Love Lies (24 page)

‘I’ve something to show you,’ he says with a big, cheeky grin. He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a small box. A ring box. The flashing begins once again in earnest. The press understand what’s happening a moment before I do.

A ring box.

My ring.

My engagement ring!

Scott opens the box and turns to me. It’s a huge, huge oval-shaped diamond on a plain, contemporary platinum band. It’s simple, it’s elegant, it’s perfect! Scott slips the ring on to my finger, carelessly dropping the box on the floor, and I squeal. Really very loudly. I’m not aware that I’m screaming or just how loud said scream is, until Scott clamps his lips over mine and the high-pitched noise stops. The photographers become crazed; their flashes light up the night, competing with the high-intensity searchlights that criss-cross the indigo sky. I bet we can be seen from space.

48. Fern

I float inside the theatre, vaguely aware of Saadi handing out press packs to the rabble of journos. I hear her gabble, ‘Three point five carat. We took into account her slim fingers, didn’t want anything too flashy, catch on clothes. Have to consider lifestyle when choosing a ring.’

The ring weighs delightfully heavily on my hand. I can’t take my eyes off it. Not even to look at Scott; partly because it’s out-of-this-world beautiful and partly because I’m utterly terrified that it will slip off and I’ll lose it. We are shown to our seats (we’re sat between Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Sienna Miller) but I can’t be dazzled further; if I am, I’ll die. Fact.

The lights dim and I drag my eyes from my ring to the screen; it would be rude not to but with my thumb I endlessly caress the beautiful, breathtaking ring. Occasionally the diamond catches the light bouncing from the movie and winks at me.

Everyone seems to enjoy the movie; when it’s over, people leap to their feet and clap and cheer enthusiastically. Scott stands and slowly (coolly) claps and I join him, although I have little idea whether it’s good or not as I was unable to concentrate at all. I have no need for the movies any more. I no longer need to be drip-fed other people’s romances, dramas or thrills; I am living an extraordinary life, a one hundred per cent, sensationally dream-like life. It’s all too much to fully comprehend. I feel as though I’m floating above my true self. I am just an astonished onlooker; not that dissimilar to the boisterous, buoyant crowd of fans outside. I can’t believe I’m this lucky. I can’t believe anyone gets to be this lucky.

After the movie there is a party.

‘Do you really want to go to the party?’ asks Scott.

I sense he doesn’t but I gently push. I don’t want to go home now. I would, if shagging were on the cards. Honestly, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – I’d like to do more than get butt naked (other than my ring!) and bang my increasingly insistent needs out with Scott. We could kiss, lick, touch, poke, caress, squeeze, sex the life out of each other. Twice, and then again in the morning. But that’s not on the cards. Damned chastity vow. So, second to that, I’d like to rub shoulders with the world’s most glamorous and dazzling people (while showing off my ring; did I mention my ring?).

‘Yes please, I really would.’

‘OK, your wish is my command,’ says Scott, giving in gracefully and quickly. He kisses me flat on the lips, which causes my knickers to cartwheel. Even through closed eyes I’m aware that someone takes a photo of us laying the lips; I don’t much care. I feel as though we are alone – despite the crowds and despite the popping camera flashes. I’m loving every moment of tonight.

‘I have to go and touch up my lipstick,’ I say, reluctantly pulling away from him.

‘I’ll wait for you.’

‘I won’t be long.’

‘Take your time, I’d wait for ever,’ he says with a wide, sincere grin.

I skip into the loos and bang straight into several dozen other women all fighting for mirror space. It seems that these women have been put together by the angels themselves. They are groomed and glammed-up beyond lovely. I’d have sex with any one of them (assuming I was a guy or at least had lesbian tendencies and assuming I wasn’t committed to a highly inconvenient chastity vow). In fact I’d marry any one of them, they’re all that gorgeous. No one’s forehead moves, true, but an animated forehead has never been a deal-breaker for me. As the clouds of perfume and hair spray dissolve I recognize two or three faces; newscasters and soap actresses, mainly. As I rummage in my handbag to locate my gloss I become aware that everyone is staring at me. Most are looking at me through the mirror while keeping up the pretence that they are still involved in fixing their shiny chins or re-applying another layer of mascara; some are slyly taking side-glances, the cheekier types are plainly ogling. I feel like a small grub under a microscope.

For a moment I think I’m twenty pounds overweight. I mourn the fact that I have a snogging rash on my chin. And I’m deeply ashamed that my forehead moves.

But then I remember I’m marrying Scottie Taylor. I’m light as a feather. He’s to blame for my snogging rash. And my boobs are pretty steady.

I must grow a fraction taller or in some other way subliminally communicate my contentment because, as though in a choreographed dance, the bony (but silky) elbows instantly move to make way for me; a path to the mirror opens up.

‘Beautiful ring,’ says one girl.

‘Thank you.’

‘I love your hair. Is it all yours?’ asks a second.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘The dress, is it Fendi? It’s to die for.’

‘Yes, it is. Thank you.’

Suddenly I am surrounded by a collision of smooth, moisturized, silky limbs. Women and girls are reaching out to me, touching me lightly on the arm, gently brushing their fingertips across the skirt of my dress, carefully caressing the beads of my bag. I get it. They all want a piece of me because I have him. Even if Scott is still relatively unknown to the masses in America, these women are the in-the-know elite and they understand his worth. They all want to be me, because I have him. The attention from these women is quite unlike the (almost brutal) preparation I endured from the army of stylists who work under Joy’s supervision. These women wrap me up in countless beatific smiles, their butterfly touches are like a lover’s caress, their smiles are pure and reverential. They pull cards from their adorable, glittery handbags and press them on me, inviting me to coffee, to shop, to cocktails. They battle to out-do one another in the extravagant compliments that cascade my way. My skin is perfect English rose, no – it’s creamy, no – it’s pearlescent. My hair is glossy, no – it’s glistening, no – it’s simply divine. And my dress? What adjectives can they pour on my dress? Before I get to find out, a cubicle door swings open and Amanda Amberd emerges, abruptly silencing my admirers.

Amanda Amberd slices through the throng and starts to wash her hands. I notice that she carefully soaps the palms and the backs of her hands and gives individual attention to each finger. The fastidious ritual takes a couple of minutes but feels like a lifetime and definitely suggests that either she has a cleanliness compulsion (very fashionable) or that she’s stalling for time. The beautiful women, who had been fawning and flattering me, abruptly turn to Amanda and proceed to shower her with compliments; many of which are identical to those that washed up my way.

The difference is, I don’t doubt for a moment that Amanda deserves these generous words. She is intensely, almost excruciatingly, superb to look at. She’s about five foot eight but is wearing heels that push her towards the six-foot mark; yet she’s the epitome of the word delicate. She reminds me of an unfurled, blush-pink rose early on a summer morning; one that is dappled with dew and sunlight. I’m not saying she’s sweaty – she’s not. I doubt this woman ever sweats, or pees or even hiccups; she seems to transcend all that is human. She has long, pale blonde hair that tumbles in fat, healthy curls around her (toned) shoulders and (pleasantly muscular) back. She’s a unique blend of ethereal and strong. Her jaunty bone structure suggests a vigour that is potently seductive. She’s wearing a plum, empire line maxi dress (without giving the impression that she is in her third trimester). She’s adorned with an antique amethyst bracelet and butterfly clip in her hair. She steals my breath.

Some of the women seem to dissolve. A few cast shy or sly glances at Amanda and then scuttle away. Two girls come into the loo, clock Amanda and me sharing a mirror and freeze. What I want to do right now is make a polite comment on the film. I know I wasn’t concentrating on the plot quite as closely as I should have been (the ring, the ring!) but I’ve seen Amanda in other movies, she’s a good actor, brilliant in fact. My tongue stays clamped firmly to the roof of my mouth. I’m aware anything I say right now might sound patronizing or gloating. This woman, this vision of loveliness, was rejected by my fiancé. I’m aware of the crowd around us; whatever I say will be quoted and misquoted and Saadi told me not to be drawn into comment. I stay resolutely silent.

Amanda carefully dries her hands on one of the individual linen cloths provided and then massages moisturizer into her palms. I’ve always wondered what sort of girl actually remembers to re-apply cream every time they wash their mitts; now I know – beautiful ones with soft hands. This ritual takes a Jurassic age. Then she turns to me.

‘May I see the ring?’ Her voice still has a soft trace of her West Country origins. It’s a pleasant lilting that oozes sweetness. I can’t very well refuse, although now I wish I hadn’t ever come in here to touch up my lippy. I hold out my hand for her inspection. She clasps my finger ends and I notice that we are both trembling.

‘It’s a very beautiful ring,’ she pronounces. ‘You are very lucky. Very.’

‘I know.’ My reply comes out in a scratchy whisper. We don’t look at one another. We can’t. She suddenly drops my hand and then leaves the bathroom. Her hasty exit reaffirms the impression that she’s some sort of mythical creature; like a sprite, fairy or angel she simply vanishes.

I turn back to the mirror and with a trembling hand I re-apply my gloss; luckily it’s not a deep colour, as I might end up looking like Batman’s joker. The bathroom is silent. I can’t help thinking that every single woman is wondering why oh why Scott chose someone like me when he could have had Amanda Amberd as his lifelong companion. I could tell them that Scott appreciates my normality or that he’s stoked by the way I influence his song writing but I have the feeling they wouldn’t get it. I hardly do. Instead I say, ‘My pelvic floor muscles are like clamps,’ and I dash for the door.

I hope to God no one here knows about the chastity vow.

49. Scott

‘Fuck me, being someone’s fiancé is hard work.’ I throw myself on the sofa and wait for Mark to sympathize.

‘Fern can’t be as much work as the actresses and models and whatever who you’ve dated in the past,’ he reasons as he offers me a fag.

‘They came with their fair share of aggro, no doubt about it. But I’d sort of got the hang of that type of relationship.’

Providing you guarantee them enough column inches (by which I mean space in the newspapers – column inches is not a reference to my manhood), they were, often as not, more or less happy. And there are loads of ways to get the coverage. Get pissed, stay sober, go speeding, go horse riding, go to the Ivy for lunch, go to the Priory to dry out. My relationship with Fern is on a whole different level. She’s not bothered by press coverage. She wants my time.

‘Fern’s demanding in a totally different way. She always wants to be doing stuff together,’ I explain.

Mark nods. ‘That’s to be expected. Fern wanted extraordinary, you needed something a bit down to earth. The hope is you’ll meet in the middle.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know, and mostly, it’s cool this couple stuff. She’s lovely. I like being with her. But she seems to want my exclusive time. And that, my friend, I no can do. I have commitments you know. People depend on me. People expect things from me.’

‘I know, lad, people all want a bit of you.’ I can hear the sympathy in Mark’s voice and I feel better because he gets it.

‘To be frank, I’m tiring of sight-seeing with Fern. Going out is OK but now I’m in a mood to stay in.’ I inhale deeply and scowl at Mark. I’m behaving like a kid but Mark doesn’t mind that. He knows I want him to make it better. The good news is, he can and he will. It’s Mark’s job to fight my battles. He fights the battles I don’t understand (with lawyers, accountants and the record company) and the battles I don’t want to fight (with the press and disappointed women, mostly). That’s what managers do, and because he fights my battles I get more time to do the things a rock star needs to do. Like write songs and, in the old days, get drunk and shag women. He’s a great manager; he’s so good he sometimes spots battles that I didn’t even identify to be skirmishes.

‘That’s fine,’ he says soothingly. ‘The press have plenty of shots of the two of you feeding monkeys, riding rollercoasters and eating burgers.’ He glances across at the file of recent press cuttings. I know he’s delighted with the attention Fern and I are attracting. Everything is on plan.

‘Presenting the ring was a coup,’ I say with a grin, immediately cheered when I think about how well I handled that whole show.

‘Amanda’s premiere was the perfect opportunity. We scooped the undivided attention of the world’s press,’ agrees Mark. He’s also wearing a massive self-satisfied smile. ‘And that means you don’t have to do any more sight-seeing if you don’t want to.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘OK then.’

‘I need to be in the studio more,’ I point out.

‘I’m never going to argue with that,’ says Mark. We fall silent for a moment as we both suck on our fags. Then Mark adds, ‘I have to say, you’ve done well, son.’ He stands up and walks towards me and gives me a hearty pat on the shoulder. I like it when he calls me son, which he does from time to time. In so many ways he is the dad I never had. And I am definitely the son he never had (the son he did have is a civil servant and no trouble at all but probably not much fun either). ‘I was worried about sending you out to all those watering holes. I thought it was too early. I thought you might fling yourself off the wagon.’

‘Ninety-eight dry days and counting.’

‘Well done, lad.’ He slaps my shoulder again but we don’t look at each other. We both know that in the past I once went 614 days and then woke up in my own puddle of vodka and urine. They say a day at a time because if they said what they mean – ‘for ever’ – no one would ever go to an AA meeting.

‘And you are still OK with the no sex thing?’ he asks. I detect concern in his voice.

‘Yeah. Cool.’ Actually, not having sex with Fern is hard work. The novelty is beginning to wear a bit thin; that’s the thing about novelty. But I’m too stubborn to concede a challenge.

‘Do you know what, son, if you want my advice, I’d shag her, asap.’

‘Nicely put.’

‘You’ve made your point now, you’ve known the girl three weeks and you haven’t shagged her. You not shagging someone after you’ve known them a few weeks is a bit like anyone else taking permanent Holy Orders.’

‘I made myself a promise,’ I point out.

‘But Fern is gagging for it.’

‘I know, I am too. But I hate giving up on stuff. I’ll make it worth her wait.’

Mark sighs and looks weary. His flat bulldog face constricts with concern. ‘Thing is, Scott, as you are currently off drugs and booze I’m worried you’re over-doing the abstaining thing.’

‘You’re scared I’ll break,’ I say flatly.

He won’t answer me directly. ‘Having sex with your fiancée will not damage the record label, getting high or pissed will.’

‘I’m OK.’

‘Is this your latest addiction? Are you now addicted to not having sex? God, things have really changed since my day.’ He shakes his head wearily. I stay silent and he knows better than to try to argue with me. ‘All right then, we’ll have to make sure you are very busy in the studio. Keep you out of trouble.’

‘Yeah, and I’ll exercise more.’

‘Fine.’

‘What about Fern?’

‘Oh, she’ll be easy to distract. There’s the wedding to plan, and besides, she’ll soon have her mate to keep her amused.’

‘Ben.’

‘Yup. He’s the perfect best mate for her to have. Women are jealous, heterosexual men always try their luck with pop stars’ girls, we don’t need the hassle. Homosexual best friends are a manager’s godsend,’ says Mark.

‘OK, so sounds like a plan. Studio and gym for me. Dresses and wedding cake and things for her.’

‘Sure you wouldn’t rather just fuck her?’

‘Thanks for your concern but I think I’ve got it under control.’

‘OK. Sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘OK. Great.’

‘Great.’