Welcome to the Real World

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Never trust doctors. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I’m sure I can still give the performance of my life,’ he assures me. ‘In fact, I fully intend to.’

  I can hardly wait.

  And so we stumble into the apartment, hastily tripping over each other as we do. We fall onto Evan’s sofa, a tangle of arms and legs, and smother each other in passionate kisses again. Evan’s hands find the buckle of my belt, and he eases it undone.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ I say. ‘Wait.’

  We both sit up. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I need to do things,’ I say.

  ‘What things?’

  ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I jump up from the sofa. What I really need is time to think. I want to savour every moment of this, and it seems to be going way too fast. Suddenly the pace of this has upped considerably and, I’m not sure which, but my body or my brain seems to be lagging behind. I need to get one of them up to speed.

  Evan kisses me again and I nearly forget that I should take a break. ‘I’ll open some champagne while you’re gone,’ he says huskily.

  ‘You don’t drink.’

  He puts my fingers to his mouth and sucks on them. Knees. Jelly. Again. ‘I think this could be classed as a special occasion.’

  Before I lose my mind completely, I bolt for the bathroom, gathering my clothes around me as I go. I scrabble round, opening the wrong doors until I find the sanctuary of the bathroom. This is the same room where I found out that I, and I alone, was to go through to the Fame Game competition. My body is shaking just as much now as it was then, but for entirely different reasons.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the huge mirrors, and it isn’t a pretty sight. I look suspiciously like I’ve been recently ravished in the back of a taxi. My hair appears to have been back-combed by an insane hairdresser. My make-up is all over the place—lipstick on my nose, that sort of stuff. Toyah Wilcox somehow managed to carry off this image in the 1980s—but it so doesn’t work now. I grab some tissues and dampen them, rubbing them over my face. Breathing into my hand, I check my breath. Not good, either—passive beer inhalation. My God, I can’t believe I’ve snogged Evan David stinking like an old brewery. Thank goodness he’s got a cold and won’t be able to smell it. There’s a toothbrush and some toothpaste in a ceramic holder—I’m going to use it. I don’t care whose it is, but I do hope that it’s Evan’s rather than anyone else’s. Bracing myself, I rub the bristles round my teeth and hope that I don’t get any more germs than I’ve probably already contracted. If Ken the Landlord hasn’t already sacked me—again—then Evan David won’t be the only one who isn’t fit to sing this week.

  I want to do this in a sexy and sophisticated way. I want our love to be slow and seductive. There’s no way that Evan is used to wrestling mad-looking women into submission on his sofa. His conquests are probably more subtle and skilled than this. That’s the kind of man he is. I flush when I think of what we got up to in that cab—the driver will probably be recounting that story for weeks. Evan must wonder what on earth he’s brought home. I open up one of the bathroom cabinets and find a comb, which I pull through my hair and fluff it back into some semblance of a style.

  Undoing a couple of buttons on my blouse, I check to see if my sophistication level has gone up. No, not a chance. There’s only one other way to tackle this, and that’s to go all out for it. I give my underwear the once-over and bless the fact that I didn’t have time to do a second load of washing this week. All my scabby, workaday pants are in the wash, so I’m down to my posh, special occasion knickers and—get this—matching bra! Ha! How often is it the other way round? Find yourself in the arms of a desirable man and you’re bound to be wearing greying undies with sagging elastic. But not this time. I grin at myself in the mirror. ‘You are going to work this, girl!’

  Before I can bottle out, I strip off the rest of my clothes. Thankfully, the thermostat in Evan’s apartment is set at about a million degrees to keep his voice cosseted, so there’s no danger of my coming down with hypothermia. I stand in front of the mirror and scrutinise my appearance once again. Black lace bra and oh-so-tiny thong. Yay! Legs and underarms shaved. Yay! Killer heels. Yay! This would not be a good look with trainers. Bite lip to encourage blood-flow and produce pout, as stupidly left lipstick in handbag back on the sofa. Could definitely do with a drink before my courage deserts me. Looking forward to that champagne immensely.

  I give myself one last look. Not bad. Taking a few deep breaths, I psych myself up. ‘I can do this. I can do this.’

  And so I burst out of the bathroom, put on my catwalk strut and sashay back into the living room to find my man and make his eyeballs rotate. Look out, Evan David, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

  Fifty-eight

  ‘Da, da!’ I announce as I make my entrance, arms held aloft displaying my rather obvious charms. Evan David’s eyeballs, do, as I’d imagined, shoot out on stalks. They almost spin round. His chin nearly hits the floor, too.

  But my paramour isn’t lounging on the sofa as I’d imagined, champagne in hand. He’s standing clutching the bottle, a look of terror frozen on his face.

  I drop my arms. ‘What?’

  He opens his mouth, but before words can come out, his eyes cast a panic-stricken glance to his right. I follow them.

  ‘Hi,’ the woman says.

  My hands fly to cover my bra, then my pants and then…I give up.

  ‘Lana Rosina,’ she purrs. ‘You must be…’

  Mad, I think. I must be mad.

  ‘Fern,’ Evan says tightly. ‘This is my friend, Fern.’

  Friend? I’m a friend? You don’t hop into bed—or onto the sofa—with friends.

  Lana’s carrying a champagne flute, which she hands over to Evan. ‘We must celebrate,’ she says.

  I recognise her now. This is the woman who Evan was snapped with scuttling into that posh Cardiff hotel in the dead of the night. I saw the photograph of them together when I was flicking through Hello! or OK! or Stars in Bloody Buggery Awkward Situations magazine—whichever it was. No wonder he’s turned so white. He’d obviously forgotten that he’d already set up tonight’s entertainment. I can feel my jaw go rigid with anger and disappointment. No wild night of passion for me then, it seems. Not now. Not ever.

  Lana Rosina holds out her hand. There is a sparkling rock the size of a small planet on her finger. I’m almost blinded by its twinkling. ‘I am engaged,’ she tells me with uncontained glee.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I say, when, ‘You’re welcome to the conniving bastard!’ is a mere slip away from my tongue.

  ‘I am so in love!’

  Funnily enough, so was I a minute ago. I glare at Evan, but he’s clearly in a state of shock at being caught red-handed, as he doesn’t even register my best death rays. I hadn’t imagined that someone as handsome as Evan David wouldn’t have regular company in his bed that he might neglect to mention, but to forget that your fiancée was going to drop by really takes the biscuit.

  Why does this sort of thing always happen to me? Do I create drama in my life? Do I attract it like a magnet sucks up iron filings? If I’d kept my clothes on, then I could have explained all this away by saying that I was working a bit of overtime. But then my blood boils. Why should it be down to me to get Evan ‘Fast-and-Loose-Willy’ David out of the mire? No, I’m off. He can sort this one out himself.

  And I tell him as much. ‘I’m off,’ I say.

  He’s jolted out of his catatonic state. ‘F-Fern,’ he stammers. ‘This isn’t what it seems.’

  Oh, that old chestnut! ‘I’m sure it’s exactly what it seems,’ I say, galloping away on my high horse.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ he says crossly.

  Eh? I’m taken aback. He’s the one in the wrong here. This is not the time to be a cross-patch with me.

  ‘There is no need to leave,’ Lana purrs again and gives a careless shrug. ‘I know these things ’appen. We a
re all grown-up people.’

  Well, I’m not that bloody grown up! These things might ‘’appen’ in opera circles, but they don’t ‘’appen’ to barmaids from the King’s Head. I’d like to give them both a piece of my mind, but I don’t want to be responsible for a pair of heart attacks.

  ‘Lana,’ Evan says tightly. ‘Stay out of this.’

  I hold up my hands. ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘Fern…’

  ‘Oh, save your explanations for someone who cares.’ I do my best flounce towards the bathroom, even though I feel I’m hanging on to my dignity by a shred. Actually, my dignity probably left a few minutes ago, come to think of it.

  ‘I don’t want it to end like this,’ Evan says to my back.

  I turn round and look at him. His face is drawn and weary-looking. I want to cry. We were having such a nice time. How could he do this to me?

  ‘I do,’ I say softly.

  Then I hurry into the bathroom, throw on my clothes and brace myself for the walk out of here. I’m dreading having to go back out there and face both of them, together, but I can do this with my head held high. I might have been caught out in my underwear, but at least there were no bottoms bobbing up and down. It was a close call, mind you. But I can, at least, hang on to that thought.

  Brushing the tears from beneath my eyes, I push the smudges of mascara back into place. Neither of them will see me cry.

  Fully clothed again, but still feeling just as naked and vulnerable, I go back into the vast living room—which suddenly seems to have shrunk considerably in size and is rather crowded with just the three of us in there. Lana is helping herself to champagne and grinning widely. Evan is standing by the windows staring out at the river, even though all he can see is blackness.

  I have no idea how my legs are managing to carry me, but they do somehow convey me to the door. Turning, I say in the strongest voice I can muster, ‘I hope you’ll be very happy together.’

  Then before I break down and weep, I’m out of the door—and I make sure that as I leave I give it the most almighty bang.

  Fifty-nine

  Taking the Tube, I go straight to Carl’s flat. It’s all in darkness, so I bang on the door, which makes my fist ache and also causes the neighbours to stick their heads out of their front doors to glare at me. One of them hurls a few obscenities in my direction.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I mutter and try Carl’s mobile instead. No joy there, either. What do I do now? My already deflated spirit sags a bit more. Carl is never not around when I need him. It feels as if my own shadow has deserted me. I leave a cheery message. ‘Hey, Carlos, it’s me. It’s late, but I thought you might want to hang out for a while. Call me.’

  Not knowing what else to do, I head for home. Back at the flat—I plod up the stairs, peeling off my clothing in a less sedate manner than had previously been the case. This is the one good thing about my dad not being in the flat, I can wander around in my undies and have the bathroom all to myself once more. But you know what? The strange thing is, I actually miss the old bugger. This place is so quiet without him and I wonder how I ever managed to live alone before.

  Dumping my handbag, I go into the kitchen. The boiler’s gone out again, so the place is freezing. I fiddle with all of its knobs for a good ten minutes until it deigns to ignite again with an alarming hiss and bang. I have to get Ali in to look at this thing—it’s a death trap.

  Sitting down at the table, I nurse my head in my hands. I miss Squeaky. You’d never think a mouse could be such good company, but he was and now he’s gone, too. Never have I felt quite so alone in the world. Evan David is off my Christmas card list, my dad’s banged up in a Coronary Care Ward, my mum’s turned into a wanton woman, Carl’s gone AWOL and my pet mouse is wrapped in a piece of kitchen roll on the floor by the back door.

  I think about making myself a cup of tea, but I can’t face looking at Squeaky’s broken body for a moment longer, so I pick up my clothes and get dressed again. Rummaging in the kitchen drawers, I find a plastic bag to slip Squeaky in. If I’m going to give him a decent burial in the park, I don’t want some mangy dog digging him up the very next day. So, for good measure, I put him in yet another plastic bag. Then I take a tablespoon which I slip into my pocket and carry Squeaky down the stairs and outside.

  Running the gauntlet of the late-night druggies huddled into doorways, I take a bus up Eversholt Street walk to the Oakley Square which is, thankfully, deserted except for a few harmless bums. I really could do with Carl’s help with this. He’s the one who always gives me a hoof up over the railings into the park, but I’ll just have to manage. Again, I can’t really put Squeaky down, or hurl him over the fence before me, so I tie the plastic bag to my wrist and scale the railings unaided.

  I haven’t got a torch, either, so once I’m away from the glare of the streetlights, I stumble to the back of the park near to the few straggly bushes that survive here. Laying Squeaky down, I fish out my tablespoon and dig in the soft earth until I’ve made a shallow grave. Not too shallow—but hopefully dog-thwartingly deep. Taking Squeaky’s body, I lay him reverently in the hole and then cover him over with the soil. I wish I had a flower or something to mark the spot, but I don’t because I hadn’t really planned on coming here tonight. Maybe I’ll buy Squeaky a rose tomorrow—he’d like that.

  Standing up, I gaze at the tiny mound of earth and am close to tears. I want to say a prayer, but it’s so long since I’ve prayed that I wouldn’t know what to say or who to address it to. If it’s this difficult to say goodbye to a mouse, how hard would it have been to bury my dad? It’s unbearable to think that anything could have happened to him. You always assume that your parents are going to be around for ever—it’s horrible to suddenly view them as mortal.

  I try not to think of Evan, but I can’t help wondering what it would feel like to have your sister die so young. I’m sure I’d come apart at the seams if anything happened to Joe or to Nathan. And maybe Evan has. Putting my face in my hands, I slowly massage my eyes. I can’t believe what happened tonight. Who would have thought that it would have turned out like that? But, in a twisted way, I’m pleased that things hadn’t gone any further. Having just one night with him would have been far worse than not having one at all. This is what I’m going to keep telling myself—over and over—until I actually believe it.

  I’m so grateful that I’ve got the chance to repair my relationship with Dad, and, hopefully, at the same time, steer him and Mum back on track. Family is all that matters and I shouldn’t forget that.

  Trailing back across the park, I wipe the dirty spoon on my jeans and promise myself that I’ll remember to soak it in bleach before I use it again. With much huffing and puffing, I haul myself back over the railings. I wonder where Carl is now? He’s been so much like my right arm for the last umpteen years that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to function without him. Maybe I should take more notice of how much he cares for me. Maybe I should forget all notions of my stupid crush on Evan David—that’s all it was, after all. A stupid, stupid crush. And maybe I should start looking for love closer to home.

  Sixty

  ‘So when’s the wedding?’ Rupert asked.

  ‘In two months.’

  ‘That woman doesn’t hang around when she sets her mind to something,’ his agent said. ‘You have to hand it to her.’

  Evan’s mouth was set in a grim line. ‘You sure do.’

  ‘I’ll put it in the diary now.’ Rupert strode towards the desk. ‘This is one arrangement you won’t be able to wriggle out of.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘Fail to turn up for that gig and you might part with your manhood permanently.’ Rupert rubbed his hands together. ‘I think I’ll write it in blood.’

  ‘Make sure it’s your own,’ Evan said. ‘I’m all out.’

  Rupert halted his progress. ‘You don’t sound too pleased about this, my friend.’

  Evan shrugged noncommittally. ‘I’m pleased. I’m
delighted. I’m thrilled.’

  Rupert didn’t look convinced.

  ‘What else can I say?’ Evan asked moodily.

  ‘You can tell Uncle Rupert why you’re looking quite so miserable about this revelation. I thought it would be good news for you.’

  Evan scratched distractedly at his stubble. ‘Lana turned up and made her announcement just as Fern and I were getting cosy.’

  ‘Fern was here?’

  ‘I went to the pub where she was singing.’

  His agent looked aghast. ‘Against doctor’s orders, you got out of bed and went to the pub?’

  ‘She’s very good,’ Evan sighed.

  Rupert’s eyes widened farther. ‘At what?’

  ‘At singing.’ Evan stared at his friend levelly. ‘Lana arrived before we managed to get down to anything else.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ Rupert said. He returned to the sofa and slumped into it. ‘All this is very bad for my heart, darling.’

  ‘You haven’t got one, Rup.’

  Rupert Dawson clutched at where his heart might be.

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,’ Evan said tiredly. ‘I was the one that was very nearly caught with my pants down.’

  ‘And Fern? Where does she fit into the picture now?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ Evan replied with a shake of his head. ‘It’s over.’ It pained him to think that it never even actually began. ‘I don’t need the hassle. When she saw Lana here, she thought…’ Evan sighed heavily. ‘Well, she thought some pretty awful things.’

  ‘And who can blame her?’ Rupert wanted to know.

  ‘She didn’t even want to know my side of the story,’ Evan persisted. ‘She just took everything at face value.’

  ‘Is there any other way to take it?’ His agent poured himself a glass of champagne from the half-empty bottle that stood on the coffee table. ‘You know that women lack a certain rationale when it comes to matters so close to the heart.’