Love Lies (21 page)

42. Fern

‘If you want to go anywhere let me know and I’ll get Saadi to introduce you to our stateside driver, Barry. He’ll take good care of you. He’s a pro. You could go shopping; Saadi’s arranged for you to have access to all of my accounts and I pretty much have an account anywhere you might imagine,’ says Scott.

I know he’s trying to change the subject. I allow him. Let’s face it, offering me a chauffeur-driven trip to designer stores with unlimited credit is quite an impressive diversionary tactic. Normally, I’d have to settle for Adam suggesting we change channels.

‘Yeah, Saadi already gave me a list,’ I say with a big smile. ‘How did she organize all of this in such a short time? It’s unbelievable.’

‘I know. Hats off to her – she is an excellent PA.’

Scott drops his sunhat over his eyes and we both fall silent. He reaches for my hand and we hold on to one another across the loungers. His touch sends shock waves ricocheting through my body. I fight the instinct to leap on him. Damn this no sex plan! I try to dampen my lust by watching the old Mexican gardener as he endlessly clears the leaves from the pool. No sooner does he scoop a net of bamboo leaves than the same amount fall back into the water. It looks a pretty thankless task but not too arduous; the repetitive action calms me. Bebop jazz pipes out of the state-of-the-art stereo that is hung on the lime green wall behind us. It’s the sort of music that makes you nod your head rather than shake your hips. I can make out the clink of china and rattle of cutlery in the distance, proving that the kitchen staff are being far more industrious than we are. They’re clearing breakfast or maybe setting up lunch. It’s very peaceful until suddenly Scott sits bolt upright.

‘What’s up? Were you stung?’ I look around for the offending wasp.

‘No. The thing is I find it hard to relax. Sort of unnatural. Doing nothing is something I’m saving for when I’m dead.’ Scott looks around for something to amuse. ‘What are you thinking, Fern?’

‘About the agony of not having sex with my sex god fiancé,’ I reply frankly. Scott laughs but doesn’t jump me, which is what I was hoping he’d do. He’s very serious about this chastity thing. Couldn’t we at least fool around? I suppose neither of us would be able to stop if we started; still, would that be so awful? My throat becomes parched and scratchy and my hands become damp as I indulge the idea of us flinging ourselves in among the bamboo in order to pull off each other’s clothes. We’d speedily slip out of our swimwear and slowly, oh so slowly, his tongue would venture over my body. His tongue, lips, hands would uncover zones of delight; I’d burble and flood. He’d caress my shoulders, kiss the back of my neck, nibble at my jawline, lick between my breasts. But this time we’d finally get past the delicate discovery. He’d thrust suddenly, deeply, certainly. He’d fill me, pushing, burning, grabbing, pulling, taking until I moaned and screamed with a smarting, scalding desire.

I realize I’m making odd mewing sounds when the pool guy asks if I’ve swallowed a fly? Am I choking? Do I need a drink? I do. I need him to throw it over me. I’d better think about something else.

‘I have to keep giving myself a mental pinch,’ I tell Scott. ‘I need to keep reminding myself this is real, these are the sights and sounds of my home now. It’s a leap. I never, even in my wildest dreams, imagined that my home would have a view like this.’ I sweep my arm out towards the blue skies and tall trees. ‘Or that I’d listen to the sounds of staff preparing lunch. Kids yelling, a dog barking, TV blaring was as much as I dared hope for. It’s surreal.’

‘Bit much to take in, hey?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What do your friends make of everything that’s happened to you?’

‘Not sure. Haven’t talked to any of them.’ I try to keep my smile attached to my face. One moment’s lack of concentration and I fear my face will crumple and I’ll look like a discarded crisp bag. Not a great look and very ungrateful. ‘I thought they would be really thrilled for me. You know. Especially Jess, she’s my best friend. I thought she’d be wowed about my meeting you and getting engaged and everything. But I get the feeling she’s avoiding me.’

Scott takes off his hat and looks at me with painful sincerity. Am I actually dribbling? It’s possible – he’s gorgeous. I’m pretty sure he could make me worry less about Jess et al if he just took me now and said sod the chastity vow. I know, I’m being shallow.

‘The thing I’ve found hardest to appreciate is that success can fuck stuff up more than failure,’ says Scott, understanding everything without me having to say too much. ‘Why don’t you call her now? Try again. Use your new phone, put it on speaker, then I can say hello too,’ he says, helpfully.

As soon as Jess picks up, I elatedly yell, ‘Hi, it’s me!’

‘Fern!’ Jess shrieks. ‘Finally we talk!’

‘Didn’t you get my messages? I’ve called loads.’

‘I’ve tried to call you back but your mobile is dead and you didn’t leave another number – you silly sod.’

The relief. Of course, a simple explanation. ‘God, how stupid of me. So sorry. I’m all over the place. I’ve been living in a dream world.’

‘I see that from the papers. They say you’re in LA!’

‘Yes!’

‘I can’t believe it!’

‘Nor can I!’

‘You’re marrying Scottie Taylor!’

‘Yes!’

‘I can’t believe it!’

‘Nor can I!’

‘So you’ve gone. I really can’t believe it. You didn’t say goodbye.’ This time I can’t hear an exclamation mark.

‘There wasn’t time, I –’ I falter and then try again. ‘It’s not like it’s goodbye, goodbye.’

‘How can you have gone? You haven’t picked up any of your clothes.’

‘I had someone come by to pick up my passport and photo albums while you were at work. I don’t need my old clothes,’ I explain.

‘Oh. I see. You didn’t take the makeup brushes that I got you for your birthday.’

‘Hell. That was a mistake. I meant to.’

‘I suppose you can buy more.’

Suddenly, I don’t want to tell her about the plethora of goodies on my dressing-table or the size of the house, the infinity pool, my new wardrobe. I don’t know how to. All at once the root of Jess’s silent censure is clear to me. ‘Oh shit, Jess, I’m so sorry. You’re concerned about the rent. Don’t worry about what I owe you, I’ll keep paying until you find someone to take my place.’

‘Very good of you.’ She doesn’t sound at all grateful.

‘How about we say I give you six months of rent on the old place upfront, you’ll find someone to replace me by then.’

‘You think it will take six months to find a new flatmate but you found a new fiancé in three days,’ says Jess.

Ouch. I look up at Scott, startled and wary of his reaction. ‘Adam was never my fiancé,’ I say pointedly.

There’s a silence. It lasts for about a week and I’m beginning to think Jess has hung up; eventually she sighs and says, ‘So what’s he like then? Scott?’

‘Brilliant, amazing, beyond words,’ I garble; instantly grinning broadly.

‘And you’re sure of that, already?’

‘Everyone knows that much,’ I answer simply. I try to turn the conversation. ‘We’ve set a date.’

‘For the wedding?’

‘Yes. October second. It’s a Friday. And of course, it goes without saying that I want you to be my chief bridesmaid. Lisa can be maid of honour. You can have both, can’t you? They are different but sort of the same.’

‘This October? Jesus, Fern, what’s the rush?’

Jess’s tone suggests that marrying Scott in a hurry might not be a brilliant idea; which is awkward considering he’s listening. Maybe I should tell her that she’s on speakerphone.

‘I’m marrying Scott Taylor. Explanation enough, surely,’ I say confidently and then I blow Scott a kiss. There’s another silence; stupidly, I try to fill it. ‘I feel really rough today. We had such a big night last night. I think I peed pure champagne this morning.’ For lack of anything better to say – after all, I daren’t broach the subject of my new home and my chat about my new fiancé was stonewalled – I add, ‘Just think, Jess, I can pee champagne every day of my life from now on, if I want to!’

‘Nice thought,’ she mumbles.

‘You should come here before the wedding. Have a holiday. Why don’t you?’

‘It isn’t a good time for me to do that.’

‘Is it the money? You needn’t worry about the money. Scott will buy you a ticket if I ask him to. He’s really ridiculously generous.’ I flash Scott a beam. I’m a little self-conscious about singing his praises in front of him, although he seems happy enough to listen. He nods encouragingly.

‘You do love the man don’t you, not just the money?’ Bloody hell. I really should have mentioned the speakerphone.

‘Yes, Jess, I do,’ I reply hotly and firmly. However understandable Jess’s question is, Scott must find it offensive. It’s offensive to me actually! I’m not a gold-digger or a star-fucker, Jess knows that. Doesn’t she? She’s known me for ever. I look at him while I speak to Jess. ‘He’s sensational. And he wants to marry me and have babies with me. It doesn’t get any better than this.’

‘If the papers are anything to go by, he’s quite a handful. He has so many demons and is constantly fighting his addictions. It’s not your scene at all.’ Jess sounds quite breathless, as though she’s rushing through a prepared speech. I’m beginning to think she might have been working on it all week. She carries on, ‘People in bands, they have breakdowns, do drug overdoses and do weird things during sex with oranges. It’s not for you, Fern.’

I struggle to simultaneously control my temper and hide my embarrassment. Behind his back, people probably say this sort of stuff about him all the time but that doesn’t mean he wants to listen to it. I take a deep breath. ‘He’s really special and special people are always complicated. I want to help Scott deal with the whole enormous adulation thing. Maybe he can be the pop exception and just come through as a normal human being. He’s clean, now,’ I insist.

I stare right at Scott as I deliver this speech defending his honour. I really want him to see that I’m innocent and hopeful and loyal. My views are different from Jess’s. I’m different.

‘He’s clean right now, maybe,’ says Jess.

Abruptly Scott gets up and walks away; he’s heard enough. Neither my best smile nor my pleading eyes can persuade him to stay. It’s probably a good thing. While I want to demonstrate that I can be totally honest in front of him I also know that Jess wants to say her piece and it will be very awkward when they meet if he’s sat and listened to what she thinks.

Once he’s safely out of earshot I round on her. ‘Jess, despite the fact that he’s a ludicrously wealthy pop star, who has travelled the world, met interesting people and slept with them, and I’m a painfully skint florist, who has travelled Zone 1 and 2 by tube, met the same people again and again and slept with a few of them – we are a lot alike. I’ve never been happier. Why can’t you be happy for me?’

‘I don’t believe in fairy tales.’

‘I thought you did.’

‘No. I believe in dreams coming true. It’s a different thing.’

‘Being with Scott has reminded me that life is supposed to be utterly splendid. We’re meant to enjoy as much of life as we can.’

‘Yeah, without hurting anyone.’

‘Goes without saying.’

‘But as you’ve run off with Scott you’ve hurt Adam.’

‘Are you suggesting that I should have stayed with Adam to save his feelings? What sort of relationship is that? Adam had his chance. I wanted to marry Adam. I wanted to move things on to a more serious and committed level. I wanted him to propose. But he didn’t.’

‘What if he had? Would you still have left him for Scott Taylor then?’ demands Jess.

‘He didn’t,’ I reply firmly.

Suddenly my mouth tastes metallic; a taste I normally associate with waiting to see if my card will be rejected at the till point or going to the dentist – fear generally. That Buck’s Fizz I had earlier must have been off. What have I got to be afraid of? A third long silence stretches between me and my best hate – sorry, I mean best mate. But honestly! Couldn’t she have pretended to be happier for me? What would that have cost her? I can feel every one of the 5,456 miles that separates us. I want Scott to come back. I want him to put his arms around me; maybe then I’d have the guts to hang up on my old life, although there probably isn’t any need. If Jess’s reaction is anything to go by then I think my old life will hang up on me pretty damn soon. Why does it have to be like this?

‘You need to call Adam. You see it as a done deal.’

‘I told him it was a done deal.’

‘You were both drunk, he didn’t take you seriously. He thought it was a fight you’d get over by the next evening.’

‘Well, I’m sure he sees things differently now,’ I say with a frustrated sigh. ‘He does read the papers.’

‘You owe him a proper explanation, at least that much after four years. He’s a good guy. You know that.’

‘OK, OK, if I agree to call him will you agree to talk about something different? Like bridesmaids’ dresses for instance,’ I bargain.

‘I am not wearing pink.’

‘Fine, how about mauve?’

For a moment I think she might show an interest but my hopes are dashed when she says, ‘He’ll be back in a few minutes, you can talk to him then. He’s just nipped out for a takeaway.’

He’s eating then. Not so heartbroken. I’ve had enough of this nonsense from Jess. She’s supposed to be my friend. Snippily I say, ‘He won’t want to have a big emotional talk and risk his pork chow mein going cold. Anyway, I’ve got to go now; I’m supposed to be somewhere else.’

I hang up. I don’t bother to explain to my naggy mate that my pressing engagement is dragging my sun-bed out of the shade (or watching someone else drag it, to be precise). Rolling on to my stomach, so that my back gets tanned, would probably seem like a flimsy excuse for not talking to my ex.

43. Scott

Straight after lunch Fern and I jump in my yellow Lamborghini Murciélago and speed off to Santa Monica pier. Fern’s really chuffed because we are alone; which – apart from Bob, who follows us in the Audi – we are. We don’t talk about her phone call with her mate. It’s a downer and I don’t want to do ‘down’ this afternoon; I want to do ‘tourist’.

The sun guarantees smiles as well as flip-flops and we wander hand in hand and on air. We cross a bridge above a busy, multi-lane road. The air smells of gasoline and hot tarmac but when I breathe deeply there is a hint of sea breeze, accentuated and made more convincing by the sound of seagulls. Fern reads a little plaque and tells me that the wooden pier dates back to 1909; the wood is worn to a shine with the feet of thousands, if not millions, of souls who have also sought a bit of easy fun in the amusement park.

It’s a beautiful day. We ride the rollercoaster and the carousel, we eat candyfloss and drink Diet Coke, then we wander down to the beach and walk along the waves. We kick off our footwear and I keep dashing us both in and out of the sea, trying to race the surf. We get soaked but we’ll look pretty cool if we happen to get caught on camera. I don’t think any photographers are trailing us but I’m just saying – if they are – they’ll get some great shots. It’s fun anyway, even if no one is watching us. We lark around and I make her lose her footing. We both fall to the ground in hysterics.

‘I feel as carefree as a child and yet I’m an engaged woman with a home and a future. It’s marvellous. How come when I was with Adam I owned nothing and had no plans and yet I felt weighed down?’ asks Fern. She’s panting and she has sand stuck to the side of her face. She’s lovely.

I don’t answer her because I don’t have the answer. I have very few answers, actually, but I am listening to her. I’m finding that nearly everything she says is interesting. Unlike most men I love to talk about moods, and beliefs, and life’s incidents that we call experience. I find it helps my work. For instance, there’s a lyric somewhere in what she’s just said. Something about the weight of freedom or the lightness of commitment. Not sure; I jot it down anyway.

I’ve been working on the new album for some months now. All my albums to date have had songs about being, well… me – angry, cheeky, humble beginnings, rich and famous now, misunderstood, too well understood. I use my song writing to replace the confessional box which I gave up when I was about thirteen (roughly the same time as I really started to sin, actually). I offer my fans brief glimpses into my infamous life. I lay out my sordid and soiled self. I flaunt my fame-induced neuroses and I dazzle them with my humongous success. It’s complex. But people are. And me, I am especially because I’m like other people but more so. The Europeans love all that stuff, always have done. They love hearing about my sex life; my vice and my victories. They sort of kid themselves they are my friends. Sad buggers.

But not the Americans. The albums haven’t worked in America. How come even when I’m having the best times that thought punches me? Floors me.

Thinking about it (and I do think about it, endlessly), it’s not a surprise my albums aren’t doing it for the guys of the stars and stripes. For one thing they don’t like messy famous people. They like their famous people to be happy and uncomplicated (because otherwise what are they all working for?). And for another thing, they don’t really accept I’m famous at all because I’m not famous here. It’s a fucker.

So I have two jobs to do out here in the States. One, I have to show them just how big a dick I swing and two, I have to produce an album they will like – which probably means I have to stop talking about swinging my dick. I need to do less of the fame stuff, they’re not buying it – literally. And I need to talk about love. The happy sort. The celebratory, blissful, ecstatic sort. Enter Fern.

Fern is so clear-cut and straightforward. Her dilemmas are few and far between and so ordinary. The Americans are really going to relate.

‘The stuff you talk about, Fern, is so fresh and frank and authentic. I love it. You’re helping me think new thoughts. I’ve written so much in the last week. I’m working on this new album, called Wedding Album, it’s a bunch of love ballads. Something very different for me. It’s all about you.’

‘Really?’ Fern flashes one of her astonishing smiles.

No, not really if she means really in the absolutely, one hundred per cent truthful sense. But yes, really, the album is all about her, now. I’ve dropped her name into two or three of the songs, which only required the smallest of changes in the lyrics. It’s pedantic to insist on believing that just because I wrote the vast majority of the album before I met her, it’s any less about her than it would have been if I’d written it after I’d met her. I’m like dedicating it to her. The press will think it’s about her. My fans will think it’s about her. And in my experience if enough people think a thing, it makes it true. True enough. The thing is, more people will buy it if they think it’s about her.

I start to tell Fern more stories about myself. This isn’t just because I like talking about me, I’m wondering how she will react to it all. She’s appropriately (and understandably) enthralled, but more than that, her responses to my experiences are really fascinating. Fern understands my ordinary roots and extraordinary flowering. That’s special. I offer up fragile, immersed memories and she appreciates what I’m on about; I can elaborate on them, giving them warmth and texture and a meaning they sure as hell didn’t have when I was living them. Story after story pours forth. Some are blazingly bizarre; she’s surprised to hear I’ve had coffee with Nelson Mandela. Others are painfully predictable; everyone expects me to have snorted cocaine off the arses of women whose names I never knew.

‘I think it’s brilliant that I can tell you all this stuff,’ I mutter as I kiss her. I slip my tongue in her mouth and my hand up her skirt. I feel her warm wetness in both places. We’re lying side by side on the sand. It’s fun to push a fraction further, go a bit deeper, play a little harder. I allow this kiss to linger before I pull away, fall flat on my back and look at the sky. ‘I wonder if we’re going to manage this pre-wedding chastity thing?’

‘Not if you insist on giving me filthy looks and probing kisses in the sunshine,’ she laughs. We both know she wants it.

I love it that she’s so horny for me but I love controlling myself (and her) more, so I keep talking. There’s loads more stuff to tell her about me yet and she, like everyone else, can’t get enough. The difference between her and everyone else is that I don’t edit. If she’s shocked she doesn’t show it. The thing is, for a long time I believed that as a rock star I sort of had a duty to enjoy myself to the absolute limit. That’s what’s supposed to happen; it’s part of the natural order of things and rock stars don’t enjoy themselves line-dancing or whipping up a really tasty meal for two with only four ingredients. Decadence and depravity are the birthright of the rock star. It’s my job to be reckless and extreme. People expect it, because if I’m not shagging and snorting to excess then who the hell is? It would be an ungrateful waste of opportunity to be a rock star and to just turn up at a gig or the studio, play some songs and leave quietly by the back door. No one wants that. I’m in a unique position, not even models or princes get the same opportunities. I answer to no one. The stuff I’ve done isn’t evil; it’s just dirty. Really, very much so.

I tell her about parties where people left their clothes and sense at the door, where joints and women were rolled on glass-top tables and champagne and bullshit flowed and was lapped up with ravenous greed.

However sensationally beautiful and cool the party venues were (and they always were), it surprised me to learn that by the early hours of the morning these places had always become menacingly sinister and balefully sordid. Penthouses – with minimalist wood-burning fire-places, enormous glass chandeliers and custom Starck-designed furnishings – were hell. Luxury yachts, with polished decks and sharp white sails, docked in Monaco marinas, became prisons. Hotel suites with Jacuzzis, flat-panel HD TVs, Dean & Deluca gourmet mini-bars seemed like pokey brothels. It turns out that the lushly landscaped terraces with panoramic city views are forgettable – despite what the host might promise. But the memory of emaciated models, eyes blackened with smudged makeup and lives, sliding on the floor, gamine legs splayed as they slip in their own spilt spirits (both literal and metaphysical), is an enduring one. Sadly.

‘I guess we won’t be going to many parties,’ comments Fern.

‘No, not at the moment. I don’t feel like it. Does that bother you?’

‘No.’ She hesitates and then adds, ‘But maybe parties would be more fun together than they ever were when you were alone.’

‘Yeah, maybe. That’s what I’m hoping.’

We kiss again and I don’t tell her that my hope has a way of vanishing; I spend it like liquid gold. That sort of thought won’t help Wedding Album; it’s not the right chi. Instead I say, ‘It’s great that I can tell you the most sensational and sinister things about myself and you seem equally interested in both.’ I shake my head with a mix of disbelief and delight.

‘That’s what love is, accepting the person faults and mistakes and all,’ says Fern in a matter-of-fact way.

‘So it appears.’

We stare peacefully out to sea for a few moments, then Fern asks, ‘Do you think I’ll get a signal here? I’d really like to call another one of my mates, Lisa.’

And we were having such a nice time; she must be a glutton for punishment. I smile and try to appear supportive. As it happens it pans out better than I hoped as this Lisa practically wets herself when I grab Fern’s phone and talk to her.

‘Hello, Scottie Taylor here,’ I say. ‘How’s tricks?’ This is the routine I use at my gigs. I grab the phone off someone in the crowd who is taking a photo and then I call their mum. It’s hilarious. The effect is just as awesome with Fern’s friend as it is with the people in the crowds. Of course, Lisa squeals with laughter.

I like this Lisa better than the other mate. At least she doesn’t give Fern a hard time about leaving her old boyfriend in the lurch. In fact, she doesn’t say much at all beyond, ‘Fern is a lucky, lucky cow.’ Which she says about ninety times, but sort of nicely.

Fern takes the phone off me and asks Lisa to be bridesmaid so I hope she’s fit. Lisa says yes and gushes that she’ll do anything to help out, that she’ll come to LA at the drop of a hat. But when Fern offers to fly her out and to hire a nanny for her sprogs Lisa says she is meant to be running the NCT nearly new sale in the town hall next Saturday, so it’s tricky. I’m not sure what that is but it must be pretty important, sort of on a par with a global summit about climate change, I guess. Fern looks crushed. I point to my watch and to my stomach and so she says goodbye to her lacklustre mate and we head off to find a burger and fries.

Poor Fern, I think she’s beginning to realize that the tiresome thing about getting what you want is that you always have to lose what you had.