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  ‘Peace,’ he says as I open the door, and does the accompanying sign.

  ‘You are so seventies,’ I tell him as I eye his bag of goodies.

  ‘Bagels,’ he says. ‘From the new deli down the road. I thought we’d road test it.’

  ‘Groovy.’

  ‘Now who’s being seventies?’

  ‘I was being ironic,’ I say as I relieve him of his delicious-smelling package.

  ‘How’s Blonde Ambition this morning?’

  ‘I’m fine—if you discount the fact that I’m tired, broke and my voice has been destroyed by passive inhalation of eight thousand Benson & Hedges. And you?’

  Carl smiles. ‘Groovy.’

  In the kitchen, complete with its one cupboard and death-trap gas boiler, I dole a couple of spoonfuls of cheap instant coffee into our cups while the kettle takes an aeon to boil. Carl starts to spread the bagels with the cream cheese that he also brought from the deli. It pains me to see how much care and attention he puts into preparing my breakfast. Life would be so much easier if I could love Carl as he loves me.

  ‘Don’t forget to do a bit for Squeaky.’

  Carl rolls his eyes heavenward.

  ‘Apart from you,’ I say, ‘he’s the only friend I have in the world.’

  ‘He’s a mouse who’s eaten through your baseboard and the wire of your toaster. I’m not sure I’m happy to share the same category as him.’

  ‘He’s my pet.’ I don’t share everyone else’s view that Squeaky is a dirty, feral mouse who should be exterminated as soon as possible. He’s fun and he’s feisty and he doesn’t cost much to feed. What I would really like is a cat—yes, I’m at that stage in my life—but I don’t have the wherewithal to keep one. Despite being an excellent companion, it would simply be another drain on my meagre resources. Anyway, I console myself with the fact that it might not help my asthmatic cough or Nathan’s.

  Carl passes me a tiny bit of bagel spread with cheese, which I lovingly place beside the mouse bolt-hole in my kitchen. Squeaky used to dash out, steal everything I put down for him and rush away with it into his lair. Now when he appears, he just sits in the kitchen and nibbles away happily. If he could chat, I’m sure he’d join in with the conversation, such as it is. The downside of this is that I have to clean up more mouse poo. The upside is that Squeaky has stopped chewing through my box of breakfast cereal. Or maybe he doesn’t like this brand. It was horribly cheap, and perhaps even mice have their limits.

  Carl sits on the work surface, which makes me frown; nothing to do with hygiene, I just don’t think it will hold his weight. ‘I had an idea that might help your financial situation,’ my friend tells me as he tucks into his breakfast.

  ‘Rob a bank?’

  ‘More legal,’ he says. ‘My sister’s working at a temp agency at the moment. She could get you some regular work during the day.’

  ‘Cool.’ I’m up for anything. I’ve even been cutting ads out of the paper with a view to doing phone-sex. I know. I’m desperate. But I can pant and talk dirty if required.

  ‘Can you type?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. We won’t tell her that.’ Carl rubs his chin thoughtfully. ‘What other skills do you have?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘We’ll miss that bit out, too.’ He pulls out his mobile phone. ‘Shall I call her?’

  Before I have a chance to answer, Carl says, ‘Hey, Julia. Yo. Bro.’ And then they talk to each other for a bit in this gibberish sibling language that only they understand. ‘I’m trying to help out Fern,’ he continues when he reverts to English. ‘Do you have any great jobs on your books that pay shitloads of cash?’

  I can hear a faint muttering from the other end.

  Carl turns to me. ‘Do you know anything about opera?’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carl says into his phone. ‘She’s a big, big fan.’

  ‘I am not!’

  ‘Shut up,’ he tells me, hand protecting his sister’s sensibilities again. ‘Do you want to work or not?’

  ‘I want to work.’

  ‘We’ll rent some DVDs of operas,’ he says.

  ‘Neither of us has a DVD player,’ I remind him.

  ‘Pen. Pen,’ Carl orders. I duly pass him one, and he scribbles down an address. ‘I owe you,’ he says to his sister. ‘Ciao, baby.’ Then he hangs up and turns to me. ‘You have an interview this afternoon.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Personal assistant to some opera bod.’

  I take the piece of paper from him. Looks like I’m going to be headed for an apartment in the Docklands later today. ‘I’ll never get it,’ I say. ‘I can’t do anything.’

  ‘You’re a very resourceful woman.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And you need the money.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So go for it.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Now,’ Carl instructs, ‘eat those bagels, then you’ve got some serious singing to do.’

  Squeaky comes out to join us for breakfast, turning his tiny piece of bagel and cream cheese delicately as he nibbles. Carl has long since lost the urge to scream every time my pet appears, but inches casually away from him.

  ‘I want to put a few new songs in the act,’ my friend tells me between chews.

  ‘For the ever-demanding audience at the King’s Head?’

  ‘We won’t always be playing pub venues,’ Carl assures me.

  ‘Oh. I keep forgetting the booking at Carnegie Hall,’ I say.

  ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Fern.’

  Laughing, we take our coffee through to the lounge, and I kiss Carl on the cheek. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You’re a pal.’

  ‘Does this qualify me for a sympathy shag?’

  ‘No.’ I slip the piece of paper with the address on it into the pocket of my jeans. ‘But I promise I’ll buy the bagels from my first pay cheque.’

  I try not to think how tight my finances are and how much I need this extra money. Personal assistant to an opera singer? That’s got to be well-paid, hasn’t it? Sounds as if it might be fun, too. I can’t imagine that it would involve an awful lot of graft. I am a resourceful woman. I am a desperate woman. Joe needs my help, I mustn’t forget that. If I don’t want to be washing up at The Spice Emporium, I have to get this job. How hard can it be?

  Three

  Evan David paced through the apartment, his feet tapping out an impatient rhythm on the bleached oak floor. He stared out of the double-height glass windows and over the slate-grey thread of the Thames.

  ‘I fixed up the interviews for this afternoon.’

  Massaging his temples, Evan turned towards his agent, Rupert Dawson. ‘If Erin can’t be here, then I’ll manage without an assistant.’

  ‘You can’t manage without an assistant, darling. Have you looked at your schedule yet?’

  Evan held out his hands. ‘If I’m so busy, Rup, then I don’t have time to interview for a new assistant.’

  ‘We need someone to help out temporarily. Until Erin is back on her feet.’

  ‘How long does it take to recover from chicken pox?’

  Rupert shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But I don’t think she’ll make it over here from the States.’ A worried frown crossed his face. ‘Have you come out in any funny spots?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Itching?’

  Itching to kill his agent but nothing more. ‘No. No itching.’

  ‘How’s the voice?’

  ‘The voice is fine.’

  Rupert let out a relieved sigh. ‘You’re lucky. We’re lucky.’

  Evan was opening at the Albert Hall with the British National Opera in the next week or so as Pinkerton, the lead male role in Puccini’s Madame Butterfly. Not exactly a taxing role for someone of his status. But it wouldn’t do for the principal artist—Il Divo, The Divine Performer, The Voice—to miss his first performance. Tickets had sold out over a year ago. And the one thing Evan n
ever did was let his public down.

  ‘Have we sent Erin flowers to her San Francisco sickbed?’ he asked.

  ‘Your new assistant will.’

  Evan hid a smile. He’d been with Rupert a long time, since he first started out in this business. His agent knew how to play him. And he had to face it, Rupert was the closest person he had to a friend these days. Evan stretched. There was tension in his neck. That would never do—it could strain his voice. Good job he had a massage booked for later in the day. And who would take care of all the small details and the administration for him if he didn’t have an assistant?

  He stroked his fingers over his throat distractedly. There was no doubt that the constant touring was starting to take its toll. For a youngish man, supposedly in his prime, there were days when his weary bones were very reluctant to leave his bed. He’d been too many years on the road; it was time he put roots down in one city for a while. As soon as this trip was over and he was back in San Francisco, he wasn’t moving for months, he’d decided. He’d had Rupert clear the diary—which had brought tears in the shape of dollar signs to his agent’s eyes. Evan needed a break though, whatever the cost. There had been too many opera houses, too many rented apartments, too many hours spent on a jet—even if it was his own private Lear.

  He looked around at the apartment. This place was fabulous—at the top of a high-rise block with amazing views across the capital city. It was sleek, modern and spacious, all painted white with glass staircases and balconies off every room. It was also a far cry from his home on the West Coast, which was a turn-of-the-century former archbishop’s home filled with antiques and exotic carpets, surrounded by sprawling grounds. But this place served his purpose. There was no way he could become attached to living here; it was simply somewhere that required little maintenance and offered no distractions from his work. That was the way he liked it. Erin had found it for him—as she always did—and it suited him just fine. She knew that the less there was of other people in a place, the less he was likely to catch any of their leftover germs. Nursing his voice on a strenuous tour like this was all-important.

  Rupert edged farther towards the desk, as if doing that would encourage Evan to do so, too. The agent was well over fifty now, more than ten years older than Evan. His skin was tanned like leather and he sported the bouffant hairdo preferred by game-show hosts and shopping channel presenters. He smoked back-to-back cigarillos when Evan wasn’t around, wore sharp suits and a perpetually pained expression. It was clear, even to the casual observer, that there was a strong affinity between the two men. His agent had come into Evan’s life when he was a callow youth and they had grown older together, if not necessarily wiser.

  Rupert glanced at his watch. ‘The first one is due here soon.’

  ‘We need to be quick, Anton is coming over for a run-through.’ Anton was Evan’s voice coach and French tutor. If Erin was like his right arm, then Anton was the left. Evan tried out a few scales, filling the apartment with his rich voice.

  ‘We have some great candidates,’ Rupert said. ‘All opera buffs.’

  ‘Marvellous.’

  The buzzer sounded and Rupert hurried to answer it. ‘The first one’s here,’ he told Evan. ‘Try to be nice.’

  ‘I’ll be divine.’ He blew Rupert a kiss.

  ‘You’re a very intimidating person.’

  ‘I’m a pussy cat,’ Evan insisted.

  ‘Don’t scare them off. Please. We just need someone who can put up with you for a few short weeks.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Evan picked up a piece of paper.

  ‘Her résumé.’

  ‘University degree…Love of opera…Personable and flexible…I want her to file a few papers and answer the phone, Rupert. I don’t want to marry the damn woman.’

  ‘No one in their right mind would have you.’

  Rupert scuttled over to the door. Evan sat down behind the desk, humming to himself, perfectly manicured fingers joined in a contemplative steeple. His agent ushered in the first victim.

  She edged nervously into the room, taking in her surroundings with wide-eyed awe. Evan followed her gaze.

  ‘Wow,’ she gasped. ‘This is some place.’

  Evan stood up and politely extended his hand. ‘Welcome,’ he boomed.

  The woman jumped. Then tentatively took his hand. Her palm was clammy. Evan wanted to wipe his fingers on his trousers.

  Rupert flashed him a warning glance. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said, putting on his most winning smile while pulling out a chair.

  The woman sat down. There was an awkward silence.

  ‘I’m Evan David,’ Evan began.

  She nodded. ‘I’ve seen you on the telly.’

  Heavens preserve us, Evan thought. This one was as nervy as Bambi. She looked like some sort of Boho hippy chick. Her embroidered jeans were a stark contrast to the tailored business suits Erin favoured. She had a mess of wild blond hair and a suede handbag with fringes. Fringes? Evan shook his head—it was a step too ethnic for him. Normally when people met him they praised him, for his Cavaradossi in Tosca or his Alfredo in La Traviata. And she’d ‘seen him on the telly’. He tried not to sigh. So this was one of Rupert’s opera buffs? There was no way he could do this all afternoon.

  ‘And you are?’ he prompted.

  ‘Fern.’ She licked her lips. ‘Fern Kendal.’

  ‘Do you have chicken pox?’

  The woman looked puzzled. ‘No.’

  ‘No itching?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. When can you start?’

  Fern Kendal looked at Rupert for some sort of explanation. The agent’s face was suitably blank, too, although he looked like he might be about to fall off his chair.

  ‘Anytime,’ she said with forced brightness. ‘Today. Now.’

  She had all her limbs, most of her faculties and no communicable diseases. As far as Evan was concerned, she’d do just fine. He stood up and shook her hand again having forgotten that it was unpleasantly clammy. ‘You’ve got the job.’

  ‘I have?’ Her eyes widened farther, if that were possible. ‘Thank you. Thanks. That’s great. You won’t regret this.’

  Evan smiled tightly. He suspected that he might. Rupert looked to be in a state of stunned acceptance. ‘Good. I’ll leave you to it.’ He headed towards the music room before adding, ‘I guess your first task will be to tell all the other applicants that they didn’t get the position.’

  Four

  Well, you’ve really done it this time, Fern! I slump back into the huge cream leather chair and close my eyes. I have spent the last hour or more telling ten disgruntled and very well-dressed wannabe personal assistants that the role has already been filled. I didn’t dare to mention that it had been filled by me, as most of them looked at me as if I was a bit of doggy doo. And all of them looked as if they would have been a darn sight better at the job than I’m destined to be.

  I can feel my lip wobbling. I want tea and I want chocolate. Both in large quantities. I want Carl to talk to me and tell me that I actually have a hope in hell of doing this damn job. My skills will certainly have to involve better clothing. I wish I’d put a suit on. I wish I had a suit to put on. There have been very few occasions in my life that have called for suit-wearing, and I realise that my existence has been very casual up to now. I wonder if I’ll get a clothing allowance? In fact, I wonder what my pay is and what hours I’ll be expected to work and what I’ll have to do while I’m doing it.

  After my interview—such as it was—the great Evan David and the other weird-looking guy with the big hair had simply grinned at me and left. They’re now closeted in the next room with the door firmly shut. I’ve taken two dozen telephone messages from people who all insist the matter is of utmost urgency—not just normal urgency—but I haven’t dared to disturb them.

  Glancing around me, I try to gather my scattered wits. This place is amazing. It’s like something you see in…in…well, I’ve never seen anything like it
before. It’s certainly a far cry from my own mouse-infested hovel (apologies to Squeaky). My entire flat would fit into this one room and still have space left over for a football pitch.

  I can hear a few soaring notes drifting from the other room. Did I really say to the great Evan David that I’d seen him on the telly? Yes, I believe I did. I want to bang my head on the desk. What a lamebrain. I try to think what my duties might involve. There’s nothing on the desk except a phone, a diary, a notebook and a laptop, so I guess that should give me a clue. My eyes are drawn to the direction of the singing. He sounds as if he’s only warming up, but his voice is amazing. And I have to say that in the flesh, so to speak, Evan David is a lot more attractive than he looks on the television. I’ve never really taken much notice of him before, but that’s mainly because I turn off opera the minute it comes on. I’m beginning to wish I’d paid more attention to it now. I’m an artist, too, I should cultivate a broader view of world music, not just diss opera as stuff for posh gits.

  The apartment buzzer sounds and I go over to answer it.

  ‘It’s Anton,’ the disembodied voice says.

  Anton is Mr David’s voice coach. I learned that much from the diary, so I let him in. While he’s coming up in the lift, I knock on the closed door. Evan David opens it.

  ‘Your voice coach is here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I’ll be out in a few minutes.’

  When he arrives, Anton turns out to be slight with shoulder-length curly hair, and he wears a red velvet scarf.

  Evan David breezes out a moment later and they hug each other warmly, batting French greetings between them. Anton takes off his scarf and goes over to the piano, which is at the other side of the room, set in a bay by one of the huge windows and angled to catch the best light, I would guess.