Every single person from the village had been marked by the legacy of the disaster. Many of his friends took jobs at the colliery that had blighted their lives, that had robbed them of fathers, uncles and brothers. They went down into the darkness of the pit every day even though their hands shook. They married local girls and settled down to build the next generation of villagers, the next generation of miners, the next generation of sacrifice. Evan had done it differently; he’d been one of the few boys to escape and, if money and fame were a measure of success, he’d gone on to achieve greatness. He’d gone from the school on to music college to study opera and then to Brighton Conservatoire, where he’d excelled in his chosen field, graduating as best student in his year. Within months he’d made a sensational public debut by winning the Cardiff Singer of the World competition in front of millions of television viewers. He was immediately signed by top agent Rupert Dawson, and his career sky-rocketed with a host of international appearances. His New York debut at the Met had warranted a front-page review in the New York Times—an unprecedented honour. Evan had embraced his success readily and had never looked back at this small village that had almost swallowed him. Now he was respected, courted and cosseted around the world. Yet he hadn’t escaped unscathed. Evan hadn’t wanted to marry a village girl. Or any of the other girls he’d been involved with over the years—if you could count casual dating as being ‘involved’. Any form of emotional involvement was the one thing he’d steadfastly avoided. Since then, he wanted to be alone, untouched by the pain of love.
He took a pristine white flower from the grave that entombed his devastated mother, his strong, capable father from whom he’d inherited all his God-given talent and his beautiful sister, and he crushed the fragile petals in his hands. What if he’d found someone who made him want to sing Beatles songs with her again—someone like Fern, perhaps—would she, too, be cruelly snatched away from him? How could he ever hold a child of his own in his arms and not shake with terror at what the future might bring? The very thought of it made him go cold. But what was the point of his life, his success, if all of it was to be endured alone? It caused him great anguish to admit it, but he was tired of being isolated in his own life, of being by himself. Wasn’t it time he summoned up the courage to open up and share his life with someone else? He knew only too well that loving and losing someone could ruin your life, forcing you into a dark place that left you unable to function at anything more than a primary level. Could he ever risk loving so much again? Was he prepared to put everything else that he’d worked so hard for in his life on the line for that chance? He’d built an impenetrable bubble round himself, and now he longed for someone to come along and pop it, to liberate him. With help, surely he would be able to break free and step back into the real world once more?
He looked at the sky and cried. This village, this tragedy, this loss, was still in his blood, coursing through his veins. To keep the darkness away was a constant effort. That was why he always needed to be in bright, airy apartments with big rooms. Why he needed windows that didn’t have curtains to obscure them. Why the noise of jet engines sent a chill arrow of fear into his heart. Why he kept himself healthy with handfuls of vitamins, punished himself with a stringent fitness regime. And it was why, when he was alone at night, he still slept with the light on.
Forty-two
‘Who are you?’
I spin round and see my dad standing in the kitchen doorway scratching his head in a confused manner. ‘What?’
‘Who are you?’ he repeats. ‘What am I doing here?’
I wolf down my cereal, despite the fact my nervous stomach has decided we don’t want to eat. ‘I don’t have time for this, Dad,’ I say, showing him the hand. ‘Today is very important for me. This is the first round of the television competition for the Fame Game, and I have to have all my wits about me.’
‘Tell me your name,’ my dad responds as if he’s hypnotised. ‘Do I know you? Has the war ended?’
Clearly, my dad’s wits are nowhere to be seen.
I put down my bowl. ‘So what’s this? Imaginary amnesia? Is that what you’re supposed to have now? Tourette’s syndrome not working quickly enough?’
At this point, my aged parent would normally tell me to ‘fuck off’, but he doesn’t.
‘Where am I?’ He looks round at my kitchen in dazed wonderment.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, snap out of this.’ I march through to the lounge and bash my way into the computer, checking Dad’s Internet history when it eventually gears up.
Ah. He’s been on all the information sites for Alzheimer’s disease. So I wasn’t too far wrong in my guess at amnesia, but I guess he feels that Alzheimer’s will elicit more sympathy. Some hope.
‘Alzheimer’s?’ I say when I’m back in the kitchen. ‘Is that the best you can manage?’
‘Is this breakfast time?’ he asks, gazing vacantly around him. ‘What do I like to eat?’
‘I hope you like to eat cheap and nasty cereal,’ I tell him, ‘because that’s all we’ve got.’
Dad sits down at the table, and with much dramatic banging, I pour out a bowl of cereal and put it in front of him.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You’re a very nice person.’ Dad tucks into his cereal. ‘Whoever you are.’
‘This won’t work,’ I advise him. ‘This won’t work at all. Mum is managing very nicely without you.’
He flinches at that.
‘Can’t you see this is all a waste of time? Mum doesn’t care about you anymore, and I can’t say that I blame her when you’re putting on this silly display. No wonder she’s more interested in Mr Pat—’
Now my dad is wide awake. His eyes have popped out on stalks and his jaw has dropped open. Although, ironically, he does look slightly more catatonic than he did a moment ago.
‘I’m going,’ I say hastily. ‘I don’t want to be late for my big chance.’
‘What did you just say?’ he demands to know—and not in a poor-me-I’ve-lost-my-memory way.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember. Perhaps I’ve got Alzheimer’s, too.’
I grab my bag from the chair. I don’t have to take anything with me today as they’re giving me a complete makeover—hair, clothes, everything. The only thing I had to do was get up at the crack of dawn to make sure that I was in the shower before Dad so that I’d actually have some hot water.
As if to wish me good luck, Squeaky pops out of his bolt-hole and I go over and give him a cornflake. If I didn’t think he’d bite me, I’d probably kiss him.
‘Leave this mouse alone while I’m out,’ I warn my dad in my sternest voice. ‘Don’t you dare terrorise him.’
Dad looks at me blankly. There’s a knock at the door and I know that it’s Carl come to give me a lift to the television studios. The Fame Game team would have sent along a car to collect me, but—once again—I couldn’t bear for anyone to see where I really live, which makes me think that I must try to do something about upgrading my embarrassing accommodation before too long.
I let Carl in and he joins us briefly in the kitchen, while I fuss with tidying away stuff that I really don’t need to—putting off the minute when we need to depart.
‘Morning, Derek,’ Carl says brightly to my dad.
‘And who are you?’ Dad replies, at which my friend frowns.
‘Don’t start that again,’ I snap over my shoulder.
Carl looks suitably shocked at my outburst.
‘He’s developed Alzheimer’s,’ I explain. ‘Overnight.’
‘Oh,’ Carl says. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s not all bad news,’ I tell him. ‘Miraculously, the Tourette’s syndrome has cleared up.’
‘Oh, good.’ Carl grins while my dad scowls darkly at both of us. And, despite extreme provocation, there are still no colourful expletives forthcoming from my parent.
Carl rubs his hands together. ‘So. How are you feeling?’
‘Nervous,’ I a
dmit. I haven’t done anything yet and my palms are sweating.
‘Piece of cake,’ he tells me. ‘You’ll walk it.’
‘You’d better get me there in one piece first,’ I remind him.
With that Carl hands over a crash helmet. ‘We’re on the scooter,’ he says. ‘Put on the skidlid and no arguments.’
I can hardly complain that it will mess up my hair, as I haven’t done a thing with it. I’m going to hand myself over to the Fame Game stylists and let them do their worst.
‘You could wish me good luck,’ I say to my dad as we prepare to leave.
‘Good luck,’ he says grudgingly.
And to think that I’m putting myself through this to try to give my family—including my ungrateful father—a better life. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.
Forty-three
‘I wish you’d come in with me.’ I’m at the point of begging Carl to stay. He’s just dropped me off at the stage door of the main BBC television studios in White City, having skirted the traffic expertly on his little borrowed phutt-phutt.
‘You’re better on your own,’ he assures me.
I’m not sure how he’s worked that out, but Carl has become convinced that he is no longer my good luck talisman and is bound to bring me all kinds of bad karma. Frankly, I’d rather have him by my side and take my chances. But my friend is quietly stubborn and, after hugging and kissing me half to death, he leaves me standing there while he walks away, blowing another kiss in my direction as he goes. My heart squeezes as I see him putter away on his scooter. Now I feel truly alone.
There are a few faces I recognise from the last audition, getting out of posh cars and skipping up to the stage door. I don’t feel like skipping. I feel like slitting my throat. Once again, they all look so much more ‘up for it’ than I feel. Why am I so wracked with doubt and insecurities? This is not the way for a potential pop superstar to behave. Carl would be kicking my backside—which is, I guess, what I need him here for. Just ten of us have made it this far. Out of all the thousands of hopefuls, I’m one of the few who got here. I should be proud to be among them. And I should give myself a pep talk: these Fame Game people know what they’re doing and I haven’t got through to the finals by mistake.
Girding my loins, I go through the hideous process of getting past security—which seems to involve signing my life away—and into the BBC building, and then I’m whisked into a vast studio to wait my turn to rehearse. The Fame Game folk have asked me to sing ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’ again as I did in the auditions, but instead of doing it unaccompanied, I’m going to be backed by the string section of the Fame Game orchestra, which is terrifying as I’ve never been backed by anything or anyone other than my lovely Carl before and I can feel the ante being notched up further and further.
Sitting on the sidelines, I watch as the other acts go through their routines. There’s a young guy singing old Glam Rock tunes with gusto; a frighteningly pubescent girl doing the obligatory Britney Spears song; some smarmy boy-next-door soul guy singing Motown classics—and absolutely no one as old as me. But do you know what? I’m as good as them. I know I am. I have what it takes to win this. If I can keep a grip on my nerves, then I could be in with a fighting chance. Only the cutesy boy band singing opera songs has got me terrified. My heart sinks to my boots. If I’d tried very hard, I could have almost forgotten that one of the judges I’m going to have to face is Evan David.
Several hours later, I’m polished, preened, plucked within an inch of my life and ready—it is deemed—to face my public. I have my own Hollywood-style mirror and my very own make-up artist, Kirsty. It takes me back to my last evening with Evan David, and I try very hard not to think about it as it will make me want to cry and Kirsty has just spent ten minutes applying layer after layer of mascara and probably wouldn’t thank me for it. I am, however, sharing the dressing room with all the other female contestants, so I try to pull myself together.
‘I’m finished,’ Kirsty announces. She fluffs my hair and leaves me to admire myself.
Even I have to admit that Kirsty has done a wonderful job. She has taken a sow’s ear and turned it into the veritable silk purse. I stare into the mirror at this goddess before me and can hardly believe that it’s me.
‘Do you like it?’
‘I love it,’ I gasp.
My mad, flyaway hair with a life of its own has been transformed into a mane of glossy curls that frames my face. My stubby barmaid’s fingernails are long, graceful talons thanks to the miracle of acrylic. I’m wearing jeans, but designer ones, that cajole everything into the right place, vertiginous heels that make my legs look like those of a giraffe, and I can quite safely say without contradiction that I’ve never, ever exposed so much cleavage in all my life. And now I’m going to do so on national telly.
A gulp travels down my throat. Oh, my giddy aunt. I look like a pop star. A real pop star, not some poor old girl they’ve dragged in off the street for the pity vote. The regulars at the King’s Head will never look at me in the same way again. If I don’t recognise myself, am I in with a chance that Evan David won’t, either? A fat chance, I think is the answer to that. I feel sick with nerves.
The programme has already started, but I can’t bear to look at the monitors. I have no desire to see what’s waiting for me out on the studio floor. My rehearsal with the orchestra went brilliantly, and I can only hope that my performance will be half as good on the night when it counts. I even saw one of the PR Identikit girls wipe a tear from her eye when I’d finished.
‘Ten minutes and then we’re ready for you, Fern,’ someone with a clipboard and headphones announces.
A tremor starts to shake my whole body and won’t stop. I pick up a copy of Hello! magazine which is lying next to me and start to flick through it in an effort to distract myself. I get halfway through the magazine, aimlessly scanning the orange faces of the übercelebs when I’m stopped in my tracks. Smiling out at me—well, scowling really—is the face of Evan David, and he’s wrapped round a comely dark-haired woman who, the caption tells me, is opera star Lana Rosina. And very glamorous she looks, too. My confidence takes a nosedive. They’re going into a hotel foyer and I think I can draw my own conclusions from that. An unreasonable green mist descends on me. I was never anything to Evan David, so why should I feel so damn jealous? And if I was labouring under the illusion that he felt anything for me, then this is evidence enough that he’s soon got over me. Closing the magazine, I give an involuntary shudder. Now I want to face him even less.
I’m sure that the headphone-bedecked girl was lying, because she comes back in what seems to be about ten seconds later and tells me that it’s time to go.
To a chorus of ‘Good luck, Fern,’ I follow her through the corridor towards the studio. On stage the young glam rocker is strutting his stuff. He’s good. The crowd, all bearing banners emblazoned with his name, are cheering and clapping as he comes to his big finish. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Evan David sitting in the middle of the panel of judges at the front of the stage. He’s wearing his customary monochrome colours—a black linen suit with a grey silk T-shirt. He looks tanned, healthy, relaxed, and he toys with his pen, tapping it on the desk along with the rhythm of the music. My insides turn to liquid. I don’t know if this feeling is love or fear or a potent mix of both, but I’m smashed with a fist of emotion, the strength of which I’ve never experienced before.
And then I know with absolute certainty that I can’t do this. I can cope with the unfamiliar orchestration. I can cope with the live audience and the fact that the programme will be broadcast to over twelve million homes. I can cope with all that. I just can’t go out there and face Evan David. Not like this.
My heart is beating too fast. Sweat breaks out on my brow. I turn to the woman with the clipboard. She’s deep in concentration, watching the floor manager and the cameramen. The glam rocker finishes his song and rapturous applause breaks out. She starts to mutter somethin
g into her headphones to someone unseen, and while she’s doing this, I tiptoe silently away.
The minute she realises that I’ve gone, she spins around. ‘Fern!’ she barks at my rapidly departing back. But I don’t stop. No way. I’m outta here.
My tiptoeing picks up speed and I race along the corridor, knocking over waiting assistants and some of the other contestants in my ungainly flight. The woman with the clipboard pursues me. ‘Stop her!’ she shouts, and several people lunge for me as I run.
I know that I’m letting people down. At home Joe will be watching out for me with Nathan who is loads better and out of hospital now, thank goodness. Mum may be there, too, if she’s not too busy gallivanting with Mr Patel. Carl will die a thousand deaths when I don’t appear on screen and will, of course, blame himself. All the regulars at the King’s Head were going to tune in and vote for me, too. But I can’t think about that now. I just have to get out of this place.
My athleticism has never been one of my strongest points, but believe me, I could make the Olympic sprint team with the time I’m putting in. My breath is coming in heavy pants, and I can hear my heart pounding to the beat of the footsteps behind me. It’s accelerating alarmingly, rat-tat-tatting against my chest, and my legs are on fire. I keep on pumping, dashing through the corridors, pursued by a variety of people from the Fame Game shouting my name until I burst out through the stage door. Ducking under the security barrier, I pass the bemused guards and then I fly across Wood Lane, dodging the traffic and leaving my pursuers behind. Someone is waving their fist. My God, what have I done? I’ve left the Fame Game firmly in the lurch, that’s what.
I have no money for a train ticket, so despite my vertiginous heels, I vault the ticket machines at the entrance to White City Underground station and run down onto the platform. Thankfully, no one from London Underground takes up the pursuit, because running any more would surely kill me. A Tube train is just departing and I squeeze inside the doors and fling myself down on one of the seats, puffing outrageously. The train rattles out of the station and I sit back, trying to catch my breath and contemplating the fact that I have just spectacularly, completely and utterly, blown it.
Welcome to the Real World Page 19
