Welcome to the Real World by Carole Matthews Page B

to the opera.

    'He's quite famous,' I say lamely.

    'Fantastic. And what do you do?'

    'Not much yet,' I admit, 'but it's a full-time jobfor the next few weeks, at least. I haven't been paid yet, but it means that I can help you out a bit. Maybe I could pay for you both to go away for a week.'

    'You do enough for us, sis.'

    When I see them both here in this dump, I don't feel that I do anywhere near enough. 'You could get a cheap week in Spain, maybe. Some sun would do you both good.'

    My brother slides his arm round me and says, 'For once, I'd like you to think about what would do you good, Fern.'

Thirteen

    C arl is all ready and waiting on his bar stool by the time I get to the King's Head.
    'Peace,' he says when I arrive and puts two fingers upin the nice way.

    'Whatever,' I reply as I strip off my coat and throw my bag down with a sigh.

    'How did the job go today?'

    'Fab,' I say. But for some reason I don't want to share my experience with Carl. I want to keep it private. And, besides, it would worry Carl. He'd think that I'd want to go off and become an opera singer. Or at the very least, slip 'Nessun Dorma' or something into our set at the pub. 'Tell your sister thanks from me. I owe her one.'

    'And you owe me one,' Carl points out.

    'Yeah,' I say, taking up my place behind the bar. 'Send me your bill.'

    Carl looks shifty.

    'What?'

    'There is something you could do for me.'

    'Does it involve strange sexual practices?'

    My friend looks offended. 'No.'

    'Shoot then.'

    'Don't dismiss this out of hand,' he says. Then he takes a deep breath. 'The Fame Game are holding auditions this weekend at Shepherd's Bush Empire. I think we should go along.'

    I laugh out loud. 'No way! That's for fresh-faced, hopeful kids, not jaded cynics like you and me. They didn't have anyone over the age of twenty in the last series.'

    'They're extending it,' he assures me. 'The upper age limit is thirty-five.'

    'Wonderful. So we just about squeeze in.'

    'It would be good for us.'

    'How do you work that out?'

    'It will stretch us as artists, and you never know...'

    'I do know.'

    'Someone's got to win,' Carl insists. 'It might as well be us.'

    'No. No way.'

    My friend frowns. 'You said you'd consider it.'

    I stare at the ceiling for a moment. 'I have. And the answer's no. No way.'

    'Fern,' Carl says. 'I ask you to do very little for me.'

    This makes me feel ashamed. Carl is my prop, my life, my one true friend. And it's true, he asks for nothing in return. Well, that's not strictly accurate. He frequently asks for sympathy shags, but never gets them.

    'Please do this for me.' He gives me his little-lost-boy look.

    'I'll probably be working.'

    'Can't you ask Pavarotti for the time off?'

    'It's my first week,' I say. 'I don't want to piss him off.' And what I don't voice is that I'm reluctant to admit to Evan David that I have aspirations to become a singer. My attempts seem so feeble compared to his and, don't ask me why, but I wouldn't want him to laugh at me. And, believe me, I'm used to people scoffing at my ambitions.

    'This could be our last big chance,' Carl says seriously. 'Do you really want to spend the rest of your life behind the bar in here?'

    We take in the all-encompassing dreariness of our surroundings, the billowing smoke, the tar-coloured curtains and the sticky 1960s orange-and-brown carpet.

    'No.' I indulge in a pout. 'But the Fame Game... ' I rearrange my features into a suitably disdainful expression.

    'If you won't do it,' he says, 'it'll have to be the strange sexual practices.'

    'I'll do it.'

    Carl reaches across the bar and squeezes my hand. 'Thank you.'

    'I'll do it if I can get the time off,' I qualify.

    'That's good enough for me,' Carl says. 'We could win this.' His eyes are bright with excitement. 'We could really win this.'

    And then my dad comes in and I lose the will to humour Carl. Instead, my heart sinks. What is it about this man that makes me want to grab him warmly by the