Welcome to the Real World (29 page)

A
couple of heavies lift the boxes containing Joe and Nathan's meagre possessions from the removals van and place them in the huge rooms I've earmarked for them.

'This is fabulous, sis,' Joe says as he walks round the place wide-eyed. 'Are you sure it's yours?'

'Amazingly, it is.'

Nathan clings to my waist. 'Are we really going to live with you, Aunty Fern?'

'Yes.' I hug him to me. 'Is that okay with you?'

'Cool.' Nathan high-fives me.

'I'm going to be away a lot, but you and your dad will look after the house for me while I'm gone.'

'This is a nice house.' My nephew spins round, gazing at the ceiling. 'It looks like a house where the queen would live.'

The doorbell rings and I check my watch. 'There's one more thing I meant to tell you, Joe.' I head towards the front door. 'You're going to have some help, so if you want to go back to work, you'll be able to.'

'Fern. This is too much...'

'No arguments. Wait until you see her.'

I open the door and let in the total babe who's standing there. 'Hello,' she says in heavily accented English.

'Hi, Alina. Come on in.' I steer her into the living room. My brother's jaw hits the oak flooring and a beetroot flush suffuses his face. Hmm. Think I might have made the right choice here. 'Guys, meet the latest addition to our little team. This is Alina and she's from Poland. And I hope you're going to agree that she can come and live with us, too.'

I spent ages interviewing potential candidates until I found someone that I thought would be just right. Not only is Alina a babe, but she comes with great references and a wealth of experience when it comes to looking after kids. The fact that she's single and a looker and might well prove to be suitable girlfriend material for my darling brother were only minor considerations. Honestly.

The doorbell rings again. 'Why don't you guys show Alina round the house and then you can get to know each other a little better.'

Nathan takes Alina's hand. 'I'll show you my dinosaur collection first,' he says, leading her up the stairs. 'That's the best thing.'

Joe turns to me and mouths. 'She's a fox!'

Which I assume means that he's happy for her to take charge of his son's welfare. I smile to myself and go to the door once again.

This time it's my mum and dad, who hover at the door as if they're not supposed to be in such a grand place. They both kiss me while looking round furtively.

'Take your shoes off, Derek,' my mum instructs.

'It isn't necessary, Mum.'

Ignoring me, she pulls two pairs of well-worn slippers out of her voluminous handbag and hands a pair to my dad, who does as he's told.

'You can't be walking on floors like this in outdoors shoes,' she admonishes me, while taking off her own heels and replacing them with pink fur-trimmed beddies. My trainerseven though they're newearn a scowl.

'I just want you to be comfortable here,' I tell her. 'Whatever that takes.'

'How can I be comfortable here?' she says tetchily. 'It's posher than Buckingham Palace.'

I link my arm through my dad's. 'How are you feeling? Getting better?'

'Champion,' Dad says. 'Mustn't complain. We've just come from our ballroom dancing lesson.' He rolls his eyes at me behind Mum's back.

'He's got to watch his weight, too,' Mum pipes up. 'So no more booze or bacon sarnies.'

'There'll be no pleasure left in my life at all if your mum has her way,' he whispers to me.

I'd love to say that having got back together, my parents had found a renewed strength of love in their relationship, but after forty years, I guess it's hard to completely dispense with the familiarity that breeds a certain amount of contempt. The best I can offer is that they're rubbing along as well as they ever did. But they do go ballroom dancing together now.

'I don't suppose there's a kettle here?' Mum says.

'Of course there is. Come through to the kitchen.'

Warily, she follows me into the massive room, which overlooks the mature garden filled with roses and honeysuckle. 'We came to see how Joe and Nathan are settling in.'

I hear laughter and giggling coming from upstairs and allow myself a satisfied smile. It's good to hear Joe sounding so carefree for once. 'Oh, I think they're going to enjoy living here.'

'We might move in while you're away,' Mum says as if she's doing me a favour. 'Just so we can look after the place. That garden will be overgrown in five minutes if someone doesn't look after it.'

I don't tell her that I now have a full-time gardener. He's a really nice old boy and I'm sure he'll let her help him.

'I'll make a pot of tea, then we can all sit out there and enjoy the sun for a few minutes before Carl and I have to go off for our photo shoot.'

'Get
you,
madam!' my mum says, giving me a sideways glance.

I set up a tray with mugs and a heap of chocolate biscuitsbought from Harrods. Gone are the cheap and nasty own-brand custard creams.

'Where is Carl?'

'He's upstairs,' I reply. 'He's set up a room with his piano and guitars so that we can do some writing together.'

She gives me another one of her prize looks. 'And is Carl going to be moving in here, too?'

'He hasn't decided yet.' I make the tea to avoid getting further into this discussion because I'm not sure that it's Carl who hasn't decided yet. I actually think it's me.

'You're not still hankering after that Evan David chap, are you?' Trust my mum to get straight to the crux of the matter.

I hold up a hand. 'I don't even want to talk about this. I have so much going on at the moment that I can't think straight.'

My mum raises her eyebrows. 'Sounds to me like you've got unfinished business, lady.'

I hear a soft chord being struck behind me and turn to see Carl lounging in the doorway, guitar slung low round his body. His expression is guarded, and I can't read what's behind his eyes. 'It does to me, too,' he says.

E
van David sat on the roof terrace of his home in San Francisco, reclining in a sun lounger, sipping iced tea and enjoying the view over the distinctive skyline of the city. The Golden Gate Bridge stood proud in the distance, for once, not shrouded in mist, as they were enjoying a heatwave this summer, with temperatures soaring to well over one hundred degrees, which was helping to burn off the regular sea frets that engulfed the Bay. Today, the sky was the sort of heartbreakingly pure blue that only California could do. A gentle breeze ruffled the potted palm trees on the terrace, the hot scent of flowers floated on the air. Evan sighed and closed his eyes. This was the closest he was ever going to get to relaxing.

Then the hammering started up again. Down in the garden, workmen shouted across to each other. Above their noise, the wedding planner shrieked instructions into her cell phone. Goodness only knew why he'd let Lana talk him into holding the wedding here, at his home. She knew that he valued his privacy above anything, and now she was turning this place into a cross between a circus and Grand Central Station. His assistant, Erin, had been purloined to help with the arrangements, too, and she wasn't enjoying one minute of working so closely with Lana. Evan suspected that she'd rather go down with the chicken pox again. Without telling him,
La Diva
had already sold the coverage rights to a raft of glossy gossip-pushers across the globe; hordes of photographers would be arriving to record the event for her adoring fans. He didn't know why he hadn't put his foot down and pulled the plug on this weeks ago. This place was his sanctuary. It had been his home now for many years, the place he returned to most often when his spirit was in need of an uplift. The house had been a former archbishop's mansion at the turn of the century, and in need of serious renovation when Evan bought it as a bolt-hole. Its rooms were vast and grand. Original stained-glass windows let scattered shards of light flood into the hallways, sprinkling the hand-carved oak staircase with a confetti of colour. Lana had already earmarked this spot as suitable for wedding photographs. It was only due to the fact that he couldn't face her wrath that he was allowing this fiasco to continue.

Some sort of giant rose arbour had been constructed in the middle of the lawn where the wedding was to take place. A vast marquee had been tacked onto the house to hold all two hundred of the guests that Lana had invited. At least he did actually know most of them, which would, no doubt, provide a welcome distraction on the day. Flowers were already arriving by the crateload. Somewhere a rainforest had been decimated to provide an abundance of glossy foliage. Evan shuddered to think of it. This was Lana's idea of an 'intimate' affair. It was his idea of hell. At least the white chiffon and frilled monstrosity was self-contained, so he wouldn't have a slew of unwanted guests trailing through his home, squashing canapes into his antique carpets, putting fingerprints all over his Baccarat crystal. He would be glad when it was all over and his life could get back on track.

Rupert chose that moment to open the terrace doors and step into the sunshine. 'Bloody hell, it's hot today, darling,' his agent muttered.

Evan clasped him by his hand. 'It's been ages, you old rogue. Good to see you.'

For the last few months Evan had been back in San Francisco, heavily involved in the new season of productions here at the California Opera House. He'd thrown himself into his workwhich was never difficult. If he tried very hard, it nearly blotted out his real life.

He and Lana were performing together again, starring in
Turandot.
There was no doubt that it was placing a strain on their relationship. Lana was singing the lead role of Turandota tyrannical Chinese princess known for slaughtering men who were foolish enough to try for her hand in marriagean irony that wasn't lost on Evan. He, of course, was taking the role of Calaf, the hapless lover trying to save her from herself. But somehow they never had reached the emotional heights as they did back in Wales with
La Traviata.
Lacklustre reviews of her performance reflected the fact that Lana was too caught up with making arrangements for her big day to be fully focused on her work. Working with Lana was difficult at the best of times, but things were even more tricky now. Maybe it was time to call it a day on their working partnership and move on. It wasn't an issue he felt able to tackle at the moment. Tonight was the final night and, frankly, it couldn't come soon enough for Evan.

With the impending wedding looming large, Lana's famous Italian temper was rather more on display than normal. He'd missed his agent's steadying influence and was glad to see that Rupert had turned up in time for the nuptials. Not that he would have been allowed to miss it. Lana had decreed that he should be there, and be there he would. 'What's been keeping you so busy in London?'

'This and that.' Rupert threw a CD onto Evan's lounger. It was the result of his collaboration with the indie bands in London, which, miraculously, they'd been able to finish on time. The publishing company had rushed it out to catch the crest of the wave, and it certainly seemed to be working. 'It's going great guns,' his agent said. 'It'll be number one next week, with good luck and a following wind.'

'If you're going to tell me that I should be heading back to London to promote it, then don't bother,' Evan said. 'There's no way that's going to happen.'

'You have an hour-long Christmas special with the BBC. You're going to have to go back sometime.'

'I could pull out of it,' Evan threatened.

Rupert looked crestfallen. Well, his agent would have to live with it, Evan thought. The farther away from London he was, the better; that way it might just stop him from thinking about Fern. Something that he was doing far too much of. Several times in the last few months he'd gone to pick up his phone to call her, simply to see how she was and to try and explain what had happened on their last evening together. Needless to say, he'd never managed to make the call. In the cold light of day, any relationship between them would have been far too complicated. There were too many obstacles to overcome. Too many differences between them. His brain could rationalise all of that, but it didn't seem to make his heart any lighter.

'When this is all over, I'm going to take a few months off,' he said now. 'I might head out to Tuscany, take some R and R.'

Rupert peered over the balcony, trepidation written large on his face. The sight made him grimace. 'How's it all going?'

'Terrible.' Evan shook his head impatiently. 'Why on earth I let that woman talk me into all this, goodness only knows.'

'It will all be over in a few days.'

'If only,' Evan said. 'Did you book a wedding singer to perform the opening number at the ceremony? Lana would kill me if I forgot to do it.'

'If
I
forgot to do it, darling,' Rupert corrected. 'And, yes, I've booked someone great.'

'Someone I know?'

'It's going to be very expensive.'

'I don't care about that, so long as Lana is happy. Who is it?'

Rupert fussed with pouring himself some iced tea and then looked at the glass disdainfully. 'What is this stuff? Why can't they drink proper tea over here?'

'Rup, who did you book?'

'It's a surprise.' Rupert avoided his gaze. 'My surprise. Trust me, you'll be blown away.'

'Is that good "blown away" or bad "blown away"?'

Rupert tapped the side of his nose and winked. 'You'll just have to wait and see.'

G
et this. I'm flying into the USA on a private jet. I look out of the window to give myself a reality check. Yep. That's right. Li'l ol' me is travellin' in big style!

Carl reaches over and gives my knee a squeeze. 'Feeling okay?'

'Yes,' I say. 'Feeling great.'

The steward comes to ask us to put on our seat belts as we're on our final approach to the airport at San Francisco, so I settle back into my seat and close my eyes. It's amazing how quickly I've grown accustomed to all this luxury. And, no, I'm not going to wake up in a minute and find out that it's all been a dream and I'm still without a job and back in Carl's flat having been unceremoniously burned out of my own. At least I hope not.

The rest of the band is with us. Carl managed to pull it all together at short notice by purloining Shelly and her band to back us, leaving Ken the Landlord without a headline act again. It's a tribute to Carl's personality that he manages to stay best mates with all of his ex-girlfriends. However, I have noticed one or two lingering looks between my ace guitarist and my new back-up singer and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Life continues to be amazing. Our first single has been released and is topping the charts. It's a song that Carl and I penned together, sitting in my lounge when we dreamed about all this sort of stuff happening and assumed that it would, but to people other than us. Thankfully, it's had great reviewsI was even hailed as the new Madonnaand, as a result of all the attention, hordes of paparazzi have been camping out on my doorstep, so that I really know that I've made it. My mum keeps them sweet by taking them out trays of tea and biscuits at regular intervalswhich I'm sure will end as soon as they print some scuzzy picture of me in the
Mirror
with my arse hanging out of my jeans or an up-skirt photo or some such. I've also had to employ a bodyguard to take Nathan to school, which he thinks is cool and has given him a certain amount of street cred with his friends. Kids are so shallow, but no longer is Nathan standing on the sidelines while they play without him.

I've been in so many magazines that I've lost count. My mother started a cuttings file to show all her neighbours, but gave up when she'd filled three plastic W. H. Smith ring-binders in the first two weeks. My stylists have turned me into a permanent rock goddess with judicious application of acrylic, highlights and hair extensions. I've been given a sort of Boho lookwhich I loveand it seems that I'll never have to trouble myself with choosing my own clothes ever again. Carl was deemed to be cool, the stylists loving his retro-grunge look. Just goes to show how fickle this industry can be when the
Fame Game
show bounced him for exactly the same reasons. So Carl still looks pretty much like good old Carl, except he now pays a hairdresser ten times more than he used to, simply to cut a millimetre from the length of his hair. No more the three-quid knife and fork cut for Carl. The stylists seem to think it makes all the difference. And I'm sure it does.

We're heading to San Francisco, where I'm going to sing at a special private gig that Rupert has particularly requested us to do, and then we're flying down to Los Angeles to play at the world-renowned Staples Centre in a summer charity concert where Bruce Springsteen and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, among others, are headlining. We're way down the list, but we have been given a set of three songs and I still view that as a big step up from top-billing at the King's Head Public House for the Terminally Inebriated.

The plane touches down and Carl and I disembark, waving goodbye to the rest of our party. The other members of the band are staying on board to head straight for L.A. to settle into the hotel and do the sound checks for the gig. We'll join them tomorrow as soon as we're finished here, getting there just in time for the concert. This is the first time that I'll have played before such a big crowd and I'm waiting for the anxiety to kick in, but it hasn't yet. I might not be anywhere near as famous as some of the folk on the bill, but I feel I've earned my stripes through sheer toil and determination.

Carl and I head straight for a stretch limo that whisks us into the terminal. No longer the sardine treatment on a squashed airport bus. We sail painlessly through immigration and, after we pass through a smattering of photographers who seem to be snapping frantically at anything that moves, are relieved to find Rupert Dawson waiting for us.

Our agent hugs me warmly and slaps Carl on the back. 'Welcome to San Francisco. I have a car waiting outside.' And before we know it, we're bundled into another limo and are speeding away from the airport.

On the journey, Carl and I peer out of the blacked-out windows as we wind our way through the streets, taking in some of the vertiginous hills for which San Francisco is famous. We pass a cable car on Powell Street which has a dozen tourists hanging on the outside of it. Then we pass by the California Opera House and I see bright red banners bearing Evan David's name plastered all over the front of its imposing facade. The knowledge takes my breath away.

He's here, in this city, at this very moment, performing in
Turandot.
I could buy a ticket and go to see him tonight. I could sit in my plush velvet seat and drink in my fill of him without him ever knowing that I was there. My heart doesn't know whether to soar or sink. My stomach aches with missing him. Everywhere I go, there seem to be constant reminders, and I wonder will my emotions ever manage to break free from this man? Then I see that beneath his name, written nearly as large, is Lana Rosina's. I feel sick inside. They're here performing together, and I wish that we'd taken a different route and I could have remained in blissful ignorance. I've deliberately avoided surfing the Web to see where Evan is performing. Tailing him round the world like a virtual stalker would have been too, too sad. And now he's here. We're in the same city once more, separated by a few miles, a few streets, a few steps. I feel the colour draining from my face and suddenly the air-conditioning doesn't seem to be working properly. I fumble for the switch to open the window and let a stream of fresh air blow into the car, gulping it down.

Carl swivels in his seat. The lines round his eyes crease in concern. 'Okay?'

I nod, unable to find my voice.

'It's probably jet lag,' Carl says, and I wonder whether he really didn't see Evan David's name in six-foot-high letters.

I nod my agreement again.

Rupert also registers my discomfort, opens a minibar in the limo and smoothly hands me a glass of water as he carries on with his chatter about the sights of the city. But I can tell that he keeps a worried eye on me. I don't suppose he'd be happy if his new protegee showed signs of having regular attacks of the vapours.

Eventually, we pull up outside a plush hotel on Nob Hillso called Rupert tells us, because of all the 'nobs', or well-off people, who once lived here. This is the sort of place that pop stars stay in, the sort of place I could only ever have dreamed of staying in just a few short months ago.

Carl helps me from the car and then we check in, hanging around in the ridiculously opulent reception while our bags are brought from the limo. This gives me time to calm down and get my emotions back on track. Then we're whisked up to a penthouse suite, which means that basically we have the whole of the twenty-fifth floor to ourselves. The heavy velvets and damasks of the lobby have given way to a more contemporary style, which I'm relieved about. It feels less like staying in a museum.

Rupert tips the bellboy generously and then shows us round the rooms. There are two bedrooms and two bathrooms, both with vast Jacuzzi baths. A glass dining room with the most amazing views takes up the corner of the suite. There's a massive lounge, all decorated in black and white, with a view that takes in the awesome sight of the Golden Gate Bridge.

'I'll leave you to it,' Rupert says. 'I have a function to attend tonight. Can you kids take care of yourselves for the day?'

We tell him that we can.

'You need to be ready by around eleven-thirty tomorrow morning. I'll have a car pick you up.' Rupert checks his diary. 'The stylist and hairdresser will be here at nine-thirty.'

'Two hours to get ready?'

Rupert shifts from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. 'This is important, Fern. It will be worth it.'

I realise that gone are the days when I could get up and be out of the flat two minutes later. Rupert has been very reluctant to give us any information about tomorrow's event and I don't know why, but I decide not to push it.

'I've ordered breakfast to be served in your room,' he goes on, 'you just need to let them know what you want to eat.' Then Rupert kisses me on the cheek, slaps Carl on the back and heads for the door. 'Have a great afternoon in San Francisco.' He waves at us over his shoulder and is gone.

'Wow,' I say when Carl and I are alone. 'What do you reckon to this?'

'Cool,' Carl says. 'I'm enjoying being a rock god.' He slips his arm round my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. 'I always knew that, one day, you'd keep me in the style I intend to become accustomed to.'

'Well, let's make the most of it,' I chirp, 'and go and paint this town red.'

'I'm going to have a shower first,' my friend says as he moves to pick up his bag. 'I think I'll take this bedroomif that's okay with you.'

'That's fine.' I don't know why, but I'm relieved that Carl doesn't assume that we'll be sharing a bed. He is so aware of my needs and my feelings and is so careful to respect them that I love him all the more for it.

Then Carl turns back to me and his dark eyes are clouded. 'Are you going to see him while you're here?'

I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself. 'Who?'

Carl gives me a don't-fuck-with-me-Fern look. Clearly he did see the Evan David posters. I suppose he would have had to be blind to miss them.

'No. I, er...' I'm babbling so settle on, 'We don't have time.'

'If it's important to youand I think it isthen we can make time. Rupert must know where he is.'

I shake my head. What good would it do to find Evan and talk to him? He's engaged to be married to someone else. What would there be to say? I do admit that to torture myself a little bit more, I've scoured the gossip mags over the last few months for any details of his impending marriage, but I've found nothing and I probably should be glad about that. I can't believe that Lana Rosina has managed to keep this a secret from the mediashe's probably sold the rights to 'expose' it for millions. 'I've no wish to bother Rupert with this. I want nothing more to do with Evan David.'

Carl looks as if he doesn't believe me.

'Really,' I insist. 'It's something that I just have to get over.'

'But it's not proving that easy, is it, Fern?'

I don't have to answer as Carl turns away from me and heads for his bedroom. Wandering over to the window, I gaze out at the spectacular view. Somewhere in this city Evan David is going about his daily business. He's doing it with someone else and not with me. And, as hard as it may be, I just have to live with it.