Love Lies (25 page)

50. Fern

‘First Class and a chauffeur! Pinch me!’ cries Ben as he flings himself into the back of the Bentley. I do. ‘Ooch!’ He playfully swats me away but then immediately pulls me back towards him, enveloping me in another enormous, effervescent hug. About the tenth he’s given me since he came through customs. I feel the slight scratch of his sandpaper stubble on my forehead and can smell the aeroplane on his clothes; even so his hug is delicious. It’s so fantastic to have him share all this with me!

‘Wow, look at you! You’re glowing. Posh clothes suit you. And I love what you’ve done with your hair,’ gushes Ben.

‘Thank you. Scott’s staff are engineering a re-vamp.’

‘What fun!’

‘Can be. Or can be a bit intimidating,’ I admit.

‘The knack with these people is to appear appreciative and show respect for their professional experience but don’t allow anyone to bully you.’

‘How do you know this stuff? Will you help me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Today I have an appointment with my clothes stylist. Will you come?’

‘You have a lovely little waist, we ought to make more of that.’

‘And my nutritionalist.’

‘You look so skinny. How much have you lost?’

‘I’m not sure. The scales in my old flat were always dodgy because the floor sloped and so I couldn’t get a proper reading. However much I’ve lost Joy keeps saying I need to lose more.’

‘Who’s Joy?’

‘Scott’s beautician. She seems to hate me. She lives her life as though she’s eternally auditioning for the part of wicked stepmother in the Christmas panto.’

‘She probably had a thing for Scott.’

‘Probably.’

‘Have they slept together?’

‘I don’t know. There’s no reason for me to think they have,’ I reply, taken aback by the suggestion.

‘There’s no reason for you to think they haven’t. It’s Scottie Taylor we’re talking about here,’ says Ben calmly.

Ben fusses about the car’s air-con; he insists that it’s icy and has it blasting on our calves. He comments on the towering palm trees lining the streets and then asks, ‘So how is the sex?’

‘Ben!’ I try to sound shocked.

‘I promise I won’t tell a soul, Scout’s honour, or should that be Scott’s honour,’ he grins, tickled by his own pun. ‘Tell! I want to know, I’m only human.’

‘I don’t know yet,’ I admit.

‘What?’ Ben looks as though I’ve slapped him.

‘We’re saving ourselves until our wedding day,’ I explain simply.

‘You’re kidding.’ He’s aghast.

‘Deadly serious.’

‘But why?’

‘Scott and I want to do things properly. It’s important our relationship is completely different from anything else Scott has ever known.’

‘How very romantic,’ he mutters, not really bothering to hide his dismay.

‘Not my idea. It’s a nightmare, actually. I think I’m going to explode with lust,’ I confide.

Ben looks sympathetic; touched by my frankness, he tries to comfort me. ‘Well, only about a month to go and it’s not like you are stuck for things to do. We’ll just have to keep you very, very busy. How’s the wedding planning going?’

I’m happy to move on to a less frustrating topic. ‘It’s in good hands. The wedding planner, Ms Colleen Lafontaine, born in New York and bred in LA, seems perfect for the job. She came very highly recommended, as she’s planned a number of high-profile Hollywood weddings; she understands the security requirements and the complications of working with slash keeping at bay the paparazzi.’

‘Marvellous, I can’t wait to make friends with her. I am here to encourage your inner Bridezilla, not that it needs much encouragement. We are going to have endless conversations showered with words such as sparkle, vintage, memorable, expressive and wow factor.’ I laugh at Ben’s excitement. ‘This wedding can be so much bigger than anything you could possibly have perceived of when you were with Adam,’ says Ben as a matter of fact. I shift uncomfortably on the seat. I haven’t allowed myself to say Adam’s name in my head let alone out loud for some time now. I feel Ben’s eyes on me but I don’t meet them.

‘Have you seen Jess or anyone?’ I ask casually.

‘Not for a few days now.’

‘Does she know you are coming here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any messages?’

‘No messages.’

‘Oh.’ I wasn’t expecting any. It’s proving really difficult to stay in touch with Jess. I’ve called her a few times but I keep catching her at awkward moments. Once, she was just about to get something to eat (and just had time to remind me to call Adam), another time she was busy at work (but just had time to remind me to call Adam) and on the third occasion she was on her way out of the door (she must have been in a genuine rush because she never mentioned that I ought to call Adam). She did listen to my account of my heady night at the movie premiere but she wasn’t as thrilled about it as I’d hoped. I poured out my excitement but she seemed unable or unwilling to engage. She barely asked any questions other than whether so and so had had surgery, she always sounded vindicated when I admitted that yes, so and so had. She sniffed out words like ‘fake’, delusional’ and ‘unrealistic’. When I got to the part about my witty one-liner explaining Scott’s devotion, she didn’t even laugh. She just said, ‘It is a mystery, isn’t it?’ Which is hardly a polite thing for your best friend to say.

‘The press and magazines are fascinated by your nuptials, so who’s got the exclusive?’ asks Ben.

I’m grateful that Ben isn’t wasting his breath or our time on berating me with how I left Adam in the lurch or how quickly I’m moving on. It’s so much more pleasurable that all he wants to think about is my future. We spend the hour’s journey home excitedly chattering about all things bridal: the dress, the venue, the wine, the chair-backs, glasswear, ribbons, sweets, lanterns and everything in between. It’s going to be such fun having Ben here.

51. Fern

I am the prodigal daughter. Following the initial rather lacklustre response to my engagement announcement my mum (which means my mum and dad because they think as one – she’s always telling him this is the case) are now extremely excited by the idea of me marrying Scott. Mum calls me every day. She says, ‘Thisiscostingafortunecallmebackstraightaway,’ and then she hangs up. I do call her back because if ever a mother and daughter are going to bond it’s going to be over a roll of tulle destined to be said daughter’s wedding dress.

On a rare occasion when I actually get to talk to my dad, I ask him what was the cause of my mother’s Damascene conversion.

‘The papers are very nice about you. Most of them say that you come from a nice home and that you are just very ordinary. She likes that,’ he says.

I’m not sure I do but as I am no longer ordinary – I am now far from it – I can ignore the former accuracy of accusation.

‘And it was part fuelled by the fact that Mrs Cooper, from up the road, her that goes on them world cruises. Can you imagine? A singles holiday at her age? Well, she turns out to be a fan,’ adds Dad. Scott would probably be horrified to hear how seriously he commands the grey pound. ‘Mrs Cooper has apparently always thought that Scottie is not a bad lad. You know, despite the drugs and the drink and everything.’

Dad pauses. There’s a catch in his breath which suggests to me that his fears are not completely put aside on account of Mrs Cooper’s endorsement. But after so many years of wholeheartedly agreeing with my mother he’s not foolish enough to start publicly disagreeing now.

‘She reckons he just needed the love of a good woman. Your mother seemed somewhat reassured by that but I think the deal was clinched when Mrs Cooper shook her head, in obvious bewilderment, and added, fancy that woman being your Fern. Naturally your mother was then shoved headlong into defensive outrage. What do you mean? she demanded. Well, she’s never really shown any ambition that way, says Mrs Cooper.’ Dad is clearly enjoying the drama of relaying this little exchange. He mimics both women with accuracy. ‘Any ambition what way? asked your mother.’

Mum can be very touchy about veiled criticism of her children – we have Jake’s stretch in the clink to thank for honing that particular skill.

‘And Mrs Cooper says well, she’s never shown any ambition to marry money. Plus, I never believed she really liked pop music. I thought that was the stumbling block with that other beau of hers. The last one.’

Dad and I know Mum would, if she could, rewrite history in a way that Stalin could be proud of. Given half a chance, Adam would vanish, my hymen would magically be restored to its former intact glory and she’d have the complete fairy tale. Mrs Cooper’s insistence on reminding her that this is not the case will be testing their thirty-five-year friendship.

‘So what did Mum say to that?’ I ask Dad.

‘Oh, she told Mrs Cooper good and proper. She says our Fern is passionate about music. Pop and stuff. She said that you dumping Adam was nothing to do with him being in the music industry. Obviously, it was because he was poor.’

‘Oh, marvellous.’ I roll my eyes at my mum’s misguided attempt at defending my honour. I can’t believe she thinks it is better for people to think I’m a gold-digger than that my CD collection is limited. ‘It’s not true,’ I moan.

‘I know, love, but she couldn’t admit to the neighbours that he was tardy about making an honest woman out of you, could she?’

I suppose not.

Lisa calls regularly, as do my siblings Bill, Fiona and Rick. As Lisa, Bill and Fiona’s kids are bridesmaids and pageboys, they all have very clear views about exactly what the little darlings ought to wear. How I’m supposed to combine ‘pretty and romantic but understated’ with ‘chic and simple yet dramatic’ and ‘pink and flouncy, very, very flouncy’ is a conundrum I’m just not up to. I simply pass all comments on to Colleen and Ben; between them they are more than capable of dealing with it. Rick calls because he likes to give me updates about just how pissed he got at whichever party or gig he most recently blagged his way into. He’s suddenly garrulous, gregarious and popular as the future brother-in-law of Scottie Taylor. I’m glad he’s having so much fun. Even Jake sent a letter from prison. It was written in his messy, barely legible scribble that has remained unchanged since he was about seven.

Dear Sis,Can your bloke pull any strings in here? I’m up for parole in a fortnight. Would be good to be out of this place by the time you tie the knot. Always wanted to visit LA. If no can do, can he come and visit me? Would make me look cool. You don’t need to come, just him. If that’s not happening, then send smokes.Jake.

The combination of his naive print and upfront request affected me more than I expected. I know I can’t do anything to help his situation but it was somehow touching that he believed I could. I send the fags and loads of signed CDs.

Most people think I can help them now. I’ve received hundreds and hundreds of letters from various charities and individuals begging for my help. To start with I read them all and asked Scott for cash, signed photos, signed guitars and old clothes for raffles and auctions, then Saadi suggested I pass them straight to her second assistant to deal with. It was agreed that after the wedding I could choose a couple of charities to support but that reading fifty begging letters a day (all of which made me sob like Veruca Salt when Willy Wonka denies her an Oompa-Loompa) wasn’t doing much for my complexion. I suppose I am prone to being a bit weepy at the moment – well, it’s natural to be emotional, I’m getting married. But I never seriously considered funding a party where all the guests were supermodels – something the Institute of Caligynephobia (fear of beautiful women) assured me was vital as part of their recovery programme. I could see that Scott was right, there was something fake-looking about their stationery, and the fact that it was signed by ‘All the lads who drink in the Black Bull’ cleared up the issue once and for all.

But it’s not just my nearest and dearest and complete strangers who think I can do something for them, it’s everyone in between too. The other day I checked my e-mails and I had one from the Friends Reunited website; it said I had 742 new messages. I joined Friends Reunited six years ago when my love life was going through a dry patch and I thought I might look up a few old boyfriends to see if any of them were worth another onceover. Most had filed the obligatory two or three lines. ‘I’m married with two beautiful kids,’ or, ‘I still live with my mum and dad – it saves on rent.’ Nothing of interest. I sent a few e-mails to old girlfriends, girls I’d gossiped to when I should have been listening to exactly how (or why!) you might calculate quadratic equations. I got just one response. It was from Helen Davis, who wanted to know if I still had her copy of Mansfield Park because she was sure she’d lent it to me just before our GCSE and I hadn’t ever returned it; she’d had to buy another copy, apparently. I e-mailed back denying all knowledge and that was the end of our correspondence. I’ve stayed registered for the last six years (because I signed up by direct debit and don’t know where people find the energy to cancel direct debits) and in those six years I’ve had a grand total of three messages, until last month.

Each and every one of the messages I opened was lovely. Everyone wished me well, congratulated me on my engagement. Surprisingly, most agreed that they’d always known I’d do something extraordinary, many said they were delighted to see my name in the newspaper because they thought of me often and had long looked for an excuse to get back in touch because we’d been so close once. Strangely, about two out of every three had an ambition to travel to LA; I hadn’t realized it was such a popular destination of choice. Helen Davis wrote again reminding me how we always liked to share books.

‘Delete the lot,’ said Scott, when I told him about the sudden influx of messages.

‘I haven’t finished reading them.’

‘Waste of time. They all want the same thing. Association. This happened to me when I got the record deal with X-treme. A zillion liggers wrote to remind me how we’d once been best mates, even my old German teacher, which was odd because I distinctly remember him saying that he hated the very sight of me and dreaded Tuesdays when he’d have to be in the same room as me.’

I deleted the messages.

There have been no messages from Jess. I miss her. It’s weird. I’m constantly surrounded by an endless trail of people. There are people to brush my hair, draw my bath, warm my towels, fix my makeup, drive me places, dress me, cook for me, do crosswords with me, whatever – but this crowd doesn’t stop me feeling… what? Lonely? Not quite lonely. That word is too strong. It’s just that while I’m vital to these people (their jobs are dependent on me) I sometimes get the strangest feeling – I feel they don’t see me. I’m invisible, and no amount of designer clothes can get me noticed the way Jess used to notice me. How odd. Of course, it’s great having Ben here and I’m sure I will make proper friends here in time; I just don’t know how much time it will take. I’ve known Jess fourteen years.

I grab my phone and call Jess again before I think of a reason not to. The weeks of not speaking properly to one another have opened up a chasm, and I wonder if I can leap over it. I want to.

Amazingly she picks up. ‘Hey Jess.’ I gush excitedly. ‘Is this a good time to call? Or am I interrupting anything?’ My opener is pretty much an apology.

‘I’m in the supermarket.’

‘Oh. How are you?’

‘Good, the same. You know.’

She sounds a bit odd. Distracted. I tell myself she’s busy but I’m pretty sure she’s miffed. The odd thing is I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong besides become rich and famous, but how can that be wrong? I don’t know what to say next. She hasn’t asked how I am. If I volunteer the information I’ll risk sounding unbearable. What can I say? Oh your life’s ‘the same,’ is it? Well, mine has completely turned round and is so unbelievably fantastic I think I might explode with joy. Er, no, not right.

‘Did you get your invite?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, and the plane ticket. Thanks, very generous of you.’ Her tone is grudging. I hoped she’d be thrilled.

‘No, not at all. It’s the least I can do. I’m the one getting married bloody miles away, I can’t expect everyone to fork out for a flight.’ I try to down-play the three grand, Club Class ticket. It’s odd. I always imagined that one of the perks of being silly rich was that you’d get to be seriously generous with your nearest and dearest. I imagined that splashing the cash would be a wonderful and rewarding thing to do. But it’s not especially. Now I have so much more money than any of my friends – well, I have so much more money than everyone really – and I don’t know how to behave. When I make big gestures I seem flash and showy but if I don’t cough up, I seem tight. I can’t win.

‘How’s Adam?’ I hadn’t planned to say that next. Or indeed ever. I just did it to fill in a conversational gap. I think Jess is as surprised as I am.

‘You said you’d call him.’

To say what? ‘I’ve been meaning to but things have been so hectic, you know.’

‘Well, you can talk to him now, if you like.’

‘He’s with you?’ I’d deliberately called Jess on her mobile and not at the flat to avoid this happening. What are they doing in the supermarket together?

‘He’s in the tinned food section, I’m in the pasta aisle. We take it in turns to cook for one another now and so it makes sense to shop together. It makes a dreary job more fun.’

Very cosy. ‘You take turns to cook for each other?’

‘Adam wasn’t eating. He needed looking after.’ She then whispers, ‘He’s been really floored by you leaving like this, Fern. You really should talk to him.’

‘OK, OK, put him on.’ I know I have to face him eventually. I was just hoping that eventually meant on my deathbed.

I imagine Jess hunting Adam down among the baked beans or tinned sweetcorn. If she can’t find him there, he’s probably drifted over to the DVD and CD section. On the few occasions we did shop together he’d invariably drift that way and then linger while I filled the trolley, queued at the checkout, paid and packed the groceries. He was never much help shopping, although he did carry the heavy bags to the car. My God, supermarket shopping belongs to a different world. I can barely remember the pain. Scott and I have been grocery shopping but just the once, and it was a completely different experience because really we went to Ralph’s Store to star-spot and be seen rather than to actually buy stuff to eat. At Ralph’s we pointed to things we might like to try, someone else picked them up, packed them and carried them to the car – I don’t even know who, I can’t remember. We have a nutritionist and a chef, so food seems to appear magically on my plate nowadays.

After a moment Adam comes on to the phone.

‘Fern,’ he says gruffly and formally.

The formality, although probably appropriate, is strange and uncomfortable. My mouth feels dry; I could do with a drink. A large G&T might help. ‘How are you, Adam?’ I ask, stepping into the boxing ring.

‘Great.’

Not what I’ve heard, but what can I say? I try to sound bright and casual to counter his dark and serious tone. ‘So you’re cooking dinner for Jess tonight.’

‘So you are marrying Scottie Taylor next month.’

Whack. Blow straight between the eyes. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘You have no right to imply that I shouldn’t be cooking for Jess.’

‘I wasn’t implying that.’ Was I? No, I wasn’t because it doesn’t mean anything that they are shopping and cooking together. They’re just buddies, and besides even if it did mean something, it’s none of my business.

‘It doesn’t mean anything that we are shopping and cooking together. We’re just buddies, and besides even if it did mean something it’s none of your business,’ says Adam. When did he develop the ability to read my mind?

‘I know that, I’m just trying to be polite to take an interest in what you are doing with your free time.’

‘The implication being that I’ve had plenty of that recently,’ he says sarcastically.

‘Adam, don’t,’ I plead quietly.