if you believed her account of the incident. Lana might be opera’s most exciting female star, but she was also the most tempestuous.
The dress
rehearsal had gone ahead with Lana’s understudy assuming the main role, as La Diva Assoluta had taken straight to her bed with crippling jet lag and a sore throat. Evan wondered just how much of it was designed so that she could avoid him until opening night. She had refused to take his calls, her PA insisting that she wasn’t allowed to speak even one word, on doctor’s orders, of course. And Lana knew Evan too well—she knew that he wouldn’t dare visit her for fear of the sore throat being a real infection rather than an imagined one.
Was this her way of trying to put him under pressure, at a disadvantage? It was a typical Lana trick. They’d been in this situation before where she’d hidden herself away until opening night, refusing to calm the very real fears that the performance might well have to go ahead without her. It made everyone else in the company, particularly the conductor and the chorus, hysterical with nerves, but miraculously Lana always seemed to make a full recovery just in the nick of time. He’d got past the point of feeling hysterical about anything that Lana did. Evan now looked on all of her off-stage performances with much the same attitude as a tolerant parent would view an indulged child. She demanded attention wherever she went and, invariably, got it.
And here she was. Standing in his dressing room, looking the very picture of rude health, sore throat apparently banished until the next time it was needed. La Diva’s understudy would be disappointed once more.
Lana turned to Becks, who was currently applying Evan’s make-up. ‘Can you leave us for a moment?’
Evan stood up, stifling a sigh as Becks left the room, giving him a sympathetic look as she did so. Becks was only too aware that it didn’t do to cross Lana so near to a performance. She was highly strung at the best of times, and two hours before curtain up she was as wired as a stallion before a race and twice as likely to kick out at the nearest object. Clearly Becks had no intention of being that object.
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