Love Lies (31 page)

62. Fern

The wedding guests start to arrive. Unable to suppress their excitement, they burst through the double doors at the airport arrivals; behaving much like popping corn in the microwave, they bounce in every direction. At first I go to greet friends and rellies at the airport, but it soon becomes apparent that picking up in person is impractical when my great-aunt Liz is knocked over by an overzealous photographer. He was clamouring to take a photo of me with greasy hair. I complained to Mark about the scrum of photographers; he said I shouldn’t leave the house without full makeup ever again. The majority of my guests are staying at one of the flash hotels on Sunset. They all ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ at the glamour and fantasy of the enormous rooms with glowing glass walls and white furnishings. Saadi has booked the penthouse for my mum and dad.

Everyone is excited to meet Scott and to see our home. I was concerned about how he’d respond to me trailing ten parties of eight through the house but he rose to the occasion beautifully by suggesting we throw one big pre-wedding party, around the pool, so that both families can get to know each other in a relaxed way. I worried that arranging another party just days before the wedding would be an impossible task but Mark assured me everything could be attended to without giving me extra stress. He suggested we throw the party on the eve of the wedding, which is the day the chart positions are released so that we can celebrate Wedding Album’s position. He’s clearly confident and so he should be; the album is awesome. I know all my cousins will still queue for Scott’s autograph, but I agree that on balance one big get-together will be less painful than multiple introductions.

The party is scheduled to start at about lunchtime. We’re serving Scott’s speciality, barbecued prawns marinated in lime and coriander, the meal he cooked for me the first night we arrived here – which is a really romantic touch. Although Scott isn’t going to do the barbecueing himself – obviously, we have two hundred to feed – so we’ve hired caterers instead. The expectation is that we’ll celebrate through the afternoon and into the evening. I have three outfits for the day. I plan (by which I mean Colleen has planned for me) to start by wearing a purple velvet beaded mini dress with taffeta sleeves; it’s Gucci. She said it will make a stunning but hip first impression, plus Scott loves purple. As it happens, I’m still in a dressing-gown with a towel wrapped around my head when my mum and dad arrive at 8.30 a.m. Not the dramatic first impression I wanted to present.

One of the pretty girl organizers shows my parents into my room and while my dad immediately wraps me into a brief, self-conscious hug, my mum is too busy falling over herself to be nice to the pretty girl and seems momentarily to forget I’m here at all. She actually bobs a small curtsey as the girl leaves.

‘You should have tipped her, Ray,’ my mum scolds my dad.

‘No, really, there’s no need,’ I say, wrapping her in a big hug. I can see she’s tense and agitated; she’s made the effort though, she’s had her hair coloured and she’s had a blow-dry.

‘It’s tips left, right and centre, over here. I’m bleeding cash,’ mumbles my dad.

‘I’m sure we should have tipped her,’ argues my mum.

‘She works for me, Mum, you’re in my home. Dad, put your money away, there’s no need for a tip.’

‘I’ve gone blonde.’ Mum fingers the edges of her hair shyly. I think she’s telling me she’s blonde because there is a level of uncertainty, the shade is open to interpretation; I’d say it has the same hue as rice pudding – the sort with sultanas and nutmeg in.

‘Our Fern will have someone who can do something with it,’ says Dad. ‘Fix the colour.’ He’s said what I’m thinking but the anxiety that floods into Mum’s face stops me backing him up.

‘You look fantastic,’ I smile.

She repays my solidarity by commenting, ‘You’re too skinny.’

‘Do you like your hotel?’ I ask.

‘Your father struggled to get into the bathroom for thirty minutes. There’s no handle on the door. You just give it a gentle push and then it sort of springs back at you.’ Mum looks smug, as she was clearly the one who conquered that particular Everest.

‘Too bloody clever for its own good,’ mutters my dad. I remember feeling just as helpless when I struggled to turn on the taps that first night I arrived here. ‘And your mother isn’t keen on the enormous tangerine-coloured mirrors; she says they make her look overcooked.’

‘It’s very spacious though, dear, very elegant,’ adds my mum. ‘And those lovely long terraces! Oh, the views, city wide! Stunning. Shame about your dad’s vertigo, though.’

Clearly they are bewildered and uncomfortable. I bet my mum hasn’t dared use the soap or disturb the towels; she probably brought her own with her. Saadi should have put them in a more traditional hotel. What was she thinking?

‘You could stay here,’ I offer, not for the first time.

‘We don’t want to be in the way,’ says Mum, gazing around my vast bedroom, which is the size of their house.

‘You wouldn’t be.’

She shakes her head and I know her decision is final. She’s a proud woman and I understand her reasoning. If it’s going to take them thirty minutes to open a minimalist door, they’d rather do that in privacy.

‘Listen, how about I get dressed and show you around?’ I offer.

Mum and Dad are overwhelmed by Scott’s place. They are, in fact, flabbergasted, a word my dad uses to describe his reaction to the snooker table, the gym, the extensive gardens and the Jacuzzis (we have one indoor and one outdoor). My mother repeatedly asks, ‘What will they think of next? A cinema in your house?’ When I show her the cinema in our house, she resorts to Dad’s response of choice; she too is flabbergasted.

I’ve lived in Beverly Hills, Hollywood, in Scott’s home, for six weeks now and I have already become entirely accepting of luxury. The funny thing about luxury is that it turns out to be more or less the same everywhere and it’s possible to stop noticing it’s there at all, thus defeating the very point of luxury, surely. In just six weeks I’ve started to expect nothing less than perfection. I’m no longer amazed by translucent fabric walls that screen glamorous and outlandish goings-on. I barely register frosted glass furniture that changes colour with the beat of the music (a challenging indigo at the beginning of the evening when lounge music drifts through conversations, then – shifting through the rainbow – a cool blue as the beat intensifies, then an invigorating green as people start to party and then finally a sinful red as the bodies and thoughts flail around the dance floor). I expect every object I encounter – whether it’s a shopping bag or a hotel lobby – to be tasteful, modish, kitsch, discreet, flamboyant or stunning; I expect everything to be, in some way, notable. Nothing is ordinary any more, so in an odd way, once again everything is. Just a different kind of ordinary.

My family are not similarly acclimatized. I realize that Fiona has arrived as I repeatedly hear her yell at her children, ‘Don’t touch that, you’ll break it!’ or ‘Be careful of that, it will be worth a fortune.’ I pour her a large G&T as quickly as I can. My younger cousins, nieces and nephews quickly strip off and dive into the pool. Most of them have had the sense to bring swimwear but a few haven’t and dive in wearing just their underwear. My mum is outraged and keeps apologizing to Scott. Scott just smiles and assures her he’s seen much worse in his pool. Thankfully, he doesn’t feel the need to elaborate.

Scott’s family are indistinguishable from mine. That shouldn’t surprise me, he’s told me all about his ordinary beginnings, but somehow I was expecting them to be in some way more extraordinary; after all, his mum gave birth to him. His mum is fussing with my mum about kids running around with bare feet and his brother is talking websites and journey lengths with my big brother. If it wasn’t for the pool, the staff and endless buckets of chilled bottles of champagne I could think we were all in Mum and Dad’s back garden having a barbecue. I ought to add that just because his mum is normal doesn’t mean meeting her has been any less terrifying. Quite the reverse. As a normal mum she’s exercised her right to treat me with polite distance and a certain amount of suspicion; after all, I am about to marry her amazing son, after the most brief of whirlwind romances – of course she’s suspicious. No matter, I’m sure we’ll become far more comfortable with one another. I’ll have to get Ben to let slip that I signed a pre-nup; that ought to allay some of her fears. I want her to know that the gold I’m digging for is commitment and a happily ever after; a grown-up life with a husband and kids. All the things Adam wouldn’t give me.

Adam? Why is he in my head? Even as an unfavourable comparison he’s unwelcome. I blame Jess for insisting on bringing him to the wedding as her guest; it’s pretty difficult to ignore his existence under those circumstances. I’ve been dreading seeing him ever since Jess asked if she could bring him here. The very thought of us meeting up fills me with cold terror, I’ve hardly been able to swallow a bite all day and yet I find myself constantly searching for even the briefest of glances of him. So far there’s been no sign.

I drift through the gentle din of polite laughter and clinking glasses and breathe in the heady perfume of fat, waxy lilies and creamy roses. I’d wanted to arrange the flowers for the party myself, especially since it was agreed that I couldn’t manage the ones for the actual wedding (I’ll be too busy), but in the end Saadi’s third assistant hired someone else to do them. It was decided that I shouldn’t run the risk of scratching my hands on rose thorns before the ceremony. The magazine that’s got the exclusive to cover the wedding specifically asked for shots of our rings (hands clasped). Colleen said that they wouldn’t like it if my hands were grazed. I can hardly complain – the florist has done a fantastic job, as good as anything I could have done. It’s silly of me to want to be so controlling; I should let go more.

The entire party looks amazing. There are über-fit waiters, dressed in surfer shorts, carrying trays of mojitos and Alabama slammers. There are dozens of all-weather pink and purple light bulbs strung in every tree; it’s still too early and warm for them to be anything more than pretty and eye-catching, but they are most definitely that. There are ice sculptures and chocolate fountains dotted between the loungers and enormous scatter cushions. Someone has removed the cream loungers and replaced them with cerise ones. There are giant scarlet inflatable ducks floating in the pool. The place screams excitement and fun.

It’s a joy to turn and see familiar faces everywhere. My friends and family beam at me as I float between them to ask if they have everything they need. As it’s my party it’s frustrating that I don’t manage to actually talk talk to anyone. We settle for pithy and pertinent exchanges; a variation on the theme.

‘Bloody hell, Fern, you are such a lucky cow’ (said with a beam – a few of which are unconditional – most are tinged with envy or disbelief).

I smile back (careful not to gloat or boast). ‘Aren’t I? Now can I get you a drink? Something to eat?’

Most of my friends are happy to get blathered on cocktails and munch the tasty treats provided; a couple of the cheekier types test the reach of my dream world by asking for Cristal champagne or caviar and oysters, although I seriously doubt they have a real fondness for either. Whatever is requested can be found and in the end my guests tire of trying to catch me out. They grudgingly accept my life is perfection and simply try to scoop up a bit of it instead.

While the party was originally intended to be an intimate get-together for family and close friends, inevitably it has grown. I spot a number of people I’ve come to recognize as ‘the cool people’, who somehow always appear out of nowhere when there’s a gathering of any significance. Mark has invited all the cool people to our wedding. He insists their beauty lends an authenticity to a Hollywood party; without them it would just be a regular party – full of loved ones and mates having fun, which (he explained seriously) isn’t enough for a Hollywood party. Mostly the cool people in LA are actors in their twenties and sometimes thirties (although none of the women are in their thirties, no matter what their birth certificates say). I recognize everyone and am momentarily lulled into the belief that the party really is full of friends but then I realize I recognize them from the silver screen and, despite the fact that they are coming to my wedding and are currently eating and drinking in my home, they couldn’t pick me out in a police line-up. Still, it’s exciting having all these amazingly beautiful and talented people splashing in my pool. No one could think anything else. I don’t know why I have to keep reminding myself that this is the case.

Besides the actors, musicians and models are liberally scattered too. While the actors exude good health (muscled bodies, light tans, white teeth), the musicians and models are wan and pale. Generally nocturnal species, they look startled and ever so slightly nauseous in daylight. I also spot famous photographers, famous movie producers, famous record producers, famous chefs and famous dogs. I recognize nearly everyone from the briefing notes Saadi has thoughtfully supplied for the wedding. She’s provided a photo and three pertinent facts about every one of our influential guests. I’m supposed to have memorized the notes by tomorrow but to be frank I’m struggling. I find one multi-million-dollar deal merges into the next and it’s hard to stay focused on the specifics. I’ll wing it tomorrow; I’m assuming that on my wedding day most people will want to talk about my dress and shoes and I won’t be grilled too closely about how Guest A made his enormous fortune or what film Guest B most recently directed.

It’s odd, but in this rich blend of guests I’ve yet to spy Lisa or Jess. It’s not until around 2 p.m. that I finally spot Lisa, Charlie and the kids arriving. Touchingly, Lisa has brought a cake and Charlie is carrying what will no doubt be a very nice bottle of wine. I fling myself into her arms, almost causing her to let the cake go splat.

‘Hey you,’ she beams as she wraps me in a gawky, problematic one-arm hug. ‘We brought gifts.’

‘But what do you bring the girl who has everything?’ says Charlie as he takes a sweeping glance at the party scene stretched out in front of him. He whistles appreciatively.