Lana’s portrayal of the anguished Violetta had never been better, grasping at love before her life was taken from her. For Evan it was the performance of his life. They were no longer two overpaid celebrity opera stars singing from a well-worn sheet of music; they were speaking directly to each other’s hearts. Telling each other, as they had never done before, exactly how they felt. The atmosphere was electric, the audience long-forgotten. How had he ignored the qualities in this woman for so long? How had he not seen how much she loved him?
On stage, this is their one last chance to be reconciled before Violetta dies. Alfredo is full of contrition for the way he has doubted Violetta’s love, and once again the lovers dream of a happy future while knowing full well that Violetta only has a short time left. It’s a heartbreaking scene, in stark contrast to the vibrant party images at the start of the opera. Violetta’s celebrity friends have all abandoned her; the hedonistic lifestyle she once led cannot sustain her now.
As she dies, Violetta begs Alfredo not to spend the rest of his life alone. ‘If a young girl, in the flower of youth, should give her heart to you, then marry her.’
And then, falling back onto her bed, she passes away.
When the curtain came down, there was rapturous applause. The house was on its feet.
Evan wept openly. Tears ran down Lana’s cheeks.
‘I don’t want to be alone tonight,’ she said in a quiet voice.
He nodded in acquiescence. He never wanted to be alone again.
The curtain was raised and they pulled themselves from the bed, both going to the front of the stage together, taking a long, grateful bow. Both Lana and he were trembling with emotion, and Evan wondered how he’d managed to get through to the end of the performance. Old wounds had been opened. Blood was let. In some ways it had been cathartic, and in other ways it had made him realise that there were still so many issues he had to address.
As in La Traviata, in opera when the female character dies at the end, as she so often does, it’s normally done with great grace, fine strong voice and lots of fake blood. A superb and elegant death. Very rousing. But Evan knew that it wasn’t like that in real life. It wasn’t like that at all.
Thirty-eight
They’d left the theatre together in Evan’s limousine pursued by a motley gang of paparazzi on scooters. And, by mutual agreement, they had gone straight to Lana’s hotel instead of taking a circuitous route trying to shake off their unwanted entourage.
As they pulled up outside the magnificent five-star establishment, a landmark architectural splendour overlooking Cardiff Bay, another gaggle of press photographers were huddled round the entrance and snapped viciously at them as they emerged from the car, flashbulbs blinding them. Rupert had warned him against this when Evan had told his agent that he didn’t intend returning to his apartment until morning. Their late-night liaison would, no doubt, be plastered all over the pages of the next issue of Hello! magazine, but after a night of high emotions, Evan had come to the decision that he didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t keep on living his life like a monk just to avoid the gossip columns. He was a red-blooded male, and sometimes he simply had to behave like one.
Now, in the cold light of day, the benefit of years of wisdom was slowly beginning to surface again, along with the rest of his body, and he wondered just what he’d done. He reached over and turned off the bedside lamp, pondering for a moment over the action. Light streamed in through the windows from Lana’s private balcony, illuminating the plush penthouse suite in sharp relief. The place looked absolutely immaculate. There was no indication of their tempestuous night of passion. The side table that they’d knocked over had been righted. The clothes that had been strewn all over the floor as they undressed each other in a frenzy were neatly folded on a sofa in the corner of the room. Well, his clothes were there. Of Lana’s there was no sign. Nor was there any sign of their owner. The space next to him in the enormous bed, though crumpled, was quite resolutely empty. There were no running-water sounds coming from the bathroom that might indicate that Lana was already up and showering.
He couldn’t even blame his dull headache on an excess of alcohol. Lana might have downed the best part of a bottle of Bollinger but, as always, he’d only drunk mineral water. Some habits were harder to break than others.
Evan propped himself up on his elbow. ‘Lana?’ he called out. But there was no reply. He hauled himself out of bed—every part of him aching. After both of his performances as a lover, on and off the stage, he felt like he’d run a dozen marathons back-to-back. Lana was as demanding sexually as she was in every other aspect of her life. He shook his head and allowed himself a wry laugh. That woman never did anything by halves. Perhaps he’d take himself along to the spa here and maybe have a steam and a swim. Let the water massage some life back into his battered body. And then he thought of how many other people he’d have to share the water with and changed his mind. He couldn’t afford to risk an infection with the manic schedule he had ahead of him.
Taking advantage of one of the fluffy bathrobes in Lana’s suite, he checked in the bathroom just in case she was hiding from him. ‘Lana?’ he tried again.
They’d promised each other all kinds of love and commitment last night while they were riding high on a tide of emotions. She, too, might well be having second thoughts this morning. But, amid the acreage of white mosaic tiles, there was still no Lana.
In the lounge, he found fresh juice and fruit on the glass coffee table. Evan stretched out on the peach leather sofa and helped himself to an apple while he mused on where his leading lady might have gone. Perhaps when she finally emerged they might spend some of the day together—at least share breakfast. He had no idea what her plans were, but they certainly wouldn’t involve hanging around in Wales. This would be another of her famous fleeting visits.
Then he spotted a note addressed to him in wildly theatrical handwriting that could only belong to one person. He opened it and scanned the contents. ‘Ciao, darling,’ he read out loud. ‘It was fun. Call you soon. Lana.’
Evan sighed. Oh well. At least there was a kiss on the bottom of the page. She was always destined to be more like the real Lana Rosina than her stage persona of Violetta. There was no way that Lana would ever give up her decadent, celebrity lifestyle for true love. So much for all her protestations of love in the heat of the night! When the time came to face Evan in the morning, she’d hightailed it out of here. It looked like their performance, both on stage and in the bedroom, had been strictly for one night only.
His mobile phone was on the table. He picked it up and rang Rupert. ‘Hi, Rupert,’ he said.
‘She hasn’t flayed you alive then?’
‘Not quite.’ Evan allowed himself a smile. ‘Can you send the car over to collect me?’
‘Straight away? You bet.’ His agent sounded relieved.
‘We’ve got a million things to go through. Last night was a tour de force. You were marvellous. Wonderful. All the reviews are sparkling.’
‘Good. Good.’ He wondered if he’d get a sparkling review from Lana, too.
‘There’s also lots of speculation about you and La Diva.’
‘Less good.’ Evan let out a long sigh.
‘I’ll see you in a few minutes,’ Rupert said. ‘We can decide how to handle it.’
‘I’m not coming straight back,’ Evan said. ‘There are a few things I need to sort out first.’
‘Would you like to let your agent know what you’re up to?’
‘No.’
There was a pause before Rupert asked, ‘Would you like to tell your best friend what you’re doing?’
Evan rubbed his hand through his hair. How did he start to explain this? There were feelings floating to the surface that he couldn’t even identify himself. He decided that he wouldn’t even try to convey that to Rupert. ‘I’m doing something that I should have done a long time ago,’ he said.
Thirty-nine
The small mining villag
e of Llangolleth looked largely unchanged as Evan David’s sleek black limousine manoeuvred its way painfully through the streets of tiny terraced houses. But looks could be deceptive.
Evan did a rough calculation. He hadn’t visited this place in over twenty years. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to. It was just that he couldn’t bring himself to face the journey. The brief show from the sun this morning over Cardiff Bay had been woefully shortlived. Now that he was down in the valleys, a fine mist still hung over the village and the River Taff. A constant drizzle had started, and Evan shivered despite the fact that the heater in the car was blasting out. His driver, Frank, was red in the face and looked like he might faint with the heat. As soon as he had thawed out, Evan would get him to turn the temperature down.
The smart BMWs and Mercedes so often seen in Cardiff had now, not more than half an hour from the city, given way to rusty old Fords and Vauxhalls. The sleek chrome-and-glass buildings were replaced by dilapidated Victorian homes displaying immaculately clean net curtains but with paint peeling off the window frames. The one social club in Llangolleth had been boarded up. The corner shop had closed down and the streets were empty but for a mangy-looking barking dog. Scars from the long-gone mining industry were still visible on the hills.
This was the place of his birth. The place that was filled with memories he tried to avoid. Once a close community hewn from generations of stoic miners and their families, nestling in the shadow of the local pit and the mountainous slag heaps that it produced. His own family were no different. His father, Geraint, had—since he was a teenager—earned his meagre living by breaking his back in the filthy black hole of the pit as was expected of him. It was a difficult life, fraught with danger, but it was their way of life—along with his fellow miners, he worked hard by day and sang in the pit’s male voice choir three nights a week. The only thing that stood him apart from his colleagues was the fact that, despite being choked day after day by coal dust, his voice had the clear, pure power to make the women of the village weep. His talent was respected throughout the valleys, making the Llangolleth Colliery Male Voice Choir in high demand for performances. Men would doff their caps to Evan’s father when they passed him in the street and say, with a note of awe: ‘There goes Geraint David. He has a voice.’
His mother, Megan, stayed at home and, it seemed at the time, baked wonderful cakes and ironed clothes all day long. In the evenings the rhythm of her clicking knitting needles filled the house as she knitted toys for underprivileged children accompanied by the sounds of Enrico Caruso and popular opera star Mario Lanza, long before Pavarotti took over the mantle. These were the recordings from which he’d first learned to love the rich, foreign tones of opera as his father did, when he had first risked trying out his own voice as he sang along to the scratchy music, encouraged to feel the notes in his belly by his Da. Everyone said that he was destined to be a chip off the old block—he was Geraint David’s boy, all right: from the top of his dark mess of hair, down to his ability to transform an ordinary tune to make it sound like an angel was singing. Their home was a happy one. Evan and his sister, Glenys, were the only two children produced by the union.
‘Stop here, Frank,’ Evan instructed, and the limousine pulled up outside his old family home in Thomas Street. There was another family living there now. The door was a different colour—a brave red shining out in the general greyness. There was a Sky satellite dish at the front, but little else had altered. Evan settled back in his seat with a heavy sigh.
Glenys had been a superb sister. Not one of these scaredy-cat, wet-blanket girls. She was a tomboy, robust and sturdy. Full of life. Glenys, meaning ‘pure and innocent’, was named for her maternal grandmother. Two years older than Evan, she was the one who was always in trouble for climbing trees or falling in the river or coming back with the blackened face of a coal miner from playing on the slag heaps, which definitely wasn’t allowed. His father was for ever pounding home how dangerous they were.
His sister was also the one who showed him how to play rugby, fish for minnows in the River Taff and arm wrestle. During the summer holidays they’d disappear into the fields for the entire day while she found branches they could use as see-saws, instructed him in the art of making daisy chains and how to catch frogs. She knew where all the best birds’ nests were and what times the local trains ran so that they could play down by the railways tracks in what they mistakenly believed was relative safety. When Dai Jenkins had started to bully Evan after school, Glenys was the one who punched his adversary to the ground. His mother despaired when all her frilled dresses returned from their outings dirty and in shreds.
Apart from the annual holiday to Tenby or Anglesey—when very occasionally his father might ‘go casual’, which involved rolling up his trouser legs or his shirt sleeves and they were allowed to eat enough ice cream to make themselves feel sick—their lives passed unremarkably.
But that was all to end one grey winter afternoon. Their father was rehearsing for a concert in the local village hall, and Evan had begged to be allowed to go along, too. There was a fine drizzle settled over the valleys, meaning that any outdoor play would be banned and Evan would be forced to kick around the house for the rest of the day. His only solace would be if Da would let him go with him to the rehearsals. After a suitable amount of begging had been completed, his father had relented, but Evan was allowed out only on condition that Glenys come along, too, to keep an eye on him. Evan didn’t feel that he needed keeping an eye on, but he didn’t voice that opinion. Rhys Williams would be at the hall, too—along with a smattering of other children whose fathers had been badgered into letting them tag along. Unusually, Glenys hadn’t wanted to go. She’d wanted to stay home and play with her dolls. Evan didn’t know what was wrong with her today—she always loved to hear Da sing, too. Her face lit up in rapture whenever she watched him perform. More begging ensued and, eventually, she’d given in, but only after being threatened with the smarting side of her mother’s hand and told to buck her ideas up and to look after her younger brother. Evan had rushed to get his coat and Glenys had been belted into her raincoat by their mother while his father tapped his foot impatiently on the front doorstep. Both children knew that Da’s reluctance to take them along was only halfhearted. He was proud of them both and, occasionally, coaxed Evan to sing for the other choir members so that they could see how his voice was improving.
Glenys had dragged her feet along Thomas Street, grumbling all the way. As a token protest, she’d brought along a pale, cross-eyed rag doll she called Molly Dolly which she cuddled ferociously to her, which was not the way Glenys usually was. Normally, they sang all the latest hits when they walked together on the way to and from school. They liked the Beatles best of all—the valley rang to the sounds of ‘I Want To Hold Your Hand’, ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ and ‘She Loves You’. Paul McCartney was Glenys’s favourite Beatle. She thought she might marry him when she grew up. Despite the heavy skies that the village regularly enjoyed, his sister was for ever in sunshine. Like today’s weather, the cloud was hanging over the hills that afternoon, rain seeped through their clothes, plastering their hair to their heads as they plodded and dawdled their way to the village hall, Da chivvying them along.
The hall nestled like a child’s toy at the foot of the mountainous slag heap that provided a dramatic backdrop to the community. Their father had left them at the back, with a warning to behave themselves, and went to join his fellow singers on the stage. The atmosphere always lifted when his father arrived in a room, and his friends slapped him on the back as if they hadn’t seen him for a long time—when Evan knew for a fact that he’d been working with them all just yesterday.
Glenys had helped Evan—her useless eight-year-old brother—out of his coat, fussed trying to make some sense of his hair and then had dragged him into the hall, sneaking into the rows of chairs that were already set out in preparation for the concert that night. Evan’s friends were already there—all come along
to listen to their dads, too—Rhys Williams, Dylan Hughes and Idris Edwards, whose Da was known as Arwel Ham Arms because of the gargantuan size of his biceps.
‘Let’s sit with the gang,’ Evan whispered, and Glenys tutted her disdain for the ragged row of boys who were already wriggling on their chairs. ‘Please, Glenys.’ He was asking a lot of favours of his sister today, and he knew that he’d have to pay them back. Maybe she’d make him kidnap Mrs Jones’s cat again so that she could put the hissing and spitting animal in her pram.
‘On Top of Tredegar Moor’ was already in full flow, their father’s voice soaring away over all the others, his eyes directed heavenwards, as they took their places. Evan slid into the seat next to Rhys, and they nudged each other in lieu of greeting.
It was hot in the hall and Evan took off his jumper—a bright red home-knitted affair lovingly fashioned for him by his mother—his favourite sweater even though it made him as hot as a greenhouse. He folded it on the back of his chair, as Glenys had shown him and tried, in vain, to smooth his hair down again. Glenys digged him in the ribs.
The choir moved on to ‘Blackbird Will You Go’ and Evan and his friends whispered to each other along the row. They were all high with unspent energy through being cooped up indoors all morning. Glenys had already been transported and was sitting gazing at her father in awe. Her face took on a glow of happiness and she looked just like she did when she’d been the angel in the nativity play last Christmas. Evan wanted to concentrate on the music, too, but it was so difficult when Rhys kept talking to him.
‘Evan, look.’ His friend opened his hand, and he had a clutch of shiny new marbles. He tipped them into Evan’s hands with ill-judged timing and, just as the singing stopped, the marbles clattered noisily to the floor and scattered beneath the chairs.
Welcome to the Real World Page 17