Welcome to the Real World (11 page)

I
don't know how I'm going to get through the rest of the dayor even through breakfast, come to that. But I do. In a slight daze. But I get through it, somehow. Perhaps Evan David senses a change in my demeanour when I come back to the table because we both hurry through our food and he keeps the conversation to the banalities of his schedulefrantic as alwaysand then he disappears into the depths of the apartment for the rest of the morning.

I sit at the desk, open the laptop and stare at it, doing nothing remotely useful. All I can think of is the ultimatum, delivered by Alana, from the powers-that-be at
Fame Game.
Carl has to go. Hours pass and I still haven't come to a decision and I still haven't done any work, but the papers are all rearranged neatly on the desk. Eventually, Evan David comes out of his lair again and prowls around the room.

'I'm singing at the
Royal Variety Performance
tonight,' he tells me.

And if I'd been paying any attention to his diary at all then I would have realised that. It's the one time in the year when the Royal family are wheeled out to watch the cream of the British entertainment business be put through their paces. Millions watch it on television. It's probably one of the few times I've seen Evan David perform before. This must be a big night for him and yet he's as cool as a cucumber.

I realise that I'm staring blankly at him.

There's a questioning note in his voice when he adds, '"Nessun Dorma"?'

My goodness. That's the one Pavarotti always knocks out. And an opera song that I actually know. 'Yes. Yes,' I say, trying to sound intelligent.

'It's one of my favourite arias.'

'Oh, mine, too.' I nod furiously.

'Would you like to come along?'

'To the
Royal Variety Performance?
'

'You'd probably have to watch from the wings,' he says. 'Unless Rupert can magic up a spare ticket.'

I'm supposed to be working at the King's Head tonight. It's quiz night, which means it's madly busy, but at least Carl and I don't have a set to do. Ken the Landlord would be furious if I asked for the night off but the
Royal Variety Performance...
This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, the nearest I'll ever get to seeing the queenthough I'll probably have to peep round a curtain to do it. I can feel my brain chewing this over. When am I ever going to get such a glamorous invitation again? Of course, there may well be strings attached.

I look up at Evan David. His face seems sincere enough. If all he was trying to do was get me into bed, then he's going quite a nice way about doing it. Before I think how I'm going to explain my absence to Ken at the pub, I say, 'I'd love to be there.'

'That's settled then,' he says, and I think there's a genuine note of pleasure in his words. 'Call Rup. See what he can rustle up.'

'Is there anything else you need me to do?'

'I have a rehearsal this afternoon with the orchestra and television technicians. I'll go to that alone. They're very tedious. You can organise with Frank to collect me and take me there. Then my clothes need packing for this evening. One of the dinner suits, shirt, bow tie, socks, underwear, shoes. And a fresh change of clothes for afterwards. Casual. I'll leave the selection to you. Everything goes in the black holdall.' Evan David does a mental calculation. 'I think that's all.'

'Right.'

'When you've done that you can go home and get ready, too,' he tells me. 'Leave your address and we'll swing by in the limo to collect you on the way back to the theatre this evening.'

'I'll come back here,' I say. There's no way I want Evan David 'swinging by' and finding out that I live in a poky hovel above The Spice Emporiumthe botulism centre of Bloomsbury. I glance in the diary and, for the first time today, take note of the entries. 'I'll be back at five. Make-up call is six o'clock.'

He nods at me as he heads out of the room. 'See you later.'

So. Several minutes of scheming later and I've sorted out what I'm going to do. I'll quickly pack Evan's clothes. Then I'll phone Ken the Landlord and tell him I'm sick. I can't remember last when I faked an illness to skive off work, if I ever have. Clearly I'm becoming my father's daughter. But I'll tell him that I've got food poisoning rather than a case of insanity. Ken will just have to cope without me tonight. Then I'll phone Carl and tell him about
Fame Game.
I have to come clean. Lying to your employer is one thing, but lying to your best mate is another ball game entirely. Then I'll go home, have a run round the shower and put on the top Carl bought me. Who would have thought that it would get two airings in one weekend? Not me, that's for sure. If I've got time, I'll pop in to see Joe and Nathan, who I'm missing dreadfully. I haven't seen them in days. Won't they be stoked when I tell them that I'm off to the
Royal Variety Performance?
I can hardly believe it myself.

I'm so happy that I can even pretend that I've not got to have the worst conversation of my life with Carl later. I drift through the apartment, searching out Evan David's bedroom, which I manage to find after opening half a dozen doors onto rooms that contain nothing. I could move Joe and Nathan in here for the duration and no one would be any the wiser. I could move in myself, too. It would certainly be one way to get away from my dear old dad.

Evan David's bedroom contains the largest bed I've ever seen in my life. It's one of those American super-king-size jobs. Big enough to hold a rugby match on. The sheets are shimmering grey material and there's a teal cashmere throw, achingly soft to the touch, draped over the bottom of the bed. Full-length windows give another superb view over the Thames and I stand and imagine myself waking up somewhere like this. Though on my own, I'd like to add. That particularly fantasy doesn't involve Evan David. Not necessarily. And, although it's an impersonal room in many ways, I do feel as if I'm intruding into his inner sanctum. Beside the bed there's a music score and a little-thumbed Martin Amis novel. There's a dressing room with wall-to-wall walk-in wardrobes and, even though I've been instructed to do this, I slide furtively inside. Where on earth do I start?

Tentatively, I open one of the doors. A row of starched white dress shirts faces me. All neatly spaced. All on identical wooden hangers. No bent wire ones here. Beneath them is a row of identical black shirts. The wardrobe smells spicy and musky. The ghost of Evan David's aftershave. Hmm. Nice. I run my hand over the white shirts and then take one out, draping it over my arm. The next wardrobe contains a dozen black dinner suits. The styles differ only slightly, so I select the nearest one to me and slip it into the black leather suit holder that's hanging expectantly next to it. At the bottom of this cupboard is a soft, black leather holdall. I tug that out, fold the shirt and slip that in. The next wardrobe is just as maniacally tidy. It contains rows of spotless black and white T-shirts, continuing the monochrome theme. I'm getting the idea that you'll never see Evan David in shocking pink. I pick some black socks out of a drawer and then a pair of black, silky hipster undies from another. They're gossamer fabric, an Italian make I've never heard of and they're tiny. I hold them up against my hips.

'Hmm.' I admire them in the full-length mirror. 'Nice small bum.'

'Thanks.'

I spin round only to seeall my worst nightmares rolled into oneEvan David standing in the doorway behind me. My cheeks flame.

There's a hint of a smile at his lips. 'I came to see if you'd managed to put your hands on everything.'

'Yes,' I say, bunching his underwear into my fist. 'I certainly did.'

K
en the Landlord is furious when I phone to tell him that I'm sick and can't come into work. In fact, I do
actually
feel sick while I'm phoning himwhich is me getting my just deserts, I suppose. All that Ken is concerned about is who will dish out the greasy sausage rolls to the sparring quiz teams rather than my ill health. I want to tell him that I
so
don't care, but try to sound suitably mortified at his dilemma instead. If he paid better wages then he'd have a team of temporary barmaids on tap, ready to step into my shoes at a moment's notice. But he doesn't. And that's why I know I can afford to phone in sick once in a blue moon and not get the sack.

Then, when I can delay no longer, I call my dear friend. Carl is, as always, delighted to hear my voice. He tells me that he's working tonight at another job he somehow manages to fit into his busy schedule. His job at Peter's Pizza Place is somewhat sporadic, but pays well when it's available. He gets the use of a scooter to carry out his delivery duties, so he arranges to 'swing by' that afternoon and pick me up so that we can talk as he does his rounds. I don't mind Carl swinging by The Spice Emporium. My friend has seen me in all my moments of darkest despair. I have no facade to maintain with him. He knows that my curtains all have holes and that my knickersalso with holesare likely to be drying over the bath. We have been through more than any couple I knowmarried or otherwise. He's been with me in sickness and in health, for better, for worse and for poorerthe richer has yet to materialise. He's witnessed too many boyfriends coming and, inevitably, going. Carl has been there to weld my broken heart back together on more than one occasion. And this is the first time in my life that I've dreaded seeing him.

I sit and worry at my fingernailsrealising too late that it might be a good idea to paint themuntil I hear the toot-toot of his horn outside my window. I grab my bag and rush down the stairs.

'Hey.' He gives me the peace sign.

'Likewise,' I say and jump on the back of his scooter, just in front of the big, insulated pizza box.

'No helmet?' he says.

'Funnily, I don't have a scooter helmet lying around.'

'This makes you illegal,' Carl tells me. See, I told you he was only a little bit rock 'n' roll. He still stresses about breaking traffic laws. I bet Ozzy Osbourne never did.

'It's the least of my worries,' I say. 'Drive on.' Or scoot on, if that's the right term.

Sliding my arms round Carl's waist, I lean into his back. We pull out into the Sunday teatime traffic and I snuggle into him. It's nice to hold someone without it feeling complicated.

'You're giving me a hard-on' Carl shouts over his shoulder.

'Live with it,' I yell back. 'I need a hug.'

My hair whips into my eyes, stinging them. I try to talk to him as we phutt-phutt along the busy roads heading towards Camden Town, but I can't make the words form the right sentences. And maybe I shouldn't tell him now, as he might crash.

'What was it you wanted to tell me?' he shouts again.

'Let's pull over somewhere. This is bad news.'

'You think I'll crash?'

'Yes.'

'This doesn't sound good.'

I shake my head even though he can't see it. The red brake lights on the cars in front of us start to blur together and I realise that I'm crying.

Carl squeezes my hand. 'We can go to Oakley Square,' he says. 'It's on the way to my delivery.'

Oakley Square is a familiar place to us. Just behind the heaving mass of Euston Road, it's the playground of our childhood. Happy hours have been spent sitting in the middle of its ragged grass deep in cigarette butts putting the world to rightschatting about love, life and, for us girls, the latest shade of lipstick. It was one of our few refuges in this concrete jungle. This was a rough area not too long ago, but now we have a Starbucks and a Costa Coffee just around the cornera sure sign that an area has 'arrived'. Property prices have soared and the surrounding streets are now the haunt of up-and-coming media companies and advertising agencies with their glass staircases and aluminium floors. Last year, a huge complex of offices, cafes and gyms was built slap bang in the middle of this rapidly fading urban decay, directly opposite the Square. In the summer, the grass here is now covered with young executives, basking in their Paul Smith suits drinking their low GI fruit smoothies and eating granary sandwiches stuffed with salad, fresh from their power workout. In the winter, however, it's still inhabited by a sprinkling of miserable dossers tied into their overcoats with string. And the drug dealers and daytime boozers are never too far away, so the regeneration isn't quite complete.

Carl pulls up outside the Square and chains the scooter to a post in a parking bay. My friend and I have had our moments in this park. This was the main venue for our teenage canoodling. We have loved here, laughed here and drunk cheap cider until we were senseless. Maybe this was the place where we first started to sing a few tentative songs together. We've been here many times before when the park is shutit's a good place to come and talk through problems, and I'd consider this a major problem. As it's dusk the park has already been locked up for the night, so with a well-practised move Carl hoists me over the black wrought-iron railings and I drop down onto the grass. The light is fading and the street lamps have yet to illuminate the park.

'The pizza might get nicked,' he says, removing a zip-up bag from the box. 'I'll pass it over to you.'

As he does so, I get a wonderful waft of melted cheese and warm tomato from the pizza bag and remember that I haven't eaten since my posh, but hurried breakfast with Evan David. Without needing my assistance, Carl jumps over the railings after me.

'I'm starving,' I say.

'No.' Carl takes the pizza bag off me. 'Don't even think about it.'

We wander over to the climbing frame. There's a whole conglomeration of brightly painted recreational equipment that wasn't here when we frequented this place. I'm not sure we were the poorer for it. We made our own entertainment. And I'm not sure that the kids these days are easily wooed by a yellow slide and a couple of red swings. Cocaine and a couple of Es are more likely to make their eyes brighten now.

I eye Carl's pizza bag greedily as he clutches it to him. 'They'd never notice,' I cajole.

Carl sighs and hands over the bag as we sit down on a flat seat at the bottom of the climbing frame. Sometimes he's such a pushover. I unzip it and dig out the cardboard box inside. 'I'll just take one piece and then rearrange the others. Trust methey'll be none the wiser.'

'If you say so.'

Unveiling the pizza, I set about carefully removing one slice, taking care to fill the resulting gap by shuffling the other triangles around a bit. It doesn't look too bad. I offer Carl the first bite, but he shakes his head.

'I don't want to be incriminated in your criminal activities.'

'Think of it as comfort food.' I lick my fingers, hungrily.

'Is it me,' Carl asks, 'or is everything you're doing tonight loaded with sexual tension?'

'It's you,' I tell him as I slurp tomato sauce from my lips.

'I thought Evan David might be stirring up your hormones.'

'He certainly isn't,' I say with as much indignation as my tired heart can muster.

'Go on then,' Carl prompts me with a nudge in the ribs. 'Tell me what the problem is.'

The wind is whipping litter round the park in cheerful little circles. Paper bags dance gaily with one another. And I wish I could find some other way to tell Carl this. Or some way to avoid doing it at all.

'Do I need to light a cigarette for this?' my friend asks.

'It might be a good idea.' And I buy myself some more time while Carl goes through the ritual of lighting up.

'The
Fame Game
phoned,' I eventually say.

Carl brightens and I can hardly bear to see it. 'When?'

'Earlier today.'

'And you're not whooping and hollering?'

'No.'

'Then they can't want us to go through to the next round.'

'No.'

Carl huffs and flops back onto the seat. If there were stars, he'd probably gaze up at them. 'It's not the end of the world,' he says in a tight voice. He drops his head to his hands. 'Yes, it is. I was so sure. So sure.' He looks over at me. 'I was so sure we'd done it. I was convinced that this was our moment. What did we do wrong?'

I say nothing. What is there to say? I've finished my slice of stolen pizza, so I slide my hands into the hot pizza bag for a bit of warmth.

Carl is silent for a moment, then he turns to me. 'That isn't all, is it? If they'd turned us down flat, you'd have been on the phone straight away in tears. You wouldn't have waited to see me. If you have to tell me face-to-face there's more to this.'

My friend is wiser than his denim jacket indicates. I still can't make the words come out and the tears rush to my eyes again.

'I've got it,' Carl says. He stands up and paces in front of the seat, running his hands through his hair. 'They want me to go through and not you. Oh, man. They said you just haven't got enough talent to cut it. And here you are, eaten up with jealousy.'

A tearful laughs escapes my lips. 'No!'

He sits down next to me again and slips his arm round my shoulders, pulling me into his embrace. 'Then it must be the other way round,' he whispers. And then I really start to cry at the indignity and injustice of it all.

'Hey. Hey.' He wipes his thumb across my cheeks. 'You've done it. You should be proud of yourself.'

'I'm not,' I sob. 'How can I carry on without you?'

'You will. Of course you will.' Carl makes me look at him. What a sight I must be, but I know that Carl doesn't care. He loves me just as I am, and I only wish I loved him the same way. How much easier life would be. His voice cracks when he says, 'I might have blown it, but you've still got your big chance to come. You have to do this, Fern.'

'No,' I say, sniffing loud enough to make one of the sleeping dossers look over at us. 'I won't do it without you.'

'Don't be stupid! You can't throw this away. You have a real chance here. Where else will you get this sort of opportunity?'

I let out a wobbly breath.

'Besides, if you make it big and become a rich bitch, then I might consider marrying you and you could keep me in the style I'd like to become accustomed to.'

I laugh again.

'I wasn't joking,' Carl says, pretending to be offended.

'You are a prat,' I tell him.

'All words of love.'

'You're my favourite prat.'

He leans against me. 'I bet you say that to all the boys.'

I wipe my nose on my sleeve. 'So you think I should phone back and tell them yes?'

'I wouldn't have it any other way.'

'I love you, Carlos. You're my best friend in the whole world.'

'
And
I'm a fantastic lover.'

'So you keep telling me.'

'Well, one day I might let you find out for yourself.'

Dusk has fallen over the Square and the wind is picking up, making me shiver. For some reason I don't want to tell Carl about my trip to the
Royal Variety Performance
with Evan David; that would be like rubbing salt into his wounds. I don't want him to think I'm going to fly up and away without him. So instead of explaining all this, I say, 'This pizza will be stone cold if we don't deliver it soon. And I will be, too.'

'Come on then.' Carl pulls me to my feet. 'If you're not going to ravish me on this bench, then we'll go and dish out carbohydrates to people who probably don't need them.'

We walk back towards the railings. 'I won't forget this, Carl.'

'I should think not,' he says. 'You owe me.'

I pull him close to me. 'Thank you for being you. You're so lovely. I'd never have the confidence to do this if you weren't behind me.'

'And you'd never get back over those railings, either.' He holds out his hands and I put a foot into them, while he hoists me over.

My friend puts the remaining pizza inside the box on the back of the scooter and we both climb on.

'Did they give any reason why?' Carl asks without looking at me. 'It wasn't my playing?'

'Of course not. You know you could give Eric Clapton a run for his money. It was your image,' I tell him. 'It didn't fit with my image.'

'Wow,' he breathes. 'I didn't know either of us had an image.'

'You mean that seventies-rocker look is an accident?'

Carl tuts ruefully. 'If I'd known they were going to be so shallow, maybe I would have had a haircut.'

'When you were buying me that knockout glittery top, maybe you should have got yourself one, too.'

'Nah,' Carl says. 'It wouldn't have suited me.' He pushes the scooter back from the kerb and glances over his shoulder at me. 'I know because I tried it on first.'

I punch him.

'If they'd ridiculed my talent, that really would have hurt.'

'Don't be silly. They just don't appreciate sheer genius when they see it. All they see is an outdated denim jacket and hair in need of gel.'

'This look will be back in fashion one day,' Carl advises me. 'And then who'll be laughing?'

Before I can comment further on his choice of clothing, we set off. Whizzing through the streets, I wish I knew what Carl is really thinking about this. I wish I could make sense of my own thoughts, too. And then I know that I have to do this. I have to do it for me. I have to do it for both of us. Carl is right. As he always is.

Minutes later, we pull up outside one of the few rundown houses in among the posh terraced homes of Haverstock Hill, and Carl turns to me. 'You okay?'

I nod. Carl takes the pizza and rings the bell. Eventually a dishevelled young guy opens the door. Possibly a student. Definitely pissed. Carl hands over the pizza. The guy claps him on the back as if he's a long-lost brother. My friend wanders back to the scooter, a bemused look on his face.

'My, my,' he says, 'here we are. You've got the pop world at your feet and I've just been given a ten quid tip for a half-eaten pizza by a drunk. I think that makes us quits.'