Love Lies (23 page)

46. Fern

Scott makes a few more calls to put Saadi and her team on red alert, and so the moment Barry pulls up outside Scott’s mansion I am pounced upon by a gang of hysterical women. I know the beautician, Joy, I see her almost daily now. Although I tell you Joy’s mum was being ironic when she named her; the face on that girl – she is always tripping up on it. She sighs and huffs and puffs with exasperation as she pulls me up the stairs. Linda Di Marcello and Natalie Pennant, the women with healing hands, are there too, as are a hair stylist and a fashion stylist, Saadi and two of her assistants.

‘There’s so much to be done and so little time,’ says Joy in despair. I start to giggle. Honestly, modesty aside, I’ve never looked better. As luck would have it, I had a spray-on tan applied yesterday and my hair is professionally blow-dried every morning. OK, maybe I’m not red-carpet perfection right this moment. After six hours of aggressive shopping my hair is no longer coiffed to be camera-ready – there are countless dangly stray bits and a few sticky-up stray bits too – but they ought to have seen the state of me on some of my dates with Adam. He knew I’d made an effort if I changed my T-shirt.

For the next hour I’m cast adrift in an ocean of novelties such as industrial-strength girdles, fake hair and emergency skin treatments – one for the ‘blemishes’ on my chin (kissing rash) and another for my sore feet (shopping rash). While Linda and Natalie soothe and Joy tuts I find it impossible to regret either physical imperfection – even if I am going to meet George Clooney and James McAvoy tonight – it was such fun acquiring them.

Saadi’s assistants continually mutter the words ‘seamless and bumpless’ as though it were a catechism. They wrestle me into Spanx bodyshaper underwear that starts under my boobs and stretches all the way past my knees. I have to wonder. While these garments do dissolve love handles, muffin tops and even hide cellulite, as promised, what is the point? Even if the results do drive a girl’s amour wild with desire, no woman would ever want to be seen in them. It takes a team of dedicated experts fifteen minutes to hoist me into these anti-briefs, so how could I slip out of them at the correct moment? For the first time since I met Scott I’m actually pleased there will be no suggestion of sex tonight.

The stylist (a new addition to my entourage, and I’m sorry to say I didn’t catch her name in all the haste) informs me that ‘Breasts have their own set of needs.’

I’m very aware of this. Plus I’m aware that my little babies aren’t seeing as much action as they’d like, but before I can discuss the matter at length the stylist starts to chatter about Flex Body Bras, which are made of adhesive-backed silicone cups that fit separately over each boob, sort of self-sticking bras. I can only imagine the agony of taking those off, I feel squeamish with pain when peeling off elastoplasts.

‘Designed for busty beauties who want to wear a backless gown,’ she explains. She stares (almost pityingly) at my A cups and mutters, ‘Well, at least that’s one problem we don’t have.’ The stylist hands me a couple of large smooth tiddlywinks. I assume they are some sort of eye patch (a modern-day slice of cucumber, perhaps) and I tentatively place them over my eyes. She tuts, snatches them back out of my hands, and then whips open my robe and before you know it has stuck the tiddlywinks on my nipples. In horror, I stare at this woman (who I’m not even on first-name terms with but has just touched my nips).

‘It’s a backless dress,’ she points out. ‘Be grateful for the silicone versions, they are undetectable under dresses. We weren’t always so fortunate. It wasn’t long ago that we had to put cotton balls on clients and fasten with Scotch tape.’ It sounds like something out of a Blue Peter creative project. I nod, trying to meet her level of gravity and demonstrate my respect for her craft rather than hoot and express my astonishment. ‘Although you should never underestimate the importance of Scotch tape, especially the double-sided stuff. It can be wrapped beneath the breasts, squashing them together to create cleavage, used to hold spaghetti straps in place, or to keep loose dresses close to the skin and, importantly, prevent plunging necklines from becoming pornographic.’

‘Thank God for sticky tape,’ I mutter, just a little cheekily. She doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Amen,’ she says seriously. ‘Do you sweat much?’ Not unusually so but recently my palms seem to be constantly clammy; I’m not sure if this is something I want to share. Before I stutter any reply the stylist says, ‘It’s too late for paralysing the glands with Botox. We could try Drysol, a prescription treatment that dries up the sweat glands.’

Lovely.

I want to ask them all to leave. I can zip up my own dress and daub a bit of Rimmel Lash Maxxx. I’ve always managed to dress myself in the past and no one has actually thrown stones when I emerged in public. But I don’t ask them to go. For a start there are eight of them and one of me and I feel feeble. I’m pretty sure Saadi will just remind me that this is part of my job now. My first big, glam night out with Scott is bound to draw press attention; it’s my duty to look the part. And besides, I know the results they’ll achieve will be… well… better. I’m unlikely to be recognizable.

The hair stylist clips on a mane of sleek blonde hair to my head; this finally makes me find my voice and I insist that she takes it off again. I once read this article about poor little girls in underdeveloped countries having to sell their hair to feed their family – I wouldn’t have a nice night knowing that some eight-year-old is running around looking like Kojak so that I can look like the woman from the Timotei advert. Saadi’s first assistant argues that the kid would not eat at all if people like me didn’t buy her hair. I firmly tell her to send the five hundred dollars that she spent on the hair to some charity committed to providing kids with an education. I’m quite chuffed with that. I’ll have to think of a more regular and sustained way I can ‘do more’. In the meantime we settle on an up-do and Joy says that maybe I’ll bump into Angelina Jolie tonight and get some charity tips. The way she pronounces char-idie makes me think that she’s being sarcastic but I can’t be offended because I’m bursting with excitement at the very possibility. Where there’s Angelina Jolie, there’s Brad Pitt; does life get any better?

Despite the constant stream of gloom and despondency at the prospect of making me red-carpet-worthy, we do manage to get me ready in time and I look, let’s face it, fabulous. I glide down the stairs into the atrium where Scott is waiting for me, the very picture of gallantry and perfection in a midnight blue jacket with mandarin collar and skinny jeans. Obviously he resisted wearing a tux, social death for a rock star. I’m a little envious because I bet it took him ten minutes to get dressed and I doubt anyone stuck silicone to his bits.

‘You are breathtaking,’ he mutters, his eyes wide with desire and appreciation.

My nipples push against the tiddlywinks and my groin aches with lust and longing. Suddenly I’m certain all the effort, all the teasing, spraying, brushing, pummelling, poking, prodding, pruning, was worth it. To get that response from Scott Taylor I’d walk on hot coals.

47. Fern

The grand opening of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, in Hollywood Boulevard, took place on 18 May 1927. It was the most spectacular theatre opening in motion picture history. Thousands of people lined the streets and a riot broke out as fans tried to catch a glimpse of the movie stars and other celebs as they arrived for the opening. Authorization had to be obtained from the US government to import temple bells, pagodas, stone heaven dogs and other artefacts from China to construct the ornate and opulent theatre. Film director Moon Quon supervised Chinese artisans as they created elaborate pieces of statuary that still decorate the flamboyant and lavish interior of the theatre today. Protected by its forty-foot-high curved walls and copper-topped turrets, the theatre’s legendary forecourt serves as an oasis to the stars of yesterday and today. Ten-foot-tall lotus-shaped fountains and intricate artistry flank the footprints of some of Hollywood’s most elite and welcome its visitors into the magical world of fantasy and whim known as Hollywood.

All of this I knew before I arrived at the premiere – I’d read it in my guidebook when Scott and I visited last week – and yet nothing could have prepared me for this spectacle.

New movies open every week in Hollywood, of course, but when the big studios decide to pull out all the stops and throw an old-fashioned, full-blown Hollywood premiere, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre is the most sought-after venue. I’m told they always, always, always put on a good show. Crazed fans flock religiously to premieres, in the desperate hope of snatching the briefest peek at the brightest stars. Today’s movie is especially big and has drawn unprecedented flocks of thousands.

George Clooney and James McAvoy, undisputed sex gods, are clearly worth queueing for (even in a snowstorm – it’s sunny but you get my point), and the actress providing the love interest, Amanda Amberd, is a delicate and fragile British beauty, currently linked with no fewer than three Hollywood heart-throbs – all of whom are married. The press are desperate to inspect this precocious seducer, the fashionable need to know which designer she’s wearing, and the wives of her (alleged) lovers want to know if her boobs are fake.

Scott and I don’t talk in the car; he hums a tune (one of his own) and drums his fingers on the creamy leather. I pray I won’t sweat, or step on the hem of my dress or flash an inelegant amount of leg as I get out of the car (by which I mean show my Spanx bodyshaper). Saadi’s first assistant has drilled me on exactly how to glide gracefully in and out of a car. She repeatedly reinforced the fact that if I forget her instructions it is the end of the world as we know it; instant social death, as my knickers are not Agent Provocateur, La Perla or similar. If they were then it wouldn’t matter if a speedy photographer got a flash of my gusset.

Saadi breaks the silence in the car when she says to me, ‘Don’t be drawn into any comment about Amanda Amberd.’

I stare at Saadi, puzzled. ‘What sort of comment could I make? Who would want to know what I think of her frock?’

‘You don’t know?’ Saadi looks both dispirited and resigned. ‘I thought you were up on celeb goss, at least.’ It’s become transparent that I fail to fulfil many of Saadi’s expectations as to how a future Mrs Taylor should manage herself. I can’t get the hang of the remote controls for the TVs, stereos, walls, or cinema, I am forever forgetting to re-apply lipstick before I nip out of the house and I thank shop assistants – profusely. She glowers at me, silently communicating her irritation at this new disappointment.

I do read many of the gossipy glossies but not as regularly as I’d like (I’ve heard other women say the same thing about the FT but I don’t believe them, no one can regret the lack of broadsheet gloomy statistics in their life). I usually only get the chance to fully devour these orgies of guesswork and hearsay when the shop is quiet and Ben and I need something new to bitch about; during busy periods I can go for weeks completely oblivious about which star is avoiding which food group.

‘Why? What’s the story with Amanda Amberd?’ I ask.

‘Last February… a few months after Scott arrived in LA, he went to one of Amanda’s premieres…’ Saadi trails off and looks at Scott. He stares out of the window, watching the crowds that line the street. The crowds can’t see him. The windows of the limo are blacked out and yet still they yell and scream their excitement as we crawl past. Some lean so close their breasts are pressed right up against the window, misshapen like the water-filled condoms lads throw off balconies. It looks like a pair of generous D cups are growing out of Scott’s head right this moment.

‘February is Valentine’s. It’s hectic in the shop. I don’t get a chance to read magazines.’ I start to justify and excuse my ignorance and then something flickers in the back of my head as though a light has been switched on in a room down a very, very far-off corridor. Amanda Amberd was linked to Scott. Romantically.

‘Just a fling,’ mutters Scott. He snatches up my hand and holds it to his lips, staring very keenly into my eyes. ‘Nothing, nothing like this. Like us,’ he says intently.

I believe him. It’s true. I know it. It feels as though I’ve dived right into his two huge green lakes and am swimming around his brain. I might float away on this amazing, certain, flattering, overpowering exquisiteness. We kiss. The intensity lights up my entire body. Whoosh, I’m scalding, burning, blazing with desire. I feel it in my toenails and in the tips of my ears, all my extremities are buzzing with lust. I’m wet with longing.

‘Whatever,’ sighs Saadi. Coughing, no doubt slightly embarrassed by our palpable passion. You can taste sex in the air or at least, I can. ‘Just don’t be drawn. Amanda had to go into rehab after Scott dumped her, the scheduling of the film slipped, it cost the studio loads of money. Questions will be asked.’

I pull out of the kiss. ‘She had to go into rehab after a fling?’ I’m confused; I thought these starlets knew the score. I thought famous people only ever got involved with one another for publicity purposes. I didn’t think anyone ever got hurt.

‘Broke the cardinal rule,’ says Scott with a regretful sigh. ‘Poor girl. I had no idea.’

‘She fell in love with him for real,’ says Saadi with a shrug. ‘Very inconvenient. Tricky to handle. She’s popular. Scott was in danger of looking like a total louse.’

‘I really had no idea,’ repeats Scott. He looks genuinely aghast. I pity him. With so much fabulousness comes great power. He doesn’t get it.

‘Poor girl,’ I mutter.

‘Worked out OK in the end,’ says Saadi confidently. ‘She lost eighteen pounds thanks to stress. The movie got tonnes of pre-release PR. No harm done.’

‘Maybe we shouldn’t be here tonight,’ I suggest, carefully. It seems really insensitive. Cruel almost. It is Amanda Amberd’s big night and I just can’t accept any woman, even an actress, would believe that losing eighteen pounds compensated for the loss of Scott. She must still be gutted. The last thing she needs tonight, or probably ever, is to see Scott again – especially with his new fiancée. Me. We can’t rub her nose in it. ‘We should turn round, go home,’ I say.

‘But you wanted to show off your new dress,’ says Scott.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I’ve worked all afternoon talking to the studio to get this cleared,’ says Saadi irritably. ‘Amanda is expecting Scott now, the press are expecting Scott now; we can’t go home. That would be a bigger snub and scandal.’

I’m doubtful, but this isn’t my world. Or rather it is, but it hasn’t been for long. It’s much more Saadi’s world. She knows what she’s doing, I have to trust her. Scott squeezes my hand. ‘She’s linked to other names now,’ he reminds me.

Yes. Three of them. All married men. If that isn’t the sign of a lost, confidence-sapped individual I don’t know what is. Why would a woman as talented, beautiful and desired as Amanda Amberd dally with married men unless her self-esteem was in ribbons?

Then I think of the poor wives of Amanda’s lovers and all my sympathy is brushed away. Amanda Amberd should not be spreading the hurt. Single people date and then split up, that’s normal. Sad but true. She must be a selfish, uppity little madam to choose the route of dating married men. She doesn’t have to, she must have potential suitors tripping over themselves to impress her; it’s spiteful and irresponsible. Sod her, she doesn’t deserve my sympathy, pity or consideration; she’s not showing any to those wives.

‘I don’t care either way,’ says Scott with a filthy, distracting, utterly fabulous smile. ‘I’m just going to look at you all night anyhow. It doesn’t matter to me whether we do that in Grauman’s or at home.’

More kissing. ‘Let’s go,’ I say.

Saadi looks relieved.

Apparently there is etiquette or at least an unwritten rule about the correct time to arrive at functions such as these. Of course there is. There’s an unwritten rule about everything. I wish someone would just write down all the blinking rules and I could learn them off by heart and not have to be subjected to the continuous eye-rolling that seems to accompany me everywhere. Not that Scott ever rolls his eyes when I ask him a specific about how something works or how I should act; he’s patience personified. He repeatedly tells me that he likes it that I’m not sullied, or jaded or in anyway tired of all the stardom stuff. He says I’m refreshing. Good-naturedly he explains that the C-and B-listers arrive first, to warm up the crowd, and only when the onlookers are practically hoarse with shouting can the A-listers start to arrive.

Saadi is given a signal and our moment has arrived. I step out and am hit by a blast of warm air and manic noise from screaming crowds. The intensity nearly knocks me over; I thought I had a clear concept of just how loud human beings could get (after all, I do faithfully attend my nieces’ and nephews’ birthday parties; I’ve been in a room with twenty little four-year-olds jacked up on Smarties), but still I’m astonished.

I (elegantly and successfully – hurrah) emerge, Scott glued to me. The warmth of him incites the giddiest feelings of pure, undiluted bliss and suddenly I’m not nervous, or tense or panicky; I am amazing.

A lot of the press are European. Because Amanda Amberd and James McAvoy are British there’s a lot of interest in this film back home. This works well for Scott, as the British press love him. Or hate him. Or whatever. It’s fair to say they want to photograph him and talk to him. I know Scott moved to the States to get away from the constant press intrusion and carve out some sort of private life, but it would be awful to turn up to a public event like this and not be recognized. The calls come thick and fast. I hardly know which way to turn.

‘Over here, love!’

‘Look this way!’

‘Fern, are you excited? Is this your first premiere?’

‘Give me a beam, darlin’!’

The Americans are impossibly positive and vibrant; even though I get the sense that they don’t recognize Scott immediately they take their lead from the UK press and tourists and they give out wild, relentless cheers. I’ve seen for myself, when watching similar events at Leicester Square on the local news at home in London, that generally rock stars don’t smile for their fans or the press. They are pretty much duty-bound to be eternally grumpy and dour. Indeed, I’ve seen photos of Scott papped with a face like thunder, but not tonight. Tonight, Scott is instantly and unapologetically the very best Scottie Taylor can be. He beams, holds my hand in the air and then twirls me around. Utterly, utterly delighted in me, as I am with him, as we are with each other; we exist in an endless circle of delight.

I’m dizzy.

Through the blur of handbags and gladrags I spot Rachel Weisz in a stunning silver Vera Wang gown (I can’t believe I recognize the designer! I probably wouldn’t have but I saw the very same dress today on Rodeo Drive). I am a big fan of Rachel Weisz’s work and I want to tell her how talented I think she is. I want to say it in a way that is profound, or at least funny or original. After an age I come up with, ‘Nice dress,’ and beam at her. Gracefully, she ignores the fact that my smile is so desperate I resemble the village idiot; she nods and smiles back warmly. It’s not the first impression I hoped for, but before I have time to kick myself Ewan McGregor shakes hands with Scott and kisses me on the cheek. He congratulates us both, poses for a quick photo and then asks me whether I’m a fan of James McAvoy. I am. But somehow I don’t manage to articulate my considered appraisal of Mr McAvoy’s work from The Near Room to The Last Station. I just say, ‘He’s Scottish too, isn’t he? Do you know him?’ No one need point out just how lame I’m being, I know. Funny thing is I’m too excited to care.

We seem to be lingering on the red carpet longer than other stars. Scott is conscientiously signing autographs and I stand grinning until my jaws ache. I swish my dress around my legs and the material shimmies and glides across my thighs. I’m buzzing. Despite challenging my facial muscles I can’t stop smiling, and not just because those were Saadi’s instructions but because I am completely, unequivocally, utterly exultant.

Kate Hudson is looking fabulous in a gorgeous polka-dot sleeveless blouse, a satin high-waisted pencil skirt with a bright red belt and shoes (that could double as stilts). She throws me a kind smile and a big wave as she glides past, causing the camera bulbs to become frenzied once again. I consider having a word. I could tell her that I think she’s courageous, funny, talented, complex and interesting, but evidence suggests the best I’m likely to come up with is, ‘You’re gorgeous!’ Which doesn’t really lead anywhere, so I stay silent. When Cameron Diaz sashays past I’m realistic; I just concentrate, very hard, on not exploding with admiration. No one wants to see blood and guts and innards and stuff on the red carpet.

Scott lingers talking with the crowds as star after star files past. I cannot believe these people have stepped off the pages of my Heat magazine and are now, larger than life, stood in front of me; actually most of them are smaller than life, wisps and slips of women, delicate and fragile. When Scott has signed dozens and dozens of the bits of paper, books, photos and knickers (clean I hope!) that are thrust under his nose, he returns to me and takes my hand once again. We start to walk towards the movie theatre, which means we have to pass a wall of photographers. I expect Scott to move us quite swiftly past the flashbulbs but in fact he stops right in front of them. Microphones pop up like acne on a teenager’s skin, obstinate and relentless. The professionals sense that Scott is going to sprinkle a few words their way and so quieten down a fraction in order not to miss a single morsel he throws out.