Welcome to the Real World (14 page)

I
do not want to sing this bloody song ever again.

'One more time,' Carl says.

'No.'

'It's not quite perfect yet.'

'It's as good as it gets,' I tell my friend, as I flop back on the sofa. 'That will have to do.'

'Oh, man. That's not the attitude, Fern.' Carl tries to look stern, but he puts his guitar down nevertheless.

'If you make me sing any more I'll be hoarse by the time the audition comes around.'

Carl flutters his eyelashes. 'Just once more.'

'There is a very real phenomenon known as overrehearsing,' I say. 'I'm frightened that we're rapidly approaching that point.'

My tormentor only laughs. 'We could stop for a cup of tea,' he suggests.

If I have a cup of tea, it means that I'll have to go into the kitchen again and face my dad. He's sitting at the table with a rapidly diminishing bottle of whiskey and a miserable face. A three-day growth of grizzled, grey beard is covering his wavering chin. Plus he's still insisting that he's got Tourette's syndrome, so he may well tell me to go forth and multiply the minute I put my head round the door, and I don't think I can cope with that right now.

'A pizza and a couple of glasses of wine would be better.' I give Carl my most endearing smile, the one that he can never resist. His stern mask slips and I can see that he's weakening. This man will do anything for a bit of pepperoni. 'I'm starving.'

'Me, too,' he admits and reaches for the worn denim jacket that always graces his person.

'My treat,' I say even though I'm not going to be flush with money now that my glamorous job in the world of opera seems to have evaporated into thin air.

'Do you think we should have written our own song for this?' Carl asks, a worried frown crossing his brow.

Not in the mood I'm in. It would have been about driving very fast into a big tree, and all the judges would have felt like slitting their wrists by the time I'd finished with them. Not quite the impression I want to make. It's Monday morning and I haven't bothered to return to my job with Evan David after I was so summarily dismissed last night following the
Royal Variety Performance
and my tactless comments. I wonder what might have happened next if only I'd kept my mouth firmly zipped. Personally, I thought it was looking likely that a bit more than dinner was on the cards. I keep a heavy sigh to myself.

Unlike last time, I didn't get a call from Rupert asking me to return to my post. I'm sure that Evan David has found that he can manage perfectly well without me. And the other thing that I need to take into account to soothe my wounded heart is that Evan David was only ever going to be in my life for a few weeks. My loyalty should lie with Ken the Landlord at the King's Head, who will have the dubious pleasure of employing me long after the aforementioned opera superstar will have moved on to break other susceptible hearts with his rather obvious brand of charm in numerous countries around the globe. All these things I can rationalise, but it doesn't stop me from feeling like complete shite. Can you miss someone so much that your eyeballs ache? Or that your fingernails yearn for him? Sounds strange? Well, take it from me, it's something that's never happened to me before.

'I think it's safer to stick to a classic,' I say in answer to my friend's question.

Carl has chosen Roberta Flack's old hit, 'The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face' as my piece de resistance and I'm so grateful for his input, even though I might not be demonstrating it at the moment. Although I'm going to be the one up on stage by myself, at least I don't feel as if I'm doing this alone.

'Come on,' I say. 'If you ply me with cheap Chianti, then you might be able to persuade me to do some more rehearsing later.'

'Could I persuade you to do anything else later?' he says with an evil wiggle of his eyebrows.

'One day I'll surprise you,' I warn him. 'I'll say yes and then you won't know what to do.'

'I'll give it my best shot,' Carl assures me earnestly.

I kiss him on the cheek. 'I value your friendship too much to want to spoil it by introducing condoms into the equation.'

'Playing hard to get is not attractive in a woman of your age,' he tells me as we head for the door.

'And greasy Italian food isn't normally considered an aphrodisiac,' I counter.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spy my moroseand possibly insaneparent sitting drowning his sorrows in the kitchen. It's on the tip of my tongue to invite him to come out with us, and then Carl gives me a warning look. He's right. It would only end up in a shouting match.

'We're off, Dad,' I tell him.

He lifts his head and glares at me. 'Lucky old you.'

'This won't do any good,' I say, casting a withering glance at his rapidly diminishing bottle of Jameson's.

'Arse. Bum. Tit,' he says, but with a certain lack of enthusiasm.

'Can't you try another illness?' I ask. 'This one is becoming rather tiresome.'

'I think I might be getting a touch of vertigo, too,' he confesses dourly, spreading his hands on the table as if to maintain his balance.

I can feel my teeth grinding involuntarily. 'What about rabies? There must be more mileage in that,' I suggest. 'You could use the washing-up liquid to create the foaming mouth effect.' Plus it might help to clean out all the rubbish that's been spewing forth from it this last week.

His red-rimmed eyes grow ever more doleful.

'None of this is working with Mum, either,' I remind him. 'She's not interested.' I decide not to inform him that she's much more interested in the attractive Asian gentleman who's now running the shop where she works and is disappearing on late-night and weekend assignations without telling her family where she's going. It might make my dad shape himself up a bit more if I did, but try as I might, I can't be the harbinger of doom. Perhaps Joe and I need to have a family conference about this with him when I have more evidence of our mum's infidelity.

Despite my more base instincts wanting to let him stew in his own juice, I go over to my dad and give him a hug. He's a solid, stocky bloke, but somehow he feels shrunken and small. 'We won't be long,' I say. 'Have a shower. Perk yourself up a bit.'
Try to rejoin the human race.
I give him a jocular nudge. 'Faint heart never won fair lady.'

'Fuck off,' he offers in return.

As steam starts to come out of my ears and I'm building up for a major eruption, Carl curls his fingers around mine and pulls me towards the door.

'I could batter him,' I say with a weary shake of my head. 'I really could.' Outside in the street, the cold evening air slaps my face.

'Faint heart never won fair lady, eh?' My friend gives me a quizzical look when he asks, 'Does that advice count for me, too?'

T
his was Cardiffthe vibrant, cosmopolitan capital city of Wales. It was also the heart of Evan David Landa place where his fame was fondly embraced as a son of this city. Millions of pounds of EU money had been pumped into its decaying landscape over the last ten years to transform it into a world-class tourist city and European centre of culture. Victorian shopping arcades stuffed with designer boutiques now rubbed shoulders with towering modern apartment blocks at prices that would make even the residents of the London Borough of Kensington and Chelsea shudder. A fairy-tale medieval castle in the city centre competed for visitors' attention with a museum holding a superb collection of Impressionist paintingsone of the best outside of Paris. Yet, every time Evan came home, the place seemed more and more alien to him. Another landmark had been flattened to make way for a new stainless-steel sculpture.

This time his visit was organised to coincide with the opening of the new National Welsh Opera House, a building dedicated to the furtherance of the art of opera and the home of the National Opera Company of Walesthe company that had given him his very first job as a professional singer in its chorus. Now, whenever they required his services, he'd try to make sure that his diary was clear for them. Wherever he went in the world, his reception was never as warm as in this big-hearted city. The Welshhis kinsfolkcertainly knew how to celebrate.

Crafted in the finest, heather-coloured Welsh slate to resonate with the surrounding landscape, and topped with a curving stainless-steel roof, the theatreknown affectionately by locals as 'the armadillo'stood proud on the edge of the stunning waterfront development of Cardiff Bay and was already firmly ensconced in the hearts of the nation. Six-foot-high poetry in the Welsh language emblazoned on the front offered words affirming artistic truth and inspiration: In these stones horizons sing. It would be a marvellous place to perform. A good time to renew old friendships.

While he surveyed the area, Rupert busied himself by lifting their bags from the limousine. Erin had organised for them to stay in the penthouse of one of the towering apartment blocks on the waterfront. The faint, salty scent of sea air clashed with the aroma of coffee from the myriad of bistros that were dotted about the area. He was here to star in a performance of
La Traviata
with the lovely Lana Rosina as his leading lady. As Rupert had muttered all the way down here from London, Evan had yet to call her.

Later today, there was a full list of media interviews to work through and a visit to the local BBC radio station to make pleasant noises. Tomorrow was the dress rehearsal, followed by another press frenzy the day after. The performance itself would be in two days' timeallowing a respite for the singers' voices. Evan fully expected that the last thing Lana would do when she saw him after so long was to give her voice a rest. The woman could talk for Britainand Italy. No doubt there would be a lot she wanted to tell him. No doubt he wouldn't get a word in edgeways. He hadn't seen or spoken to Lana since the rehearsals for
La Traviata.
Where had she been since then? He could hardly remember what she'd told him. Was it San Francisco? Or maybe Rome? Or had she been performing at the Met in New York? Countries and cities had a tendency to blur together these days. And, it seemed in this casefor him, at leastabsence didn't always make the heart grow fonder.

He'd unpack, he decided, and then go for a run with his trainer, Jacob, who had come along with them. One thing he found in this place was that memories became too keen and he needed to pound the pavements to even have a hope of keeping them at bay. The older he got, the harder it seemed. Wasn't that contrary to the way of nature? When you were older, weren't the memories supposed to fade to grey, become as insubstantial as cobwebs fluttering in the mind? To Evan they were still too clear, too sharp, too raw. Perhaps that's why he'd stayed away for so long. His last journey to Cardiff before the rehearsals had been several years ago, and only he knew the reasons why he was so anxious to avoid repeat visits. Evan kicked at the newly laid block paving at his feet.

Dermuid, as always, was here, too, and was currently unloading his portable kitchen, whistling quietly as he worked. The only person missing from his entourage was Fern. Beautiful, feisty, frustrating Fern. He hadn't called her and had decided he wouldn't. His fingers had hovered over the buttons of his mobile phone, but he couldn't bring himself to press them. He had enough on his plate without the complication of trying to form a relationship. But hadn't that always been the way? What chance was there that he could ever devote enough time to finding himself a wife? Success always came at a price. There were sacrifices that needed to be made to fill cavernous auditoriums to capacitygoodness only knew, he was more aware of that than most. The few women who had been in his life had never appreciated that. Why should it be any different this time? Fern was on the outside of his world. How could he expect her to understand what made him tick? She knew nothing about operaabsolutely nothingthough her joy in discovering it was obvious. And she knew nothing about him, either. It looked as if it was destined to stay that way.

'Evan,' Rupert said at his side. 'Come inside. There are things we need to go over.'

Evan nodded at his agent, his manager, his only true friend in this world. 'I'll be right behind you.'

'Don't let your throat get cold,' Rupert said over his shoulder as he headed into the apartment block.

Evan looked out over the waterfront. He was constantly surrounded by people, yet so often in recent months he felt isolated. What had happened to him? Had the shell that he'd so carefully constructed around himself finally started to crumble? It was made of brittle material, glued together with pain. Perhaps it was inevitable that it wouldn't protect him for ever. Why was it that the feel of Fern's touch, her arms sliding around his neck, the tears of joy she shed for him were playing over and over in the back of his mind, tormenting him? Perhaps because it seemed to him at the time that it had been the most sincere affection and emotion that he'd experienced for longer than he cared to remember. And he'd been wrong. The wind stung his eyes, bringing tears to them. Complaining gulls wheeled on the sharp air, sounding as pained as he felt. He had everything that money could buy, so why did he so often feel empty inside? Despite millions of adoring fans around the globe, could it possibly be that he was lonely?

R
ather than the fifty thousand who queued up for the original open auditions all over the country, this time we've been whittled down to about fifty acts. If my maths are correct, that means that 0.1 percent of us have got this far. Horrifying odds, which I've somehow managed to defy. But even vying for my place against forty-nine other very talented folks still seems like a scary amount of people to be competing with. And there's a tangible atmosphere of nervous tension in the airapart from an occasional eruption of giggles that have a slightly hysterical edge.

We're all crammed into a conference suite in the sumptuous Savoy Hotel in the Strand. I have never been anywhere this posh in all my life. It's the sort of place that Evan David would frequent if he wasn't so neurotic about germs. I'm doing quite well, I think, because that's only the twenty-seventh time I've thought about him today. Still it is only ten o'clock, plenty of time to obsess yet.

The waiting around is a bit more civilised this timewe're being plied with tea and chocolate biscuits, although the tea is in flimsy plastic beakers rather than the bone china I'm sure they normally use. I'm not complaining, though. You can't believe how grateful I am to have made it this far.

One or two of the solo performers have brought companions with them. My dear friend, Carl, decided that he couldn't stand the strain and has set up camp to wait for me in the Starbucks opposite the Savoy. I can picture him fretting over his caffe latte and granola flapjack. Secretly, I think that he was worried about them marking me down if he was seen to be accompanying me to the audition. I told him he was talking rubbish, but he may be right. Stranger things can and do happen. We have television cameras trained on us the entire time, waiting to record our worst momentsand if you weren't nervous before you arrived here, you would be by now.

I covertly eye my fellow competitors and, quite frankly, they all look much, much better than me. Better dressed, better groomed, better prepared and, of course, better performers. They're younger, sexier and I bet half of them are sleeping with the judges. If I were a judge, I tell you, I'd be tempted. There are more breasts and bums on display than in a nudist colony. It might be to do with my age, but my breasts are the only ones that are firmly ensconced in my shirtjust over my heart, which is pounding against my ribs to get out. And while I realise that this isn't a great time to be developing an inferiority complex, mine is coming on in leaps and bounds.

The blond-haired bimbo presenter and television uberbabe, Kiera Karson, comes to talk to me, hugging and squeezing me, treating me as her new best friend, pushing her microphone halfway down my throat as she asks me some inane questions. I can feel my smile freeze on my face as I gibber back some banal rubbish about this being my big chanceas if they don't know this. The torture seems to go on interminablyI have no idea what she asks me or what I say in response, but I know that it's this sort of thing that will have me awake and shaking at three o'clock in the morning. This day will be my recurrent nightmare for years to come. The camera crew don't even try to disguise how bored they are, yawning as they dream of me finishing my chirpy banter so they can get off to their next tea break. This truly is purgatory. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Pacing the floor between heaven and hell.

Then the next round of auditions starts and the team of Identikit PR women move into action, herding us nearer to the door ready to lead us up to the inner sanctum or lion's den. I just want to get my turn over and done withpreferably before I throw upand then run back to Carl to lick my wounds.

Not a moment too soon, but far too soonif you know what I meanmy name is called by one of the slender-hipped lovelies, who then escorts me out of the room, to the carefully filmed shouts of encouragement from my fellow contestants. I bet they're all wishing that I'll fall flat on my face.

This feels as if I'm going to the guillotine. It will be a very short time before my career is cut short, my poor head plopping bloodied and lifeless into the basket of almost-might-have-beens.

My legs are shaking and my feet slide on the plush carpet as we pass beneath chandeliers that glitter with the dazzling intensity of a million stars. I think of all the famous people who must have visited the hotel in the past, walking the same carpet as I ampeople who have made it in the harsh world of showbusiness. My PR person opens a pair of glass double doors and before I have time to hightail it out of here, she marches me inside.

'Just the Two of Us,' she announces and I realise that I should have changed our name now that I'm no longer part of a duo.

At the very front of the vast airy room, there's a makeshift stage. Far too close to it, sit the row of judges. You'd know all their faces from the television series. There's pop impresario, Stephen Cauldwell, and next to him is Jackson, the boy band manager who's as famous as the pint-sized poppets that he manufactures. The other judge is Carly Thomas, one-time chart-topper who now spends her time penning the ultra-catchy hits for the likes of Kylie and Natasha Bedingfield.

'Hi, Fern,' Stephen says, casting me a cursory glance. He indicates the stage. 'When you're ready.'

And this is it. Somehow my legs manage to walk up to the microphone. As Carl was banned, I'm going to sing my song unaccompanied. With a quivering breath I then belt out 'The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face' as if my life depends on it. I close my eyes, blocking out my judges. Instead, I torture myself further by thinking of Evan while I sing and feel the notes deep in my chest. It's as though time itself stands still, but then as soon as I've started it's over. Looking up, I can see the panel conferring. There's much whispering, nodding and shaking of heads while I stand there waiting to be put out of my misery.

Eventually, Stephen Cauldwell looks up. 'Thank you,' he says flatly. 'You're through to the next round.'

If Stephen Cauldwell doesn't show any emotion as he announces my success, then my reaction certainly makes up for it. I collapse to my knees on the stage and I begin to cry and hyperventilate both at the same time. A television camera is pushed into my face. 'Thank you,' I sob. 'Thank you.'

Then Kiera, the blond-bimbo presenter, rushes in and scoops me into her arms, helping me to my feet. Elation kicks in and we dance round together laughing. Even the panel are smiling.

'We'll see you on television next week,' Stephen tells me and then Kiera rushes me out of the room. We dash back up the plush carpeted stairs, pursued by the camera crew, and burst into the room where all the other contestants are waiting.

'Fern's through to the next round!' Kiera shouts to the assembled performers, and immediately I'm engulfed by a cheering mob. If I was in the same situation, I'm not sure I'd be so magnanimouswouldn't I be thinking that it meant one less place for me? If that's how any of them feel, they're certainly hiding it well.

'I must phone Carl,' I say. 'I must phone Carl.' With trembling fingers, I reach for my mobile phone and find his number. He answers instantly. 'I'm through,' I tell him breathlessly. 'I'm through.'

'I'll be right there,' he says and hangs up.

'Be quick,' I say to no one.

Moments later, the doors to the conference room crash open and my dear, dear friend is running in to meet me. His face is flushed with exertion, his grin jubilant. I start to cry again, and Carl grabs me by the waist and lifts me high into the air, twirling me round. I throw my arms round his neck.

'You did it!' he cries. 'You did it!'

'We did it,' I murmur into his hair. '
We
did it.'

He lowers me to the ground and now we both look embarrassed. The cameras move away from us, seeking new prey.

'I'm so pleased for you,' Carl tells me. 'What am I saying? I'm over the
fucking
moon!'

We both giggle self-consciously.

'What happens now?' I want to know.

Kiera Karson is by my side in a flash. 'Congratulations,' she says, more muted now that the cameras have departed. 'We look forward to seeing you in the studios next week. You'll spend the week doing media training and seeing an image consultant.' I'll swear she gives Carl a sideways glance at this point. 'There'll be sessions with a voice coach.'

I wonder how on earth I'm going to fit all this in. I shall have to beg some time off work from Ken the Landlord at the King's Head again. But surely the fact that I've been a finalist in the
Fame Game
will draw in the punters to listen to us, so he should view it as a business investment. I'll try to sell it to him that way.

'I'll hand you over to Melissa, she'll tell you all about it.'

Another one of the Identikit PR girls pops up next to us, clipboard in hand, grinning wildly. 'It'll be great,' she enthuses. 'And we have a special surprise for this series.'

I'm all ears. I'm beginning to like surprises.

'We have a
fantastic
guest judge who'll be joining the regular panel.' Kiera clasps her hands together with glee. 'Evan David,' she says. '
The
Evan David!'

And my bubble of joy goes pop right in my face.