Who doesn't need it, man! - my old friend Karl squints at me through a veil of cigarette smoke.
He sits opposite, resting his elbows on the bar, and I answer him with one smile - because of the incessant hubbub reigning in the pub, it is quite difficult to be heard, but I still want to protect my voice.
Karl was definitely born at the wrong time. He would have been much happier somewhere in the seventies - he would definitely have turned out to be a real rock idol. But these days, his shabby denim jacket, shoulder-length hippie hair and the eternal manner of answering: “Cool, man,” somehow don’t really fit in with modern examples of personal style.
I know Karl very well; he and I have come a long way side by side. Sometimes it seems too long.
No, I really need to get some money somewhere. This time everything is really bad.
“And when it was different,” Karl casually drops.
Joe is already drowning in bills, something needs to be done.
Joe is my older brother, but it just so happens that I am his support. However, I am not at all against this situation: my brother found himself in a situation where he was glad of any possible help.
You already have two jobs, Fern.
I know this myself. - The cash register produces its digital analogue of the previous “trinkle-dash”, and I, diligently smiling at the next visitor, reach for a new glass.
What else can you do?
And really, what else? Win the lottery? Or, in the hope of earning extra money, put on a shorter skirt and take the coveted pose at the exit from King Cross? Or find myself a third job that will require a minimum of effort from me while giving me maximum income?
I can briefly introduce you to what I usually call my circumstances.
My brother Joe survives on welfare and has long been so deeply in debt that he simply has no one else to borrow from. I’ll say right away that my brother is not at all one of the common types of people who live on donations - stupid, lazy bums. Joe is unable to work because he has a sick son, Nathan, in his arms. My beloved nephew, a five-year-old blond, curly little boy, suffers from terrible asthma. Without exaggeration - the most terrible thing. And he requires constant attention and care. And it was this hourly attention and care that his mother - the brilliant Caroline - turned out to be completely incapable of. She abandoned my dear brother and their only child when Nathan was barely a year old. And even if you call me a grouch and a bore, this could hardly be regarded as an extra chance for the baby to survive.
If anyone thinks that living on alms from the state is as easy as shelling pears, or if anyone thinks that being the only parent of a sick child is a mere trifle, that person, to put it mildly, is very mistaken. My brother had a promising career in a bank. Well, yes, let’s say he didn’t have enough stars in the sky, and he was hardly destined to ever appear on the BBC evening news report in an expensive pinstripe suit, expressing his weighty opinion on the situation in the financial market. However, Joe invariably received high evaluations from management, regular promotions through the ranks, modest increases in salary - and in the future expected a more or less worthwhile pension. When Caroline left them, Joe abandoned all this at once in order to stay at home and take care of his son. Just for this one step, he deserves all the help and support from me.
“You’ll be leaving in a minute,” the owner of the pub, whom we have long nicknamed Mister Ken among ourselves, shouts to me, expressively looking at his watch.
Just like the pints that are filled one after another behind the bar counter strewn with beer blots, I am also, as they say, “in circulation” here.
Carol Matthews
Welcome to the real world
Welcome to the real worldNovels about people like you
A talented but unsuccessful singer, Fern, works in a London pub, dreaming that one day her voice will conquer the audience. And one day fortune gives the girl an amazing chance: she meets the charming Evan, a famous and influential opera singer. Their fateful meeting gives Fern the opportunity to realize her most cherished fantasy and radically change her former boring and gray life. And the irresistible handsome Evan, who has long shielded himself from real feelings, rediscovers the world around him, full of colors and emotions, and discovers that fame and money cannot make a person truly happy.
Carol Matthews
Welcome to the real world
- I need more money. – I tilt the glass a little and pour another pint of beer.
– Who doesn’t need it, man! – my old friend Karl squints at me through a veil of cigarette smoke.
He sits opposite, resting his elbows on the bar, and I answer him with one smile - due to the incessant hubbub reigning in the pub, it is quite difficult to be heard, but I still want to protect my voice.
Karl was definitely born at the wrong time. He would have been much happier somewhere in the seventies - he would definitely have turned out to be a real rock idol. But these days, his shabby denim jacket, shoulder-length hippie hair and the eternal manner of answering: “Cool, man,” somehow don’t really fit in with modern examples of personal style.
I know Karl very well; he and I have come a long way side by side. Sometimes it seems too long.
- No, I really need to get some money somewhere. This time everything is really bad.
“And when was it different,” Karl casually drops.
“Joe is already drowning in bills, something needs to be done.”
Joe is my older brother, but it just so happens that I am his support. However, I am not at all against this situation: my brother found himself in a situation where he was glad of any possible help.
– You already have two jobs, Fern.
– I know that myself. – The cash register produces its digital analogue of the previous “tran-tran,” and I, diligently smiling at the next visitor, reach for a new glass.
– What else can you do?
And really, what else? Win the lottery? Or, in the hope of earning extra money, put on a shorter skirt and take the coveted pose at the exit from King Cross? Or find myself a third job that will require a minimum of effort from me while giving me maximum income?
I can briefly introduce you to what I usually call my circumstances.
My brother Joe survives on welfare and has long been so deeply in debt that he simply has no one else to borrow from. I’ll say right away that my brother is not at all one of the common types of people who live on donations - stupid, lazy bums. Joe is unable to work because he has a sick son, Nathan, in his arms. My beloved nephew, a five-year-old blond, curly little boy, suffers from terrible asthma. Without exaggeration - the most terrible thing. And he requires constant attention and care. And it was this hourly attention and care that his mother, the brilliant Caroline, turned out to be completely incapable of. She abandoned my dear brother and their only child when Nathan was barely a year old. And even if you call me a grouch and a bore, this could hardly be regarded as an extra chance for the baby to survive.
If anyone thinks that living on alms from the state is as easy as shelling pears, or if anyone thinks that being the only parent of a sick child is a mere trifle, that person, to put it mildly, is very mistaken. My brother had a promising career in a bank. Well, yes, let’s say he didn’t have enough stars in the sky, and he was hardly destined to ever appear on the BBC evening news report in an expensive pinstripe suit, expressing his weighty opinion on the situation in the financial market. However, Joe invariably received high marks from management, regular promotions through the ranks, modest increases in salary - and in the future expected a more or less worthwhile pension. When Caroline left them, Joe abandoned all this at once in order to stay at home and take care of his son. Just for this one step, he deserves all the help and support from me.
“You’ll be leaving in a minute,” the owner of the pub, whom we have long nicknamed Mister Ken among ourselves, shouts to me, expressively looking at his watch.
Just like the pints that are filled one after another behind the bar counter strewn with beer blots, I am also, as they say, “in circulation” here. Every evening from Monday to Saturday (since there is a quiz on Sundays at the King's Head pub), I have two half-hour gigs: I perform simple popular songs for an audience that is extremely undemanding in terms of music.
Having instantly finished filling an endless series of glasses, I nod to Karl:
- Ready?
Karl earns extra money here by accompanying me on the piano. And again, I think he would be much happier than he is now if he were the lead guitarist - and he plays the guitar just as brilliantly! – for example, in Deep Purple or some other similar group. He would jump around the stage like a man possessed, perform ten-minute solos and desperately shake his head, spewing out his yearning soul in the music. But Karl, with all his sparkling talents, needs to eat for something.
My friend easily jumps off the bar stool, and together we head to a small raised area in the back of the place, simulating a stage for us. Behind us, pinned to the wall by a row of push pins is an old curtain with the remains of crumbling sequins.
Despite Karl's rebellious, hippie appearance, he is the most stable and reliable person I have ever met in my life. In its deepest essence, it is like restrained rock and roll. Well, yes, Karl is by no means a good boy, he is not averse to smoking weed, and when filling out the voter list, he indicates “Jedi Knight” as his religion - but nothing in the world could make him turn the head of a live chicken on stage or throw something out in the same spirit. Also, he would never smash a guitar into pieces in an excess of stage expression, since he knows very well how much these guitars cost. And Karl is the very calmness in the flesh, when every evening he sits quietly for hours on this bar stool, just to shake himself heartily a couple of times when he and I take on what we really love.
“If you want, we could play for a couple more hours in the tube,” a friend suggests on the way to the stage. - At least it gives me a couple of pounds.
Catching Karl’s hand, I squeeze his fingers tightly.
-What are you doing? – he looks at me in surprise.
- I love you.
“This is your selfish sympathy,” he waves it off. “Would you love me the same if I weren’t the best keyboard player in the world?”
- Naturally.
And this is a completely sincere confession. Karl and I have long been accustomed to being a couple - although we have never practiced what is called “horizontal tango” with him, which, to be honest, I am very happy about. But still, we hugged and kissed for a long time, and more than once I allowed him to touch my outer charms - sometimes even under my blouse. However, in my defense, I can say that this happened back when I was fifteen and we were in school together. And compared to today, it was generally a real era of innocence.
Now I'm thirty-two and I don't have a boyfriend or even time for one. Karl is not my boyfriend either, although he seems to still be in love with me. Well, not just passionately, ardently in love - not with a crazy flash of lightning, but with the even, stable light of a lighthouse, no matter what kind of light source they use in lighthouses. I feel a little guilty that I don’t love Karl as much as he loves me, but I resolutely resigned from him many years ago. Besides, for that matter, he still wears the same jacket and the same hairstyle that he wore then, fifteen years ago. What else can I add here?
We take our places on stage: Karl at the keyboard, me at the capricious and unreliable microphone. Alas and ah, I myself understand that I lack effectiveness, a kind of sensual incendiaryness. I always feel insignificant on stage, partly because I'm just a little taller than the microphone stand.
The multivocal hum that reigns in the pub is interrupted by a slight pause, and scattered claps can be heard. This time, without any introduction (no “One, two, one, two,” as I usually check the microphone, no greeting: “Good evening, London!”) we begin our program. As this pub has a predominantly Irish crowd, U2 is heavily featured in our repertoire, as are The Corrs and Sinead O'Connor. We also, as a rule, give out several of the most popular hits of the sixties and at the end we perform some lyrical songs that have become classics, in order to finally please the clients who are so tearful and drunk.
And so I pour out my soul in music, smoothly moving from one song to another, at the end I bow in a bow - and in response I receive separate muffled claps. And for this I waste my strength, my life? For a few meager crumbs of recognition and a few equally measly pounds in an envelope at the end of the week?
As soon as I returned to the bar and picked up the pints again, one of the visitors leaned towards me and, showering me with a cloud of beer, said:
- Thank you.
- You should have a “Minute of Fame.” You could have outdone everyone there.
This is not the first time I have been told this. Moreover, this is usually done by men with a thick beer spirit and who know absolutely nothing about the music industry.
- Good idea! - I answer. There is no point in me explaining to him that in order to take part in one of these “talent scout” dodge-ball shows, you must be no older than twenty-two years old and have a flat tummy—no thicker than an average pancake. Neither one nor the other, alas, applies to me.
Finally, my admirer staggers away, clutching the glass in his hand.
I serve the next pint of lager to Carl.
“It went well, man,” he notes. – It seems like “With or Without You” was really amazing.
- I need more money. – I tilt the glass a little and pour another pint of beer.
– Who doesn’t need it, man! – my old friend Karl squints at me through a veil of cigarette smoke.
He sits opposite, resting his elbows on the bar, and I answer him with one smile - due to the incessant hubbub reigning in the pub, it is quite difficult to be heard, but I still want to protect my voice.
Karl was definitely born at the wrong time. He would have been much happier somewhere in the seventies - he would definitely have turned out to be a real rock idol. But these days, his shabby denim jacket, shoulder-length hippie hair and the eternal manner of answering: “Cool, man,” somehow don’t really fit in with modern examples of personal style.
I know Karl very well; he and I have come a long way side by side. Sometimes it seems too long.
- No, I really need to get some money somewhere. This time everything is really bad.
“And when was it different,” Karl casually drops.
“Joe is already drowning in bills, something needs to be done.”
Joe is my older brother, but it just so happens that I am his support. However, I am not at all against this situation: my brother found himself in a situation where he was glad of any possible help.
– You already have two jobs, Fern.
– I know that myself. – The cash register produces its digital analogue of the previous “tran-tran,” and I, diligently smiling at the next visitor, reach for a new glass.
– What else can you do?
And really, what else? Win the lottery? Or, in the hope of earning extra money, put on a shorter skirt and take the coveted pose at the exit from King Cross? Or find myself a third job that will require a minimum of effort from me while giving me maximum income?
I can briefly introduce you to what I usually call my circumstances.
My brother Joe survives on welfare and has long been so deeply in debt that he simply has no one else to borrow from. I’ll say right away that my brother is not at all one of the common types of people who live on donations - stupid, lazy bums. Joe is unable to work because he has a sick son, Nathan, in his arms. My beloved nephew, a five-year-old blond, curly little boy, suffers from terrible asthma. Without exaggeration - the most terrible thing. And he requires constant attention and care. And it was this hourly attention and care that his mother, the brilliant Caroline, turned out to be completely incapable of. She abandoned my dear brother and their only child when Nathan was barely a year old. And even if you call me a grouch and a bore, this could hardly be regarded as an extra chance for the baby to survive.
If anyone thinks that living on alms from the state is as easy as shelling pears, or if anyone thinks that being the only parent of a sick child is a mere trifle, that person, to put it mildly, is very mistaken. My brother had a promising career in a bank. Well, yes, let’s say he didn’t have enough stars in the sky, and he was hardly destined to ever appear on the BBC evening news report in an expensive pinstripe suit, expressing his weighty opinion on the situation in the financial market. However, Joe invariably received high marks from management, regular promotions through the ranks, modest increases in salary - and in the future expected a more or less worthwhile pension. When Caroline left them, Joe abandoned all this at once in order to stay at home and take care of his son. Just for this one step, he deserves all the help and support from me.
“You’ll be leaving in a minute,” the owner of the pub, whom we have long nicknamed Mister Ken among ourselves, shouts to me, expressively looking at his watch.
Just like the pints that are filled one after another behind the bar counter strewn with beer blots, I am also, as they say, “in circulation” here. Every evening from Monday to Saturday (since there is a quiz on Sundays at the King's Head pub), I have two half-hour gigs: I perform simple popular songs for an audience that is extremely undemanding in terms of music.
Having instantly finished filling an endless series of glasses, I nod to Karl:
Karl earns extra money here by accompanying me on the piano. And again, I think he would be much happier than he is now if he were the lead guitarist - and he plays the guitar just as brilliantly! – for example, in Deep Purple or some other similar group. He would jump around the stage like a man possessed, perform ten-minute solos and desperately shake his head, spewing out his yearning soul in the music. But Karl, with all his sparkling talents, needs to eat for something.
My friend easily jumps off the bar stool, and together we head to a small raised area in the back of the place, simulating a stage for us. Behind us, pinned to the wall by a row of push pins is an old curtain with the remains of crumbling sequins.
Despite Karl's rebellious, hippie appearance, he is the most stable and reliable person I have ever met in my life. In its deepest essence, it is like restrained rock and roll. Well, yes, Karl is by no means a good boy, he is not averse to smoking weed, and when filling out the voter list, he indicates “Jedi Knight” as his religion - but nothing in the world could make him turn the head of a live chicken on stage or throw something out in the same spirit. Also, he would never smash a guitar into pieces in an excess of stage expression, since he knows very well how much these guitars cost. And Karl is the very calmness in the flesh, when every evening he sits quietly for hours on this bar stool, just to shake himself heartily a couple of times when he and I take on what we really love.
“If you want, we could play for a couple more hours in the tube,” a friend suggests on the way to the stage. - At least it gives me a couple of pounds.
Catching Karl’s hand, I squeeze his fingers tightly.
-What are you doing? – he looks at me in surprise.
- I love you.
“This is your selfish sympathy,” he waves it off. “Would you love me the same if I weren’t the best keyboard player in the world?”
- Naturally.
And this is a completely sincere confession. Karl and I have long been accustomed to being a couple - although we have never practiced what is called “horizontal tango” with him, which, to be honest, I am very happy about. But still, we hugged and kissed for a long time, and more than once I allowed him to touch my outer charms - sometimes even under my blouse. However, in my defense, I can say that this happened back when I was fifteen and we were in school together. And compared to today, it was generally a real era of innocence.
Now I'm thirty-two and I don't have a boyfriend or even time for one. Karl is not my boyfriend either, although he seems to still be in love with me. Well, not just passionately, ardently in love - not with a crazy flash of lightning, but with the even, stable light of a lighthouse, no matter what kind of light source they use in lighthouses. I feel a little guilty that I don’t love Karl as much as he loves me, but I resolutely resigned from him many years ago. Besides, for that matter, he still wears the same jacket and the same hairstyle that he wore then, fifteen years ago. What else can I add here?
We take our places on stage: Karl at the keyboard, me at the capricious and unreliable microphone. Alas and ah, I myself understand that I lack effectiveness, a kind of sensual incendiaryness. I always feel insignificant on stage, partly because I'm just a little taller than the microphone stand.
The multivocal hum that reigns in the pub is interrupted by a slight pause, and scattered claps can be heard. This time, without any introduction (no “One, two, one, two,” as I usually check the microphone, no greeting: “Good evening, London!”) we begin our program. As this pub has a predominantly Irish crowd, U2 is heavily featured in our repertoire, as are The Corrs and Sinead O'Connor. We also, as a rule, give out several of the most popular hits of the sixties and at the end we perform some lyrical songs that have become classics, in order to finally please the clients who are so tearful and drunk.
Carol Matthews
Welcome to the real world
- I need more money. – I tilt the glass a little and pour another pint of beer.
– Who doesn’t need it, man! – my old friend Karl squints at me through a veil of cigarette smoke.
He sits opposite, resting his elbows on the bar, and I answer him with one smile - due to the incessant hubbub reigning in the pub, it is quite difficult to be heard, but I still want to protect my voice.
Karl was definitely born at the wrong time. He would have been much happier somewhere in the seventies - he would definitely have turned out to be a real rock idol. But these days, his shabby denim jacket, shoulder-length hippie hair and the eternal manner of answering: “Cool, man,” somehow don’t really fit in with modern examples of personal style.
I know Karl very well; he and I have come a long way side by side. Sometimes it seems too long.
- No, I really need to get some money somewhere. This time everything is really bad.
“And when was it different,” Karl casually drops.
“Joe is already drowning in bills, something needs to be done.”
Joe is my older brother, but it just so happens that I am his support. However, I am not at all against this situation: my brother found himself in a situation where he was glad of any possible help.
– You already have two jobs, Fern.
– I know that myself. – The cash register produces its digital analogue of the previous “tran-tran,” and I, diligently smiling at the next visitor, reach for a new glass.
– What else can you do?
And really, what else? Win the lottery? Or, in the hope of earning extra money, put on a shorter skirt and take the coveted pose at the exit from King Cross? Or find myself a third job that will require a minimum of effort from me while giving me maximum income?
I can briefly introduce you to what I usually call my circumstances.
My brother Joe survives on welfare and has long been so deeply in debt that he simply has no one else to borrow from. I’ll say right away that my brother is not at all one of the common types of people who live on donations - stupid, lazy bums. Joe is unable to work because he has a sick son, Nathan, in his arms. My beloved nephew, a five-year-old blond, curly little boy, suffers from terrible asthma. Without exaggeration - the most terrible thing. And he requires constant attention and care. And it was this hourly attention and care that his mother, the brilliant Caroline, turned out to be completely incapable of. She abandoned my dear brother and their only child when Nathan was barely a year old. And even if you call me a grouch and a bore, this could hardly be regarded as an extra chance for the baby to survive.
If anyone thinks that living on alms from the state is as easy as shelling pears, or if anyone thinks that being the only parent of a sick child is a mere trifle, that person, to put it mildly, is very mistaken. My brother had a promising career in a bank. Well, yes, let’s say he didn’t have enough stars in the sky, and he was hardly destined to ever appear on the BBC evening news report in an expensive pinstripe suit, expressing his weighty opinion on the situation in the financial market. However, Joe invariably received high marks from management, regular promotions through the ranks, modest increases in salary - and in the future expected a more or less worthwhile pension. When Caroline left them, Joe abandoned all this at once in order to stay at home and take care of his son. Just for this one step, he deserves all the help and support from me.
“You’ll be leaving in a minute,” the owner of the pub, whom we have long nicknamed Mister Ken among ourselves, shouts to me, expressively looking at his watch.
Just like the pints that are filled one after another behind the bar counter strewn with beer blots, I am also, as they say, “in circulation” here. Every evening from Monday to Saturday (since there is a quiz on Sundays at the King's Head pub), I have two half-hour gigs: I perform simple popular songs for an audience that is extremely undemanding in terms of music.
Having instantly finished filling an endless series of glasses, I nod to Karl:
Karl earns extra money here by accompanying me on the piano. And again, I think he would be much happier than he is now if he were the lead guitarist - and he plays the guitar just as brilliantly! – for example, in Deep Purple or some other similar group. He would jump around the stage like a man possessed, perform ten-minute solos and desperately shake his head, spewing out his yearning soul in the music. But Karl, with all his sparkling talents, needs to eat for something.
My friend easily jumps off the bar stool, and together we head to a small raised area in the back of the place, simulating a stage for us. Behind us, pinned to the wall by a row of push pins is an old curtain with the remains of crumbling sequins.
Despite Karl's rebellious, hippie appearance, he is the most stable and reliable person I have ever met in my life. In its deepest essence, it is like restrained rock and roll. Well, yes, Karl is by no means a good boy, he is not averse to smoking weed, and when filling out the voter list, he indicates “Jedi Knight” as his religion - but nothing in the world could make him turn the head of a live chicken on stage or throw something out in the same spirit. Also, he would never smash a guitar into pieces in an excess of stage expression, since he knows very well how much these guitars cost. And Karl is the very calmness in the flesh, when every evening he sits quietly for hours on this bar stool, just to shake himself heartily a couple of times when he and I take on what we really love.
“If you want, we could play for a couple more hours in the tube,” a friend suggests on the way to the stage. - At least it gives me a couple of pounds.
Catching Karl’s hand, I squeeze his fingers tightly.
-What are you doing? – he looks at me in surprise.
- I love you.
“This is your selfish sympathy,” he waves it off. “Would you love me the same if I weren’t the best keyboard player in the world?”
- Naturally.
And this is a completely sincere confession. Karl and I have long been accustomed to being a couple - although we have never practiced what is called “horizontal tango” with him, which, to be honest, I am very happy about. But still, we hugged and kissed for a long time, and more than once I allowed him to touch my outer charms - sometimes even under my blouse. However, in my defense, I can say that this happened back when I was fifteen and we were in school together. And compared to today, it was generally a real era of innocence.
Now I'm thirty-two and I don't have a boyfriend or even time for one. Karl is not my boyfriend either, although he seems to still be in love with me. Well, not just passionately, ardently in love - not with a crazy flash of lightning, but with the even, stable light of a lighthouse, no matter what kind of light source they use in lighthouses. I feel a little guilty that I don’t love Karl as much as he loves me, but I resolutely resigned from him many years ago. Besides, for that matter, he still wears the same jacket and the same hairstyle that he wore then, fifteen years ago. What else can I add here?
We take our places on stage: Karl at the keyboard, me at the capricious and unreliable microphone. Alas and ah, I myself understand that I lack effectiveness, a kind of sensual incendiaryness. I always feel insignificant on stage, partly because I'm just a little taller than the microphone stand.
The multivocal hum that reigns in the pub is interrupted by a slight pause, and scattered claps can be heard. This time, without any introduction (no “One, two, one, two,” as I usually check the microphone, no greeting: “Good evening, London!”) we begin our program. As this pub has a predominantly Irish crowd, U2 is heavily featured in our repertoire, as are The Corrs and Sinead O'Connor. We also, as a rule, give out several of the most popular hits of the sixties and at the end we perform some lyrical songs that have become classics, in order to finally please the clients who are so tearful and drunk.
And so I pour out my soul in music, smoothly moving from one song to another, at the end I bow in a bow - and in response I receive separate muffled claps. And for this I waste my strength, my life? For a few meager crumbs of recognition and a few equally measly pounds in an envelope at the end of the week?
As soon as I returned to the bar and picked up the pints again, one of the visitors leaned towards me and, showering me with a cloud of beer, said:
- Thank you.
- You should have a “Minute of Fame.” You could have outdone everyone there.
The Eksmo publishing house is publishing a book by the world-recognized master of romantic comedy, Carol Matthews, “Welcome to the Real World.” Russian readers have already managed to appreciate the lightness and charming stories of Carol Matthews based on the novel “Turned on You,” in which the prim British Jenny, during a trip to Africa, found the incredible Dominic and forever ceased to be a wallflower. A new novel, and again - about the union of compatibles and the victory of love - is already waiting for you on all shelves!
London only from a distance seems like a fairy-tale city - foggy haze, alluring lights, centuries-old traditions... Upon closer examination, it turns out that the most ordinary people live in it, and their desires, dreams and aspirations are the most ordinary. Many people have to work very hard to achieve their cherished dreams. Some manage to fulfill their desires - if they don’t give up even in the most difficult moments, and, of course, if luck smiles on them.
Fern, the main character of the novel “Welcome to the Real World,” is forced to work in a pub as both a singer and a barmaid in order to somehow make ends meet. But she is trying not only for herself - Fern herself has very modest needs: she lives in a small rented apartment, does not chase fashionable things and other “status” signs. But she considers herself obligated to help her brother, who has to raise his sick son alone.
At the same time, Fern doesn’t even try to arrange her personal life, although she definitely has one permanent admirer, and is ready to help at any moment. This is keyboard player Karl, with whom the girl performs together in a pub. Seeing how the object of his adoration is exhausted, Karl decides to help her find a “non-dusty” part-time job with good earnings - fortunately, his sister works in a recruitment agency. He literally pushes Fern to an interview for the position of temporary personal assistant to a famous opera singer, having previously lied for her resume that the applicant is well versed in opera.
Fern has about as much knowledge of opera arias and performers as a London plumber, but she needs money, so she goes to the interview, shaking with fear that she will fail. To her great surprise, she is the first person Evan David talks to and immediately gets a job. But not because she is the best, but firstly, because Evan came on tour from America for only two weeks and is not at all in the mood to waste his precious time on interviews with several dozen applicants, and secondly, simply because that he liked Fern. For her, this is great luck, the girl immediately appreciated that “with the amount that he paid for his watch alone, I could probably feed my entire family for five years,” and the salary of a personal assistant promises to significantly improve her financial affairs.
Suddenly, Fern begins to improve not only her financial, but also her personal affairs. Although this is very strange: she and Evan are so different from each other that it is even difficult to imagine big differences. An optimist, Fern spends every night in a smoky pub, she simply has no time to worry about her voice, is not at all fond of sports and loves to sleep longer in the morning. All the opera star’s experiences are focused on himself: Evan tours a lot, but never stays in hotels, “because there are too many different infections”; he prefers to live in rented mansions. After all, under no circumstances should he be sick; his voice is the source of his financial well-being and confidence in the future. Evan is obsessed with a healthy lifestyle and sports, but still remains a hypochondriac. True, on the second day of work, Fern, a personal chef, notices that his owner laughed in the morning for the first time in a long time.
Despite this sympathy, the characters seem to be afraid to admit to themselves that they like each other. Evan has long distanced himself from people and their emotions, living only in a narrow circle of his closest assistants - it’s much safer this way, no one will open up old wounds and make him feel unhappy. And Fern doesn’t even seem to know how to talk to the man she likes, so as not to hurt either him or her own feelings: of course - after all, before her eyes she always had the example of a walking dad, whom her mother repeatedly kicked out the door, and her brother, whose wife left...
Both are trying to run away from their own feelings, and this is where the hidden meaning of the novel’s title becomes clear - “Welcome to the Real World.” At first, it seems that both live in the real world: it’s much more real to make money, to ensure their own future... But when the heroes are covered with a wave of feelings, it turns out that here it is, finally, the real world. Neither differences in lifestyle, nor money, nor other people from their environment are important here. Of course, if these people do not strive to help Fern and Evan find a common language and understand each other, understand themselves, in the end. The road to this understanding turns out to be long and difficult, but Carol Matthews describes it very kindly and with humor. The characters repeatedly find themselves in funny situations, the author very funny plays on the literary cliche of the bride escaping from the aisle - in this case both the bride and the groom turn out to be “not real”. And what will ultimately turn out to be real, what will win in this duel of fear and love, misunderstanding and the desire to be heard, hard work and the smile of Fortune, you can find out if you read the novel to the end.
Carol Matthews is a popular contemporary writer, the author of more than two dozen humorous romance novels. Her books, filled with love and humor, were appreciated by fans in many countries and were published in 30 countries around the world. Carol Matthews' novels are on The Sunday Times and USA Today bestseller lists. The total circulation of her books was more than 2 million copies.
