Welcome to the Real World

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Lashed on vodka, you mean.’

  We both laugh.

  ‘Thanks for being my best mate.’

  ‘Is that all I’m ever destined to be?’

  I can’t answer that, so say nothing.

  ‘You’re not likely to offer me your body again, are you?’ Carl says, suddenly serious.

  ‘Oh, you never know,’ I quip lightly. It’s not that I don’t adore Carl—I do. But we managed to survive our breakup as teenagers, and I don’t think we would if it happened again as adults. I’m scared to become more intimate with Carl because I’m even more scared of losing him as a friend. What if our relationship didn’t work out—could we ever salvage our death-defying friendship once again? I don’t know that I want to risk it. Plus there’s another complication, of course. Despite looking ‘hot’ in the kitchen just now, Carl doesn’t turn my legs to jelly anymore. He did do once, when I was fifteen years old, but I’ve known him for too long to be turned on like that. I can hardly bear to say this, but my emotions have moved on since then. Evan David, on the other hand, makes me feel exactly like a gauche fifteen-year-old again, and my legs definitely turn to jelly when he’s around. Unfortunately, my brain does, too.

  ‘I think I do,’ he says in answer to my quip. ‘You must love Evan David very much.’

  It doesn’t lift my spirits to say so, but I blurt out, ‘I guess so.’

  ‘But he’s just screwed up your life.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I think we’ve just established that I managed to do that all by myself.’

  My friend stabs at his scrambled egg with his fork. ‘You would have won that stupid competition, Fern.’

  And Carl’s quite possibly right. But that doesn’t make me feel any better at all.

  Forty-seven

  The doorbell rang insistently. ‘All right. All right. Keep yer hair on!’

  Derek Kendal jumped off the sofa, twitched the curtain and looked out of the lounge window onto the busy morning street. A very posh car was parked outside Fern’s door. Derek pursed his lips. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

  It wasn’t a visitor for him, that was for sure. He glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock and still no sign of his daughter. He wondered what had happened last night. Hadn’t she said that she was supposed to be on that Fame Game show? Yet he’d watched virtually all of the programme—apart from the odd minute when the weight of his eyelids had got the better of him—and she hadn’t appeared. Since then he hadn’t heard a word from her, and that wasn’t like Fern. She was a good girl. Now some idiot was dragging him from his sleep when all he wanted to do was avoid thinking about his current predicament.

  Derek struggled down the narrow stairs, pulling on his shirt as he went. The doorbell chimed again.

  Derek snatched open the door. ‘I’m not deaf,’ he said.

  A tall, smart man stood in front of him. Well-groomed. The posh car was clearly his. The man tapped his foot impatiently.

  ‘I’m looking for Fern Kendal,’ he said without any other introduction.

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘This is her house?’ The man took in the crumbling doorway rather sceptically.

  ‘Yes.’ Derek eyed him with suspicion. ‘I’m her dad. Does she owe you money?’

  ‘No, no,’ the man said briskly. ‘I just need to get in touch with her. Urgently. I’ve tried her mobile phone, but she’s not answering it. Do you know where she is?’

  ‘No,’ Derek admitted reluctantly.

  ‘This is very important,’ the man continued. ‘I want her to contact me. As soon as she can.’

  Derek nodded.

  ‘Can I leave a message for her?’

  He nodded again.

  The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card and an expensive-looking pen. He scribbled on the back of the card and then handed it over to Derek. ‘You will remember to give it to her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s really very important.’

  ‘No worries,’ Derek said. Did the bloke think he was an idiot?

  ‘I want to see if I can work things out with her,’ the man said. ‘Can you tell her that?’

  Then, glancing anxiously over his shoulder, the man stepped back into the posh car. Pulling smoothly away, it joined the stream of traffic, its gleaming curves standing out like a sore thumb amid the usual rusty white Transit vans that travelled this road.

  Derek closed the door and carefully studied the card before sliding it into his trouser pocket as he climbed back up the stairs. He gave a satisfied smile. Wonder what that was all about? Clearly the guy was desperate to see Fern.

  So that was Stephen Cauldwell, the man who was the brains behind the Fame Game. Looked like he’d made a few bob from it, Derek thought.

  Forty-eight

  Rupert Dawson clapped Evan on the back. ‘How’s the voice today?’

  ‘The voice is fine,’ Evan said. Which was true. It was just the rest of him that was feeling terrible.

  He was having trouble sleeping. Thinking about Fern rushing out of the Fame Game show had left him wide awake until the wee small hours. Why had she done it? Could it have been because she’d seen him there? Surely she would have known that he was going to be one of the judges. It was a puzzle. And one that he’d certainly like solved.

  ‘There’s something wrong,’ his agent said. ‘What’s troubling Il Divo today? You looked great on the Fame Game show. You talked a lot more sense than those other idiots, too. You’re a natural, darling.’

  ‘No, I won’t do another series, Rup.’ He could see exactly where his agent’s flattery was leading.

  Rupert hung his head. ‘I think that’s a great shame. A waste of a wonderful broadcasting talent.’

  ‘Talk to Stephen Cauldwell about doing a series on the great operas of the world and then I might be interested.’

  The pound signs lit up in Rupert’s eyes. ‘I’ll get on the phone to him right away. You’d be a great presenter. I can just see it. Classy production. BBC Two. Nine o’clock slot. Fantastic.’

  Evan had to smile. For every inch that Rupert was given, he’d certainly make sure that he worked it up into a mile.

  ‘Let’s concentrate on the job in hand,’ Evan suggested.

  They were in a prestigious recording studio in London’s well-heeled area of St John’s Wood, and Evan was here to ‘lay down some tracks’ in modern parlance with one of the new indie-style bands that Rupert was representing. It seemed like an uneasy mix to Evan, but there was no doubt that these guys were the hot ticket at the moment, and beneath their boisterous exterior they were keen to get down to hard work and make their turn in the spotlight count. He’d agreed to record some of their songs with them to broaden his profile and embrace a younger audience—at least, that was how Rupert saw it. His agent was right though—there were only so many times that you could rerecord the classics. It was time to find something fresh and new. Evan watched their youthful energy and wondered if some of it might rub off on him, or whether it would simply make him feel old.

  The young guys had been warming up, and now they were ready for him.

  ‘You’ve got everything you need?’ Rupert wanted to know. Evan knew that his agent was anxious for this session to go well.

  He laid a hand on Rupert’s arm and lowered his voice. ‘There’s one thing you could do for me.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Find Fern for me.’

  ‘Fern?’

  ‘We must have an address for her.’

  Rupert shrugged. ‘I have a mobile number. I’ll call her.’

  ‘She won’t speak to me.’ He didn’t like to tell his agent that he’d been calling her and that her phone had been turned off. There was no way he’d wanted to leave a message on her voicemail. If Fern was given the chance, she’d probably run away from him again.

  His agent stifled a sigh. ‘What’s happened this time?’

  ‘She was due to go on the Fame Game. At the last minute,
she skedaddled out of there with half of the team chasing her.’ He allowed himself a wry smile. That would actually have been a sight to see. ‘I’d hate to think it was my fault.’

  Rupert gave him a look that said he’d probably agree with that assessment.

  ‘Don’t,’ Evan said, holding up his hand. ‘That just makes me feel worse. I feel so guilty.’

  His agent’s expression softened. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Find her.’

  ‘I’ll call Stephen Cauldwell, see if the Fame Game crew knows where she hangs out.’

  ‘I don’t want them to know that I’m involved with her.’

  Rupert couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘And are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I want a chance to talk to her.’

  ‘Then what do you want me to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Evan admitted with more than a note of exasperation in his voice. ‘Find her. How hard can it be?’

  ‘London is a big city. What if she doesn’t want to be found?’

  ‘Get Izak onto it.’ His chief of security could always be relied on. ‘He must have contacts.’

  ‘You want me to put a tail on her?’

  ‘If necessary.’ He felt a surge of joy at the crumb of hope that this offered him. Izak knew what he was doing. He’d get results, Evan was sure. He had to be sure.

  Rupert tried hard to keep his face neutral when he said, ‘This must be important to you.’

  ‘It is,’ Evan confirmed. ‘More important than anything.’

  Forty-nine

  Life is back to normal. Normal in a rather dysfunctional way. My dad is still pretending to have imaginary illnesses in order to win back my mum. My mum, in the meantime, is who knows where, doing who knows what, and she’s more than likely doing it with Mr Patel. I’m back at the King’s Head doing my barmaid work and singing nightly sets with Carl. I’ve given up my stupid dreams of fame and fortune. Carl has a sadness to his demeanour that wasn’t previously there—but Carl being Carl, he’s trying to hide it. I’d like to say that I’ve been able to watch the Fame Game on the telly to see how it’s all going, but I haven’t been that brave. Carl says that the glam rocker is currently in the lead. And I can’t help but think that it could have been me.

  The only good thing to have come out of this is that I now have the time to pick up Nathan from school. Joe has gone off to do his great cash job, and even though I’ve failed miserably in my quest to bring them a wonderful new life, they’ll be a few hundred quid better off this week.

  My nephew, once again, has made a nigh-on miraculous recovery from his latest asthma attack but I do wonder how long he can keep going on like this, and whether each time that he has one of these periods of illness, does it leave him weaker or permanently damaged in any way. The doctors seem to be able to give us so few answers to address our fears.

  I’m waiting outside Nathan’s school, and there’s a frisson of excitement running through me. I love Nathan so much and, if this feels so great, it makes me think what it would be like to have my own children one day. I try not to think how terrible I’d feel if that never happened. Probably worse than never making it as the new Madonna, I suspect.

  There’s an unseasonally strong drop of sunshine warming my back, and all the spring flowers are pushing bravely through the hard, cold earth of the roadside verges—the bright yellow heads of daffodils, the lush purple crocuses and the stark white of a few late snowdrops. The sky is clear and blue. The white, fluffy clouds hold no threat of rain. It’s a good day. A very good day. And despite my overall despondency, I feel okay. Quite okay. Things could be a lot worse in my world.

  More cars arrive to collect their charges, clogging up the road. A gaggle of mums with toddlers in push-chairs congregate by the school gates, chatting together. One day I’d like to belong to their club, too. Maybe I will. As it is, I spend the time tracing the edges of the paving slabs on the pavement with the toe of my shoe.

  In the distance, a bell rings and moments later a horde of scruffy, shouting schoolchildren spill out of the school. I twitch impatiently as I wait for Nathan and then I see him at the same time as he spots me. He hoists up his school bag and starts to run towards me, then—perhaps he sees the look of panic on my face—he drops back, slowing his run to a gentle trot. I respond by scooping him up as he gets to me, not caring that he’ll probably get a load of stick from his friends tomorrow.

  ‘How’s my best boy?’

  ‘Great,’ he says. There are dark shadows under Nathan’s eyes and his face is pale. His chest sounds wheezy to me. ‘Did the teacher give you your inhaler to take today?’

  Nathan nods solemnly.

  ‘Good.’ I put him down. ‘We’re going to have tea with Nana. That okay with you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says and slips his hand into mine.

  I ruffle his hair, which he hates, and then we turn to head back towards the bus stop. As we do so, I notice the big black limo taking up half of the street and I know instinctively who it belongs to. My heart leaps up to my mouth and my step falters. Sure enough, Evan is standing on the pavement just ahead of us. He’s wearing a black cashmere coat and his hands are pushed deep into his pockets. He looks handsome, sad and more than a little scary. I fight the urge to snatch Nathan up and leg it in the opposite direction.

  ‘Hey,’ he says softly.

  Nathan and I stand in front of him and I’ve no idea what to say. My nephew also looks to me for inspiration.

  Evan rescues us both. ‘So this is one of your many commitments?’

  ‘This is Nathan,’ I tell him.

  ‘I’m five,’ Nathan adds.

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’ I ask.

  ‘I had my spies looking out for you.’ He says it lightly, but I have a feeling that he might be serious.

  I don’t know what to say, so we stand and look at each other a bit longer. Nathan starts to fidget.

  ‘I guess we’d better be going,’ I say.

  ‘Let me give you a lift,’ Evan says swiftly. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  I hesitate. Is this a can of worms that I want opened?

  ‘I’d like the chance to talk to you,’ he says. ‘Please. Let me take you home.’

  ‘Is this your car?’ Nathan asks, pointing at the limo.

  ‘Yes.’

  Nathan turns pleading eyes at me. And I cave in. How can I deny my nephew what will probably be his only chance of a ride in a vehicle that’s the size of a small housing estate?

  ‘We’re going to my mum’s place near Euston station,’ I tell Evan. ‘For tea.’

  ‘Then I’ll take you there.’

  I’m grateful that we’re not going back to my digs, but for the first time in my life—and I feel terrible saying this—I’m embarrassed about where my parents live. I don’t suppose that Evan David will have ever been anywhere so small and so threadbare and so obviously owned by the council in his entire life. But this is me. The real me. And, quite frankly, he’ll have to like that or lump it.

  We go over to the car and all bundle inside the back seat. I think Nathan might hyperventilate with excitement and my fingers curl protectively round his inhaler in my pocket just in case.

  ‘Is this really a car?’ he breathes.

  Evan looks vaguely uncomfortable. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve never been in one like this,’ my nephew says. Then he turns to me. ‘Have you?’

  I decide not to tell Nathan about Jemma MacKenzie’s hen night and skip to more recent times. ‘I’ve been in this car before with Mr David.’

  ‘Wow,’ he says and settles back into the gargantuan seat.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Evan asks.

  I reel off the address of Frodsham Court, the driver gives me an acknowledging nod and, silently, the car moves off.

  ‘People will think I’m a prince,’ Nathan says and he stares out of the window, transfixed.

  I look at
Evan David, feeling ridiculously shy.

  He shifts, turning to face me. ‘Why did you run out of the Fame Game?’

  I shrug and stare out of the window like Nathan.

  Evan clears his throat. ‘Was it because of me?’

  I want to tell him not to flatter himself, but in my heart, I know that I couldn’t carry it off. ‘I felt terrible for lying to you,’ I admit. ‘For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a singer.’

  I’d expected Evan to look shocked, but he sits there calmly regarding me.

  ‘I am a singer,’ I correct, giving him a self-deprecating look despite a rare burst of defiant confidence. ‘I belt out popular hit tunes every night down at the King’s Head public house with my best friend, Carl, on piano.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ My voice comes out sounding more harsh than I would have liked. ‘You must get people telling you that they want to be a singer all the time.’

  Evan rubs his chin thoughtfully. ‘Actually, I don’t.’

  ‘It’s probably because they’d be frightened of humiliating themselves.’

  ‘And that’s how you felt?’

  ‘Of course it is.’ I also felt stupid. And pathetic. And unworthy. And any other negative emotions you’d care to trot out. I turn my attention to Nathan, who is amusing himself by waving at the staring passers-by in the manner of the queen. At least one of us is happy.

  ‘You had a good chance of winning,’ Evan says.

  I do wish people would stop telling me that.

  ‘The rest of the bunch aren’t up to much.’

  ‘So you’d have given me your vote?’ I can’t help sounding sarcastic.

  ‘I haven’t heard you sing,’ Evan points out coolly, ‘but I would have liked to.’

  ‘You haven’t missed much,’ I tell him.

  ‘You should have let me be the judge of that.’ And we both risk a smile at the irony of his comment. ‘I did hear that you’re a great runner though.’

  I can’t help but laugh. ‘Don’t,’ I scold him. ‘You’re making it worse.’