Rupert sipped his champagne and grimaced at its lack of sparkle. That was exactly how Evan felt—flat and lacking in fizz.
‘She’s the only person I’ve ever…’ Evan broke off. ‘What’s the point?’
‘Exactly,’ Rupert said heartily. ‘Learn from it. Move on. We’ll be out of here in a few weeks, and she’ll be a distant memory.’
‘I want you to go and listen to her sing, Rupert. She’s great. She could be fantastic.’
‘No,’ Rupert said. ‘This is your nether regions talking.’
‘Offer her a contract.’
‘I’m a hard-headed businessman, not a charity for discarded lovers.’
‘You wait until you hear her,’ Evan insisted. ‘Then you’ll know I’m right. I’ll put up the money if necessary. You just do the paperwork.’
‘She’s a pub singer, for heaven’s sake. A crooner. This will never work out.’
‘Stephen Cauldwell could snap her up from under your nose,’ Evan warned. He’d thrown down the gauntlet and, if he’d gauged it right, he knew that his friend couldn’t bear to lose out to another talent-spotter.
Rupert worried at his lip. ‘Okay, I’ll take a look.’
Evan hid a dry smile. ‘She has a nephew,’ he continued, ‘the one I told you about.’
‘I thought it was her son?’
‘Another Evan David blunder.’
‘You’re not going to make a habit of being such a twit, are you?’ Rupert wanted to know. ‘You used to be such a regular sort of guy. If a bit grumpy.’
‘Son, nephew, does it matter? He’s ill,’ Evan said, ‘and I want to pay to make him better. Tell her, whatever it costs, that his medical expenses will all be covered. Whatever he needs, I’ll pay. Just tell her. Tell her that.’
It was the only thing he could think of that would go some way to making this up to Fern. Some gesture to let her know that he still cared very much about her. Perhaps it would help to ease some of his own pain, too, if he could do something to save just one sickly kid. Not that it was his main motivation, but in his simple, struggling, stupid bloke way, he hoped that it would be a positive by-product.
‘Love is making you behave very strangely.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘I’d better put that wedding date in the diary, or be damned.’ Rupert stood up and headed towards the desk again. He paused and looked at his friend. ‘Are you absolutely sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘Rupert, quit with the lectures and just do as I ask,’ Evan snapped. ‘Sometimes you forget that I employ you.’
‘Ah,’ Rupert smiled and rubbed his hands together. ‘Thank goodness. The return of old Grumpy Guts. I was beginning to think I’d lost you, darling. Let’s hope the rest of your life soon gets back to normal, too.’
But Evan knew, that whatever else it was, his life was a long way from being normal.
Sixty-one
I call Carl again on the way to the hospital to visit my dad, but still I get a robotic voice telling me to record a voicemail message—which I duly do. ‘Hey, Carlos. Have you skipped the country?’ I say, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. ‘I’m worried about you. Just off to see Mum, then I’m going to the hospital to visit Dad. It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Where are you, you lazy bastard?’
And then I set off in the direction of the Euston Road.
Carl could well be in bed. This is not his time of day. I’m not sure what is really. A part of Carl always wants to be horizontal in a hammock. He has some great ideas, but he’s generally too lazy to swing his legs to the ground and get on with making them real. The first time I’ve ever seen him truly motivated was when he came up with the whole Fame Game idea. It just goes to show that he has ambition lurking deep within him if he can summon up the effort.
I thought he might have turned up for breakfast this morning—maybe bearing some baked goodies—but Carl has surprised me once again with a no-show. I just hope he’s okay.
My mum is in the newsagent’s shop, serving behind the counter, when I swing by there. I wait patiently until she’s chatted to all her customers, dished out their change and has rearranged her newspapers before I step forward.
‘Hello, Fern.’ She leans over piles of Daily Mails and gives me a brisk kiss on the cheek. My mother adores us all, but she’s never been big on soppy displays. ‘What brings you here, darlin’?’
‘I thought you might want an update on Dad.’ I still haven’t spoken to her about what happened. Frankly, the fewer details she knows about my role in Dad’s admittance to the hospital the better, or I’d definitely be in for some flak. All the messages about Dad’s heart attack—or ‘wobble’, as he likes to call it—have been relayed through my brother, Joe.
‘Joe says he’s doing fine.’ She carries on fiddling with her newspapers. Her fingers are black with newsprint, but the rest of her is immaculately groomed.
‘He is.’ I take a breath. ‘Mum, he’s asking for you.’
All she does is raise one eyebrow and in a slightly ironic way. I have no idea what that means, but I suspect that it’s not good.
‘You haven’t been near the hospital yet.’ My voice sounds more accusatory than it should.
Regarding me levelly, she rests her folded arms on the counter. ‘Are you sure that he’s not faking it again?’
I shake my head. ‘Not this time.’
She looks unconvinced. A stream of customers arrive, and I move aside so that she can serve them. While she’s busy, I crane my neck around to get a glimpse into the backroom of the shop to see if Mr Patel is there. When we’re alone again, I take up the cause once more.
‘He needs you,’ I say. ‘Just go to visit him. Say hello. That’s all I’m asking.’
My mum sighs and moves her folded arms to cover her chest. ‘Tell me why I should.’
‘He’s still your husband,’ I point out softly. ‘Don’t you have any feelings for him at all?’
She rather looks like she doesn’t.
‘We nearly lost him, Mum. Seriously. How would you feel if that happened and you hadn’t seen him?’
Her posture sags a little. I’ve spotted a slight chink in her armour. ‘Joe says he’s out of danger.’
‘He’s better,’ I agree, ‘but he’s not exactly ready for running the London Marathon.’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm, young lady,’ my mum warns.
Now she’s on the defensive, which I view as a good thing.
‘Go in to see him. Please. Please.’ I resort to begging. ‘Please. The doctors say that he shouldn’t be upset, and there’s no doubt that this is upsetting him.’ The doctors haven’t actually said that, but I’m sure they would if they knew the situation. ‘Just drop by with some flowers.’
‘Flowers?’ Mum huffs. ‘For that old goat? He doesn’t deserve flowers.’ She looks like she’s warming up for one of her I-hate-your-father rants, which I can’t bear to hear. My dad’s no angel, but he’s not that bad, either.
I hold up my hands. ‘Okay. I’m done,’ I say. ‘If you don’t want to see him, then that’s up to you. I’ve tried my best.’
Mum’s mouth is set in a grim line. I don’t know how she can be so heartless. To me, it’s proof that her affections now lie elsewhere.
‘But if anything happens to him, Mum, remember that I tried,’ I say. ‘Remember that I tried my best.’
Sixty-two
When I finally get to the hospital, I find my dad sitting up in his bed being spoon-fed some sort of porridge concoction by the same petite and pretty Thai nurse who was on duty when he was first admitted. She always seems to be here, and I wonder if some of these staff ever go home.
The only benefit of Dad being in a Coronary Care Ward is that there are no regular visiting hours. The staff turn off the lights at around three o’clock when the patients are all supposed to bed down for a snooze, but other than that you can pretty much come and go as you please. I thought I’d drop in early as my n
ext stop is the King’s Head, where I am seriously going to grovel to Ken the Landlord and apologise for all my terrible behaviour recently and for having to keep leaving him in the lurch. But that’s the end of it. I will be a model employee from now on. I might even persuade him to instigate a system of reward stars like McDonald’s—so I will go from a Johnny No-Stars to top, fully loaded Employee of the Month within no time. This is my pledge, and I will tell Ken all of this with my hand on my heart. He’d probably prefer it if I put my hands somewhere else, but he can lump that.
As I get closer to Dad’s bed, I can see that he’s telling the nurse a joke and she, in turn, is giggling furiously. I’m stunned to see that there’s flirting going on. My dad—who has just had a major heart attack—is flirting! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, how was I blessed with such parents? Aren’t parents supposed to be the well-behaved ones with a set of unruly kids to stress over? There seems to be a bit of role reversal going on here.
When I get to the bed, they both look up at me guiltily. I might not be a trained medical professional, but there doesn’t seem to be much wrong with Dad now, in my opinion. In fact, his heart monitor seems to be beeping rather too perkily for my liking.
‘Hello, Dad.’
‘Hello, love,’ Dad says sheepishly.
‘You look a lot better.’ Even I can hear the edge in my voice.
‘I’m feeling grand,’ he says.
‘I’m glad.’ So why don’t I sound glad?
‘This is Kim.’ Dad licks his lips nervously as he nods towards his carer.
She gives a little girly giggle. ‘Hello, Fern,’ she says. ‘I have heard many things about you.’
Oh, really? I give my dad the evil eye.
‘I was telling her about the Fame Game, love,’ he admits. ‘And how clever you are.’
Oh, yes. That’ll be clever as in ‘clever enough to blow my one big chance’, then, will it?
‘Kim’s from Thailand. Bangkok. She’s come over here for work. Not been here long.’ Dad’s gabbling. ‘She’s got a huge family at home. Sends money to them every month.’
Kim is nodding furiously, her winsome grin widening as he reveals more and more details of her personal life. I can feel a frown coming on. There must have been a lot of cosy chats going on here.
When my dad eventually runs out of steam, we all stare at each other in uncomfortable silence. Whatever Kim’s doing, she’s certainly giving my dad a tonic.
‘All done,’ she says, and takes the empty bowl away from him. ‘Good boy.’
Boy? My dad—a boy?
He certainly gives her a boyish grin.
‘I come back later and give you nice new sheets,’ she promises him. I half-expect her to peck him on the cheek. Kim gives me a shy smile and scuttles away.
I sit down at his bedside. ‘Personal care, eh?’
‘She’s a lovely young lass.’
‘Well, she certainly seems to have put the colour back in your cheeks.’ I suppose I shouldn’t resent him getting a bit of comfort. I just wish his comfort hadn’t come in such a young and pretty form. ‘How are you feeling today?’
He nods. ‘Better. Much better.’
I give his hand a squeeze. ‘Good.’
Dad’s eyes turn towards the window. ‘No word from your mum?’
‘I’ve just been to see her to give her an update. She’s worried about you.’ The lie trips easily from my tongue.
‘But not worried enough to come and see me?’
My dad may be ill, but he’s not stupid. I shake my head wordlessly. Dad sags back against his pillow, and tears fill his eyes.
‘I don’t know what’s going on in her head,’ I admit.
‘I spent forty years trying to fathom that out,’ Dad jokes shakily. ‘Your mother will come round in her own time.’
I cast a surreptitious glance at pretty, young Nurse Kim as she bustles about the ward. She turns back and meets my gaze. I just hope that Mum doesn’t leave it too late.
Sixty-three
My brother Joe arrives on the Coronary Care Ward at the same time as Carl. I kiss them both.
‘How’s Nathan?’ I ask Joe.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Missing you.’
‘I’m missing him, too. I’ll try to come round later,’ I promise. Now that I’m not mega-busy trying to forge a pop career and look after Evan David’s every whim in between time, I should have some of my life back to myself.
Joe clasps Dad’s hand and then takes my place at his bedside.
‘Come on,’ I say to Carl, ‘we can clear off and get something to eat.’
‘Bye, Mr Kendal,’ Carl says to Dad. ‘Glad to see you’re looking better.’
‘That was a bloody short visit,’ Dad complains. ‘And where are my grapes?’
Yes, it seems that my dad is making a marvellous recovery. Carl flicks him a good-natured peace sign and we head out towards the hospital café.
‘He looks well,’ Carl says as we stride down the corridors, the echo of our footsteps bouncing back at us off the walls. ‘You must be relieved.’
‘Relieved?’ I say with a huff. ‘He’s already trying to get one of the young nurses to give him more than a bed bath.’
Carl chuckles.
‘It’s not funny,’ I tell him. ‘Even though he had a quick knock at death’s door, it hasn’t moved my mum to come and see him. I never imagined that she’d be like this. I thought they’d both forget all their silliness and make it up. It grieves me to say this, Carl, but I don’t know that they’ll ever get back together now.’
‘You worry about them too much.’
‘Not for much longer,’ I say. ‘I’m definitely thinking about trading them both in for better parents.’
‘You love them both just as they are,’ Carl counters. ‘And you know it.’
I give an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s not good manners to be right all the time.’
With a carefree laugh, Carl swings me through the door to the hospital café. As a further assault to the senses, the café is decorated in shades of red and white. With all the blood and bandages around this place, I would have thought it was a really bad choice of colour scheme, but what do I know?
‘I wish I smoked,’ I say to Carl as we queue up at the self-service counter. ‘I have a craving for some toxins to give me a kick-start.’
Honestly, I could lie down on the counter and go right off to sleep. I’m exhausted, and the only time my brain seems to shut off is when I’m flat out in bed. I wish someone would whisk me off to the Bahamas so that I could lie on a sunbed on the beach for two weeks and recuperate—but, like everything else that I dream of, it’s simply not going to happen. Hospital canteen food is set to be my only succour.
‘I could give you a cancer stick, or I’ve got some dope back at the flat,’ my friend offers.
‘You are so rock ’n’ roll!’ I tease, and we both have a laugh. I don’t know why, but I thought there might be some tension between us this morning. Of course, as always, I deeply underestimated Carl’s ability to be nice, understanding and utterly accepting.
We opt for a putrid cup of hospital coffee and a bacon roll each, which I buy because I’m feeling guilty. I expect Carl has been taking a lot of flack from Ken the Landlord about my continued absences, but if he has, he’s said nothing to me. We find a table without too much rubbish on it, and I wipe it down with a serviette. So much for the improvement in hospital cleanliness. It obviously doesn’t extend to the cafeteria. We plonk down on the hard, red plastic seats and spread out our wares.
Glugging down the bitter coffee, I pick at my bacon roll. ‘So,’ I say to Carl. ‘Where did you get to last night?’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he replies.
‘Back to Evan David’s apartment,’ I say, choosing to go first. Wherever Carl went, his experience couldn’t have been as disastrous as mine. I pause for dramatic effect. ‘Where I was introduced to his fiancée.’
‘Oh.’ Carl looks suitably taken ab
ack. Imagine if I’d filled him in on the gory details. I daren’t tell him about prancing round in my underwear or he’d come over all unnecessary. ‘That’s a bummer, man.’
‘Well said.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Stupid.’ That pretty much sums it up. I wave my hand dismissively, though my heart twists with pain—and say, ‘Well, it’s all over now. No more silliness.’
‘Shall I give you the plenty-more-fish-in-the-sea speech?’
‘Not necessary,’ I say. ‘My nets will soon be out trawling for a new haddock.’ I knock back my coffee with a shudder. ‘In fact, I’m going to start interviewing for replacement heart-throbs any day now.’ I flutter my eyelashes at Carl, but he doesn’t offer his body as he normally would—not even in jest. Instead, he shifts in his seat and pretends to study the plastic menu on the table.
‘So,’ I say into the gap that Carl leaves. ‘I hope your evening was more successful than mine. Where did you get to?’
He still doesn’t look at me. ‘To a club.’
‘A club?’ Carl never goes to clubs. He has a congenital aversion to them.
‘In Camden.’
‘What sort of club?’
Carl shrugs. ‘Can’t remember the name. It had good live music.’
‘Is that the only information I’m going to get?’
‘There’s not much else to tell.’
‘Who did you go with?’
Carl shifts again. ‘Some guys from the pub.’
And some girls, too, if I’m any sort of judge of body language. Does this mean that Carl’s dating someone? Ooo. That brings up all kinds of emotions, and one of them is definitely jealousy.
He’s dated other women while we’ve been friends—he’s hardly a monk. There’s no vow of chastity just because I won’t leap into bed with him. But normally he tells me all about them, and I know that there’s never been anyone special in his life. Is that why he’s suddenly being so cagey?
‘Come on,’ I cajole him. ‘Dish the dirt.’
‘There’s none to dish.’
‘I would have given you every detail of my shagfest with Evan David, if I’d had one.’ Of course I wouldn’t, but Carl isn’t to know that.
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