Evan’s home had already been turned into a giant florist’s and he wondered where they might possibly find room for any more blooms. But if it kept Lana sweet, then who was he to complain? It would all be over soon enough. He only hoped that everything went smoothly or who could tell what kind of sparks might fly. Someone could end up wearing the wedding cake.
‘The caterers are starting to arrive. The marquee is looking like a wonderland.’ Lana clapped her hands in glee.
Evan tried to drag her attention back from the wedding arrangements—which he had heard more than enough about over the last few months—to the job in hand. ‘All set for tonight?’
His leading lady waved her hand dismissively. ‘Tomorrow is my big performance,’ she announced airily. ‘I am saving all my energy for that. Tomorrow I will be the happiest woman in the world.’
Evan took her hand. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
Lana’s tantrums were disrupting everything lately, and he sincerely hoped that after the wedding she’d settle down to being a minor whirlwind instead of the tornado she’d become. Lana was one of the most acclaimed sopranos of her generation and yet, despite her outward appearance of arrogance, she still was deeply insecure about her talent. It wouldn’t do for her to see the reviews from her last performance or she’d be thrown into a blue funk again. Evan surreptitiously moved the pile of newspapers farther under the dressing table with his foot. At best she’d been called ‘distracted’ and ‘lacklustre’. Evan knew that she’d be mortified to read the critics’ remarks, and her publicist had done a great job in keeping her well away from them. He, on the other hand, had been praised for his ‘heroic physical appearance’—which made him smile—and for his ‘unquenchable vitality’. Which was nice because his vitality had never felt more quenched.
Lana leaned against his make-up mirror. ‘This is important to me,’ she said with a pout. ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone. Look at Callas.’ She tossed back her hair. ‘She died alone and friendless, her voice all but gone. Who wants that?’
Who, indeed? Evan thought. Maria Callas was the icon of her generation, revered by everyone who met her, yet she’d ended her life a virtual recluse living on a cocktail of pills and tortured by doubts, believing she’d failed to make her mark on the world. Evan knew that Lana was tortured by the same fears, and he was aware that this forthcoming marriage meant a lot to her.
‘There is more to me than my voice,’ she continued petulantly. ‘I want to make bambini. I want a family.’ Lana hugged her arms around herself. ‘That will be my legacy. Dozens of little Rosinas running around.’
The thought of that, quite frankly, terrified Evan. One of her was more than enough to cope with.
‘Don’t you want that, too?’ she enquired sweetly.
Evan sighed inwardly. What he wanted from life seemed to be infinitely more complex.
‘It may mean that I have to work less,’ Lana said. Evan thought that he’d believe that when he saw it. Would Lana really find that the demands of a young family held the same appeal as crowds of adoring fans? ‘You do understand that, don’t you, darling?’
Evan nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘And you still love me?’
‘I adore you,’ Evan answered glibly.
‘And you always will?’
‘Until the seas run dry.’
Lana gave him a wry glance. ‘This will make me very happy.’
‘Then it’s the right thing to do, Lana.’
His leading lady slid onto his knee and put her arms round his neck. The five minute announcement came over the intercom: the performance was about to begin. Lana looked deep into his eyes. ‘And what will make you happy, my darling Evan?’
Evan averted his gaze and stared into the mirror instead. Now there was a question that he’d like to know the answer to.
Seventy-five
Carl and I have a wonderful afternoon taking in the sights of San Francisco. We walk the streets hand in hand, visiting Fisherman’s Wharf to sample all the seafood on offer at the rows of stalls, and then we wander along to Pier 39, along with all the other tourists and families, to watch the range of mad entertainers who perform there. I buy postcards—a serious one for Joe and Nathan; a picturesque one for my mum and dad; a rude one for Ken the Landlord. We sit on a bench and eat home-made ice cream while I write them and then we watch the boats in the Bay bob out to Alcatraz and beyond, mesmerised by the constant bustle on the water and on the seafront. But still nothing makes our heads whirl as much as how far we’ve come in such a short time. I lean against Carl and let my head drop on his shoulder. I’m tired, but happily so. He strokes my hair and I hear him sigh. And I wonder again if I can love him as much as he deserves.
When darkness starts to fall, we take a cab up to Haight Ashbury and stroll along the streets made famous by the Summer of Love in the 1960s. This is the place where ‘flower power’ first arrived and never went away. The tiny boutiques that line Haight Street are filled with vintage silk dresses and tie-dyed clothes from Thailand and India. Incense oozes out of every doorway. There are shops selling bondage gear, Grateful Dead memorabilia, palm-readers abound and, if you’re a vegan, this place must be heaven as there seems to be a huge choice in extreme food cafés. All tastes catered for.
Beggars in Gothic clothing grace every corner, and a woman cycles past us on a bike covered in plastic flowers. Some of the hippies, it seems, haven’t realised that it’s all over. There are too many people with tattoos and green Mohawk hairdos and too many tourists in preppy clothes with video cameras and dropping jaws.
‘I could live here,’ Carl says with a wistful air. ‘Are we planning to conquer America?’
‘I’m sure that Rup won’t miss an opportunity,’ I reassure him.
‘Are you having a good time?’
I kiss him on the cheek. ‘I’m having a great time.’
Carl pulls me into a second-hand record shop the size of an airline hangar and we spend hours browsing through old favourites, relaxed by the clack-clack-clack of people rifling through the acres of cut-price CDs; it sounds like the movement of prayer beads. Even though there’s nothing costing more than ten dollars in this place, I can’t believe how much I’ve spent when we stagger out later with armfuls of booty.
‘One day,’ I say to Carl, ‘our records will be in here, too.’
And I think this area is definitely getting to him because my friend replies, ‘This is a weird trip, man.’
We laugh and move off down the street, loaded down with bags.
‘Let’s eat,’ I suggest. ‘All that shopping has made me hungry.’
We find a lively Mexican restaurant on the corner of the intersection of Haight and Ashbury, the streets that give the area its name. Latin-American music pounds out into the street and we slip inside. The decor is as eclectic as its clientele. We make ourselves comfortable in a black leather booth and marvel at the shrines that decorate the walls featuring crutches covered in sea shells, slinkies, car springs, decapitated dolls and plastic tropical fruit among the pictures of Christ and the Madonna—a sort of blend of religion and cannibalism. There’s a plastic pineapple on the bright blue tablecloth at our table and it’s filled with fresh orchids.
Carl selects one from the bad-taste vase. ‘If you come to San Francisco you’ve got to wear flowers in your hair. Isn’t that what the song said?’ He tucks the flower gently behind my ear.
I blush and then fuss with the menu. We order a pitcher of sangria, which is strong and sharp enough to strip the skin from the roof of our mouths. It slides down in a moment, so we order another, chasing it with appetizers of spiced shrimps and fried plantains that we feed each other with our fingers.
I choose a particularly succulent prawn for Carl, peel it with tender, loving care and hold the juicy morsel to his lips. Carl circles my wrist with his hand and holds it tight as he eats my offering.
‘I don’t ever want to forget what it feels like to have days
like today,’ he says when he’s finished, and there’s a catch in his voice. ‘It’s been wonderful, just the two of us. I’m feeling already that we’re caught up in a raging whirlpool and I don’t want to be sucked in. I never want to forget what it feels like to enjoy the simple things in life. All this is fun.’ He swipes a hand at the decor, but I know what he’s really talking about. ‘It makes you realise what’s important, too. When all this ends—and it will—I don’t want to be left without anything in my life. I want the good things still to be there.’
‘They will be,’ I say softly. ‘We’ll make sure they are.’
‘You could make an honest man of me, Fern Kendal.’
And I don’t know if it’s the sangria talking or whether I’ve had some blinding flash of realisation or have come to terms with the fact that Evan David is completely unattainable or what, but I look at Carl and it suddenly doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.
‘Do you know,’ I say, ‘I think I could.’
Seventy-six
Last night’s performance had been a great success and now Evan was getting ready for his next one. He lay in bed, arms behind his head, and studied the ornate ceiling while trying to summon up his strength to face the day.
Lana had been up and about directing the household since dawn—he could hear her voice echoing through the house, bossing everyone around. Evan sighed to himself. He had no idea where the woman got all her energy from. Perhaps she was buoyed up on a tide of love. Evan only wished he could say the same thing himself. He hadn’t even been able to face the obligatory final-night party for the cast after the performance last night. Normally, he hosted them at his own home, but Lana’s current hijacking had put paid to that. There was no way she would have tolerated a rival celebration in the house. The rest of the cast had decamped instead to a trendy restaurant for their merriment—Absynthe or Jardiniere, Evan couldn’t remember which. All he’d done was sign a few autographs at the stage door and then, exhausted, had headed for home. Lana followed shortly afterwards.
On cue she now burst in through the bedroom door. Her dark hair was piled high on her head and was threaded with pearls. Even at this hour, her make-up was meticulously applied. She was wearing a white silk dressing gown and white marabou-trimmed mules. ‘Why are you not ready, darling?’
Evan checked his watch. ‘There are hours to go yet, Lana.’
‘And you have a lot to do.’
‘Isn’t it bad luck for anyone to see the bride before the wedding?’
‘I make an exception for you. Get up, get up,’ Lana bullied. ‘I need you to be ready.’
Then she dashed out again.
Evan sighed as he switched off his bedside light and hauled himself out of bed and into the shower. He turned the head to a massage setting and let the hot needles of water bite at his body, nipping away the tiredness.
Back in the bedroom, Lana had been in again and had laid out his clothes—a black morning suit with a white wing-collared shirt, a cream brocade waistcoat and matching cravat. Dermuid the chef had obviously been in, too, and had delivered him a glass of fresh juice. It was green and Evan hoped that it contained lots of spinach as, like Popeye, he thought he could do with an extra boost today. Wisely, he downed it before dressing. If he spilled it on his white shirt, then he would be the first casualty of the wedding day.
Evan went to the French windows and threw open the doors, stepping out onto his balcony. The hammering and banging had stopped now and the teams of workmen had disappeared, leaving his garden transformed into a tropical paradise with hundreds of white flowers. The huge marquee dominated the lawn and there was a bower framed with dozens of white roses under which the vows would be said. The only thing that hadn’t changed was that the wedding planner was still there, screeching into her cell phone. Erin was trailing around after her, and Evan wondered whether his assistant would ever forgive him for this.
Back inside, Evan finished towelling himself down and then started to get dressed.
He was going to sing a wonderful song called ‘The Prayer’ today—one of Lana’s favourite tracks from his last album. A fitting song for a fitting occasion. He started to warm up his voice and then stopped, thinking of the night that he’d gone up on stage with Fern at that terrible pub and had performed a song by the Beatles for the first time in years. The night when things had all gone so very wrong. His heart still contracted with pain to think of it, even though months had passed and he’d found more than enough to occupy his mind since then. He still couldn’t get Fern out of his head. Evan wondered how she was now, and he was sure that she’d be fine. If there was one thing he could say about her, it was that she was resilient. He’d offered to help her out financially, but Rupert said that she’d refused everything. Well, that pretty much told him where he stood.
Evan regarded himself in the mirror, smoothing down his waistcoat. The suit was a good fit and so it should be; Lana had marched him to enough damn fittings for it. He looked so sombre—as if he were going to a funeral, not a wedding. Evan tried a smile, but somehow he just couldn’t make it fit. Rupert would be here soon, that would cheer him up. He’d make his agent tell him some dumb jokes or something. Anything to get him out of this black mood. Perhaps it was all this talk of weddings that was making him feel so melancholy. Maybe when the wedding was over, he’d feel differently. He certainly hoped so.
Seventy-seven
Carl and I spent the night together in my bed, but there was no more reference to our momentous conversation. As I lie in Carl’s arms I’m not sure whether he seriously proposed to me or whether I seriously accepted.
Our breakfast arrives and we get up, sit in our sumptuous dining room with the whole of San Francisco spread before us and feast on pancakes laden with fat blueberries and heaps of maple syrup and double cream. Rupert has sent up champagne and orange juice, and we duly oblige him by downing it all. The sun beats down from an unbroken sky and, at this moment, I am the nearest I’ve come to happiness since Evan David went out of my life. Carl takes my hand and I push away the pangs of doubt that pinch at me. He looks like a man who’s very much in love.
When the stylists arrive, I’m feeling very mellow and am more than happy to comply when they choose a white floaty dress for me. They give me white, hippy-chick mules adorned with charms and jewels, and armfuls of silver ethnic bangles. Then—I’m becoming accustomed to this—they puff and preen and polish me to within an inch of my life until I’m looking fabulous.
‘Man,’ Carl says with a note of awe in his voice, ‘you look like you’re about to get hitched.’
‘Not just yet,’ I mumble.
He comes over and kisses me. ‘You look great,’ he says. ‘How could I not be in love with you? How could anyone not?’
Then he flushes when he realises that his statement hits a nerve, but we’re both saved from further embarrassment by the swarming stylists whisking him away to choose from their rail of clothes.
Carl gets a loose white linen shirt and jeans with designer repaired rips all over them because he’s rock ’n’ roll and can get away with it. We’re singing Roberta Flack’s song ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’ again, and this time I have my security blanket, Carl, backing me on acoustic guitar. Rupert has said nothing except that the gig is for a small, personal gathering. He must have his reasons and, no doubt, we’ll soon find out what they are.
Carl takes two minutes to get ready and so he runs through the song, letting me warm up and calming the flutter of nerves that has started in my stomach. The two stylists have a tear in their eyes by the time we have finished and I love the way that this song seems to move everyone who hears it. Then Rupert turns up. He’s all smiles and, after raving about my outfit, too, we hop into yet another limousine and are whisked through the streets of San Francisco once more.
Minutes later we pull up at a sumptuous mansion house somewhere in the heart of the city, which seems to take up half a block. There’s a lush park opposite where people
are walking dogs and a small group of elderly Chinese folks are practising Tai Chi. A row of picturesque painted clapboard houses lines the other flank of the green space, beyond which peeps the magnificent modern skyline.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘This is an amazing place.’
A white ribbon arch spans the gateway of the house intertwined with heavy white rose blooms, and a host of white balloons flutter in the breeze. Carl and I pile out of the limo.
‘Come on inside,’ Rupert says and hurries us to the door.
‘You didn’t tell us that this gig was a wedding.’ I’ve been flown here in a private jet and have been paid an absolute fortune to sing just one song. The penthouse suite we’re staying in is more than ten thousand dollars a night, and I wonder who on earth has the sort of money to be so lavish. It makes my recent good fortune pale into insignificance.
‘Didn’t I?’ For some reason Rupert looks agitated.
I turn to Carl and a worried frown creases my brow. Does my friend know something that I don’t? I look down at my dress. It’s very bridal and I do hope that he’s not trying to spring some awful surprise on me. And the truth of what I agreed to last night suddenly hits me.
‘What?’ Carl says when he sees me looking across at him.
‘Is something going on here, Carlos?’
He shrugs. ‘Not that I know.’ And I have to say that he does look completely guileless. After all this time I’d know if Carl was lying to me.
Inside, the magnificent house is similarly decorated with bowers of white flowers. ‘My God,’ I whisper. ‘Who owns this place?’
Carl gives me another bemused shrug. Who’s the richest man on earth? It must belong to Bill Gates, I’m sure.
Rupert motions for us to go into a small drawing room—small being a relative word. ‘We’ll wait here until they’re ready for you,’ he says. ‘Are you all set?’
Welcome to the Real World Page 31