Welcome to the Real World (13 page)

T
he spangly curtain goes up and the crowd roar their approval. They're on their feet applauding before he's uttered a note. He takes a bow before the royal box and then walks to the front of the stage. My insides are in a thousand knots.

The audience take their seats again and fall into a reverent hush. All the fidgeting stopseven the obligatory round of coughing has ceased. Rows and rows of the beautiful people have fallen under his spell. And they're not alone. I, too, am transfixed. Evan lets out his first soaring note and I suck in all my breath. His enraptured audience collectively hold theirs.

As the beautiful sounds of 'Nessun Dorma' fill the auditorium, you could hear a pin drop. Evan's control is perfect, he has the audience eating out of his hand and I'm not sure that a thousand singing lessons could ever produce something this good. What Evan has is star qualitythe elusive X-factor that so few people possess and, yet, when you experience it you know that you truly are in the presence of something very special. That's something that you either have or you don't. No one on this earth can teach you how to be extraordinary.

Evan's aria reaches its haunting crescendo and the audience are on their feet again. Tears spring to my eyes and I join the tumultuous clapping. He looks towards the wings, and I'll swear that our eyes meet and he smiles just for me. Then he turns and takes a last long, low bow towards the royal box where the queen and the duke of Edinburgh are sitting. From here, I can see that even the queen has been moved by his performance. Although she hasn't jumped up like the hoi polloi, her hands are raised high in the air as she applauds him.

Every time he goes to leave the stage, the crowd cry for more. Evan is the last performer and his standing ovation lasts for a full five minutes before the curtain comes down for a final time.

He comes towards me and I can't help myself; without thinking what I'm doing, I rush to him and throw my arms around his neck. After a moment's hesitation, I feel his warm arms slide around my waist and he hugs me to him.

'That was fantastic,' I say. 'Truly fantastic.
You're
fantastic.'

Evan looks down at me. I can't read what is in his eyes, and then the stage manager comes for him, clipboard in hand.

'You're needed back on stage, Mr David.'

We break our embrace and Evan walks briskly back onto the stage where the other artists are assembling, ready to meet the queen. He joins his fellow performers, all of whom he has knocked into a cocked hat. And I'm not the only one who thinks that. A shimmering Elizabeth II is escorted onto the front of the stage by a dozen toadies. It takes an age for our monarch to move along the line of eager, waiting performers, offering each one a word of thanks or encouragement, pressing the flesh as the royals do so well. And then it's Evan's turn and the queen lingers to chat with him, clearly thrilled by his performance, and I guess it's never going to hurt to have a fan like that. Eventually, the queen takes her leave of the theatre and the audience claps as the string of completely hyper artists depart the stage in her wake.

Evan comes back to me. 'Let's get out of here,' he says, and he takes me by the arm as we retreat to the dressing room amid much back-slapping and praise. Despite his moving performance, he's a lot calmer than I am. I'm still shaking inside, and I wonder how people manage to come down after something which must take so much out of them. Perhaps that's why so many artists turn to drink and drugs and goodness only knows what else. I didn't see much evidence of booze in Evan David's dressing room. He seems to thrive on nothing more shocking than green algae drinks and water.

We close the door behind us, blocking out the frantic hubbub backstage. After the chaos, the silence in here is all-encompassing. I lean against the door and sigh heartily.

'Can you put my clothes out while I take a quick shower?'

I nod wordlessly. What happens now?

Evan starts to undress again. 'Perhaps we can go somewhere for dinner,' he says, as he undoes his bow tie. 'Are you hungry?'

I nod again.

'I know somewhere we can go. Somewhere quiet.' He slips off his jacket, and I busy myself with gathering up the clothes that he discarded earlier.

Suddenly, Evan comes to me and stills my fussing. He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me towards him. Then he clears his throat. 'Thank you for being there for me tonight, Fern,' he says. 'It meant a lot to me. I've never had anyone waiting for me before.' He hesitates again. 'I didn't realise that it makes a difference. Thank you.'

His mouth is close to mine. That beautiful, powerful mouth, and it frightens me. I'm not sure that I'm ready for this. He scares me as much as he enthralls me. My body is shaking beneath his hands, and I try a careless shrug to lighten the moment. 'It's my job.'

His face darkens and he recoils slightly. 'Yes,' he says, as his hands fall to his side. 'I'm sorry. I forget. You're here because I'm paying you to be.'

'I didn't mean that,' I mumble hurriedly. 'I mean that it's my pleasure. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.'

But I can tell from his tight lips and the sudden tension in his shoulders that I haven't lightened the moment, I've fucked it up completely. Bugger. Why am I not better at this relationship shit?

Evan briskly strips off his shirt. 'Maybe we'll skip dinner,' he says. 'I'm tired.' He glances towards me. 'And I need some privacy. Get Rupert to organise you some transport home.'

'I...' I start to speak, but I don't know what to say, so I shut my big fat stupid fuck-up mouth again.

'We've got a busy week ahead,' Evan continues crisply. 'I take it you've checked the schedule?'

I nod meekly. Of course I haven't checked the fucking schedule. I'm the most useless personal assistant known to mankind. I've got a gob the size of a bucket and a brain the size of a pea.

'Then you'll know that starting tomorrow I've got three performances of
Madame Butterfly
at the Royal Albert Hall. Then we're in Cardiff for the opening of the new National Welsh Opera House at the end of the week. There's a whole list of back-to-back press and PR appointments. Erin has organised it all, so I'm sure it will go smoothly, but I'll need you there. We'll leave Friday, stay for the weekend and come back perhaps Tuesday. Double check all the arrangements are in place.'

'C-Cardiff...' I stammer, sounding as if he's just asked me to visit another solar system.

'Yes. Is there a problem?'

'Er...' What do I say now? I was going to try to blag Saturday off to attend the
Fame Game
auditions. How on earth can I mention that now? Especially as I'm fully aware what high regard Evan David has for talent shows. It might be the one big chance in my life, but as Mr David has already let me know, he views this sort of thing as a complete waste of space. Well we can't all be bloody mega-bucks opera stars. I
have
to do this! I have to do this for me, for Carl, for my family and for every other bugger that might be depending on me.

Instead of unleashing my pent-up frustration and coming clean with Evan, I go down this route: 'As you know,' I say rather feebly, 'I do have other commitments. It may be difficult for me.' For that, read
nigh on impossible,
mate.

'Difficult.' Evan David makes a curt little humphing noise. 'Then may I remind you of something you said a moment or two ago. This is your job, Fern. Think about
that.
'

Then he turns his back on me and it's clear that I'm dismissed. So I really have little opportunity to do anything else.

E
van David was pumping ironwith a little more venom than was strictly necessary.

'Who are you mad at this morning?' Jacob, his personal trainer, asked.

Evan kicked viciously at the leg-press machine.

'If you don't take it a little easier,' Jacob advised, 'our next visit will be to the physio.'

With an unhappy grunt, Evan gave up on his presses and wiped a towel over his face. The gym was set up in another one of the vast apartment's rooms, but he'd only just managed to stagger in there bleary-eyed today. He'd hardly slept a wink last night. After his performance he was still wired, and he'd done nothing useful to help himself come down. Dinner had been forgotten and his churning stomach had only served to keep him tossing and turning. Whether it was down to hunger or to something else entirely was another matter that he didn't want to dwell on. Then he'd lain awake until the early hours going over his fractious conversation with Fern. Not that it had done him much good, either. She was rightthe reason she'd been so attentive and at his side last night was because he damn well paid her to be there. It was easy to labour under the mistaken belief, in a world where he was surrounded by people he paid for, that occasionally one of them might stick around because they actually enjoyed his company.

The truth was that he'd wanted her to stay and he'd hoped that she would because she wanted to be with him. Instead, she'd blown him out and, in turn, he had treated her to a display of his sparkling repartee and innate charm. He wanted to hang his head in his hands. This woman was starting to get under his skin, and that was a very bad place for any female to be.

He realised that Jacob was still watching him. 'Do you want to call it a day?' his trainer asked.

Evan nodded. It was ten o'clock and he hadn't yet been able to settle to anything. 'Sorry, Jacob,' he said. 'Just not in the mood today.'

'Don't punish yourself,' the other man replied. 'You can't put in a hundred and ten percent every day.'

But that's what he did, Evan thought. That's what he did with everything, and it pained him when he couldn't give of his best. He had built his name, his reputation, on being the best at everything, by going the extra mile. 'Come back later today and we'll go for a run.'

'Four o'clock?' Jacob asked.

'Four's fine.'

When his trainer left, Evan showered and changed, forcing himself to stay out of the main living room of the apartment for as long as possible. Fern hadn't yet arrived last time he looked, and he wanted to appear casual, as if nothing untoward had passed between them last night. On the other hand, he wanted to see her as soon as possible to set things right between them again. He'd spoken to her too harshly and that was unfair. This was ridiculous, she was supposed to be here to help him focus on his work, not distract him from it. Shaking his head, he finally emerged into the living room.

Rupert was sitting at the desk, leafing through the day's newspapers looking for reviews of last night's
Royal Variety Performance.
'Good morning, Mr David,' his agent said with mock formality. 'How's the voice?'

'The voice is fine.' He sat down opposite Rup.

'Good performance last night.'

His agent was clearly referring to his talent on the stage and not to the fracas in the dressing room afterwards.

'A five-minute standing ovation,' he continued with a smug grin. 'That very nearly tops the time when you brought the house down at La Scala.' Rupert flicked over the pages. 'Great picture of you.' He held up the newspaper for Evan's approval. 'Great caption, too. "The Man Who's Making Opera Sexy." I like it. In fact, I love it!'

Evan tried to look as if he was unconcerned both by the reviews and the obvious absence of his assistant. 'No sign of Fern?'

'No,' Rupert said. 'I got the feeling that we wouldn't be seeing her again after you dispatched her last nightrather unceremoniously, I have to say. She looked very downhearted.'

'Damn,' Evan muttered. 'Why don't you call her?'

'Why don't
you
call her?' Rupert wanted to know. He put his feet up on the desk and clasped his hands behind his head. 'Remind me. Haven't we been in this same place before with this particular young lady?'

'I seem to be messing it up all the time with her,' Evan confessed.

'That doesn't usually worry you unduly,' Rupert pointed out. 'You have a shouting match with Erin every other day and you both carry on as if nothing has happened.'

'I
never
shout at Erin,' Evan contradicted him. 'I have to take care of'

'the voice,' Rupert finished for him. 'And very sensible, too. I take it that this is more to do with pleasure than business then?'

Evan refused to be drawn. Truth to tell, he wasn't quite sure what the situation was himself anymore.

'You haven't yet phoned Lana,' Rupert reminded him. 'And she's still calling a dozen times a day. Let's do one lady at a time, please. Call Lana before we go down to Cardiff, or our beloved
Diva
will be hissing at you like a cornered alley cat. How will you manage to be Alfredo to her Violetta then? You're supposed to be in love on
and
off the stage. Remember?'

'We've worked together before when we haven't been speaking.'

'Yes,' Rup sighed. 'And didn't the press have a field day with
that.
This is an important performance...'

'They're all important.'

'...and it would be nice if it were all sweetness and light between you.'

Evan massaged his brow.

'For once,' Rupert added.

'I'll call her later.' And as his agent gave him a disbelieving look: 'I promise.'

'If we can turn to matters other than your tortured love life, I have a few proposals that I'd like to discuss with you.' Rupert put on his most placating tone. 'Come out onto the terrace. Do you want a drink? Let me get Chef to squeeze you some orange juice.'

'That would be fine,' Evan said. 'Get Dermuid to do some for you, tooor are you still only drinking fresh blood these days?'

'I'll ignore that comment,' Rupert grumbled. 'Go out. Take in the smog. I'll follow you in a minute.'

The air on the terrace wasn't smoggy, it was fresh and cool. The silver thread of the River Thames snaked by, heading into the heart of London. England was great, but Evan was beginning to pine for the long, hot summers of Tuscany. Maybe he could find time to go to his villa there. It had been over a year since he'd last visited it. His weary spirit could do with a few days lounging by the azure-blue swimming pool in the heat of the lavender-scented air. If he tried very hard, he could almost smell it. What was the point in owning a handful of mansions if you never got to spend any time in them?

Rupert followed him out, sat down and opened his laptop. Evan pulled himself away from the balcony and joined his agent at the table, just in time to be presented with a glass of freshly squeezed juice by his chef. Rupert had stuck to his usual tipple of extra-strength black coffee.

His agent flexed his hands and cracked his fingers, indicating that he was now in business mode. He launched into his pitch without preamble: 'The time is right for a new generation of the Three Tenors. Pavarotti has retired. The other two are over the hill.'

'They'd be pleased to hear you say that.'

Rupert shrugged. Sometimes his friend was more obviously an agent than others.

'It's time for some new blood to take their place. Do you know how many people bought that DVD worldwide?'

'I'm sure that doing another would swell your coffers considerably,' Evan said wryly.

'Hey,' Rupert said. 'Don't you want me to retire comfortably?'

'Luciano would never forgive me if I tried to usurp him.' The highlight of Evan's career had been when Pavarotti had first embraced him, telling him to nurture his God-given talent and saying that he'd never heard a young tenor with such clarity and brightness in his voice. It was a moment he had always cherished. Since then, he'd sung with the maestro many times over the yearsusually at his annual
Pavarotti and Friends
concerts in the great man's home town of Modena.

'You wouldn't be usurping him,' Rupert said with a frown. 'You'd be carrying on his work for a new generation.'

'Agent-speak,' Evan sighed. 'We'd be ripping off his idea.'

'So you'll do it?' Rupert asked.

'Will you ever let me rest until I do?'

'I'll call Emilio Rizzi and Jacques Franz this afternoon. They should be the other two tenors, don't you agree?'

They were both shining stars on the opera circuit and Evan admired their considerable talent immensely. He waved a hand at his agent. 'Whatever.'

Rupert stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'Now,' he said warily, 'one other thingand I don't want you to dismiss this out of hand. It would be very easy to be far too hasty and say no.'

'Which means you think I will.'

'Keep an open mind.'

'I want to say no before I've even heard this.'

'The
Fame Game
called me this morning.'

'No.'

'Hear me out,' Rupert pleaded.

'No.'

'They want you to be on their panel of judges for the television show.'

'No.'

'They say they've got some great acts for this series. It's not all blond bimbos and failed club singers. There are some kids with real talent out there. They've found some bird with a golden voice that they reckon could be the next Madonna.'

'How lovely for her.'

'They've got a boy band singing opera classics.'

'Marvellous.'

'Come on, Evan,' Rupert whined. 'At least think about it. They thought you'd give some weight to the show. Some maturity.'

'God only knows, they need it.'

'I said that you'd consider it. Very carefully.'

'I won't.'

'They're offering a lot of money.'

'You're thinking of that retirement place in Spain again.'

'A
lot
of money.'

'Money is something I don't need any more of.'

His agent looked affronted. 'How can you say that?' He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and put on his sincere face. 'Do it. Please. For me.'

'No,' Evan said. 'I can't do it. The programme's a pile of crap.'

'When did you last watch it? It got better. Really it did. They had Sharon Osbourne last time. Would she do crap? Don't answer that.'

'You're wasting your breath, Rupert.'

'It would be great for your profile. Prime-time Saturday-night television. It would blast your market wide open. You have a natural touch with the common people. Think of all the yummy mummies who would dash out and buy your latest CD. Please do this. Just for me.'

'No. No. No.' Evan shook his head emphatically. 'Nothing you say can persuade me. I won't do it.'

'Oh.' Rupert looked sheepish. 'That's a shame, Evan. A real shame.' His agent reached into his briefcase and pushed a contract across the table. 'Because I'd kind of agreed that you would.'