Rupert chose that moment to open the terrace doors and step into the sunshine. ‘Bloody hell, it’s hot today, darling,’ his agent muttered.
Evan clasped him by his hand. ‘It’s been ages, you old rogue. Good to see you.’
For the last few months Evan had been back in San Francisco, heavily involved in the new season of productions here at the California Opera House. He’d thrown himself into his work—which was never difficult. If he tried very hard, it nearly blotted out his real life.
He and Lana were performing together again, starring in Turandot. There was no doubt that it was placing a strain on their relationship. Lana was singing the lead role of Turandot—a tyrannical Chinese princess known for slaughtering men who were foolish enough to try for her hand in marriage—an irony that wasn’t lost on Evan. He, of course, was taking the role of Calaf, the hapless lover trying to save her from herself. But somehow they never had reached the emotional heights as they did back in Wales with La Traviata. Lacklustre reviews of her performance reflected the fact that Lana was too caught up with making arrangements for her big day to be fully focused on her work. Working with Lana was difficult at the best of times, but things were even more tricky now. Maybe it was time to call it a day on their working partnership and move on. It wasn’t an issue he felt able to tackle at the moment. Tonight was the final night and, frankly, it couldn’t come soon enough for Evan.
With the impending wedding looming large, Lana’s famous Italian temper was rather more on display than normal. He’d missed his agent’s steadying influence and was glad to see that Rupert had turned up in time for the nuptials. Not that he would have been allowed to miss it. Lana had decreed that he should be there, and be there he would. ‘What’s been keeping you so busy in London?’
‘This and that.’ Rupert threw a CD onto Evan’s lounger. It was the result of his collaboration with the indie bands in London, which, miraculously, they’d been able to finish on time. The publishing company had rushed it out to catch the crest of the wave, and it certainly seemed to be working. ‘It’s going great guns,’ his agent said. ‘It’ll be number one next week, with good luck and a following wind.’
‘If you’re going to tell me that I should be heading back to London to promote it, then don’t bother,’ Evan said. ‘There’s no way that’s going to happen.’
‘You have an hour-long Christmas special with the BBC. You’re going to have to go back sometime.’
‘I could pull out of it,’ Evan threatened.
Rupert looked crestfallen. Well, his agent would have to live with it, Evan thought. The farther away from London he was, the better; that way it might just stop him from thinking about Fern. Something that he was doing far too much of. Several times in the last few months he’d gone to pick up his phone to call her, simply to see how she was and to try and explain what had happened on their last evening together. Needless to say, he’d never managed to make the call. In the cold light of day, any relationship between them would have been far too complicated. There were too many obstacles to overcome. Too many differences between them. His brain could rationalise all of that, but it didn’t seem to make his heart any lighter.
‘When this is all over, I’m going to take a few months off,’ he said now. ‘I might head out to Tuscany, take some R and R.’
Rupert peered over the balcony, trepidation written large on his face. The sight made him grimace. ‘How’s it all going?’
‘Terrible.’ Evan shook his head impatiently. ‘Why on earth I let that woman talk me into all this, goodness only knows.’
‘It will all be over in a few days.’
‘If only,’ Evan said. ‘Did you book a wedding singer to perform the opening number at the ceremony? Lana would kill me if I forgot to do it.’
‘If I forgot to do it, darling,’ Rupert corrected. ‘And, yes, I’ve booked someone great.’
‘Someone I know?’
‘It’s going to be very expensive.’
‘I don’t care about that, so long as Lana is happy. Who is it?’
Rupert fussed with pouring himself some iced tea and then looked at the glass disdainfully. ‘What is this stuff? Why can’t they drink proper tea over here?’
‘Rup, who did you book?’
‘It’s a surprise.’ Rupert avoided his gaze. ‘My surprise. Trust me, you’ll be blown away.’
‘Is that good “blown away” or bad “blown away”?’
Rupert tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
Seventy-three
Get this. I’m flying into the USA on a private jet. I look out of the window to give myself a reality check. Yep. That’s right. Li’l ol’ me is travellin’ in big style!
Carl reaches over and gives my knee a squeeze. ‘Feeling okay?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Feeling great.’
The steward comes to ask us to put on our seat belts as we’re on our final approach to the airport at San Francisco, so I settle back into my seat and close my eyes. It’s amazing how quickly I’ve grown accustomed to all this luxury. And, no, I’m not going to wake up in a minute and find out that it’s all been a dream and I’m still without a job and back in Carl’s flat having been unceremoniously burned out of my own. At least I hope not.
The rest of the band is with us. Carl managed to pull it all together at short notice by purloining Shelly and her band to back us, leaving Ken the Landlord without a headline act again. It’s a tribute to Carl’s personality that he manages to stay best mates with all of his ex-girlfriends. However, I have noticed one or two lingering looks between my ace guitarist and my new back-up singer and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Life continues to be amazing. Our first single has been released and is topping the charts. It’s a song that Carl and I penned together, sitting in my lounge when we dreamed about all this sort of stuff happening and assumed that it would, but to people other than us. Thankfully, it’s had great reviews—I was even hailed as the new Madonna—and, as a result of all the attention, hordes of paparazzi have been camping out on my doorstep, so that I really know that I’ve made it. My mum keeps them sweet by taking them out trays of tea and biscuits at regular intervals—which I’m sure will end as soon as they print some scuzzy picture of me in the Mirror with my arse hanging out of my jeans or an up-skirt photo or some such. I’ve also had to employ a bodyguard to take Nathan to school, which he thinks is cool and has given him a certain amount of street cred with his friends. Kids are so shallow, but no longer is Nathan standing on the sidelines while they play without him.
I’ve been in so many magazines that I’ve lost count. My mother started a cuttings file to show all her neighbours, but gave up when she’d filled three plastic W. H. Smith ring-binders in the first two weeks. My stylists have turned me into a permanent rock goddess with judicious application of acrylic, highlights and hair extensions. I’ve been given a sort of Boho look—which I love—and it seems that I’ll never have to trouble myself with choosing my own clothes ever again. Carl was deemed to be cool, the stylists loving his retro-grunge look. Just goes to show how fickle this industry can be when the Fame Game show bounced him for exactly the same reasons. So Carl still looks pretty much like good old Carl, except he now pays a hairdresser ten times more than he used to, simply to cut a millimetre from the length of his hair. No more the three-quid knife and fork cut for Carl. The stylists seem to think it makes all the difference. And I’m sure it does.
We’re heading to San Francisco, where I’m going to sing at a special private gig that Rupert has particularly requested us to do, and then we’re flying down to Los Angeles to play at the world-renowned Staples Centre in a summer charity concert where Bruce Springsteen and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, among others, are headlining. We’re way down the list, but we have been given a set of three songs and I still view that as a big step up from top-billing at the King’s Head Public House for the Terminally Inebriated.
Th
e plane touches down and Carl and I disembark, waving goodbye to the rest of our party. The other members of the band are staying on board to head straight for L.A. to settle into the hotel and do the sound checks for the gig. We’ll join them tomorrow as soon as we’re finished here, getting there just in time for the concert. This is the first time that I’ll have played before such a big crowd and I’m waiting for the anxiety to kick in, but it hasn’t yet. I might not be anywhere near as famous as some of the folk on the bill, but I feel I’ve earned my stripes through sheer toil and determination.
Carl and I head straight for a stretch limo that whisks us into the terminal. No longer the sardine treatment on a squashed airport bus. We sail painlessly through immigration and, after we pass through a smattering of photographers who seem to be snapping frantically at anything that moves, are relieved to find Rupert Dawson waiting for us.
Our agent hugs me warmly and slaps Carl on the back. ‘Welcome to San Francisco. I have a car waiting outside.’ And before we know it, we’re bundled into another limo and are speeding away from the airport.
On the journey, Carl and I peer out of the blacked-out windows as we wind our way through the streets, taking in some of the vertiginous hills for which San Francisco is famous. We pass a cable car on Powell Street which has a dozen tourists hanging on the outside of it. Then we pass by the California Opera House and I see bright red banners bearing Evan David’s name plastered all over the front of its imposing facade. The knowledge takes my breath away.
He’s here, in this city, at this very moment, performing in Turandot. I could buy a ticket and go to see him tonight. I could sit in my plush velvet seat and drink in my fill of him without him ever knowing that I was there. My heart doesn’t know whether to soar or sink. My stomach aches with missing him. Everywhere I go, there seem to be constant reminders, and I wonder will my emotions ever manage to break free from this man? Then I see that beneath his name, written nearly as large, is Lana Rosina’s. I feel sick inside. They’re here performing together, and I wish that we’d taken a different route and I could have remained in blissful ignorance. I’ve deliberately avoided surfing the Web to see where Evan is performing. Tailing him round the world like a virtual stalker would have been too, too sad. And now he’s here. We’re in the same city once more, separated by a few miles, a few streets, a few steps. I feel the colour draining from my face and suddenly the air-conditioning doesn’t seem to be working properly. I fumble for the switch to open the window and let a stream of fresh air blow into the car, gulping it down.
Carl swivels in his seat. The lines round his eyes crease in concern. ‘Okay?’
I nod, unable to find my voice.
‘It’s probably jet lag,’ Carl says, and I wonder whether he really didn’t see Evan David’s name in six-foot-high letters.
I nod my agreement again.
Rupert also registers my discomfort, opens a minibar in the limo and smoothly hands me a glass of water as he carries on with his chatter about the sights of the city. But I can tell that he keeps a worried eye on me. I don’t suppose he’d be happy if his new protégée showed signs of having regular attacks of the vapours.
Eventually, we pull up outside a plush hotel on Nob Hill—so called Rupert tells us, because of all the ‘nobs’, or well-off people, who once lived here. This is the sort of place that pop stars stay in, the sort of place I could only ever have dreamed of staying in just a few short months ago.
Carl helps me from the car and then we check in, hanging around in the ridiculously opulent reception while our bags are brought from the limo. This gives me time to calm down and get my emotions back on track. Then we’re whisked up to a penthouse suite, which means that basically we have the whole of the twenty-fifth floor to ourselves. The heavy velvets and damasks of the lobby have given way to a more contemporary style, which I’m relieved about. It feels less like staying in a museum.
Rupert tips the bellboy generously and then shows us round the rooms. There are two bedrooms and two bathrooms, both with vast Jacuzzi baths. A glass dining room with the most amazing views takes up the corner of the suite. There’s a massive lounge, all decorated in black and white, with a view that takes in the awesome sight of the Golden Gate Bridge.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Rupert says. ‘I have a function to attend tonight. Can you kids take care of yourselves for the day?’
We tell him that we can.
‘You need to be ready by around eleven-thirty tomorrow morning. I’ll have a car pick you up.’ Rupert checks his diary. ‘The stylist and hairdresser will be here at nine-thirty.’
‘Two hours to get ready?’
Rupert shifts from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. ‘This is important, Fern. It will be worth it.’
I realise that gone are the days when I could get up and be out of the flat two minutes later. Rupert has been very reluctant to give us any information about tomorrow’s event and I don’t know why, but I decide not to push it.
‘I’ve ordered breakfast to be served in your room,’ he goes on, ‘you just need to let them know what you want to eat.’ Then Rupert kisses me on the cheek, slaps Carl on the back and heads for the door. ‘Have a great afternoon in San Francisco.’ He waves at us over his shoulder and is gone.
‘Wow,’ I say when Carl and I are alone. ‘What do you reckon to this?’
‘Cool,’ Carl says. ‘I’m enjoying being a rock god.’ He slips his arm round my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. ‘I always knew that, one day, you’d keep me in the style I intend to become accustomed to.’
‘Well, let’s make the most of it,’ I chirp, ‘and go and paint this town red.’
‘I’m going to have a shower first,’ my friend says as he moves to pick up his bag. ‘I think I’ll take this bedroom—if that’s okay with you.’
‘That’s fine.’ I don’t know why, but I’m relieved that Carl doesn’t assume that we’ll be sharing a bed. He is so aware of my needs and my feelings and is so careful to respect them that I love him all the more for it.
Then Carl turns back to me and his dark eyes are clouded. ‘Are you going to see him while you’re here?’
I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself. ‘Who?’
Carl gives me a don’t-fuck-with-me-Fern look. Clearly he did see the Evan David posters. I suppose he would have had to be blind to miss them.
‘No. I, er…’ I’m babbling so settle on, ‘We don’t have time.’
‘If it’s important to you—and I think it is—then we can make time. Rupert must know where he is.’
I shake my head. What good would it do to find Evan and talk to him? He’s engaged to be married to someone else. What would there be to say? I do admit that to torture myself a little bit more, I’ve scoured the gossip mags over the last few months for any details of his impending marriage, but I’ve found nothing and I probably should be glad about that. I can’t believe that Lana Rosina has managed to keep this a secret from the media—she’s probably sold the rights to ‘expose’ it for millions. ‘I’ve no wish to bother Rupert with this. I want nothing more to do with Evan David.’
Carl looks as if he doesn’t believe me.
‘Really,’ I insist. ‘It’s something that I just have to get over.’
‘But it’s not proving that easy, is it, Fern?’
I don’t have to answer as Carl turns away from me and heads for his bedroom. Wandering over to the window, I gaze out at the spectacular view. Somewhere in this city Evan David is going about his daily business. He’s doing it with someone else and not with me. And, as hard as it may be, I just have to live with it.
Seventy-four
Yesterday, Lana had ripped up all her costumes, saying that they made her look fat. The temper tantrum had left La Diva Assoluta sobbing with exhaustion and the rest of the cast giving her a very wide berth. Evan, who had seen it all before, no longer allowed himself to be distracted by his leading lady. The hard-pressed and ultrapatient folk in the wardrobe d
epartment, on the other hand, had stayed up all night to remake the costumes.
Now Lana appeared before him in his dressing room looking radiant in a stunning, tight-fitting black sheath of a dress made in a flattering Chinese style, which certainly emphasised all her womanly curves, but Evan had no idea how she would breathe in it, let alone sing. He hated to admit it, but Lana had been right. This sexy costume was much more to her style than the previous sombre outfits—it was just her timing that was completely off. Why she hadn’t taken exception to her costumes during the previous six weeks of tense rehearsals—when she’d taken exception to virtually everything else—was a mystery to him. This season of productions had been fraught with problems and Evan was weary. He was glad that the end was in sight. Thankfully, today Lana looked to be bursting with happiness, which meant that another crisis had been averted. Tonight’s performance would, once again, go ahead with Lana Rosina starring as Turandot.
‘Ciao, darling.’ She kissed Evan warmly. ‘How are you today?’
Evan shrugged. ‘Fine.’ His elaborate make-up was completed, his costume already weighing him down and now he was sitting alone waiting for his five-minute call and thinking about Fern when he knew he shouldn’t be.
‘All the Calla lilies have been delivered for tomorrow,’ Lana told him, interrupting his thoughts. ‘They are truly divine.’ She made an exclamation of joy.
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