Love Lies (18 page)

‘Well, if you can make a decision by Monday that would be great.’ She consults her BlackBerry list. I wasn’t aware we were under a deadline. The woman is a human tornado.

‘What does Scott think?’ I ask.

‘Oh, he’s happy to leave it to us, to you. Anything that you want. Good of him, hey?’

‘Yes, good of him.’ I dig deep and scramble to find my voice. I try to imagine Sir Alan Sugar naked (that’s meant to help with fear of confrontation); it doesn’t help much actually, just churns my stomach, but still I force myself to say as firmly as I can, ‘I’d like it if Scott and I chose the ring together. I’ll talk to him about it when we arrive in LA.’

‘OK,’ says Saadi. But before I can savour my victory she starts to type something into her BlackBerry. ‘I’ll schedule that meeting for tomorrow morning. 9.30 a.m.’

No, no, I mustn’t fall at first hurdle. Think, totally starkers. Not a stitch on him. It’s Scott I’m imagining this time, not Sir Alan. The image of a naked Scott fills me with confidence and fortifies my resolution without causing any of the trauma the image of a naked Sir Alan was. I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t think Scott and I need a scheduled meeting to discuss my engagement ring.’

‘It’s just the way things work round here. Scott’s a busy man,’ says Saadi, as though she’s teaching the ABC to an infant.

‘I realize that,’ I say carefully. I want to add that things might have to change now he has me, but she interrupts.

‘It’s not just a new man you’ve bagged yourself but a whole new life too. There’s more to being Scottie Taylor’s wife than being into him, you know.’ I’m beginning to realize that too. Rather than being capable of taking on truly terrifying members of the board, I am once again the new girl at the office who hasn’t got the guts to ask how the photocopier works. Saadi carries on. ‘Certain things will be expected from you, one of which is a noteworthy engagement ring with a PR story attached. Is that too much to ask?’ Her tone is impatient.

I think how lucky I am to be in this position. To be who I am now. Any woman would kill to be me. I’m marrying Scott Taylor. He is sexy, seductive, occasionally surly, consistently stupendous and stonking rich (sorry to be crass but it’s an inescapable fact). My mind, heart and wardrobe are bursting with new and expensive, oh la la delights.

I’m kowtowed.

No, I don’t suppose an engagement ring with a PR story is a lot to ask when you put it in context. Saadi suddenly adjusts her tone and digs deep to dredge up some patience. I realize she’s trying to connect with me but, sadly, the new tone she adopts reminds of my dentist’s assistant when she assures me that I’ll only feel a tiny pinprick of pain.

Saadi continues, ‘Look, I know the system, yeah? I know how things work? Why don’t you just follow my advice, because I’ve been keeping Scott happy for quite some time now. It makes sense.’ Well, yes, but isn’t that my job now? ‘And I know you are thinking that’s your job now, which it is. But it’s not yours alone. We’re a team. You, me, Mark, the band, the chefs, the staff, everyone. We all want the same thing – for Scott to be OK. That’s how he works. That’s how it works.’ I suppose. ‘A team is a good thing, hey? The more the merrier?’ I don’t think I nod or actually offer any affirmation that I agree but Saadi doesn’t wait, she just concludes, ‘Fact is, you’re not an ordinary couple. You didn’t want to be ordinary, did you?’ she reminds me.

No. No, I suppose I didn’t.

36. Fern

The captain asks us all to return to our seats and fasten our seatbelts. As he says, ‘Crew cross check for landing please,’ a ripple of excitement creeps up my spine. Scott starts to stir for the first time since we took off. He stretches and looks around to find me. He treats me to a wide and joyful grin. He starts to undo his seatbelt so he can come to me; these first class seats are so spread out – it’s wild – but a strict air steward asks him to buckle up. I have to settle for a kiss blown through the air.

I stare out of the window and catch my first glimpse of America. Los Angeles is enormous. Below me there is a perfectly ordered interlaced lattice of roads, quite unlike the organic tangle of roads I left behind in England. The order and space are instantly appealing. Although the distance means the houses look like doll’s houses I can see that they are anything but small. They are all well kept; most are massive and many have pools. There are hundreds and hundreds of cars lined along the streets or parked in driveways, glittering like jewels in the sun, but there’s also lots of greenery. From where the angels hang out, LA looks perfect.

As the aeroplane door swings open I am engulfed by a gush of hot air and the smell of wet palm trees; there’s no sign of rain, so I can only assume the airport greenery has recently been hosed down by someone whose job it is to ensure the city of dreams is lush and green on arrival. I breathe deeply and take in my new life. How exciting is this! The ground staff hurry us through customs as fast as they can; we don’t have to wait for luggage, as Saadi’s second assistant is collecting it. As we stride through the electronic doors and head landside Scott scoops me into a big hug and lands a smacker on my lips.

The beautician, Joy, had long nails and was a tad unnecessarily rough but I’m glad I let her fix my makeup and Linda and Natalie massage out my shoulders as we are greeted by a barrage of cameras clicking and whirring and a hundred different voices shouting at me. ‘Over here, love, look this way,’ ‘Give us a smile,’ ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Are you Fern Dickson?’ ‘Show us the ring,’ ‘Why no ring?’ ‘When’s the big day?’ ‘This way darlin’, smile.’

I turn my head from left to right and back again, trying to follow the countless instructions that are being flung my way. The constant blaze of camera flashes causes me to squint. Scott squeezes my hand and slips his sunglasses over his eyes. He puts a protective arm around me and starts to speak; as he does so the dizzying glare of flashes slows down somewhat, as the reporters strain to catch his every word.

‘We haven’t picked out a ring yet. I want to design something personally that’s really special for Fern.’ He does? Wow. See, Saadi had it all wrong. I tune back in to what he’s saying. ‘As soon as we have a date for the wedding we’ll let you know. We won’t keep you waiting; I’m not a fan of long engagements. Now, I have no idea how you came to know about our arrival here today but I hope you can understand we’d like a bit of privacy at this special time so please don’t try to follow us home. That’s all I have to say.’

Scott starts to lead me away and the camera flashes start up in earnest again. ‘Oi, Fern, have you any comment?’

Scott stops to allow me to have my say. I’m on the verge of telling Scott that it was Saadi and Mark who tipped off the press and that’s how they know our whereabouts today, but then it occurs to me that he might already know this, so instead I concentrate on what Saadi said I ought to say.

‘I’m, erm, delighted,’ I say. ‘No, I mean, erm, chuffed.’

Scott tightens his squeeze and quickly leads me to the long, black car waiting for us by the roadside. It’s so shiny that the azure blue sky is reflected in the roof and on the doors like a huge mirror. I catch sight of Saadi shaking her head.

37. Fern

Oh. My. God.

Listen to me, I really need to think up a new expression to capture my constant and escalating surprise or else I’m in danger of becoming as annoying as Janice, Chandler’s ex, on Friends. But really, what are the words that can adequately sum up my astonishment? I was just getting used to the splendour of the hotel and now I’m faced with this. Scott’s home.

We’ve driven up a winding road of high fences and tall established trees. All the houses were huge and grand but Scott’s is the most enormous. It’s incredibly modern, all white walls, vast windows and light decking. It seems to go on for ever; I actually have to swivel my head like some sort of cartoon character in order to take in its breadth. Our limo crawls along the gravelled drive and grinds to a halt just outside the massive wooden door. We wander into the airy hall. The floor is covered with enormous white porcelain tiles, which shine like wet ice on a rink. It’s a double-height room with a glass ceiling. Sunlight streams in from above and it looks as though Scott (who is ahead of me by a step or two) is standing in a spotlight. It seems a very natural place for him to be, and I wonder whether an über-clever architect thought that through and designed the house as another place for him to be centre stage.

‘Do you want a tour?’ Scott asks.

I nod. Too overwhelmed to speak.

We wander through the rooms and corridors. The entire place is state of the art and rippling with the latest trends. There are acres of glossy wooden and marble floors and a rich scattering of plush rugs. There are lights hidden in the floor and recesses, throwing out interesting shadows and highlights. Some walls move. Others are made of glass and change colour depending on the mood Scott wants to achieve. Some rooms are minimalist, with white walls, white settees, white shelves and white books with round fires in the middle of a room rather than a traditional fireplace. Other rooms are decorated in deep, dark colours and opulent, lavish fabrics. There are curtains with double and triple linings and cushions that pile like mountains on the sofas. Occasionally Scott stops to point out something that means a lot to him.

‘That robe was worn by Muhammad Ali, October 30th, 1974, the night he fought champion George Foreman at “The Rumble in the Jungle”.’

‘That is a genuine Jackson Pollock, I bought it because I thought the colours would really work well in here.’

‘That caricature of Sinatra was done in 1947 by a guy called Sam Berman, it’s signed by the artist and old Frankie himself. I picked it up in Christie’s.’

I wonder how many rooms there are in Scott’s home. Our home. I’d guess at forty or fifty in total but I don’t bother asking. He’ll think I care more than I do. It’s not like I can be any more impressed. Besides, he’s unlikely to have the answer. When I asked how many gardeners he has (his gardens are massive and as manicured as Paris Hilton, he must need an army) he wasn’t sure of the answer. He tells me the running of his home is largely Saadi’s first assistant’s domain. He does inform me that he owns one hundred and thirty-eight pairs of trainers. Which seems a teeny, tiny bit excessive, since he only has one pair of feet, but hey, what do I know? I already own seven pairs of designer shoes and four pairs of designer trainers and I’ve only been wealthy for a week. At this rate I’ll out-shoe him by Christmas.

Eventually we arrive at a room in the back of the house. I can tell by Scott’s body language that he’s especially excited to reveal what’s behind the fourteen-foot-high oak double doors. What should I expect? I’ve seen the cinema room, the gym, and the indoor swimming-pool.

‘I could live in this one room. What am I talking about, I more or less do,’ says Scott, as he flings open the doors and reveals a room that is bigger than the entire flat Adam and I have shared with Jess for four years. The walls are painted a deep aubergine purple and the floor is a rich dark oak wood. One wall is made entirely of glass but I have no clue as to what the view is because blinds are pulled down, meaning the only source of light is from the various dim lamps scattered around the place. The lamps throw off dramatic hues that are reflected off the ceiling, as it is covered in mosaic mirror tiles.

This room is, without doubt, the ultimate man’s playroom. So much so, I feel the need to buy a strap-on willy just to visit.

‘Let me show you around. Here are a few of my favourite things.’ He sings that line in a mock Julie Andrews soprano voice. I grin at him.

One corner of the room houses a mini gym, in case Scott can’t be bothered to walk to the main gym.

‘My dumbbells,’ he says proudly. ‘They’re solid granite.’

I have no idea as to the prestige or usefulness of granite dumbbells over any other kind of dumbbells; I guess it’s a luxury thing.

‘My “Good Versus Evil” Opus football table. It’s made by the Eleven Forty Company.’ Scott raises his voice at the end of the sentence showing that he’s assuming I’ll recognize the designer. I don’t. I notice that men are always this enthusiastic about their toys. Adam would love this footie table. I shake my head a fraction. Why the hell is Adam, the loser, popping in there? It must be the effects of the flight; jet lag is making me lose focus. I push the thought of Adam out of my mind.

‘Who usually wins?’

‘Evil has had quite a run of luck but I’m thinking that might all change now I’ve met you.’ Scott flashes me one of his oh-so-familiar, utterly delicious smiles and I swear my heart is beating between my legs.

A stunning grey leather corner settee divides the room. I wonder if Scott will throw me on it and ravage me until sunrise. I wouldn’t mind, despite the jet lag. Because, here’s the thing, as hard as this is to believe, when we left the fabulous country hotel, the sheets were barely disturbed. It was good news that I’d slept so deeply but, as I closed the door behind me, I couldn’t help but sigh as I tried to exhale the dull disappointment that I had not left the sheets tangled and used. No sex. No damn sex. I’m engaged to Scott Taylor for goodness sake! It’s accepted that he is the rudest, sexiest man on the planet. He’s a man who can undress a woman in a finger click, a man who can leave a woman feeling wet and dizzy by treating her to a particularly penetrating gaze, a man who embodies all that is crazy and dangerous about lust and life. I should be having smokin’ sex at least three times a day. It’s not right that we haven’t got naked yet.

We have been so, so busy in the last few days we haven’t managed anything more than a lengthy snog and a heady fumble. We are always together (chatting, laughing, playing cards) but we are never alone (which would certainly lead to much more carnal entertainment). To be frank, I’m more than a bit frustrated with the situation. I am so pleased to be here in our home; now we’ll have more privacy. Bob, the security guy, is a great bloke but his constant burly presence is a bit of a passion killer, and Saadi and her BlackBerry ought to be marketed as the western world’s most effective contraceptive; talk about barrier method. But, hey, here we are… alone… in love… I linger by the beautiful settee and finger the wonderful cool leather. I hope Scott can read my mind.

He can’t. It appears Scott isn’t thinking what I’m thinking. He doesn’t fling me on the cool leather and start to flick his tongue across my body. Instead he walks around the exquisite piece of furniture and excitedly points out the arcade game coffee table, the cashmere-lined hammock and the retro Champion Level 2 turntable. Now Adam would sell his mother to buy that. There’s a sixty-inch flat screen TV dominating the room. Scott follows my gaze.

‘Maybe we should watch a movie tonight. Let’s make popcorn.’

Tonight? No way. Won’t we be swinging from the chandeliers tonight? Surely. Watching movies is the sort of thing you do on the fifth or sixth date, after you’ve had loads of sex and talked yourself hoarse. Is there a way of saying this without sounding like a total hussy? I remain hushed while I think about it.

I notice that his shelves are full of amazing books about the history of art and photography. The range is incredibly broad. There are books about Neolithic, Egyptian and Grecian art. There are more on the Gothic period, Renaissance, Impressionism and Art Nouveau. (I’m reading this from the spines.) Cubism, Fauvism, Rayonism, Pop art and Kinetic art. I am so impressed.

‘I didn’t know you were so interested in art,’ I say, trying not to sound too sickeningly struck. Everything he does overwhelms me. I’m worried I might pop with the intensity of the imprint.

‘I haven’t read any of them,’ he says. His tone is a bit bored, a bit resentful and a bit apologetic.

‘Oh.’ I consider; am I as impressed knowing he has plans to read these books but hasn’t actually read them yet?

‘I don’t really know much about art except that I know what I like,’ he says with a shrug.

‘Fair enough, I’m just the same about wine.’ Should I leave it at that? I can’t. ‘In that case, why so many art books?’ I enquire.

‘Well, I had shelves that needed filling. There’s nothing more depressing than an empty shelf, is there? I mean, if that doesn’t scream empty life, what does? Plus I wanted a new hobby and I was at this launch party for Mario Testino. Now, his work I do know about. He’s taken my photo. Look.’

Scott reaches for a big glossy book, Portraits, and starts to flick through it efficiently. Beautiful images of the beautiful people in our world jump out at me. Liz Hurley looking sexy, Kate Moss looking confrontational, Gwyneth Paltrow looking elusive. Scott pauses and says, ‘Look, here I am. I love this shot.’

Testino has captured the cheeky pup Scottie. I had a postcard of this very image pinned to the cork notice-board in the back room of Ben’s shop. For a mortifying moment I wonder whether Scott spotted it last week when he made me breakfast. I hope not. I’ll appear scarily weird and teen-like, perhaps not an unfair appraisal but one I’d prefer to keep under wraps. I daren’t ask him.

‘Great shot,’ I murmur. ‘He has caught you. Or at least a particular bit of you.’

‘Yeah, no one catches the whole of me. I’m still chasing it.’ Scott snaps closed the book and turns to walk out of the room. He’s forgotten he’s in the middle of a conversation with me. I remind him.

‘So, why so many unread books?’

‘Oh yeah, the launch party was held in the National Portrait Gallery and I got all excited about art and stuff. After the party I had someone buy a copy of every book they had in their shop.’

‘But you never read any of them?’

‘No. I fell off the wagon that week. It took another eight months for me to sober up again. I’d sort of lost interest by then. But hey, it was a good day for the gallery’s gift shop.’ He smiles and kisses me and it’s impossible not to be enchanted. ‘I do read,’ he says as he pulls out of the kiss.

I know this. I know that Scott is cleverer than I expected. In fact, as I am very familiar with his complex song lyrics I can’t help but worry that he’s almost too clever. He has the sort of mind that tires and is bored easily. The sort of mind that sees the problem of where we might all end up before he’s even enjoyed the heady beginnings of where we all set off.

‘What book is by your bed?’ I ask.

‘Mostly self-help books.’

‘You should eat more fish,’ I suggest.

‘Why?’

‘My mum says it’s good for your nerves.’ He grins at me as I hoped he would. ‘Where do you sleep?’ I ask bravely. I hold his eye and we both know what I’m suggesting. He grins at me.

‘I thought you’d never ask.’