Love Lies (30 page)

60. Fern

It takes a great deal of courage but I drag it from the depths of my toes and call Jess to ask her whether she is bringing Adam to the wedding. I try to kid myself that I need to confirm numbers, but this is a lie. So far, we have seven hundred and thirty-eight confirmed ‘yeses’ and one hundred and nine ‘regrets’, which leaves over one hundred and fifty people who have yet to reply. I can’t pretend that Adam’s attendance or absence will have a profound effect on the catering. No, not the catering. But I do need to know.

I call the flat. There’s no reply so I leave a short message.

‘Hi, it’s me. Erm, Fern. Just wondered how you guys are and if, erm, you’ve made a decision about, erm, LA and things. Who’s coming? I mean, have you decided, Jess, who you are bringing?’ I pause and then as an afterthought I add, ‘As your non-date.’

Bugger. I hang up. That wasn’t too clever a message. I wish I could delete it. I wanted to avoid sounding as though I was pairing them up but, at the same time, I was trying to sound cool in case they’re already paired. I think I failed on both counts. I hope to God Jess listens to that message before Adam does and that she deletes it. Surely fourteen years’ friendship has earned me that small mercy.

My phone rings back almost immediately. It’s the flat. Hurrah, Jess has listened to the message and is calling me straight back. Hopefully to confirm she is not bringing Adam.

‘Hello, Adam here.’

Those three words wound me on so many levels. One, he’s obviously heard the stupid message I left (how humiliating). Two, he thinks he has to introduce himself when he’s talking to me because he sees a certain distance and formality between us is required (however predictable this is, it’s sad). And three – three I don’t understand at all – I feel a weird physical blow low in my gut; his voice turns my belly to liquid. Damn, why did I leave such a pathetic message?

‘Hi Adam,’ I say as calmly as I can.

‘I picked up your message.’

‘It was intended for Jess, really.’

‘I know, but I figured you’d be doing numbers for the wedding and things and that you might need a quick response,’ says Adam.

This is unusually thoughtful of him. I had no idea he had any concept that RSVPs had a purpose at all. I’m so surprised by his consideration, I almost forget to lie. Almost.

‘Yes, that’s it. I need to confirm the numbers to the caterers.’ I cross my fingers on my left hand.

‘Jess said you’re OK with me coming to the wedding.’ There’s some hesitancy in his voice.

‘Of course, delighted.’ I nearly drop the phone as I cross my fingers on the other hand too.

‘Really, you don’t think it’s weird or anything?’

‘No, no, not at all. We’re all grown-ups.’ I kick off my flip-flops and try to cross my toes too. Yes, yes, it’s completely weird. He can’t be serious! He’s not really thinking of coming, is he? Surely he’d find it uncomfortable? Who wants to see their ex get spliced? Who wants to get married in front of an ex? It’s so civilized. It’s so passionless. It’s wrong. If he comes it shows he does well and truly have closure. If he comes it shows he really wants to please Jess.

‘OK, well, I’m a yes then. Count me in.’

Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.

‘Great, great, great. Any special diet requirements?’ I blather, in a pathetic attempt to hide my embarrassment and annoyance.

‘Er, no, Fern, we went out for four years and lived together for three of those, I think you’d have noticed if I was a vegetarian or lactose intolerant.’

‘Well, yes, but things change,’ I twitter mindlessly.

‘Don’t they,’ he says.

There’s a long pause. I should probably hang up.

‘Well, I’ll see you in two weeks then,’ I mutter.

‘Yeah, looking forward to it. Jess showed me those photos you e-mailed over. His gaff is like a set from a James Bond movie.’ That should be a compliment but somehow I know it isn’t.

I decide the way forward with Adam is to be determinedly upbeat. It can’t be so hard after all. Not under the circumstances – I’m marrying Scott Taylor in a fortnight. ‘Well, doesn’t every man secretly harbour a desire to be James Bond?’ I ask pleasantly.

‘Not me. You know, I’ve always been happy with simply watching the movies. I’ve always known he’s a fictional character. Must be fun though, having all that.’ He pauses, to be sure he’s got my attention, and then adds, ‘All that stuff. It makes a man pretty damned attractive. Pretty damned likeable.’

This is not the first time I’ve been forced into defending my relationship with Scott, and I doubt it will be the last; but it’s not a position I wanted to be in with Adam. I really don’t want to be drawn into these dangerous waters. Doesn’t he realize that the decent thing for an ex to do is stick to polite small talk about the weather? What makes him think he can be this direct?

Four years’ intimacy?

Polite small talk is not an option. ‘I’m not in it for the stuff. There’s much more to Scott than his stuff,’ I argue.

‘Like?’

‘He’s luminously, intensely creative but exposed. He’s stunningly desirable and modish yet quite charmingly open,’ I say.

‘Have you been practising that?’ asks Adam.

Well, yes, I have. I’ve started to write my wedding speech and I’d thought that was a pretty good opener but I’m not going to admit as much to Adam. I hoped my declaration would sound spontaneous.

Adam sighs, ‘You sound like a fan, not a wife. But maybe that’s no bad thing. I mean, you need to be a big fan to stomach hearing him go on about himself all the time, in that way he does.’

I don’t bother pretending that Scott doesn’t talk about himself; the truth is, he is rather self-focused but that’s natural under the circumstances and not in the least bit annoying, as Adam is hinting.

‘It’s not like he goes on about himself all the time out of vanity. It’s just he’s never met anyone more interesting than he is,’ I say. I’m disappointed that my tone is more defensive than upbeat.

‘The man met Nelson Mandela!’ points out Adam, snappily. ‘I can imagine that conversation, can’t you? Er, Nel, mate, did I tell you about the time when I shagged a couple of Scandi twins?’ Adam does an impressive impression of Scott’s northern accent; in other circumstances I’d be tempted to laugh. ‘I’ve just read this interview in Dazed and Confused; all he talked about was sex – all he joked about was sex,’ says Adam.

‘Well, sex is funny if you think about it for long enough,’ I defend. And I should know, as sex has been all theory to me for weeks now. Obviously, I’d rather strap raw steak to my body and stroll into the lions’ den at London Zoo than admit as much to Adam. Instead I concentrate on shielding Scott. ‘That interview took place before we got engaged.’

‘Oh yeah, ages ago,’ says Adam mockingly.

I’m sorely tempted to point out that not everybody needs four years to decide precisely nothing at all. There is such a thing as love at first sight and whirlwind romance but I sense that Adam would only scoff more, so instead I try to explain why the Dazed and Confused interview was so graphic. Truthfully, when I read it, I had been a little surprised that Scott mentioned the nun he deflowered and defrocked.

‘It’s not like he goes on about sex all the time out of choice either. People who interview him never ask him anything else. He’s got into the habit of talking about the stuff the rest of us keep private.’

‘Whatever you say. You’re the one who knows him.’

‘I am,’ I say hotly.

‘You’re the one who’s marrying him.’

‘That’s right.’ I need to draw this conversation to a halt. I hate it that Adam can rile me. I wish I was in a place where I was impervious to his digs. I should be. Why does he care so much anyhow? He has Jess now. And I have Scott. We’re not an ‘us’ any more. It’s none of his business.

‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you here.’

‘You will. Jess and I will be there supporting you every step of the way.’ His sarcasm is loud and clear, which is irritating, and more irritating still, he manages to hang up first, leaving me with nothing but the buzz of a dead line.

61. Fern

Suddenly, with the wedding now just ten days away I find myself with a free afternoon. Following a call from Colleen, who confirms her final decision with regard to which toiletries we ought to have in the portaloos (Huiles & Baumes, ‘being organic and eco aware is so important’), I decide to hop in the car and surprise Scott at the studio.

I visited the studio once when I first arrived in LA so I recognize the producer, the engineer and the assistant, plus there’s a delightful, unexpected bonus – Ben.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, giving him a big smacker of a kiss on his cheek.

‘I come here when I’m not playing with you.’

Really, since when? He’s never mentioned it. I feel a little guilty that I’ve been so caught up in wedding preparations that I haven’t made more time to come down to the studio to listen to Scott’s new work.

Scott is thrilled to see me now. He rips off his bulky earphones and rushes out from behind the glass wall to meet me. ‘Sweets, perfect timing. We are just wrapping this up. You can tell me what you think of it. Ben loves it, don’t you Ben?’

‘Wait until you hear this album. The man is a genius,’ says Ben excitedly. ‘There are at least half a dozen number ones. This album is going to grab America by the throat! It’s got everything they’d want and even some stuff they don’t know they want yet.’

Scott signals to the producer and suddenly the room is bursting with his growly, irresistible voice.

Ben’s right; this is an amazing album. In the past all Scott’s lyrics have read like a tabloid story; raw, open, apologetic and angry. To understand his songs is to know what it feels like to have nothing and feel everything. The lyrics in Wedding Album hold on to his trademark honesty but they are much more idealistic and celebratory. The album perfectly encapsulates just how dazzlingly astonishing it is to fall in love.

I listen carefully and know with an absolute certainty that these songs will be the songs a generation falls in love to: men and women will choose them for their first husband and wife dance; these tracks are the sort of tracks that will play in the background as teenagers lose their virginity and disappointed women throw their drinks over betraying lovers. They are seminal, decisive and romantic.

The songs are buffed to perfection. On each and every track, before the chorus even runs for a second time, everyone in the room is humming along; that sort of reaction guarantees this is going to be an album that enjoys buckets full of air time.

‘Oh my God, did that lyric just say, Fern, you make me burn?’ I ask excitedly.

Scott grins at me. I dash to him and plant an enormous kiss on his mouth. If we were alone I might have tried to persuade him to forget the chastity vow.

‘I can’t believe you wrote a song about me!’

‘Three,’ he says with obvious pride. ‘You’re named in three.’

I listen to the rest of the album even more carefully. Sure enough my name pops up in two more songs; one about making his head turn and another all about how he yearns. Out of context these lines sound pretty corny, but believe me, when he sings them accompanied by the irresistible beat as part of a love ballad, they work. I’m overwhelmed. I beam at Scott, thrilled to be the inspiration behind this immense work. The album is the utterly perfect tribute to our love affair.

‘The Americans are going to adore this!’ says Ben again. He actually can’t resist jumping up and down on the spot.

‘Not just the Americans, everyone will love this,’ I enthuse.

‘Yes, but it’s the Americans who are important,’ says Scott seriously.

‘Wedding Album is a flawless record compiled by a man shot through with flaws,’ says Mark with a grin.

‘He’s not so bad,’ I reply indignantly. I haven’t quite forgiven Mark for the pre-nup and can’t look at him without thinking about it. I don’t like thinking about it, so the easiest thing is not to have too much to do with Mark.

‘Fern, darlin’, he’s pure gold and you know it and I know it and soon the American public are going to know it too. Now he’s in luuurve he’ll be irresistible.’ Mark grins and lights a big cigar. I turn away from him and drape my arms around Scott.

‘It’s brilliant,’ I gush. ‘This album is the embodiment of everything everyone ever believes love can be. Everything you ever believed life could be!’

Scott pulls me close to him. We stand foreheads touching, my arms around his waist, his arms hung around my neck. I can feel his breath mingling with mine. He kisses my nose and beams back at me.

‘You’re great,’ he says simply as we reluctantly break apart.

‘When’s it going to be released?’ I ask.

‘Tomorrow. Which gives us eight days for it to climb the charts before the wedding.’

‘Tomorrow?’ How’s that possible? I don’t know much about the music business (far less than I should) but I thought that it took months to bring out an album. It’s clear that we’ve been listening to the edited version and that the sound has been mastered by an engineer – but what about the packaging, won’t that take weeks to develop? I must have missed the bit where Scott gets to have his photo taken in loads of different outfits, hanging out with lots of different kinds of people – like leggy blondes, or footballers, or scuba divers or something eye-catching.

‘When’s the press conference announcing the release?’ I ask.

‘Yesterday,’ says Scott with a beam.

‘Yesterday! And the promotional tour?’

‘Just after the wedding. Things haven’t been standing still while you’ve been planning this wedding, you know,’ chips in Mark.

Clearly. Something occurs to me like a brick flying out of the horizon. ‘When you say just after the wedding you mean after the honeymoon, right?’

‘Not exactly. We thought we’d make the tour into your honeymoon. We’ll be travelling all across America; New York, Chicago, Boston, Las Vegas,’ says Mark, with a self-satisfied grin.

‘You said you always wanted to go to New York,’ adds Scott.

‘And you said you hated being on the road,’ I point out. He’d said that being on the road was soulless, that the cities, hotels and crowds always blurred and merged into one, and the long highways – that led to out-of-town fast food joints – inevitably drove him to drink. ‘The last two times you fell off the wagon was when you were on tour,’ I add. It seems like a big risk to me. Is he ready for it? ‘Shouldn’t we have discussed this?’

Scott smiles at me, kisses my nose again and then wanders back behind the glass and picks up his headset without answering my question. He doesn’t need to. In my heart of hearts I know the answer. Yes, we should have discussed this, the way we should have discussed the pre-nup and the three celebrity bridesmaids I’ve never met and the sleeping arrangements in the country hotel. Suddenly, my head is full of things Scott and I don’t discuss. We talk about feelings but not facts. Facts are Mark’s bag. I don’t have any other choice than to turn to Mark if I want answers.

‘I’d like to have been consulted,’ I say shortly.

‘He’s going to be crowned King of America, Fern,’ says Mark.

‘America doesn’t have a king,’ I say, somewhat tetchily.

‘They’ve been waiting for him.’ Mark laughs and his cigar smoke billows in my face. ‘You’ve heard the album. We have to get on the road asap. That’s how albums sell.’

‘At the cost of his health?’ I ask, by which I mean sobriety.

‘This album needs to sell at any cost,’ says Mark steadily. ‘Scott knows that. Scott wants that.’ Then he asks, ‘Is this about you not getting a honeymoon? I’ll see he makes it up to you.’ I hate Mark implying I’m being a sulky spoilsport when in fact I’m seriously worried about my fiancé’s health and with good reason.

Ben is standing shoulder to shoulder next to Mark; he beams at me, reassuringly, and says, ‘I’ll come on tour too. It’ll be fun.’

I wish Ben had warned me to expect this. I could have given the matter more thought. I feel exactly as I did when presented with the pre-nup; everyone says it’s all OK, but it doesn’t feel OK. Deep down, somewhere in my gut, something feels off. It’s the oddest sensation. I remember having it as a little girl when I was playing hide and seek with my older siblings and their friends. I didn’t really understand the mechanics of the game. I’d cover my eyes and think because I couldn’t see them they couldn’t see me – that I was well hidden and safe. But they could see me as clear as day. I was the one standing alone and exposed, blind because I was covering my own eyes. Everyone around me kept playing and winning the game. It’s a creepy comparison; one I don’t enjoy making. I push the thought away.

I sigh, confused, beginning to doubt myself. Am I being a spoilsport? Scott’s happy with the decision, Mark says it makes business sense and even Ben’s in favour. Maybe the tour is a good idea. Maybe I’m over-reacting. What do I know? Perhaps going on tour will be fun. Besides, it’s pretty clear it’s a done deal. I have no idea how they arranged everything in just a few weeks but I bet it was expensive and I know it would be even more expensive to undo.

‘Come on Fern, cheer up,’ says Ben. ‘Don’t be grouchy. You, more than anyone, know Scott’s full of surprises.’

Yes, I do. I do know that much.