Welcome to the real world of reading. Carol Matthews. Welcome to the real world
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.
Many people spoke out about the worldwide, but not overly advertised, date; even more remained silent, some because of hard-to-conceal hatred, and some because of panic fear and the hatred that grew from it, too. This always happens when we are talking about something really important. So important that once and for all.
In my opinion, two of them said the most honestly and accurately, or rather, I am ready to believe two of all, since they are not people deeply immersed in Marxist-Leninist philosophy, Gehl, or the works of Stalin. And most importantly, both Dmitry and Zakhar, who were established under capitalism, are not afraid to say what, in theory, they should not, in principle, being rich and successful and opinion leaders and not marginalized and not thieves, which already takes them out of the general friendly ranks of neo-capitalists. At this point, comrades, I consider the prelude finished.
For people languishing in anticipation of the second coming, it doesn’t even occur to them what God should look like, what he should do, or rather how, and what the description left to descendants long ago implies. I would venture to say the following - Jesus came, did what he had to do and rested on the place of execution in the Mausoleum. Don't believe me? Go and see for yourself. Now let's go point by point.
As a result of the Great October Revolution, which happened one hundred and one years and one day ago, the following happened. The horses of the apocalypse, without particularly observing accuracy, were harnessed to a cart, which became a symbol of the civil war and the Red Army. They walked across Russia, and then through almost most of the world, and mowed down those who deserved it, while not sparing their own lives and took away a lot of demonic servants with them. Who will say that this is not sacrifice and I will not repay?
One hundred and one years and one day ago, V.I. Lenin was able to accomplish something that his predecessor from Nazareth could not even dream of in terms of scale, pace or timing. It is impossible to calculate how much the Revolution in Russia saved the lives of workers and peasants not only in Russia, but throughout the entire world known to us. Just estimate the mortality rate in the colonies, among the oppressed, and multiply by one hundred and one years and one day. These deaths from colonization and exploitation do not exist for one reason, and this reason is November 7 (October 25), 1917. If this is not the resurrection of those who should have died then what is it? Isn't this salvation?
But perhaps the most important thing is that what happened one hundred and one years and one day ago is the ascent of modern Russia from a state of wretchedness and poverty to the state of a pioneer, a hero. Yes, the burden of Prometheus is heavy, not everyone was able to do it, but the movement that started then did not stop; it continues to grow and grow by those who realize the inevitability of development of both man and human society. After all, the revolution is precisely about this, and not about the fact that they were tired, that they rolled back, that they could not. The banner of the Revolution did not fall, think small.
In any case, the Russians, and not only revolutionaries, launched a world process that lasted for more than one century, so the second coming happened and everything is going as it should. But this is the case when believing is not enough - you need to know, be able to, act. Welcome to the new world of advancing communism. Once it begins it cannot end.
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. The optimist Fern spends every evening in a smoky pub, she simply has no time to worry about her voice, is not at all friendly with sports and likes 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.
What does it feel like to feel in your own skin that your whole life, everything you enjoyed, everything you did, achieved something, strived for and loved turned out to be a mirage, a dummy, the fruit of your weakened consciousness? Several years of your life, in which you, it turns out, did not live, but simply existed in the form of a vegetable. Everything burst like a soap bubble, your whole life. And this life... It is alien. She is different, not yours. Why did he even wake up, why did he open his eyes?..
Anton didn’t believe, didn’t want to believe. For several days now he has simply been lying there, staring at the ceiling and reacting to almost nothing. There is no “improvisation” and never has been. There was no popularity and never will be - how popular is a bank employee? Fans, admirers - everything is fantasy, fiction, a mirage. Arseny Popov is also a mirage, a beautiful fantasy of a man who lay in a coma for two years.
Anton remembered blue eyes, hands, and voice... the dark-haired man whom he had loved all these years turned out to be a fantasy, an invention, a mockery of fate.
The real world turned out to be very cruel: there was nothing in it that the fair-haired guy loved and lived by. He was alone among the crowd, alone with his experiences and thoughts.
Anton Shastun has been in this stupid snow-white room for a week now, but he still doesn’t believe, doesn’t want to believe anyone who comes to him. Not the doctors, not the best friend. He told Pozov about “Improvisation” - everyone’s favorite show, and even asked him to bring a TV to his room and turn on TNT, so that Dima could see for himself, since he didn’t believe him. At the appointed time, the “House-2” screensaver appeared on the screen. There was no trace of “improvisation”, but the attack happened. Anton was again injected with something and put on IVs, saturating his weakened body and brain.
TV and the Internet were banned, but one night Anton, having pulled the needle from the IV out of his vein, sneaked into the corridor to the duty nurse’s post. The girl was sleeping in front of a solitaire game spread out on her laptop.
Google, by definition, knows everything, and Shastun relied on it when he typed five letters into the search bar with trembling fingers. "Arton" - aerosol paint, take it, buy it, wholesale and retail!
Videos, photos, fan fiction, collages - not a single hint, not a single trace that he and Arseny were together, that they knew about them, that they wrote about them. Google didn’t know a word about “Improvisation”, not a word about who Anton Shastun was. Everything disappeared, as if it had never existed. Although why “as if”? None of this happened. Everything is a mirage, all this is reality in his mind, his fictional world.
He no longer had the strength to get to the ward, and Anton sank to the floor, biting the edge of his palm, muffling the hysteria rushing out. My soul was being turned inside out, torn from the inside, and I wanted to fall asleep and never wake up again.
The bleeding guy was found literally an hour later and immediately sent to intensive care.
Anton, as he wanted, slept, but his dreams were about nothing, and he so wanted to see again his, the one whose smile made him live, his stupid jokes made him laugh, and his arms hugging tenderly made him feel happy. I wanted to shout “Change!” or “I love you very much.” But none of this has happened and will never happen. He tried to remember what Arseny told him before Shastun opened his eyes and found himself in a hospital room.
“Wait for me, okay?”- a whisper is heard in his head, and consciousness slips away, the silhouette blurs. Anton screams, but does not hear his own scream, falling into the frightening darkness.
Anton opens his eyes again and winces from a dull pain in the back of his head. He's back in the room. The snow-white world, the real cruel world of hospital smells, medicines, sickly smiling nurses.
Hello. - Dima is standing in the doorway, smiling, but in no hurry to enter. - How are you, how are you feeling?
“No way,” Anton sighs and turns to the window, behind which the sun is shining brightly. Life goes on, but in this life everything is not like that. This is not his life, and the blond guy feels it like never before. “I’m on tranquilizers to suppress panic, so come in boldly, I won’t throw myself out the window.”
- Shast, why are you doing this? You must live,” Pozov finally decides, comes closer. - Mom came and cried.
Anton exhales and shakes his head:
- I don't know why. Who needs me? I look like a fucking snotty hysteric.
- I need. Isn't mother enough? There, in that world of yours, I was your friend, and I remain so now, nothing has changed, Shast,” cold fingers squeeze his warm, still living ones, and Anton closes his eyes. - I talked to the doctor. If you don't stop being violent, you'll be transferred to the psychiatric ward, Shast, do you understand? We have to live from the beginning, anew, from scratch - the best friend says something else, but he almost doesn’t hear him. Or doesn't want to hear. Doesn't want to come to terms with harsh reality.
We need to find Arseny - that's what he knows for sure. We need to find Pasha, because this doesn’t happen: everything couldn’t disappear, his whole life couldn’t disappear during these two years. You just need to get out of here.
And it seems that this day has come. But before that there were days filled with communication with the psychotherapist, days of Anton’s gradual return to an unfamiliar and frightening world.
A tall, fair-haired guy walked along the street of his hometown, but an unfamiliar life, clutching a ticket to Moscow in his hand. People were walking towards us, the sun was shining; a small gaggle of schoolgirls walked past without even looking back at him. But before, they would have torn him into souvenirs or squeezed him in their arms, tirelessly photographing him. But it’s there, in his past fictional life. The psychotherapist told me to hold on and not remember anything from the past, but to build new storylines so that I have something to remember.
Anton obediently agreed and even put up with something, but he did not give up his thoughts of finding Arseny.
The huge Glavkino building is real, real, and this seems to be his first victory. There are guards on the way, and how to get inside is a big question. Luckily, a car stops at the gate and a lanky man gets out, seemingly deciding to continue his journey on foot.
Pash, Pash, wait! - a heart-rending scream scattered across the huge Glavkino parking lot, and the blond man turned around, looking with his eyes for the one who called him. “Pash, hello,” a thin, fair-haired guy, out of breath from running fast, comes closer and the man shrugs.
- Hello. I don't know you, do we know each other? Do you want an autograph?
- Pash, don’t you recognize me? I'm Anton. This is a joke, right?
“It’s nice, Anton, but I’m in a hurry and I’m not in the mood to joke,” the man patted the guy on the shoulder and took a step to the side, hoping to get around the high obstacle.
- I'm Anton Shastun. I was in a coma. Pash, I don’t understand...
- Sorry. Maybe call a doctor? - the comedian says ironically. - Sorry, guy, but I don't know you. I'll go, okay? Good luck to you,” the man leaves, leaving the fair-haired guy alone with his thoughts.
He seems to have gone crazy. Or sleeping. Or is in another reality. No one knows him here, no one is waiting for him. Going to St. Petersburg to find out that the address where Popov lives does not exist is stupid. Or maybe it doesn't exist. Maybe he is the odd one out in this truly frightening world?
Dusk fell on the city, the weather deteriorated, despair grew along with the oppressive fear of one’s own uselessness. How to live with this? No way. Is it possible to live knowing that nothing and no one existed, that everything was invented?
The nasty rain becomes stronger, flows down the collar, and the blond guy looks around, and then takes a step to the side, wrapping his fingers around the slippery railings of the bridge. Below him there was a black expanse of water, just like in his dreams, impenetrable darkness, and somewhere there, in his subconscious, there was another world, where he was, where they were, where there was everyone’s favorite show and the feeling that everything was as it should be. need to. One step, just one, separates this world from that. Perhaps the improviser Anton Shastun would never have decided to take such a step. What to lose to him? Nothing. He already lost everything the minute he opened his eyes.
What are you, crazy?! - a sharp shout bursts into his brain, and someone’s rough hand suddenly grabs him by the collar of his sweatshirt, and then grabs him across his stomach, preventing him from falling, and pulls him away from the railing.
- Let me go! Let it go, it's unfair! Why is everything like this, I don’t want to! - Anton struggled to escape from strong arms, but they only hugged him tighter.
- Welcome to the real world. A world where dreams fall apart, but that’s no fucking reason to jump off a bridge! - is heard the next moment, and Shastun pulls away, exhales convulsively, and then leans forward, squeezing his sudden savior in his arms. - If everyone whose dream was crushed jumped off the bridge, Moscow would noticeably thin out... Hey, what are you doing? - the dark silhouette of a man freezes in the guy’s strong embrace and ironically continues: “You’re trembling all over.” Let's probably go somewhere to warm you up. How did you get here, poor thing?
- They told me and convinced me that there was nothing. That you don’t exist, that you don’t exist,” Anton almost whines, burying his nose in the foreign and familiar shoulder of a man in a sweatshirt, with a hood pulled over his head.
“They just didn’t know about me yet,” the man smiles and lightly pats the guy on the back. - How are you there, okay? - the guy trembles, clings to someone else’s wet clothes with his fingers and for some reason evokes incredible sympathy. Lonely, wet, dazed. - By the way, my name is Arseny.
- I knew, I believed... - Anton doesn’t seem to notice anything around. He simply cannot take his eyes off the man standing opposite him; he just smiles and then raises his head into the night sky.
- The rain has stopped. Well, shall we go? Where do you live?
“In Voronezh,” Anton chuckles, and the man shrugs.
- The path is not close, it’s time to set off.
And he laughs, for the first time in all his time he laughs - easily and naturally, and this is such an incredible feeling that everything is still ahead, and you want to live and know that there is a person nearby who will save you from all troubles with his smile, who will hide you from the world in his arms, and the main thing is that sooner or later you will meet, because we only meet those who already exist in our subconscious...