Flicking the remote control made a plasma screen drop down from the ceiling to hang at the foot of his bed, and he switched on the television just in time to see the celebrities arriving for the gala event. Evan groaned. There was no way he could bear to watch this, so he flicked through the never-ending range of channels making absolutely sure that there was nothing on worth watching. The novel on his bedside table had failed to grip him and required more concentration than he could currently offer it. Thwarted in his search for worthwhile entertainment, he tossed back the duvet and climbed out of bed. Throwing on his dressing gown, he padded through the apartment, the slap of his bare feet on the wood flooring echoing throughout the place. He’d been trapped indoors for two days now with this wretched cold, and he was starting to get cabin fever.
Evan wandered over to the windows, slid back one of the partitions and stepped out onto his balcony. The evening was pleasantly cool, the breeze soothing against his hot skin. Lights sparkled on the Thames, and the rhythmic lap of water against the building eased his headache. Out there somewhere was Fern. Evan spread his hands on the stainless-steel rail and exhaled heavily. He was missing her. Missing what might have been. And he wondered what she was doing now. She’d probably be getting ready to sing her set at the pub where she worked. Where did she say it was? Wasn’t it the King’s Head?
Suddenly Evan knew that he needed to go there. More than anything, he needed to find Fern. Before he could think better of it, he strode back inside, threw on some clothes and headed out of the apartment. He’d given Frank the night off, never imagining that he’d be going out into the city night with a raging head cold. He checked his wallet as he left—Rupert always complained that Evan never kept cash on him. Just like the queen, he was continually having to ask minions to settle his bills. Rup followed him around with a wedge of notes on hand for every occasion. Was this how far he’d come from real life? Evan had no idea of the cost of a loaf of bread or a pint of milk—he didn’t even know how much he was paying to stay in this place. There was, not surprisingly, a noticeable absence of money in his wallet, so he rifled through the desk until he came on what appeared to be a petty cash box and helped himself to fifty quid—leaving an IOU just in case he forgot to replace it, even though, technically, it was his money.
Evan took the elevator down to the street. He was going to get in touch with real people again. And he was going to start by taking the Tube. Walking in the night air cleared his head, and he descended into the nearest Underground station feeling quite buoyant. The place was deserted, and Evan looked round him, wondering what to do. When was the last time he’d been on public transport? He hadn’t always travelled in top-of-the-range stretched limos, but over twenty years had passed since he’d caught a bus or a Tube. The banks of ticket machines looked far too complicated, and it took him a minute or two to search out a ticket office. At least a human being would be able to give him some assistance.
He watched someone else putting their ticket through the barrier and then followed suit. This was ridiculous! He was forty-five years old and incapable of travelling on public transport without help. He only hoped that he was heading in the right direction on his wild-goose chase. One of the few things that he remembered about where Fern worked was that she’d said it wasn’t far from her parents’ home and he was sure that was near Euston station. He might not use public transport, but he could still recognise a mainline station when he saw one. At least, he thought he could.
No one gave him a second glance as he waited for the Tube train and then boarded it. Not a second glance. No one looked up from their books or newspapers as he passed. No one’s mouth gaped open. No one pressed him for an autograph. Everyone minded their own business, and Evan slid, gratefully, into an empty seat. It was refreshing to go unnoticed, to just blend in anonymously with the mass of humanity, and he wondered if he could just slip quietly back into society once again. It was clear that he didn’t need a disguise to do it—all he needed was a stinking cold and a bright red nose so that he looked like shite to make him unrecognisable to Joe Public. Somehow, that made him feel much better. No one could understand what it felt like to be on show all the time, unless you’d been in that place.
He settled back into his seat. Things had changed since he last caught the Underground. This station and the train were clean, shiny and new. Clearly, some money had been pumped into it since he’d been a student in London. It was a pleasure to travel like this—relatively speaking. He closed his eyes and tuned into the thump of his headache as he wondered what he was going to say to Fern.
As he changed to the Northern Line to head up to Euston station, he realised that nothing much had changed at all. Here the stations were old, dirty and crumbling, the trains nearly as rickety. It was busier and he was jostled onto the next train, although still no one gave him the time of day. He had to stand as all the seats were full, swaying alarmingly as the train hurtled through the tunnels. Then the train stopped in another tunnel and they waited in darkness for ten minutes until it moved again. Progress was painful—due to a signalling failure, the driver announced over the crackling intercom. There was nothing he could do but sniff miserably into his handkerchief and wonder whether he should have stayed tucked up in bed. At this rate the King’s Head would be closed by the time he got there, if he ever managed to find it.
When he did, eventually, reach Euston station, he realised that he’d had more than enough of real life and wished that he’d dragged Frank away from his evening’s television or whatever to get the limo out. He was beginning to appreciate how comfortable and cosseted he was in his privileged world. Having arrived at the station, Evan realised that he was still no closer to knowing where the King’s Head might be, so he disappeared into the depths of a filthy underground garage to jump into a cab. Still not quite his limo, but much better than being bounced and battered along in that hideous sardine can they called the Tube.
‘I need to find a pub called the King’s Head,’ Evan told the driver.
‘There must be five hundred of them in London, guv,’ the cabbie said. ‘Can you be a bit more specific?’
‘It’s round here. Not far from the station, I think. Can we just take a drive?’
‘I love you Yanks,’ the driver said with a hearty laugh. ‘You all think England’s the size of a threepenny bit.’
Evan was surprised that the driver didn’t recognise his accent as British or Welsh. Was that because his roots were floating somewhere over the mid-Atlantic now?
‘Haven’t I seen you on the telly?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I had that Jude Law in the back of my cab last week. What a star he is! Mark my words, that boy’s going places. What did you say the pub was called?’
‘The King’s Head.’
‘Then let’s give it a whirl.’ To the honks of a dozen impatient horns, the driver pulled out into the traffic.
Despite a lack of coherent directions, within minutes Evan had been deposited outside a faded, typical London backstreet pub called the King’s Head. Tipping the cab driver generously for what had been a very brief ride, Evan could only hope that it was the right King’s Head.
Fifty-five
Evan stood on the pavement still wondering whether this was a wise idea, but unable to think through the fog of his cold. He’d come this far and had gone through the hell of public transport to get here; there could be no turning back now.
Evan blew his nose and coughed a little before taking his heart in his hand and pushing through the swing door that led into the King’s Head. You could have cut the smoke with a knife, and it made him splutter a bit more. The pub was packed with punters jostling for space. He scanned the area around him, but he didn’t have to wait long to see whether he’d come to the right place or not. Above the heads of the crowd and on a rather makeshift stage, Fern stood right in front of him.
She was wearing scruffy jeans and a blouse that had probably seen better days, and her
hair fell loosely round her shoulders, but she had a presence on the stage. A charisma that could never be taught. Her voice was clear and strong—and completely wasted on this place. Stephen Cauldwell was right, Evan thought. She was good. More than good. Even after a few notes he could tell that. Fern would have walked the Fame Game contest, and Evan’s heart went out to her. He didn’t recognise the song she was just finishing, but the audience clapped enthusiastically—so it was obviously a firm favourite. Sometimes he was so wrapped up in his own music that he had no idea what was big in the current pop culture. Nevertheless, Evan joined in with the applause. Fern nodded in thanks and then walked across to her keyboard player, who started up with the introduction of the next song. It took a lot of courage to do this sort of gig night after night. Evan wasn’t sure he could tolerate it. Every night she had to fight for the attention of the audience, over their chatter, the clank of the fruit machines and the noise of the bar. Even when he’d started out, he’d automatically been given a certain respect. Fern had to claw every inch of hers.
When the next song started up, he recognised it instantly. It was a Beatles number, ironically called, ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’. It had been one of his sister Glenys’s favourite tunes, and the memory brought up a huge ball of emotion that blocked his throat and made tears spring to his eyes. They’d given it a modern beat and, expertly, Fern belted it out to the back of the pub. The audience started to dance along to the music as Fern sang boldly about not caring too much about money. Evan realised with a sinking feeling that perhaps he’d spent too much of his life focusing on little else. Slowly, he threaded through the crush of bodies, moving to the front of the crowd. Fern finished her song, once again to frenetic applause.
‘Okay,’ she said, flicking her hair from her face. There was a sheen of perspiration on her skin and a bold little jut to her chin. She was putting her heart into this, and Evan knew in that moment that he’d lost his for ever. ‘Let’s slow things down a little.’
The keyboard player struck a chord which hit Evan hard in his stomach and Fern sang the opening words of the timeless Beatles ballad ‘Yesterday’. Before he fully appreciated what he was doing, Evan was walking up onto the stage.
As Fern saw him, she rocked back slightly on her heels and stumbled over the haunting words. Around the pub, as people recognised him, a cheer went up. Evan held up a hand in grateful acknowledgement. Fern regained her composure, smiled widely at him and took up her song once more. A reverent hush fell over the audience as he joined her in a duet. The guy on the keyboard cut his accompaniment to a bare minimum. All that could be heard was a blend of their voices, harmonising perfectly. If nothing else, their voices were a marriage made in heaven, Evan thought. He took Fern’s hand and folded his fingers around it. She trembled at his touch and he watched a tear slide down her cheek, before he brushed it gently away with his thumb.
It was idiotic to sing while he had a cold—Rupert would have killed him if he’d been here. But his agent wasn’t here to stop him and, right now, Evan didn’t care. This was a bit different from singing a full concert. He reasoned that one small song did not an aria make. And it was a long time since a woman had made him want to sing Beatles songs with her. He sang for Glenys, for Fern and for himself, loving every minute. In the past he’d performed for President Bush, the pope and the queen on many occasions, but he’d not enjoyed it as much as this. The song finished and he took Fern in his arms, holding her close.
‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she breathed.
‘Me, neither,’ he said.
Then he held up their hands and they took a low bow to their ecstatic audience. He’d done things wrong, and now perhaps he’d have a chance to put them right. As the song said, he believed in yesterday—but he now also had great hopes for tomorrow.
Fifty-six
Carl turns away from me as I leave the pub with Evan, but I’ve already seen the expression on his face. My friend’s pain nips at me, holding me back, but then Evan takes my arm and steers me through the crowd. And I don’t look back. It seems as if Ken the Landlord will have to manage without me, once again.
Out on the street, the cold cuts through me, and I wish I’d thought to pick up my coat en route. Evan holds up his hand and a cab pulls up.
‘No limo tonight?’ I tease.
He hurries me inside. ‘You would not believe what I did to get here,’ Evan says with a disbelieving tone in his voice. ‘I took public transport.’
I start to laugh. ‘Wow! Poor you!’
‘I gave Frank the night off,’ he explains. ‘How could I drag him away from the bosom of his family?’
‘You’re all heart,’ I say.
Evan gives his address to the driver and he speeds off towards the Docklands. In the back of the cab, we stare at each other with lust and longing. Evan slides his arms round me. ‘I have a terrible head cold,’ he tells me.
‘And you brought it to my door?’ This is what’s commonly known as bluster. I daren’t admit that I think he caught it from my dear old mum. ‘What a charmer. Thanks.’
‘I was supposed to be singing at a charity gala,’ he admits, ‘but I had to cancel. The doctor wouldn’t let me perform.’
Now I feel really terrible.
He takes my hand and grips it tightly. ‘I just lay there thinking about you. In the end, I had to get up and find you.’
‘You got off your sickbed to look for me?’
Evan nods. ‘I wanted to hear you sing.’
I give him a wry look.
‘You’re very good,’ he says.
‘Don’t tell me that I would have won the Fame Game competition or I might have to hurt you.’
‘I also wanted to apologise for running out of your parents’ flat,’ he continues. ‘It was very rude of me, and I wanted to explain why.’
‘You don’t owe me an explanation.’
‘It was seeing your son like that…’
My ears prick up. ‘Nathan isn’t my son.’
Now Evan perks up, too. ‘He isn’t?’
‘He’s my nephew. My brother’s kid.’
‘Oh.’ Evan settles back in the cab. He seems relieved. I wonder if he thinks I’m a better proposition if I’m a childfree zone, and a wave of irritation washes over me. I’d love to know what’s going through his head.
‘I thought he was yours,’ he says, and blows his nose.
‘You know what “thought” did,’ I say briskly. Then I relent. ‘I do look after him a lot. His real mum ran out on them when he was still a baby. I’m sort of his unofficial maternal replacement and favourite aunty.’
Evan stays silent.
‘I thought you were worried that you’d catch something,’ I say.
He gives me a slow smile. ‘I did catch something.’
‘That was from my mum,’ I confess. ‘She’s got a cold.’
‘Join the club.’ He takes my hand again. ‘I was worried about his illness, but not in the way you think.’
I wait patiently for the next bit, which I sense is coming with some sort of internal struggle. We bounce through the darkened London streets, snaking through the light evening traffic.
‘I had a sister,’ Evan says finally. He chews nervously at his lip. ‘She was killed when we were young.’
‘Oh, Evan,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ve never really got over it.’ His voice is gruff, filled with emotion, and he toys with my fingers, not looking at me. ‘Since then I’ve avoided anything to do with children. With relationships. With anything that might involve me in real life.’
‘And a sick child completely freaked you out?’
Evan rests his head back on the seat and stares at the roof of the cab, which I take as a yes. ‘I wanted to get close to you—I felt we were getting close—but the thought of dealing with Nathan’s illness scared me.’
‘And now?’
‘It’s ricocheted round my brain like a pinball machine,’ he admits with a wavering sigh. ‘
But I think it’s worth giving it a try.’
‘It?’
‘This,’ he says, leaning towards me. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as he threads his hands through my hair and draws me close to him.
‘I’ll catch your cold,’ I say.
‘Then you’ll know how much I’m suffering.’
And Evan kisses me, deep and hard, making me lose all sense of reason. We slide together on the seat as his body covers mine, and I wish that the cab driver had a blind to pull down or something, because this is definitely going to get steamy. My clothes seem to be coming adrift at an alarming rate. I tear at Evan’s clothes, ripping all the buttons off his hideously expensive shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Actually, he doesn’t seem to mind at all. This is a man who has stayed in five-star luxury places all around the world, and we’re making out like teenagers in the back of a grotty cab. A low groan escapes his lips. ‘I’ve never wanted anyone so much,’ he murmurs.
Then the cab pulls up outside Evan’s apartment, which is just as well or we might have been arrested for indecent exposure.
Fifty-seven
We dishevel each other’s clothing some more as we ride in the lift up to the top floor. I want this man naked. My hands travel over his smooth, bare chest. His skin is hot and silky beneath my fingers, and my knees go weak with desire. I haven’t had sex in a long, long time and, make no mistake, I WANT IT NOW!
Evan struggles to get his key in the lock as we’re reluctant to part our lips and his hands are keen to do much more interesting things than unlocking the door.
‘I thought the doctor said you weren’t fit to perform tonight,’ I remind him as he breaks from ravishing me for a moment to concentrate on what he’s doing.
Welcome to the Real World Page 24