Love Lies (63 page)

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Authors: Adele Parks

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55. FernI call Lisa.‘Ouch,’ she says when I tell her about the pre-nup. It’s nearly midnight her time, but she doesn’t appear to mind. She’s very nice about the fact that I keep crying. The children are in bed and Charlie is away on business – situation normal. She’s alone with a glass of wine and the latest novel she’s reading for her book club. I can imagine it all. Her house will be calm and immaculate; she and everything in it will give off an aura of order and self-satisfaction. Often, over the last couple of years, when my old flat became grubby beyond repair (a single dirty sock breaking the camel’s back), I’d run to Lisa’s home and take sanctuary. I love it there and not just because of the pristine and expensive fixtures and fittings or the air of almost religious serenity but because of the tangible sense of contentment; Lisa has caught it and bagged it, that most precious of commodities. I hang on her every word as though she is the Dalai Lama. She’s cracked this relationship thing. I want to get it right too. ‘So what do you think? It’s outrageous, isn’t it?’ I demand.‘Are the terms as generous as Mark says?’ she asks.‘I don’t know. I haven’t read it, but that’s not the point.’‘Isn’t it?’‘No!’‘I’d say it is. I don’t think a pre-nup is a surprise or unreasonable, considering Scott’s wealth. You just have to make sure you’ve got a good deal. Rich people do things differently. You knew that. You wanted different,’ she says calmly. Suddenly, I find her calm very annoying – almost sanctimonious. Doesn’t she understand I want Scott for ever, not on loan? A pre-nup says that this is a flimsy little effort at a marriage. I want a solid commitment. It’s no surprise that Lisa assumes this is all about the cash, that’s her take on things. I think about calling Jess but can’t bring myself to do it. If she’s in, I’m pretty sure she won’t pour on tender words of consolation and encouragement; that hasn’t been her bag of late and if she’s out I’ll be left wondering who she’s out with. Adam? The thought does nothing to calm me. She wouldn’t, would she? He wouldn’t, would he? I can’t think about that now. So next, I call Rick. After giving him a lengthy blow-by-blow account of what the lawyers said to me, and what Mark said to me, and what I said to him, and what I wished I’d said to him, and what I’m going to say to Scott and what I expect Scott to say to Mark, I pause for breath. ‘Bummer,’ says my younger brother.Then, I call my big sister Fiona. Her response is at least more in-depth, although not totally comforting.‘I can’t see that you have any choice but to sign.’Again I try to explain. ‘I’m not objecting to signing, I’m objecting to the very existence of a pre-nup and what its existence says about me and Scott. We aren’t entering this marriage with the same expectations –’I don’t get to finish. Fiona interrupts, ‘Oh, get over yourself, Fern. You’re the luckiest woman in the world. Don’t you dare muck this up. The kids are really looking forward to being bridesmaids. They’ve told everyone in school that their aunt is marrying Scottie Taylor. They’ve never been so happy. Get a lawyer, get the best deal you can and sign.’ I’ve nobody left to call.I pick up the blasted pre-nup and I read the first paragraph; it’s a hefty and confusing document. I remember my history teacher explaining that contracts used to be written in Latin, now it appears they are written in gobbledygook. I need a lawyer to explain it. I don’t know any, so I call Mark and ask him to find me one. ‘That’s hardly independent, is it, Fern?’ he says, but he sounds relieved that I’m asking for a lawyer at all.‘My other choice is sticking a pin in the yellow pages,’ I point out wearily. I’m not even sure if there is such a thing as the yellow pages in LA; it’s scary that there’s so much I don’t know about my new life. ‘I’ll ask Colleen. She’s a wedding planner, she knows all the best divorce lawyers,’ says Mark, without apparent irony. ‘I’ll get her to set something up asap.’ ‘Yeah, Mark, you do that.’ I put the phone down and curl up into a tight little ball on my bed.

56. ScottWe don’t see Fern at supper after all. There’s a whole gang of people hanging around, and she’s sent word to say she just wants a quiet one in her room. Her nutritionist sends up a bowl of snow-pea shoots, apparently rich in vitamins A, B, C and E but – let’s face it – not as tasty as chips. After supper most of the guys go to the movie room to watch a DVD and a few go to my den to play on the footie table. Ben and I wander outside to the hammocks, so we can lie on our backs and watch the stars as usual. I find this ritual the three of us have developed really relaxing; it’s a shame Fern’s not up to it tonight. ‘Have you checked in on Fern?’ I ask Ben.He sighs, flops back into the hammock and folds his long limbs in after him, in that elegant way he has.‘Yeah, I did.’‘She OK?’‘Yeah, OK.’From his tone I guess that Fern isn’t buzzing but I don’t particularly want to get into it. Luckily, nor does Ben. He doesn’t mention the pre-nup but says instead, ‘The wedding plans are exhausting her. I’ve told her she ought to have a day off from it tomorrow, before she becomes unbearably stressy.’ Fern does not plough fields or chop trees, she doesn’t even have to put a full day’s graft in at the flower shop any more, but Ben understands that they are now in a world where exhaustion is something someone suffers from after a gruelling day at the spa, a nightmare is a nail breaking and a global calamity is turning up to a party in a dress someone has seen you in before. Ben once again demonstrates that he gets this, all so perfectly, when he tells me that he has to go shopping for new T-shirts tomorrow because today he spotted Zac Efron in one like one of his (in a magazine, but when he tells the story you’d think they were having supper together). Ben’s funny. We both stare at the blue-black sky. I can’t do that pointing out the Great Bear and the Hunting Dogs and what the fuck. I think it’s all ludicrous. Honestly, you can join the stars up to draw anything you want. But I do like counting them. Tonight there are loads and I keep losing count. Ben starts to chat about whether he should take up surfing; motivation being that there are loads of fit blokes out on the surf. And he asks me about my tattoos and whether I think he should get one. Is he too old at thirty-three, he asks. I know for a fact that he’s thirty-five but I don’t call him on it. Then Ben starts to talk about Wedding Album. He’s been to the studio once or twice now and he thinks the album is amazing; I never tire of hearing him (or anyone, for that matter) say so. ‘I take in the words and it’s like taking air into my lungs, their meaning swills about, nurturing my every organ, giving life to my body,’ he says with a big, giddy grin. ‘Wow,’ I smirk back. ‘You are so gay,’ I tease.‘That is a point of fact. But you know what I mean, don’t you?’ He looks earnest and clearly wants me to get the intensity of his deep approval of my latest album. I’ve seen that solemn, desperate longing for a connection before. Often. I smile indulgently as he continues. ‘And then I breathe out and the meaning returns to where it came from, everywhere around me. These new songs chronicle the ultimate experience of life. This album is going to be huge. It’s like this album is saying Scottie Taylor has all the answers.’ ‘Which is somewhat ironic, don’t you think? I know nothing.’ I say the last sentence in a jokey quasi-Mafia voice to dispel the intensity of the confession. ‘Oh, I don’t know, you’re not so ignorant,’ says Ben. ‘I think you’ve got this living stuff sussed more than the rest of us. More than you know.’ ‘What’s the point of being sussed beyond your own understanding?’ I challenge. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’It is great being sober; you can at least spot it when someone starts talking bollocks. The problem I used to have when I got drunk so often was that I started to confuse being insensible with being invincible. Maybe that’s what I liked about it at first. At least now I’m clear that I’m not invincible; even if knowing this makes me sad. Ben sits up in the hammock. To do this well, a certain amount of grace and skill is required. Few have this but he does. The hammock sways gently as he leans back on his elbows. ‘Look around you, Scott. You’ve said yourself that no one stumbles upon success, you have to earn it, and from where I’m sitting, it appears you are up to your neck in success. You must have some of the answers.’ His confidence is touching. He reminds me of Fern, enthusiastic and optimistic – I can see why they are such good mates.‘Should I tell you something I’ve worked out?’ I ask him. ‘It’s a secret.’Ben looks excited. I think he’s expecting me to tell him how to achieve eternal life. I lean closer to him and whisper in his ear. ‘The truth is success doesn’t exist. At least, not for me. Anticipation of success is the best thing there is. It’s not finite, you see. It’s not complete or done with.’ Ben looks disappointed. He draws away from me sharply, as though I’ve just infected him with more than bad news. I go on. ‘Success never is actually. Which should be an exciting thing but turns out to be hugely frustrating. Whereas failure, failure is blocking and choking and everywhere, so that’s no good either.’ We stay silent for some moments. Ben pours himself another glass of champagne. It’s his fourth or fifth this evening, I think. He swallows it down in two gulps. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he says.‘Ask away.’‘Why are you marrying Fern?’I thought it’d be that. ‘She’s lovely,’ I say plainly.‘True, but you’ve met a lot of lovely women. Why her? I only ask because she’s my friend and as you said yourself, she’s lovely. I don’t want to see her –’ ‘Hurt.’‘I was going to say crucified. I’m expecting a fatal wounding.’I don’t even pause. ‘I’m marrying her to capture the US market and because when I’m not doing drugs nothing amazing happens and I’m bored.’The truth sits between us like a massive shard of glass; dangerous, brittle, beautiful.‘I see,’ says Ben with a deep sigh.This is an interesting moment. I like to fill my life with as many interesting moments as I can and this is definitely one. It’s dangerous and it’s faulty but it’s also honest. ‘Both those things ought to reassure you,’ I point out. ‘If I am to capture the US market I will have to be faithful and fair for a substantial period of time and I don’t plan to do drugs ever again.’ I flash him my cheeky, winning smile. It never fails. I know he’ll be flattered that we are talking so frankly. He’ll hand me his loyalty on a silver plate. In case he thinks I’m callous, I add, ‘I plan to do my best by her.’ ‘How good is your best, Scott?’‘In my career, my best is excellent. In my love life, it’s piss poor.’‘And which is Fern part of?’ I can’t answer that. I’m undecided and that lack of clarity is not something either of us can celebrate. ‘Do you think you are ready to settle down?’ he probes. ‘Settle down is such a depressing term. I don’t want to settle for anything,’ I say awkwardly. I still want to reassure him. ‘She’s going to be OK, Ben. I’m going to give her what she wants.’ ‘Which is?’‘Marriage, babies, a home. A crack at being extraordinary. I can give her more than she could ever have imagined, even in her wildest dreams. And I don’t just mean clothes and shoes and stuff. I mean the people she’ll meet, the places we’ll travel to. It will blow her mind. I can give her a fuck of a lot more than she’d ever have got out of Adam, the loser. I’m saving her from a man whose response to an ultimatum, asking for lifelong commitment, was producing a couple of blagged tickets for a gig.’ ‘How do you know about the ultimatum? Did she tell you?’‘No, she doesn’t know I know. She’s never talked to me about it. I guess she doesn’t consider it her finest hour.’‘It wasn’t.’‘Saadi told me. After Fern delivered her deadline Adam was forever procrastinating with his crew. Everyone working at the Wembley gig knew all about the fact that his girl wanted to get engaged on her birthday. He didn’t deserve her. He’s a loser.’ ‘You know, he isn’t such a loser,’ says Ben carefully.‘He let her go,’ I reply firmly.‘How could he have fought you?’‘He could have acted before she’d even met me.’Ben pauses, then sighs and says, ‘He had. He’d bought a house.’‘What?’ That’s news.Ben looks agitated, torn. ‘She doesn’t know. I never told her. I’ve often wondered whether I should have but what would the point be now? I only know because Adam let it slip the day before her birthday. He wanted it to be a big surprise. His plan was to take her there after the Friday night gig. He had the keys; he was going to do the whole carrying her over the threshold thing. Get down on one knee in the kitchen. But instead, he stayed late to work on the light sequence and when he got home they argued about you singing “Happy Birthday”. It was all such lousy timing. He’d bought the house before her ultimatum. He was just arsing about when he said he didn’t know how or whether to commit. He was trying to keep the surprise. Poor bugger.’ ‘Fuck.’‘Yeah. That’s what he thought.’

57. FernThe lawyer spends hours trying to explain to me the ins and outs of the weighty tome. It’s very dull but she reassures me that I am getting a generous deal. After only two years’ marriage or the production of a baby, whichever is sooner, I have a good chance of walking away with half Scott’s enormous fortune. The lawyer seems really happy with the arrangement. I mumble that if she’s so happy with it then perhaps she should sign it. ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Ms Dickson. This is a marvellous contract. Drawn up by the industry’s finest but very fair. No need to be petulant. You’re marrying a very generous man.’ ‘And he can prove his generosity when he divorces me,’ I mutter sulkily.‘Providing you’re faithful,’ she cautions.I haven’t asked a single question but suddenly one drops from the sky. ‘What about his fidelity?’‘If you look at page 92, clause 13.4, subsection 6, item 2, addendum 3, you’ll note that his infidelity is covered.’‘Covered? In what way?’‘In so much as his infidelity is recognized as grounds for divorce but you would not receive any extra recompense, over and above that stated on pages 45 to 71, with particular reference to clauses 17 to 17.9, subsections 4.2 to 4.7.’ ‘In English?’‘I think your fiancé’s lawyers are anticipating infidelity.’‘Anticipating it?’ I can’t keep the shock out of my voice. ‘At least acknowledging that it’s a very real possibility and therefore they’re not prepared to offer you extra compensation if that were indeed the case. But, as I say, the divorce terms are particularly generous anyway so you have little to worry about.’ Right.‘The important thing to remember is that you don’t get a penny if you ever talk about any aspect of your relationship to the press. That’s covered in multiple clauses. That’s watertight.’ As if I would. How can Scott think that of me? I pick up the hefty contract and as much of my dignity as I can scrape off the floor and go to find Mark. He’s in the second reception room. It’s one of my favourite rooms; south-facing, it’s always warm and bright. It’s definitely sunnier than my mood. Exasperated, I demand, ‘Can you explain page 92, clause 13.4, subsection 6, item – oh, you know what I’m talking about.’ Mark, Saadi and Joy look up from their work. They’re pawing over press cuttings. Every magazine and paper in the western world finds the wedding plans fascinating. There are bets running on the number of bridesmaids I’m having (ten; including three of Scott’s celeb friends I haven’t yet met), the colour they’ll be wearing (pink, although I haven’t told Jess that yet). Tabloids are battling to discover where the wedding is going to take place but the venue is top secret. Everyone who knows anything is under contract embargoing any discussion with the press; even revealing a detail as small as what we’ll be pouring is a sackable offence. Mark predicted that the secrecy would guarantee the most lucrative media deal and the most hype. He’s right on both counts but I’m still struggling to understand why either thing matters to our wedding. Mark stares at me and then turns to Saadi.‘The infidelity clause,’ she prompts. Why am I not surprised she’d know the finer details of the pre-nup by heart?‘Oh, yeah. Well, that had to be included for obvious reasons.’‘Obvious reasons?’ I ask. I hope my voice isn’t as shaky as my legs; I’m practically dancing a jig.‘Don’t get us wrong. We adore Scott and want him to be happy. We’d like to believe that the pair of you will last for ever. But…’ He leaves the ‘but’ hanging in the air. It’s damning enough to have sucked all the pleasure out of the day. I’m unsure who he means by ‘us’. The record company, the band members, Scott’s mum? I have no idea, but I suddenly feel weighed down by the sense that there is a silent army behind Scott and no one in my corner. It shouldn’t matter. We’re not at war. But it does matter. I stay silent and Mark is forced to fill in the gap. ‘Well, you know how it is. Scott gets infatuated with things. With people. Spellbound almost. We’ve seen it before. And then there’s the danger he might act on that infatuation. We’re just protecting him against any possible indiscretions he might succumb to.’ Mark, to his credit, sounds embarrassed that he has to tell me this. I’ve never seen Mark stirred before. It depresses me that he gives this subject so much weight. ‘It’s nothing to be worried about. Even when he does act –’ Mark struggles to find the right word ‘– imprudently, then the interest dries up quickly enough. On average his obsessions last twenty-four hours.’ ‘We’re all stunned that you’ve lasted a month,’ says Joy bitchily.I shoot her a filthy look and turn back to Mark. His gaze bounces around the room, resting on the drapes, the rug, the smooth obelisk ornaments; anywhere other than me. To date, I’ve been overwhelmed by the tastefulness of all that I am surrounded by. Now the room looks vulgar. It is quiet and the sun beats through the windows; I feel suffocated. ‘Even if I accept that Scott has fallen prey to these fleeting obsessions in the past, what we have is quite different. What we have is called love,’ I say firmly. Mark stands up and walks towards me. Awkwardly he puts both his hands on my shoulders and faces me. It’s the first time I can remember him deliberately touching me. It ought to be a comfort but it’s not. ‘I’m not saying he wants to have sex with anyone else, right now.’ Well, that’s a relief since he isn’t even having sex with me yet. ‘I’m saying somewhere along the line he might want to. Sex is just another compulsion for him. He can’t really help himself.’ ‘I think you’re wrong,’ I say, struggling to sound calm.Mark shrugs. I get the feeling he doesn’t much care what I think. ‘But if I am right and he does stray and you get fed up, well, he’s my boy. I have to look out for him.’Where is Scott? It never crossed my mind to go and discuss my worries about this contract with him. That’s odd. That’s not right. I think it’s because he stayed absolutely silent when the lawyers presented the pre-nup. No matter what I asked him, he played dumb. So now I’ve come to Mark, hoping he can sort it out, explain it, tidy it away. After all, that’s what Mark does. I was quickly made aware that there are a number of people who put themselves between Scott and me and I’ve co-operated when necessary, but I’d always assumed – hoped – they’d fade away as I settled into my life in LA. I realize the opposite has happened; their influence seems to have spread and stained – like billows of blood after a shark’s bite. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. ‘And if I don’t agree to sign this?’ I ask.‘Well, that’s your right,’ replies Mark. ‘You can say that you don’t want a pre-nup and that you want to go into this marriage with as much hope and as little chance as every other bride does.’ I nod, ferociously confirming this is indeed my wish. Mark shrugs, pauses and then adds, ‘But he might not go ahead. He might not want to marry you if he knows you can embarrass him in public, perhaps ruin him. He’s been damaged enough by the media. He might not want to take that risk.’ I feel as though I’ve just been dropped into a bag of spiders as every hair on my body stands up tall. I can’t lose him. I can’t. Scott has become my everything. His world is my world. I love it. I love him; everyone does. I am the luckiest girl on the planet. Everyone from Ben to Amanda Amberd says so. Lisa thinks I should sign. Fiona thinks I should sign. Even Rick thinks I should. I look at Mark and try to weigh up whether he is a dependable conduit of communication or whether he’s as much good as the ‘telephones’ Fiona and I used to make as kids. We would tie a couple of paper cups together with a piece of string, run in opposite directions until the string was taut and then bellow to one another. The message never carried around corners and all subtleties were lost. Mark smiles at me. I don’t respond. He shrugs at me; it seems a more truthful gesture.‘OK, I’ll sign it,’ I say wearily.What choice do I have? I just want to get out of the room.

58. ScottFern and I haven’t rowed but I’ve been on the receiving end of an inevitable low-grade sulk since Mark first introduced her to the lawyers. It’s to be expected, all very normal, all very predictable, but somehow, the fact that she is behaving as expected is disappointing to me. She’s not extraordinary then. She’s like all the other hundreds of women I’ve met. When I say this to Mark he sighs, ‘I hope to God you are right, son.’ ‘What do you mean?’‘I’m counting on the fact that she’s as weak and malleable as every other bugger. The last thing we need now is an autonomous philosophy emerging; that could only lead to trouble. In fact, I think you need to go and apply a band-aid. Do a bit of fussing and soothing, make her feel better about everything. Loved up. The most important thing here is that she remains head over heels about you.’ ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that’s in any doubt,’ I say huffily.‘No lad, I’m not. She was half in love with you before she met you. You saw the postcard pinned to her staff-room wall. I spotted the photo of her with your waxwork when I was scouring her albums.’ Mark isn’t going to say what we both know; being half in love with the image of me is quite different from being totally and absolutely in love with the real me. Pretty much everyone on the planet is the first; my mum is the only absolute definite in the second camp. ‘We don’t want to fuck this up, Scott, not when we’re so close and we’ve all worked so hard,’ adds Mark, warily.‘OK, OK, I’ll go and sweet-talk her.’I find her outside, stood near the pool. It’s getting dark but it’s still warm. I put my arms around her waist and kiss her neck. I feel the hairs on her body respond, confirming what we all need to know – I’m irresistible. ‘Hey, my beautiful wifie-to-be, what are you doing out here all on your own?’‘Just thinking,’ says Fern. She doesn’t turn towards me but she does lean her head back to rest on my chest; she melts into me and we both silently watch the sunset. For about three and a half minutes. I can’t stay still for longer than that. ‘Did you have a chat with Ben today?’ I asked Ben to talk to Fern about the pre-nup stuff. To point out that he thinks it’s perfectly reasonable (which he does) and that she’s done the right thing by signing (which she has). ‘Yes.’Well, that’s good, although her staunch silence suggests that I still have to put a bit more effort in. I don’t want to talk directly about the pre-nup; it’s a can of worms, so instead, I go tactical. ‘What is it you want, Fern?’ I ask with a sigh.Clever this, for two reasons. One, by calling her Fern, instead of ‘Sweets’ or ‘Petal’ – my usual endearments – I’ll make her realize I’m being very serious, taking her very seriously, etc. etc. Women love that, and, importantly, I’ll make her feel ever so slightly insecure because ‘Fern’ is a bit cold in comparison to the other forms of address. Plus, the sigh is genius because that will make her feel sorry for me; she’ll think I’m weary with trying to please her. It’s amazing how much subtext there can be in a single sentence if it’s delivered with the correct nuance. It’s always worth remembering that you can never underestimate the level of meaning women’ll load into just one question. Always better to be a step ahead. ‘I wanted the fairy tale,’ she murmurs. Her answer surprises me. It’s very honest.‘That’s what you’ve got, Sweets,’ I say, tightening my hold around her, drawing her closer to my body. I start to think about having sex with her because then my cock will stiffen and women love that too. They all love to think I can’t restrain myself around them; that they’re irresistible to me. Nothing doing, so I start to think of having sex with her and Scarlett Johansson. That does it. Fern doesn’t say anything, so I’m forced to go where I wanted never to tread. ‘This stuff with the lawyers doesn’t mean you have any less of a fairy tale, you know.’ Of course, this isn’t strictly true. Let’s face it, when reading Cinderella no one has ever seen the page where a bunch of overpaid, over-educated arseholes divide up Prince Charming’s property, have they? ‘In a way I think it does,’ says Fern, insisting on remaining committed to telling me stuff as she sees it. ‘But, actually, that’s not what I’m thinking about.’ Really? I know curiosity killed the cat. Thing is, there are times when I can be really strong and other times I’m just dead weak. Now’s one of the weak times. I don’t want to, but I find myself asking, ‘So what are you thinking about?’‘Oh, Jess and stuff.’‘Is she still acting all jealous and grumpy?’‘Something like that.’Problem is, Fern is so wrapped up in her new life she has no idea what the people left behind are feeling. This mate – all her mates – no doubt feel jealous, abandoned, resentful or just plain old-fashioned shy – I’ve seen it all in the people I left behind. And even if I’m wrong and this mate of hers is exceptional and is genuinely blissedout by Fern’s good fortune, she still won’t know how to handle herself; she won’t want to appear sycophantic or on the make so she’ll probably go too much the other way and be chilly. I’d have thought Fern would have a grip on this by now. ‘Still ignoring your calls?’‘She seems to have a very active social life at the moment,’ says Fern with a sigh. ‘She still hasn’t given me her measurements. I’ve had her dress made up in a size eight and a ten. It seems extravagant to make two, as the dresses are costing over a grand each, but –’ ‘Well, we can afford it so don’t worry about it,’ I say, turning her round and leaning her face into my chest. I kiss the top of her head; her hair smells great. ‘She can try them on when she gets here.’ ‘Mmmm, I suppose,’ mumbles Fern. She still seems distracted.‘So there’s nothing else you are worrying about, right? Everything is super cool.’Fern tilts her head up to look at me. I see something play in her eyes and almost make it to her lips. I swoop down and kiss her. Silence her. To be honest, I’ve done my share of sensitive guy stuff for tonight. Above and beyond the line of duty, I’d say. We stand there for ages just holding each other. Content just to do that. After a bit Ben comes to find us.‘Darlings, I’ve brought refreshments! Champagne supernova for me and Fern, and non-alkie drinkies for you, Scott.’Perfect.

59. Fern‘Come on, time to get up.’Ben draws back the bedroom curtains, allowing a ferocious shaft of sunlight to flood into the bedroom. He swiftly tugs my duvet off too. Luckily for us both I’m wearing pyjamas. I always do now. It’s not like I sleep with anyone who might appreciate the feel of my naked skin pressed up against theirs, plus living here is a bit like living in a hotel; you never quite know when someone is going to bring flowers into the room or adjust the air-con or something. Birthday suits are not an option; I’d rather save everyone’s blushes. ‘What is it today?’ I ask as I swing my legs out of bed. I manage to make it into the bathroom without actually opening my eyes; quite a feat. I’m so tired. Who would have known that the quest for perfection could be so exhausting? ‘Forty minutes in the gym, then sauna, swim, shower, blow-dry and then we need to meet Colleen and the photographer to footprint the wedding.’ ‘Footprint the wedding?’‘Walk through the event to decide on the best photo opportunities.’‘I thought we agreed that the photographer was going to be discreet and unobtrusive. I wanted natural reportage shots,’ I yell over the sound of my electric toothbrush. ‘Of course you do, darling. They are by far the loveliest. We just want to know where exactly those reportage shots ought to be taken so that we get everybody’s best side,’ says Ben, seemingly unaware of the crazy contradiction. My mouth is full of toothpaste so I can’t argue, and by the time I’ve done a full two minutes for both upper and lower set (as instructed by the hygienist), the conversation has moved on and I can’t be bothered to pick it up again. I’m finding it’s often easiest to go with the flow. After visiting the gym, the stylist and the wedding venue, I insist that Ben and I go for lunch and I also insist that we have pizza, chips and full fat Coke. Ben appears scandalized and says he’s going to tell on me. My nutritionist and Colleen will have kittens; they’ve decided I still need to lose more weight before the wedding; perhaps I could cut my toenails and have my hair trimmed again. I ensure Ben’s silence by offering to pay for lunch and buy him the set of matching luggage from Louis Vuitton he’s been coveting. We make a brief stop at Rodeo and then go to eat. After just one bite I decide that I don’t care I’ve had to spend thousands of dollars to be allowed carbs. The pizza is sublime; it seems like good value to me. Ben squeezes my hand. ‘You know, you didn’t really have to buy the very stunning luggage – although thank you, thank you, thank you – I’m just delighted that we are out together. I would have let you cheat the diet without telling.’ ‘You say that now!’ I laugh.‘It’s been such a long time since we’ve had a good old scandalous natter.’‘And even longer since we talked about anything other than the wedding,’ I add.‘It is becoming all-absorbing.’ ‘Can I tell you something?’ I lean closer to whisper in Ben’s ear although I seriously doubt there’s any press about as we’ve picked a grimy, low-key pizzeria – much to Ben’s disgust. But I thought a change is as good as a rest and, somehow, I was hankering after a place with plastic tablecloths and hopeless waiters. At least this way we won’t be continually disturbed by someone refolding our napkins or pouring gallons of water every two seconds; that level of attention is distracting and detrimental to a good old gossip. Still, I take the precaution of whispering; I’ve learnt that I have to be careful about everything I say in public now. ‘Tell,’ urges Ben.‘I’m using the wedding to suppress my sexual desires.’‘What?’ Ben looks surprised, confused and amused.‘I once read, somewhere, that in the old days – when soldiers were serving long stretches away from their wives or even a convenient lady of negotiable affection with loose lips and knicker elastic – their superiors used to put bromide in their tea to suppress sexual urges. My equivalent is planning the wedding.’ ‘You’re insane,’ shrieks Ben.‘Not really, not when you think about it. Weddings are all about romance, the lace and flowers and white dress sort of romance. They have nothing to do with lust and shagging and lewdness. Perhaps they are supposed to be, that’s what relationship experts would have us believe, but it’s not actually the case.’ Ben is laughing out loud now. ‘Women, you’re a funny lot. I’ll never understand you. It’s such a relief I have no ambitions that way.’ ‘If they were honest, I’m sure most brides would agree that being taken roughly, behind the rose bushes on their wedding day, is the very last thing on their mind. The dress will get creased, perhaps muddy – oh, hell on earth – maybe even torn.’ Ben chuckles some more. ‘And here’s me thinking that was the exact reason you asked Colleen about the thickness of the foliage in the hotel today.’ ‘The purpose of the rose bushes is to make a nice backdrop for the photos. The copious champagne consumed is not to make the bride feel frisky, it’s to make her feel pretty and chatty and expensive. Wedding days are refined, exquisite, look-don’t-touch days and every bride knows it,’ I say firmly. ‘I think that’s why I’ve recently found I’m handling Scott’s sexual embargo better than I expected.’ I cram a really fat slice of pizza into my mouth and chew. The cheese sticks to my teeth. Something like surprise or concern, certainly extreme interest, flickers across Ben’s face. ‘You mean you aren’t desperate to do Scott.’ The funny thing is, no, I’m not. Or at least, I’m not as desperate as I was a month ago. I know this is back to front. I know my desire should be increasing, but no, no, I’m not. The shock on Ben’s face stops me from saying quite this much. He’s looking at me as though I’m a circus freak. ‘Of course I am. I’m just saying that I find if I concentrate on the wedding plans, the impulse to hijack Scott at every given opportunity slowly subsides. He’s the same. He channels his energies into Wedding Album. We’ve both had to find distractions or else we’d go insane. As it is, I eat, sleep, breathe wedding plans.’ ‘Yeah, well, that’s understandable. You’ve wanted this day for such a long time – longer than you’ve been engaged, actually.’‘Thanks, Ben, I’m pretty sure that’s the sort of thing a friend is supposed to conveniently forget,’ I say as I reach for my Coke. ‘Although all the hours you put into planning a wedding to Adam were wasted, weren’t they? You could have used your time more wisely, perhaps tried to find a cure for the common cold. I mean, besides the fact you were never actually engaged to Adam, it’s not like any of that learning can be recycled. The plans you made then just don’t compare to the wedding you’re actually going to have.’ True. When I imagined my wedding to Adam I took into account that there would be budget constraints. I imagined that a fair amount of time would be spent walking from one shop to the next, comparing prices and hunting for sales stuff and cheap deals. I also expected to have to cut corners by perhaps making the invites myself: I’d have arranged the flowers, my mum would have made the cake and perhaps we’d have bought the bridesmaids’ dresses off eBay. Funny to think I got so much pleasure planning that simple wedding. Naturally, planning my wedding to Scott is quite unlike anything I could have imagined. For a start I don’t take a step out of doors; everyone comes to me with their wares. I never look at a price tag; well, there aren’t any – and it’s clear that I’m being shown the sort of things that if you have to ask how much they cost you can’t afford them. I can afford anything. However, I find I’d still prefer to know prices. I like to make choices based on the best value for money – it’s what I’m used to. ‘You’re right. This wedding is nothing like the wedding I imagined.’ I push the final slice of pizza into my mouth. Ben hasn’t eaten half of his. He’s trying to shift a few pounds for the wedding too. He’s likely to be more successful, as he enjoys being a gym bunny. I nibble a chip and add, ‘In fact, no matter how many lists Colleen and Saadi provide me with, I’m not sure exactly what this wedding is like. Obviously, it will be beautiful, exquisite and gorgeous, that much is clear from the mood boards, samples and books that litter the many, many rooms of Scott’s house. It’s just that it has become hard to keep track of all the detail.’ ‘Well, it is a twenty-four-hour event with one thousand guests,’ points out Ben.‘Many of whom I’ve never met in my life, a few of whom Scott hasn’t met.’‘All the more reason to impress them,’ says Ben as he carefully puts his knife and fork together and pushes his plate away. He flings his paper napkin over the chips to put temptation out of sight. ‘For example, I’m not sure what we decided to have for a starter. In the end, did we settle on the ballotine of foie gras marinated in white port, served on toasted brioche, or did we choose the ravioli of blue lobster and salmon, with a basil dressing?’ ‘We chose the ballotine of foie gras.’‘Really? And what is ballotine anyway?’Ben laughs. ‘Oh, don’t worry. Put these details out of your head. That’s why you’ve employed Colleen. Anything you aren’t sure about will just be a lovely surprise on the day. It’s almost like being a guest. A guest and the centre of attention at once. What could be finer?’ What indeed?Ben passes on dessert but I order banoffee pie. Just as I’m spooning the first delicious bite into my mouth, Ben asks, ‘Have you heard from Adam?’ Suddenly Coke and banoffee pie no longer seem enough; I could really do with a glass of wine. ‘No, why would I hear from him? We’ve said all we have to say to one another.’This isn’t actually as true as I’d like it to be. I can’t count the number of times I find myself going over an imaginary conversation I want to have with Adam. Mostly these consist of me saying, ‘And another thing…’ How dare he warn me about Scott’s behaviour? How dare he imply that I’m rushing into this marriage? Oddly, these imaginary conversations bother me less than the other types of conversation that run through my head; the ones full of sweet memories rather than angry reprisals are much more distressing. Plus there’s something I daren’t confess even to Ben.I’ve been having a lot of sexy dreams recently. No doubt it’s my subconscious dealing with the lack of any conscious sex with Scott, and the other night I had the most sexy dream ever. This dream was full of deep back-of-throat groans as his hand worked his way over my body, his kisses trailing along behind. Starting at my neck, over my breasts, slipping down, down, sliding from my waist, to my stomach, to my thigh. The kisses scampered over my body and then his head was between my legs. He looked up, asking for acceptance, receiving my gratitude. His face was in the shadow. His arms were scooped under my legs; my knees were bent. His breath was hot on my skin. He started to kiss me there; he licked and lapped and I bucked my delight as I spilt for him. Grabbing his hair I pulled his face towards mine. I wanted to taste me on his lips, his lips on me. Adam. The eyes were chocolate brown, not sparkling green. Adam!The shock woke me from the dream instantly. Remembering it now causes me to blush again. It’s wrong. Wrong. I shouldn’t be dreaming of Adam! My heart was beating so fast with shame and panic it took me a good hour to fall asleep again. Of course this dream doesn’t mean anything. It’s just because Scott and I haven’t actually had sex that somehow my memories got muddled up in my fantasies. But still. ‘Is he coming to the wedding?’ asks Ben.‘I’m not sure. As you know, Jess has invited him. I don’t know whether he’ll come. I don’t even know if she will.’‘Why do you say that?’‘She’s never threatened a no-show but clearly things between us are strained, which is horribly sad. Initially I thought she was a little bit jealous, but since my phone call with her, when she asked if she could bring Adam, I’ve been inclined to think the awkwardness between us is something altogether more complicated.’ This is the first time I’ve hinted to Ben that Jess and Adam may possibly be getting together. I’m not sure why I’ve found it difficult to broach the subject; maybe because we are always with other people or maybe because I don’t want to hear Ben say Adam and Jess were always destined for one another, that they make a perfect couple, and it’s none of my business who Adam dates now. ‘They’ll come,’ Ben says confidently, giving me a big reassuring smile.The thing is I’m not sure if their attendance is something to smile about or not.

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