Welcome to the Real World

by Carole Matthews

‘It’s in your hands, Fern,’ Carl reminds me with a sage tone. ‘You have a big, fat contract from one of the music industry’s top players in your handbag.’

  ‘We don’t know that it’s a big, fat contract.’

  Carl slips out of the bed, pulls on his jeans and pads into the living room. He retrieves the aforementioned handbag and hands it to me.

  With a mounting feeling of trepidation, I pull out the sheaf of papers and flick through them. Reading them makes my eyes pop out on stalks and I hand the bundle over to Carl, who also scans them with ever-dilating pupils.

  We look at each other. ‘It’s a big, fat contract,’ we say in unison.

  I take the papers off Carl again. ‘This can’t be true, can it?’

  He shrugs. ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘This amount of money solves an awful lot of problems,’ I tell Carl needlessly.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re hesitating,’ my friend says.

  ‘Neither do I.’ I search deeper into my handbag and dredge up my mobile phone. There’s barely enough credit on it left to make a phone call, and I know that I have less than a fiver in my purse. These are all my worldly goods, and yet I’m holding a piece of paper in my hand with more noughts on it than I ever thought possible.

  I stare at my phone and then look to Carl for reassurance. ‘Are you sure I should do this?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he says with a nod.

  I tap in Rupert Dawson’s phone number, and while I listen to it ringing, I say to Carl, ‘There’s no way that I’m doing this without you. This time it’s the two of us or not at all.’

  Carl holds his head in his hands. Clearly he thinks I could still blow it.

  Then the phone is answered.

  ‘Rupert?’ My voice is shaking. This feels like the right thing to do. I guess only time will tell. Carl wraps his fingers round mine and squeezes them as I say, ‘It’s Fern. I want to accept your contract.’

  Seventy

  I’m to be known as Fern now. Just Fern. Nothing else. I know that I’ve made it as I’m reduced to one name. Fern Leanne Kendal is dead. Long live Fern.

  A lot happens very quickly. Carl and I sit in front of Rupert Dawson in his swish, modern offices just off Totten-ham Court Road. I put down the pen and push the contract back towards him. Our agent rubs his hands together, indicating a degree of satisfaction. A contented beam spreads across his face. ‘Welcome on board.’

  He shakes my hand and then Carl’s. We both sit in stunned silence. Rupert has already set us up with a ‘major recording deal’—as reported in the press—with a huge record company. Apparently, he’d already set the wheels in motion as soon as he left the King’s Head, which I find amazing. Rupert says that he knew I’d phone him, and I have to admire his confidence because I was absolutely sure that I wouldn’t phone him at all.

  If miracles can happen, then this surely must be one. It’s as if someone has shaken up my life and rolled me out again with a full set of sixes. Things simply can’t get any better. Rupert Dawson has turned out to be the knight in shining armour I’ve always wished for; he has transformed me from a homeless, jobless, futureless damsel-in-distress to a hot new pop star with one wave of his twenty-four-carat gold pen. If this was the Lotto, I’d have just won The Big One.

  Carl is one hundred percent involved this time and is in the process of putting a band together. We’ve already swapped the London Underground as our favoured mode of transport in exchange for chauffeur-driven limousines, and Rupert has given me some money upfront from my advance to buy a house. A big, bollocky house! I can hardly believe this is me saying this.

  Rupert sits back in his chair, feet up on his frosted-glass desk. Pictures of the rich and famous smile down at us from every wall. I only wish there weren’t quite so many of Evan David. My stomach lurches just to look at them, so I try to keep my eyes staring straight ahead.

  ‘Evan doesn’t know about this,’ Rupert says as if reading my mind.

  Carl’s hand creeps across to mine and he holds it tightly.

  ‘Then I’d like to keep it that way.’

  ‘It may not be possible for very long, darling. You’ve hidden your light under a bushel for too long. I want you to be big. Very big.’ Rupert looks as if he wants to say more, but he glances at my hand in Carl’s and clearly can’t read what the situation is between us, so it seems he decides to stay quiet.

  Instead he breezes on, ‘You have appointments with the stylists and photographers this afternoon. I’ll be over there later to check on everything.’ Rupert consults his diary. ‘We want to get a single out quickly, so I’ve booked some studio time and then we need to put some material together for the first album.’

  Carl and I, more than dazed, nod in unison.

  Rupert reels off a list of people we’ll be working with—names that I’ve only ever seen on other people’s records. I give myself a firm pinch. Yep, I’m awake.

  ‘Anything else you need, just call me,’ Rupert says. ‘I mean that. This should be an experience that you enjoy. Leave any problems to me.’

  Carl and I stand.

  ‘See you later,’ Rupert says.

  I go round to his side of the desk and hug him. Rupert flushes, but relaxes into my embrace. ‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice choked with emotion. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Outside, our driver is waiting for us and we slide into our limo, slipping on shades. Inside, Carl and I burst out laughing.

  ‘Is this really happening?’ Carl asks.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Who’d have thought?’

  ‘Not me. That’s for sure.’

  Carl turns to me. ‘I dropped into the King’s Head yesterday.’

  ‘Is it still struggling on without us?’

  ‘You know that Ken the Landlord sacked you because he thought you were going to mess up another big break?’

  ‘Did he?’ I can’t hide my surprise. ‘The old bastard.’

  ‘Shelly’s band is playing there now.’

  We don’t talk about Shelly, and I feel bad that Carl’s relationship with her never got much beyond first base. He doesn’t seem to be holding it against me.

  ‘When we’re rich and famous, we should go back there and play a gig for Ken,’ I joke. ‘That would make his eyes pop out.’

  ‘We’re already rich,’ Carl says. ‘We just need the fame to follow.’

  Now our fate is in the hands of others, all we have to do is the same thing we’ve always been doing—sing well and graft hard.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ I say. ‘Joe and Nathan are moving in with me today, and I want to be there to help them.’

  Home for the moment is a vast Georgian house with views over Regent’s Park that I’m renting for some astronomical, telephone-number sum of money that makes me shake with terror when I see it. When I have time, I’m going to look for a place to buy as an investment and maybe somewhere in the country to get Nathan out of the city smoke on a regular basis. I’m only too well aware that the clock could already be ticking on my fifteen minutes of fame and I could be nothing more than a one-hit wonder, so I want to make sure that as well as enjoying my money, I have some security to show from my time in the spotlight, however brief it might be. But I’m also going to make the most of this and do everything in my power to ensure that I’m not featuring in Where Are They Now? shows in a few years time.

  Currently, though, I’m basking in the golden glow of glory. I have more rooms than I have fingers to count them on, and the best thing about it all is that my lovely brother and my beautiful nephew are going to move in with me. With my first flush of success, I’ve already achieved more than I could ever have dreamed of—Joe and Nathan are moving out of that terrible damp flat and into this wonderful, airy home with floor-to-ceiling windows and oak floors in every room. This record deal means that I can give them all that they need—in physical terms, at least. I just hope that we’ll see an improvement in Nathan’s condition and that he’ll b
e able to live a normal life. I couldn’t want for anything more.

  There’s a vast self-contained apartment at the top with two bedrooms, a bath that would hold a team of rugby players and a private roof terrace which I’m going to claim as mine. Joe and Nathan will have the run of the rest of the house. I’m also trying to persuade my mum and dad to move in as well, but they’re currently convinced that this is all a big misunderstanding and that any time now the debt collectors are going to be banging at the door and the men in white coats will arrive to cart me off to the funny farm. Carl has also chosen to stay in his own flat—he too is having trouble dealing with the reality of our changed circumstances and wants to take it a step at a time. Though he does spend more time hanging out at my place than at his own. He can’t quite come to terms with the fact that he is now a wealthy man, although he has given up claiming government benefits.

  We’re still sort of an item following our unexpected night of passion, but we’ve slipped back more to our old platonic ways and, strangely, I’m quite glad of that. I know that we need to discuss what’s going to happen in the future, but frankly we’re so caught up in the mad whirl that has become our lives that it’s been relatively easy to avoid it. Carl is wonderful, as always, and I hate to admit this—even to myself—but there’s still an ache inside me for someone else. And that’s less easy to ignore.

  Seventy-one

  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 trainers—even though they’re new—earn 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 biscuits—bought 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.

  Seventy-two

  Evan 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 deg
rees, 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 canapés 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.