Love Lies (20 page)

40. Fern

It’s just four minutes past eight when I drift into the big room that I’d call a living-room or a sitting-room although that doesn’t do it justice – not glam enough; an estate agent would describe the room as the reception. I found it after fruitlessly opening door after door in order to track down Scott. Each room is utterly tasteful, peaceful and immaculate, and after a while they blur into one. I thought he might be in his ‘boys-own’ room but there was no sign. I was starting to panic, imagining he’d done a runner. My throat tingles with a peculiar and hideously scary mix of pleasure and panic. Trying to accurately assess that mix, I’d say that ninety-eight per cent of me is utterly, utterly out of this world, stunningly, stunningly beyond happy. The remaining two per cent is pure white terror. I wish I could shake the feeling that this is all too good to be true but I can’t quite. The issue is things like this don’t happen to me. I’m the sort of girl who is a close runner-up – at best. The sort of girl who often hears shop assistants say, ‘Sorry, we don’t have that left in your size, I just sold the last one.’ The sort of girl who has never ever had a single number show up on her lottery card, despite buying them religiously for nearly a decade. What are the odds of that? But my panic subsides as soon as I enter the reception room; I know I’m in the right place.

There are about a hundred tealights scattered around the room, giving off a fuzzy, golden glow. Even though it’s a warm night there is a real log fire roaring and so the glass doors, leading out to the garden, are flung wide open. There are more lanterns and candles outside too, lined up on the decking and hanging from trees. The effect is enchanting. I spot Scott standing outside, hunched over a barbecue.

‘Seared prawns. My specialty,’ he calls when he notices me. ‘Champagne?’

I can’t believe he bothered to cook for me when he has staff falling over themselves to hold his hankie when he sneezes. It’s such a massive compliment! So very thoughtful! What can I tell you? It’s a night of undiluted romance. We chat non-stop and we laugh a lot too; it appears that I’m genuinely hilarious when I’m with him. Scott sings to me and lets me read over some lyrics he’s working on. We slow dance to a Frank Sinatra CD and I drink champagne – all night, although Scott has to stick to apple juice. It’s like something out of a movie. Right up until the fade to black moment.

As the night air cools, we move into the living-room and settle in front of the fire. Someone must have been stoking it while we were outside because it’s still roaring. It’s like living with a bunch of ghosts. Helpful ghosts, I’ll give you that.

‘So, Fern, how do you feel about an October wedding?’ asks Scott as he crams a toasted marshmallow (that he’s thoughtfully dipped into melted hot chocolate) into my mouth.

I chew quickly, swallow and then splutter, ‘This October?’

‘Yeah.’

So soon. ‘But it’s already late August. Don’t weddings take forever to plan?’

‘Well, I don’t know. I’ve never planned one before,’ says Scott with a big relaxed smile. ‘But I imagine we can pull off anything we want, if we hurl enough cash at it.’

‘I always imagined a summer wedding,’ I say, carefully.

‘It will be sunny here in LA.’

‘Here in LA? I always imagined a wedding in London,’ I say, somewhat shocked.

‘Is LA OK? I mean, only if you want to. I want you to have exactly what you want, of course. I was just thinking the shorter the lead time the less hassle we’ll get from the press and if we get married here then we’ll be able to plan it ourselves – you know – so that we can make sure it’s personal. If we had a wedding in the UK and we were living here in LA then we’d have to hand over to someone else. I want this wedding to be about us,’ says Scott.

I think about what he’s suggesting. Less than two months away. It’s no time at all, not considering we only met a week ago. But then, why not? Didn’t I want just this? A proposal and marriage for my thirtieth. Initially, I wanted it with a different man, admittedly, but hey, let’s not get picky. Why would I want to wait a moment longer than I have to? People only ever have long engagements if they are saving up or have doubts; neither applies to me.

‘I just think we should get on with it, you know, start making babies and be a proper family as soon as we can,’ Scott adds. With those words my wavering vanishes. I fling my arms around his neck.

‘Brilliant! Let’s do it.’

‘Great! I’ll have a couple of wedding planners come round asap so you can see who you are most comfortable with and then we can get the ball rolling.’

‘But I thought you said you wanted us to plan it ourselves,’ I say, confused.

‘Yeah. With a planner. You’ll need one for an event of this scale.’

‘What sort of scale are we talking about?’

‘I don’t know. A thousand people, maybe.’

‘A thousand? I don’t know a thousand people.’ Not even if I include all the Ben’s B&B customers and the cabin crew who flew us over here. Nowhere near.

‘You’ll soon make friends. Trust me, you won’t have a problem filling up the guest list.’

That wasn’t what I’d meant. The hairs on my neck start to bristle and it’s not through lust, as is usually the case when I’m with Scott. It’s fear, or irritation, or something I can’t quite pinpoint; it’s tricky to do so after a bottle of champagne. I don’t think I want a thousand strangers coming to my wedding.

‘You see, there are certain people we have to invite. They’ll be kind of expecting it,’ explains Scott.

‘Like grannies and great-aunts and stuff?’

‘Well, yes, obviously. But also Elton John and David Furnish, David and Victoria, I’ve been to so many fabulous parties of theirs. Tom Cruise and –’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Deadly serious.’

Suddenly, the idea of a thousand strangers coming to my wedding doesn’t seem so awful; not considering they’ll all be A list. Call me shallow. Call me human.

‘Think of the gifts,’ I blurt. I blush at my own crassness but Scott just laughs. ‘I can’t believe I said that.’ I put my hand over my mouth but it’s as much use as chocolate hair straighteners. I try to recover ground. ‘Maybe we should say no gifts, it’s not as though we need anything. Maybe we should say charity donations only. We did that at my Uncle Terry’s funeral. The announcement in the paper said no wreaths or floral tributes but donations to the lung cancer unit at St Hilda’s Infirmary welcome. The hospital rang afterwards to say they’d benefited nicely. Auntie Donna got a genuine sense of satisfaction from that. It was a great comfort,’ I garble. I’m working on the theory that if I talk for long enough the ground might swallow me up.

‘Well, let’s take advice on the etiquette, shall we?’ says Scott with a good-natured smirk.

‘Fair enough. Can we invite Brangelina?’

‘Anyone you like.’

I’m quiet for about twenty minutes as I draw up my fantasy wedding guest list. The fantasy wedding guest list that is going to come true! Jess, Adam and I used to play a game a bit like this. As we sat eating baked beans on toast we’d often quiz one another on who would attend our perfect dinner party. Jess and I would plump for Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Matt Damon; pretty much the cast of Oceans 11 to 13, while Adam would swear that he’d prefer to have Christopher Wren, Dostoevsky and Queen Victoria to his party. Liar. Although the truth was, the idea of throwing a dinner party was a fantasy for us. Adam and I never once had people round for a meal. Least not what you’d call a proper one; pizza from a box does not count.

I’m glad I didn’t call Jess earlier. Now, I have even more to tell her. I check my watch. Midnight here, that makes it 8 a.m. tomorrow back home. She’ll be on the tube. I don’t want to get her voicemail; this is too good to leave another message. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow.

‘You’re happy, right?’ asks Scott, somewhat superfluously since I keep giggling to myself and I have stood up to dance a short but expressive jovial jig around the room.

‘Never more so.’

‘I have another reason for wanting to rush the wedding through,’ he adds.

‘Oh yeah?’

Scott holds out his hand and finds mine. He gently pulls me back on to the sofa and puts his arm around me. ‘I was thinking, you know, we’ve both had our fair share of partners in the past.’

‘I had a fair share. You’ve had a veritable feast, gorged yourself silly from all accounts,’ I point out.

‘Yep, I know and that’s what got me thinking. We need to be special.’

‘We are special.’

‘Different.’

‘We are different, we’re getting married, neither of us has ever done that before.’

‘I know and so I want to mark that in some way.’ What, a party for a thousand isn’t enough for him? I beam at him, waiting for him to explain. ‘I was thinking maybe, since we haven’t actually managed to have sex yet, that we shouldn’t.’

‘What?’ That stops me smiling.

‘I don’t mean we shouldn’t ever. I mean we shouldn’t have sex until we are married,’ says Scott.

‘But that’s two months.’ The same two months that just minutes ago had seemed oh-so-brief (too brief to plan a spectacular wedding!) now seem an eternity. Two months with no sex. It’s a terrible idea. Somehow no sex with Scott Taylor is a hundred times worse than all the no sex I’ve had in the past.

‘Yes. That way we’d be like vir-er-er-er-gins.’ He sings the word ‘virgins’ like in the Madonna song. ‘I just thought it was a way of making what we have truly special. Do you see?’

I do, sort of. The sentiment is darling but the actuality is going to be dreadful, truly hell on earth. I thought that tonight – what with the candles, the champagne and the log fire that were as good as screaming sex – that tonight would be the night.

‘I don’t know, Scott. It’s been tricky resisting thus far. Tricky and frustrating and –’

‘Hot,’ he adds.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I concede.

‘I’m loving this delayed gratification thing. The novelty alone is mind-blowing. It’s all about anticipation and control and –’

‘Shouldn’t it all be about love?’

‘Of course it’s that.’ Scott’s grin vanishes in a poof. He looks mortally offended.

‘Oh OK, go on,’ I agree, even though I really don’t want to. I can’t bear to see him unhappy. He looks so fragile. Like a child. I want to see his face brighten once more. ‘Let’s get married early October, though.’

Scott nods. ‘Agreed. I think we’d better have separate beds until the wedding, otherwise this no sex thing is going to be really hard.’

I nod, even though hard is just what I’m after.

41. Scott

My pad here in LA is awesome. Chock-full of style and luxury. I like it out here by the pool because nothing says rock and roll as eloquently as a private pool. I have a stunning infinity pool that seemingly flows out to an endless, lush garden which is as big as a public park. The size of the garden is not an indulgence, it’s a necessity. The tabloid scum have long lenses and short consciences. You can sell my discarded chewing-gum on the internet for fifty quid, so you can imagine how much a pic of me shagging a starlet fetches. Around the pool there are a number of heavy, broad wooden sun-loungers. The cream cushions lie as inviting as giant marshmallows. There are green towels, rolled into neat Swiss roll shapes. There’s the occasional marble table to be found snuggled between the beds, a comfy resting place for glasses of champagne and minted water – which all my guests are furnished with within minutes of their arses hitting the seat. I have excellent pool staff. It’s all very tasteful.

I like swimming and fooling about out here, although I don’t like lying around on the loungers the way Gary (the bass) and Mick (drummer) are right now. Their drinks sparkle in the sun, leaving individual footprints – a wet ring of condensation – on the table. I’m unsurprised to note they are drinking Bollinger (mine) even though it’s not midday. I wave to them but don’t bother walking over. As I’m not drinking at the moment, I don’t much like being around people who are. As Gary takes a sip I feel a twinge of longing so I dive into the pool and start to do lengths. I swim just three confident lengths before Mark appears. He sits down with the lads and says something to them, calls over one of my excellent pool staff and the champagne vanishes. Job done.

Then I spot Fern. She’s peeking out from behind my huge cacti, which are bedded in large white plant pots the size of cauldrons. My cacti are bigger than anyone else’s in Hollywood, Saadi checked. I also have enormous bushes of bamboo, with stalks as thick as my arms; they stretch upwards to tickle the feet of anyone hanging about in heaven. The sun is almost directly overhead now and pounding down ferociously, throwing short, almost undetectable shadows on the dark marble floors. Fern starts to drag a sun-lounger into the shade, I make a move towards her to help her but one of my muscle-bound pool guys beats me to it. Fern looks faintly embarrassed but a bit chuffed as she watches his gentle exertion on her behalf.

Fern has a great body. Slim and toned without betraying a food phobia or gym obsession. I move towards her and am struck, the way I was the first time I met her, by her top-quality, pert, neat tits. Excellent. And that’s from a man who spends a lot of time being underwhelmed.

I pull up a lounger next to hers and stand over her to let the cold drips of pool water splash on to her stomach. She jumps a foot in the air, squeals and then laughs when she opens her eyes and realizes it’s me.

‘Rat. I thought it was raining,’ she says.

‘Just blue skies for you from now on in, Petal, nothing but blue skies.’ She beams at me. ‘Sleep well?’ I ask.

‘I woke up at two in the morning and stared at the ceiling until eight.’

‘Jetlag?’

‘Excitement. I fell into a deep slumber at the exact moment I stopped debating huge romantic number – wide enough to shelter an entire family – versus simple shift wedding dress, just wide enough to disguise my hips. I couldn’t switch off,’ she says with a grin. ‘Hey, look what Saadi gave me.’ Fern waves about a brand new iPhone.

‘She’s great, Saadi. She thinks of everything.’ I yawn and sit down on the lounger next to Fern’s. Let’s see if I can stay put for twenty minutes. That’s not a ridiculous target. I should be able to do twenty minutes with Fern to keep me company. Or at least fifteen.

‘It’s like something Q gives James Bond just before he goes on assignment. Apparently, besides being a phone, I can use it to do my email, as a sat nav thingy, as an organizer.’

‘If you want to be organized,’ I chip in.

‘I think the implication is that I ought to be. It has access to the internet, you can play games on it, or use it as a multi-media player or even a camera.’

‘Can it tap dance?’

‘Yes, and floss teeth,’ replies Fern with a grin. ‘Thoughtfully, Saadi has already bookmarked a number of websites that she thinks might be useful to me.’

‘Like?’

‘Like places I might want to visit in LA. There are so many places to choose from. Where do you want to start?’

‘I dunno, Fern. I’ve been everywhere.’

‘Well, I’ve been nowhere.’

‘OK, so you choose.’

‘Well, the Getty Center, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and Santa Monica pier are on my list.’

‘Actually, I haven’t been to any of those places.’

‘But you’ve lived here for nine months. What have you been doing?’

‘Working and drinking. Not necessarily in that order.’

‘Great, we can do the tourist things together.’

‘Cool.’ We grin at each other. Isn’t it cool, this couple stuff?

‘Saadi has also bookmarked websites about weddings. You know, caterers, reception venues, dress designers, etc. Plus she’s made a list of the names and numbers of other people who I might find useful: a hairstylist, a clothes stylist and a personal trainer. Do you think she’s trying to tell me something?’ Fern looks vaguely concerned. I grin at her, reassuringly. Personally, I like her as she is, but I know that Saadi and her crew are already turning wheels and cogs in order to transform her into something, I don’t know, glossier, I suppose. Mark and Saadi said to me that glossy is what’s required and expected of my wife. I don’t think this is something she needs to hear me say.

‘She’s just trying to be helpful. Justifying her obscene salary,’ I say instead.

‘She’s arranged interviews for us to meet her favourite three wedding planners for tomorrow morning – a Saturday. I suppose there’s no time to lose but how did she get anyone to agree to a Saturday meeting at such short notice?’

‘Money talks.’

‘I suppose, and as you say, she thinks of everything.’ Fern looks anxious, vexed almost. ‘She told me she’s going to pick up a dildo for me from some sex shop on Sunset Boulevard.’

‘Hustler.’

‘Yeah, that’s it. She says you have an account there.’

‘Guilty as charged. It’s a great store, we should go shopping together.’

‘OK.’ Fern doesn’t look too convinced but she’ll look great in one of their baby dolls or maybe titty tassels. Is she vexed because I’ve visited sex shops? I’m a rock star, it’s like a teenage girl visiting the makeup counter at Boots: essential shopping. I didn’t have Fern down as a prude.

‘Saadi said I’m going to need a dildo in light of our chastity vow. I hadn’t realized you’d discussed our plan with her.’

Ah. So that’s the cause of the vexation. I get it. ‘I tell her everything,’ I say smoothly, wide-eyed, innocent. It’s true, I do tell Saadi everything; except all that which I keep secret. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Wasn’t I supposed to?’ I ask, showing concern. ‘She thought it was really romantic,’ I add with a smile.

I sense Fern does mind, because if there’s one thing I know about women, it’s that they are really funny about what you tell other women. I need to rush the conversation on to another subject, because it’s too nice for a row or even a low-grade sulk and while I haven’t seen Fern do either of these things yet, I know it’s only a matter of time. Of course she has it in her to be irrationally narky; she’s a woman.

I look at her hipbone and feel a twitch in my swim shorts. This no sex thing is a mind-blowing experiment. It was Mark’s idea. Fern was his idea too, as a point of fact. I’ve had lots of sex and I mean lots – an amount that no normal person can even perceive (not even desperate little slappers who live in ugly small towns, who – in order to ease the tedium of their existence – drop their knickers as often as they drop cigarette stubs and usually at the same time). More sex than that. I mean lots, and lots, and lots, and lots of tits and ass and legs and holes, well, the thing about that is it gets boring, doesn’t it? Hand jobs in Jacuzzis, blow jobs in bars, gang bangs in limousines, sex in yachts, sex with geisha girls, sex with starlets, sex with models, sex with aristocrats; it’s all the same in the end.

An endless stream of nightclubs, alcohol, drugs and meaningless sex takes its toll. It’s inevitable. I got fed up with waking up with an intolerable feeling of apprehension and fretfulness. Being on drugs and being intensely and inexplicably anxious come hand in hand after a while. I’m prone to anxiety anyway, and a feeling of uneasiness constantly shrouded me when I was using; especially when I woke up and the foul and sickening delinquency of the night before came crawling back into my mind. It didn’t matter how much money I had in the bank or how many records I sold, I was riddled with the worry that I was just as desperate and pointless as everybody else. Sometimes I’d think I was insane. Other times things were easier – I knew I was.

There comes a point when you realize that no life, not even my life, is wide enough to fit in sex, drugs, rock and roll and responsibility. It doesn’t add up. I shared this observation with Mark, just over three months ago, last time I decided to get clean. Mark was relieved; my record company were starting to get a bit nervy about the number of times I’d missed studio sessions and insulted journos because of the said endless stream of nightclubs, alcohol, drugs and meaningless sex.

I told Mark, ‘Being surrounded by too much T&A is the same as being surrounded by too much luxury. You stop noticing it. It has a numbing effect.’

It’s true you can be totally done-in by the absolute monotony of faultless and never-ending excellence. Who’d have thought? Maybe Mark wanted to make a sarkie comment about his heart bleeding for me but no one close to me is ever sarcastic with me nowadays; they know it hurts me and I’m mean when I’m hurt. Instead, Mark said, ‘So you’ve done all there is to do with abundance, how about practising a bit of partiality now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you know, once you’ve been to every fancy restaurant there is in town and you’ve eaten your fill of seared carpaccio, pan-seared venison and sweet duck cooked with plums and star anise, it’s nice to stay in and have simple steak and salad. I’m not suggesting a burger. I mean something classy and straightforward.’

‘Like?’

‘Like marriage.’

‘Marriage!?’

‘Yeah, you could do it all properly, meet a girl, like her, hold off shagging her and then do her in a big white frock.’

He might have been joking, but I thought about it and he was right. It would be true to say that I’ve never shagged a bride before; least not one married to me. I’m going to enjoy doing things properly with Fern. She’s different. A hotty (although not as hot as many I’ve had). She’s quite normal (but not so normal as to bore me, as many have). I don’t quite understand it yet but she has something really special going on. Or rather, we have something really special going on between us.

Mark has all the best ideas.