Welcome to the Real World

by Carole Matthews

  Carl, who’s tuning his guitar, and I nod. Rupert looks more nervous than the pair of us. I go over to the French windows and look out into the palatial gardens. ‘This is one high-show wedding,’ I say in amazement.

  ‘Do you want some more champagne?’ Rupert proffers a full glass of fizz, which I grab and throw down my neck. I’m going to be roaring drunk at this rate before I’ve even sung a note.

  And then I get a funny feeling, a shiver as if someone has walked over my grave. I’m not mistaken. There’s definitely something afoot here. The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling—just like they do when there’s a thunderstorm due. I put my hand on my hip and try to look threatening. ‘Would someone mind telling me exactly what is going on here?’

  Rupert flushes. ‘I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this…’ he says, nervously licking his lips.

  A shard of terror strikes at my poor beleaguered heart. ‘About what?’

  Then a stressed-looking woman in a silk suit puts her head around the door. ‘We’re ready for you now,’ she says. ‘Would you like to come this way?’

  ‘About what, Rupert?’

  But my agent stands there looking like a fish out of water and simply says, ‘All will become clear later, darling.’

  Thoughts of explanations evaporate into thin air as we’re whisked out of the drawing room and into the garden.

  Seventy-eight

  There are hundreds of guests at this wedding, and they’re already seated in rows of dainty white chairs, all threaded with ribbons and flowers. The scent is heady and exotic. There’s a piano playing and the gentle hum of pleasant conversation fills the air. Carl and I are escorted down the side of the garden among the trees, skirting the assembled throng, and guided towards a large bower that’s been constructed in the centre of the lawn. Progress is slow as the heels of my lovely mules keep sinking into the grass.

  He takes my hand. ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Yes.’ For some reason, my heart is jumping all over the place.

  Our escort stops when we reach the back of the low stage. ‘If you could just wait here a moment please, and I’ll let you know when to go.’

  I nod to her and take the time while we wait to let my gaze wander over the audience. What a spruce bunch they are—I’ve never seen so many designer labels in one place. If I crane my neck I could perhaps get a glimpse of the lucky—and loaded—groom. I inch to the side and peer round a dozen white roses, and that’s when I see him. I see Evan David and his best man standing in the front row grinning like a pair of loons and looking as proud as punch. He has never looked more handsome than he does in his morning suit. Evan’s head swivels in my direction, but he doesn’t see me. His eyes just look straight through me. I stagger backwards and Carl catches me.

  ‘What?’ he says with a note of panic in his voice. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I can’t speak and I feel as if I’m hyperventilating. My breath is high and ragged in my chest. I am here at the wedding of the one I love and the pain is indescribable.

  ‘What?’ Carl is filled with anxiety. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

  But I can’t. I simply point, and Carl’s gaze follows my finger.

  ‘Oh, Jeez,’ he breathes when his eyes eventually alight on Evan David. ‘This is Evan David’s wedding?’ He slaps his forehead. ‘What the hell was Rupert thinking of? Why didn’t he tell you? He knows that you love—’ And then he runs out of words abruptly.

  I’ve started trembling violently, as if I’ve just been struck down by flu, and I can’t stop. This is the nightmare to end all nightmares. I beg to some unseen God to please let me wake up and still be in my bed at my flat before it burned down and before we became pop stars and before everything that brought me to this point. I would give it all up not to be here right now.

  ‘Fern.’ Carl has gripped me by the shoulders and is shaking me ferociously. I can feel my eyeballs rotate. ‘Fern, you’ve got to snap out of this.’

  I have to get out of this place. There’s no way I’m going to be able to sing for him. I turn and try to run, but my damn heels stick in the lawn, making me stumble again.

  Carl grabs my hand and holds me firm. ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ he says. ‘There’ll be no running away from this one.’

  Now that I’m coming out of shock, I’m ready to blub. ‘I can’t do this,’ I gasp. ‘I can’t do it.’

  Carl looks sternly at me. ‘You can,’ he insists. ‘You will do this.’

  ‘I can’t.’ I can barely manage to speak, let alone sing. My world feels as if it has crashed around my ears.

  ‘Fern.’ Carl is looking very fierce. ‘You will not let me down. You are a professional singer. We’ve been paid a lot of money for this. You will dig deep and find whatever you need to get on that stage and sing.’

  Who has paid for all this? The private jet, the penthouse suite. Evan can’t have requested that I sing at his wedding—that would be too, too cruel. And I can’t imagine that Lana Rosina would want me here for her big day, either. My head is spinning, and all I want to do is lie down and die. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘This is not the time for female histrionics.’

  Female histrionics? If I wasn’t so distraught, I might just punch Carl.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ the organiser says. If she’s taken aback by my appearance, she doesn’t say so, but she gives Carl an anxious glance. ‘Take a moment if you need to.’

  ‘We’ll be set to go in one minute,’ Carl tells her crisply.

  In his dreams.

  When she’s gone, Carl takes the hem of my lovely floaty white dress and turns the fabric inside out, using it to wipe the tears from my eyes. ‘Get through this, Fern, and you can get through anything.’

  I nod blindly, my vision still blurry.

  ‘I’ll be with you,’ Carl promises. ‘Have I ever let you down?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘And I’ll get you the biggest glass of champagne that I can find when you’ve finished.’ He takes my hand. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’ My voice sounds like a strangled croak, which is not what I was aiming for.

  My dearest Carl tenderly helps me up onto the stage, and I walk to the microphone like a blind person. I try not to look at Evan, but I can’t help it, and when I catch his eye, I see that his face is lit up with joy. He smiles widely at me, that most beautiful and rarest of smiles. I feel as if I could faint as I prepare to start my song. And I wonder what is going through his head right now and am very glad that he can’t see what’s going through mine.

  At my elbow, Carl strikes up with the introductory chords to our number. I close my eyes and try to pretend that I’m somewhere else. It amazes me when my voice comes out clear and loud. I get a sudden surge out of nowhere that tells me that I can, indeed, get through this. I should try to block the lyrics from going through my mind, but I can’t and I let the moving, haunting words flow over me. The words form colours and textures in my brain and I feel almost as if I’m hallucinating. I can barely hear Carl, but I know—as always—that he’s there for me.

  The song, mercifully, comes to an end and I open my eyes. Tears are streaming down my face, and when I look up I see that tears are streaming down the faces of most of the guests. Evan’s face is wet, too, and before I can turn away our eyes meet and I feel like he gets a glimpse into my soul. I step away from the microphone, my legs feeling like jelly, and a wave of nausea washes over me.

  Then the familiar music of the ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ by Handel strikes up—a very appropriate wedding march in my view—and the vision of Lana Rosina appears at the top of the aisle. She’s wearing possibly the slinkiest wedding dress known to man—a sheath of white raw silk that hugs her every curve and is probably a couture number by Vera Wang or someone swanky. Her mane of dark hair is piled on top of her head, threaded with pearls and held in place with a pearl tiara. A long veil stretches out for miles behind her—no demure covering her face for Lana Rosina. She’s carryi
ng a bouquet of white Calla lilies. Truly, she has to be the most stunning bride I’ve ever seen. My insides are chewed up with jealousy. If I had a machine gun, I’d gladly use it.

  The assembled guests stand and all heads turn in her direction. Evan David and his best man also stand, and it seems as if Evan is unwilling to look away from me. He mouths something to me that I can’t understand and then he does turn his head to watch Lana as she sashays down the aisle. I think my heart may rip open with the pain.

  I can stand this no longer. ‘Come on,’ I whisper to Carl. ‘I’ve done my bit. Let’s get out of here.’ And I’m off the stage in a flash.

  ‘We have to see this through,’ Carl whispers back me. ‘We can’t leave now, Fern.’

  But I’m already striding back up the garden. I see Rupert watching us with a worried frown, but that’s his problem. I keep my eyes facing forward as I don’t even want to look at what’s going on.

  ‘We should stay until the end,’ Carl hisses at me. ‘It would be rude not to.’

  ‘Do I look like I give a fuck?’ I snap. ‘We’re going straight to the airport to get on that bloody plane out of here.’

  We’re already at the door of the limo when Rupert catches up with us. ‘You’re leaving?’ he gasps between breaths.

  I get into the car. I’m so angry, so distraught, so fucking splattered all over the place that I don’t even want to talk to him. He should have told me about this. He should have warned me. But then if he’d told me, I wouldn’t have been here at all.

  ‘We’re going straight back to the airport,’ I hear Carl say. Then he lowers his voice, but I can still make out his words. ‘This has been a big shock for Fern. She just wants to get away.’

  ‘Why?’ Rupert is very concerned.

  ‘Let’s go!’ I shout.

  ‘You know how she feels about him, Rup.’ Carl spreads his hands and glances anxiously back towards the garden. ‘I don’t think she ever expected that she’d be singing at his wedding.’

  That’s a typical Carl understatement.

  ‘Evan David’s wedding?’ Rupert says.

  ‘Can we just leave?’ I’m sounding petulant and I hate myself.

  Carl shrugs and slides in beside me, then the limo pulls smoothly away, leaving Rupert looking suitably dumbfounded on the pavement.

  Seventy-nine

  The ceremony seemed to go on for an interminable amount of time. It couldn’t pass quickly enough for Evan—and not for the reasons that he’d already logged. All he wanted to do was get through this and then find Fern. He’d had no idea that she would be here today, and he knew that was why Rupert had decided on keeping the identity of the opening singer a secret from him. The way that Lana was smirking smugly at him seemed to indicate that she was in on the secret, too. Plus there was no way that she’d leave something like that to chance after everything else had been organised with such military precision. Just wait, he’d have a word with the scheming pair later even though he was overjoyed that they’d brought Fern back into his life. They must have known that he was going through agonies without her but was too damn stubborn to be able to fix it for himself. Sometimes it paid to have good friends on board.

  Evan did his duty with the rings for Lana and her new husband, Christophe Vouray, an up-and-coming tenor from Paris with whom Evan had sung a few times in the past. And, it was true to say that he was honoured that the couple had chosen him to be Christophe’s best man even though her fiancé was aware that Evan and Lana had history. Lana looked ecstatic with joy, Christophe, too. For now. It had been a short and stormy courtship that, Evan suspected, would be followed by an equally short and stormy marriage. With two such huge egos circling in close proximity, their married life would be like the Clash of the Titans. It would take a special kind of man to handle Lana Rosina on a permanent basis, as Evan knew all too well. He’d tried, albeit briefly and with a certain amount of halfheartedness. Still, it was churlish to be thinking negative thoughts at their wedding and, in his heart, he did wish them both the very best of luck.

  The exchanging of the rings complete, Evan took to the stage while the register was signed by the happy couple and sang ‘The Prayer’ with a new verve in his voice. He added his own silent prayer that Fern would be waiting for him with open arms when this was all over. If she’d agreed to be here, then that surely meant she was considering a reconciliation.

  Finally, the strains of the overture from the The Marriage of Figaro flooded the garden—the opera on which Lana and Christophe met while performing together in Germany—and the important part of the proceedings was concluded.

  Evan shook Christophe’s hand and clapped him on the back.

  Lana turned to him and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Evan, for all this,’ she said, gesturing around the garden. ‘It wouldn’t have been the same without you.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said, and returned the kiss.

  ‘I thought you and I might have made it this far—’ she shrugged ‘—once upon a time.’

  ‘You’re much better off with Christophe. He’ll be more than a match for you.’

  Lana laughed as she raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe it will be your turn next?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, and he certainly hoped so if he could slay his demons once and for all. ‘I take it you knew that Fern would be here?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lana said. ‘Now you can go and find her.’

  ‘That’s just what I had in mind.’

  He kissed her again and, as Lana and Christophe made their way back down the aisle, accepting the congratulations of families and friends, he slipped away from the throng to go in search of Fern.

  Rupert was pacing up and down on the terrace. He looked pale and was barking into his mobile phone while clutching a glass of champagne with the other hand. When he saw Evan, he terminated his conversation.

  Evan took the steps up to the terrace two at a time, suddenly finding the energy that had been missing for so long. ‘You old dog,’ he said to Rupert as he approached him. ‘I didn’t know you were such a schemer.’

  Rupert’s eyes failed to meet his.

  ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ Evan knew that he was grinning stupidly. ‘I told you she was.’

  ‘I signed her a few months ago,’ Rupert admitted. ‘She’s something else.’

  ‘You sly old bastard, why didn’t you tell me?’

  Rupert still avoided looking at him.

  ‘Well?’ Evan wanted to know. ‘Where is she?’

  Rupert shuffled from foot to foot like a schoolboy caught smoking by the headmaster.

  Evan’s mood darkened. ‘Are there any more secrets that I need to know?’

  His agent nibbled his lip nervously. ‘I think I might have made a horrible mistake.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Evan looked around. ‘Where’s Fern?’

  He saw Rupert gulp. ‘She’s left.’

  Evan was taken aback. ‘Already?’ Perhaps he’d read this situation all wrong. ‘What exactly have you been up to, Rupert? She did know that I was going to be here?’

  ‘I might have forgotten to mention that.’

  Evan lowered himself into a nearby chair. ‘So she didn’t want to see me?’

  His agent pulled another terrible face. ‘That might not be the entire problem.’

  ‘She’s not hooked up with that Carl guy?’ He didn’t think he could bear it if Fern was now with someone else.

  ‘That doesn’t quite cover it, either.’

  ‘Then what?

  ‘I think Fern thought that this was actually your wedding to Lana,’ Rupert confessed. ‘And I don’t think I told her that it wasn’t.’

  Eighty

  ‘That is possibly the most hare-brained plan I’ve ever heard.’ Evan raked his hands through his hair. ‘I ought to sack you for this cock-up.’

  There was panic in Rupert’s eyes. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out.’

  ‘How could you fail to tell her that it was Lana’s wedding but
not mine?’

  ‘I didn’t think she’d come if she knew you were here at all. You’re both as stubborn as each other. But I didn’t think she’d assume it was you getting married. Why would she think that?’

  ‘For the same reason she assumed that I was engaged to Lana.’

  ‘There seems to be a distinct lack of communication between you two, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Well.’ Evan strode out into the street. ‘We’d better follow her so that we can start talking. I need to get this ironed out once and for all.’ He broke into a run and dashed to the front of his home while Rupert followed at a pained trot.

  ‘What about the photographs?’ his agent wanted to know. ‘Lana will go spare.’

  His agent, still muttering, picked up his stride in an attempt to keep pace.

  ‘I’ve done enough for Lana,’ Evan shouted back over his shoulder. ‘Now I have to do what’s right for me.’

  A line of limos waited outside Evan’s home, but there wasn’t a chauffeur in sight. He paced along the pavement. ‘Where are all the goddamn drivers?’

  ‘I’ll go and find one,’ Rupert said and started to scuttle off.

  ‘Don’t you go anywhere,’ Evan warned. He wrenched open the door of the nearest limo—a stretch one that could hold about twenty people in comfort. ‘Can you drive?’

  Rupert looked at him in abject horror. ‘Darling, I’ve lived in London all of my life. Why would I need to be able to drive?’

  ‘Get in. Come on.’ Evan slid into the driving seat and looked blankly at the controls.

  Reluctantly Rupert got in beside him. ‘I didn’t know that you could drive.’

  ‘It’s been a while,’ Evan said through clenched teeth as he looked at the array of dials and switches. How car dashboards had changed since then.

  Rupert’s hand shook as he buckled his seat belt. ‘Exactly how long?’

  ‘I don’t know, Rupert.’ And it was true. He’d been driven everywhere for as long as he could remember. Evan didn’t think he’d been at the wheel of a car since he was a callow youth. ‘For heaven’s sake stop interrogating me and help. How do we get this damn thing started?’