Love Lies Part 11

'Why are you telling me this? Are you trying to scare me off?'

'Yeah, I think I am.'

It won't work. Surely Scott has encountered enough women by now to know that every woman loves a cause. Every woman wants to save and fix. It doesn't matter if it's a broken toy that needs glue or broken skin that needs a kiss and a band-aid; we like to be needed. Pathetic or n.o.ble, I'm undecided, but it's where we are after eight million years of evolution. I think that's why some grannies and great-grannies look back on the Second World War with a certain amount of fondness. The bright side to the carnage and terrible bloodshed, they were at least allowed to fulfil their true vocations; make do and mend is a woman's battle cry. And there's nothing we like to mend more than a battered, vulnerable heart. Especially if it comes as a box set with a pair of emerald green eyes.

I trail a finger over his stomach. I think I might have to ask him to put his T-s.h.i.+rt back on in a minute; visual arousal isn't solely a male thing. 'Why would you want to scare me off?' I ask.

'Because it might be easier if you go.'

'In what way?'

'Because I'm beginning to realize that if you stay, everything will be different for ever more.'

Yeeeeesssssssssssssssss.

Is there anything a woman prefers to hear? I'm I'm different. I'll different. I'll make make things different for things different for ever ever more. I want to punch the air and hang out bunting but I tread carefully. more. I want to punch the air and hang out bunting but I tread carefully.

'Different isn't bad, necessarily,' I say gently.

'I know that. But I'm not sure I'm ready for it, what it all means, you know? I want to be. But I'm not sure I am.' He stares at me, practically begging me with his eyes to understand.

I think I know what he's on about. He's on about the really really rude C word, Commitment; much more pugnacious to most men than the C word that rhymes with hunt. In the past I've had many a rough encounter with the male gene that makes blokes commitment-resistant (think Adam he's a fine example) and I haven't always been that sympathetic. But I can see why Scott might think a change to his free and single status would be something to worry about; he's got a really fabulous life as is. Why would he look for anything different? I'm not up against the same problem. Personally, I hanker for something different and long for change; my life is humdrum. Or at least it was until Friday. Scott has more choice than practically any other man in the world. Fascinating that choice isn't the gift one would imagine. rude C word, Commitment; much more pugnacious to most men than the C word that rhymes with hunt. In the past I've had many a rough encounter with the male gene that makes blokes commitment-resistant (think Adam he's a fine example) and I haven't always been that sympathetic. But I can see why Scott might think a change to his free and single status would be something to worry about; he's got a really fabulous life as is. Why would he look for anything different? I'm not up against the same problem. Personally, I hanker for something different and long for change; my life is humdrum. Or at least it was until Friday. Scott has more choice than practically any other man in the world. Fascinating that choice isn't the gift one would imagine.

As though following my thought process, Scott says, 'I've never been that great with commitment. I've never really had what other people would call a girlfriend.'

'Oh, come on. What about...' Without pausing for breath I name at least five starlets and pop stars that he's dated in the recent past.

'Yeah, all nice girls,' he says, explaining nothing at all. He finishes his cigarette and then elucidates a bit more. 'But they all wanted something from me, other than me. You know. They had a record or movie to promote and it was convenient to date me for a few months, so we could be papped outside the Ivy and n.o.bu. That's what happens.'

'You are not being fair to yourself. I'm certain they enjoyed every minute they were with you,' I say hotly, perhaps showing my hand a little.

I feel distinctly uncomfortable that I'm banged up this close to his lack of self-confidence and his vulnerability. It's so close I can smell it. I preferred the pheromones. Scott's inner turmoil and on/off search for true love has also been reported in the press and unofficial biographies, in exactly the same way his laddish antics have. I've never really bought into it. Surely it's not hard for a man like Scott Taylor to find true love. If he can't, then what chance do the rest of us have?

'Maybe, but it's hard to tell with actresses. They'd reach the same climax whether they saw their face in Heat Heat magazine, I bought them a pair of Manolos or I s.h.a.gged them raw.' magazine, I bought them a pair of Manolos or I s.h.a.gged them raw.'

'Right,' I mumble, gripped with jealousy at the very suggestion that he's s.h.a.gged someone raw.

'Anyway, I always treat them like c.r.a.p in the end. Whether they turn out to be sincere or not, I usually find them stupid. I have what my psychologist calls intimacy issues.'

'You're warning me again.'

'I am.'

'OK, I consider myself warned. I'm not worried.'

'You should be. You have no idea,' says Scott, shaking his head with some sadness.

'How bad can it be?' I force a laugh because this conversation is uncomfortable and I preferred it when we talked about our favourite TV shows or even how we felt when our pet dogs died.

'It can be very bad.' Scott searches my face. I stare back. He must find whatever it is that he's looking for, because then he adds, 'And sometimes it can be very, very good.'

26. Fern

I don't use the ticket Adam gave me; I left all three stuck to the fridge. It seemed a bit immoral using Adam's perk to see Scott. I knew Scott would see to it that I had a seat and he has; someone else must have been evicted. I vaguely wonder who; a record producer? A journo? I clean forget all about calling my mates to ask if anyone wants to use the tickets for the gig tonight and so it's a pleasant surprise when I see Ben, Jess and my baby brother, Rick, filing through the throng of people and heading towards me.

I leap up and hug them all. I'm so excited by life and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with happiness that I hardly notice that my brother is mortified by this public display of affection; he practically bats me away.

Ben jokes, 'You only saw me yesterday, not a month ago don't be sloppy, darling.' As he gently pushes me away he whispers, 'Did you like the flowers?'

'Oh Ben, the shop has never looked so beautiful. Thank you.'

'He's impossible to resist, your new man,' he says with a wink.

Jess allows me to wrap her in a big hug but she doesn't look happy, she's tight-lipped and grey. I can't decide if she's concerned or jealous. If she's concerned then I'll rea.s.sure her, if she's jealous she needs to get over it and quickly she'll get lines if she keeps scowling. I decide to ignore her mardiness. 'Good initiative to hunt out the tickets and come along, Jess,' I say cheerfully. 'Sorry I haven't had a chance to talk to you today,' I garble.

'I didn't use my initiative. Adam asked me to come along,' says Jess.

'He called me too,' adds Rick.

'And me,' confirms Ben.

I'm suspicious. Is Adam planning on staging some sort of American-style 'intervention'? I didn't even know what an intervention was until I started watching Desperate Housewives Desperate Housewives. For the benefit of the uninitiated, allow me to explain. An intervention is where 'concerned' friends and family gang together to tell their loved one something their loved one doesn't want to hear; ostensibly for their own good. I watched the episode in an early series where everyone tried to tell Bree her drinking was spiralling out of control. Like she wants to hear that after discovering her current fiance murdered her first husband, her son's gay and there's dust on her pelmets. You can imagine; it went down like a bucket of steaming vomit. Why wouldn't it? Who wants to be subjected to ma.s.s bullying by their nearest and dearest; it's bad enough being on the receiving end of unasked for advice on an individual basis.

Is Adam hoping to surround me with friends and family and convince me that Scott is a dastardly villain and I ought to cease contact immediately? Perhaps even go back to him? Idiot. For one thing, Jess has already tried and failed to do as much and for another, I can't imagine either Ben or Rick intervening to try to put me off off Scott. Ben never judges and will be wild about even the remotest possibility of me hooking up with Scott because then he might piggyback his way to some fabulous parties. Ditto Rick. I don't honestly think he'd notice that I've changed boyfriends even if I do upgrade to a mega pop star and my picture appears regularly in all the glossy gossip mags. So sod off Adam. I'm a big girl now. And, pertinently, I'm not your girl. I wait for the onslaught of objections and the insistence that I do a reality check; none come. Maybe Adam didn't plan an intervention after all; maybe he simply didn't want the tickets to go to waste. Scott. Ben never judges and will be wild about even the remotest possibility of me hooking up with Scott because then he might piggyback his way to some fabulous parties. Ditto Rick. I don't honestly think he'd notice that I've changed boyfriends even if I do upgrade to a mega pop star and my picture appears regularly in all the glossy gossip mags. So sod off Adam. I'm a big girl now. And, pertinently, I'm not your girl. I wait for the onslaught of objections and the insistence that I do a reality check; none come. Maybe Adam didn't plan an intervention after all; maybe he simply didn't want the tickets to go to waste.

I don't know how Scott does it. For this is the third and final gig yet he somehow manages to scour up enough energy not only to pull off a show on a par with the previous two but somehow a show that is yet more glittering. A lesser mortal would be knackered by now and crying out for Lucozade. But Scott manages to take us all the extra mile, a mile I would have believed it impossible to travel. He has even more power than the previous two nights. He sings with a smidgen more depth and meaning. He dances with an iota more energy, he chats to the audience with a manner that's fractionally more relaxed. He's sensational.

'I don't get what you see in him,' says Rick with a shrug and an ironic grin. I smile back. I can tell Rick's impressed, he's aglow. The tens of thousands of fans jump, holler, cry, scream, clap, stamp and cheer throughout the two-hour gig. It's a storming concert and Scott is riding high in the sky. He struts around the stage, performing that magical mix of the s.e.xual and personal that makes each girl think he's performing just for her. He invites the entire crowd to be his friend. They scream like frenzied devil-wors.h.i.+ppers and pledge eternal devotion. The whole audience quivers with excitement or pa.s.sion or (according to Jess) cold. But she's wrong, it's a warm night.

Scott eventually comes on stage to sing his final song and then the encore. He repeatedly punches the air; over and over again. With every punch the crowds indulge in yet more hysterical and harried antics; women swoon, men swear, kids promise themselves they'll grow up to be rock stars.

Scott takes in the view and treats us to a wide, unrepentant smile. After some time he holds up his hands in an effort to lull the audience into quietness. They take his gesture as a sign that he's requesting more adoration and a fresh surge of madness is pushed into the night. It takes a drum roll and his repeated requests before the crowd finally hushes up and listens to what else he has to say or sing. I now know the run of the show, almost like the back of my hand. He's already sung 'Fall Apart', 'Come Back to Me' and 'Bit of Rough', 'Hate to Love', 'Demons', 'Dead Love' and 'Tell Me Something'. I search my mind for an outstanding song that he's contractually obliged to deliver, I can't think of one. It was at this point on Friday Scott sang 'Happy Birthday' and at this point on Sat.u.r.day that he sang 'Perfect Day'. I wonder if he's going to sing to me again. Oh G.o.d, I hope so. But what will he sing?

Scott's looking around the stadium; his eyes are glittering.

'Ladies and ladies and ladies and gents,' he says, acknowledging that the vast majority of the crowd are women. 'Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you for loving me.' The crowd erupts again; again he has to calm them down. 'You are brilliant, you know that? You are my lifeblood. Have I made you happy?'

The response probably registered on the Richter scale.

'I'm glad. I want you to be happy. Do you want me to be happy?'

Again they surge forward. Women fling their bras in the air in an effort to demonstrate just how happy they want to make him.

'Boys and girls and girls and girls, you amazing people, guess what?' He pauses and the crowd calms, hanging on his every word. 'I think I've found a way I can be happy.'

After his well-reported fights with addiction to drugs and booze the crowds are ecstatic to hear this. They roar their support. I wonder what he's going to say. Is he building up to a joke? Is he going to tell them whist is his new pa.s.sion? G.o.d, I hope he doesn't tell them about strip poker; my younger brother's here, he might be twenty-eight but in my eyes he's eternally a little kid.

'I think I've found someone someone who makes me happy. Someone who is a bit different from anyone before.' who makes me happy. Someone who is a bit different from anyone before.'

For the first time the crowd does not respond with a cheer. They look confused and uncertain. They turn to one another for rea.s.surance. Girls and women who have been diehard fans for years somehow immediately sense that this is the end of life as they know it. I don't sense it quite as quickly, I have no idea where Scott is going with this.

'I'm in love.' He yells. 'f.u.c.k me, I am.' He is? There's an enormous groan across the stadium and the sound of thousands of hearts cracking at once. The murmur instantly morphs from sadness to something more dangerous, more threatening; a grumble gathering momentum, growing into disappointment and frustration. The security guards look troubled. I see them dash to s.p.a.ce themselves around the stage, in case there's an influx of girls clambering to beat Scott with their cowboy hats. The security guards' eyes seem to say, 'Get Scott off the stage, this is going to turn nasty. What the f.u.c.k has he done now?' But Scott holds his nerve. I daren't breathe.

'Aww, don't be like that,' he tells his fans. 'Celebrate with me. Don't be angry with me.' He pulls his face into the lost puppy look, which I've seen before on and off stage, and people around me immediately begin to offer up a reluctant smile. He's compelling. 'You love me, right? You want me to be happy? You said so.' The crowd are disinclined to agree but have to. They did scream that just minutes ago. 'Well, I've found someone who makes me happy. So b.l.o.o.d.y happy.' Half the stadium starts to cheer, offering support. 'Come on Wembley, you can do better than that. It's Scott here. Your boy. Wish me luck.'

He offers up his most beautiful smile. All teeth and eyes. He's gleaming. He's overwhelming. He's irresistible. The crowd meet him. They cheer for him. This time they are loud and committed. He's turned them around, a full one hundred and eighty degrees, in just moments. Everyone is putty in his hands. He's happy. They want him to be happy; never before have they longed for someone's happiness with quite so much fervour. Ideally they'd want him to be happy with them but that was never really to be, so they settle for him being happy with someone else. They become wild as they comprehend. Scottie Taylor is happy happy.

I watch as he turns the tide and for a moment it's all too enormous for me. All I can think is this man is bigger than King Canute. He can can turn tides. turn tides.

Scott roars above the cheering crowd. 'I'll write even better songs because of her. I promise you. I'll be a better man because of her. I promise you. G.o.d, I hope she'll have me.' They writhe upon one another, spewing out the most tremendous roar of the three days. 'I'm going to ask her to marry me.'

I don't remember anything after that, because I faint.

27. Scott

Why the h.e.l.l not?

28. Fern

The first thing I see when I come round is Saadi. Her large brown eyes are clouded with concern but the moment she sees my eyelids flapping, indicating I'm coming round, she manages to crack a joke.

'You're not going to be able to have s.e.x tonight now. The doc said you have to rest up.'

I try to smile back but my body is still in that overly relaxed state where muscles feel like liquid play dough and I have no control.

'Where am I?' I mumble.

'Where is she?' The louder, more insistent question comes from Scott. He bursts through what I now recognize to be his dressing-room door and charges towards me, scattering the small crowd surrounding me and sending his larger entourage into a vague panic.

He swoops down on to his knees and stares at me with real anxiety. Even when his face is constricted with concern he oozes a s.e.x appeal; the type which can't be imitated, simulated or stopped.

'Quite some upstaging you pulled off there. I'm going to have to watch you,' he says to me, joking to hide his concern. Then turning to the room, 'Can we have some s.p.a.ce here, guys?'

The hordes of people, some of whom I recognize as members of the band and crew, others I don't know, oblige. Only Bob remains put. Scott doesn't seem to notice.

'I didn't mean to scare you,' he says as he strokes my hair. His eyes ooze concern. His lips are so close to mine that I'm overwhelmed by his proximity and my recovery is set back. My tongue is still behaving like a beached whale and won't respond to instruction, although the instruction is a little vague. I don't know what to say. Perhaps I want to say, 'Pinch me.'

'I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that. I'm a f.u.c.king idiot. I got carried away. I should have talked to you privately first. That's what I'd planned. I should learn to keep my big mouth shut. No self-control. That's my problem.' He drags his hands through his hair. 'Have I f.u.c.ked everything up? Are you hacked off with me?'

'No,' I mutter.

'Really?' His face is a beacon of happiness once again. 'It's just the PR team are really p.i.s.sed with me. They say I've created chaos. That I should have done things differently, but I couldn't, you know?'

'I know.'

'Who the h.e.l.l can think about selling exclusive deals to h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo! at a time like this?' at a time like this?'

'Who indeed,' I giggle.

'So that's settled then?'

'I'll marry you.'

29. Fern

We leave the gig via helicopter (it's so incredibly noisy my ears hurt but it's fast). I look down on the tens of thousands of fans swarming out of the stadium, walking back to their cars, or the tube or train, and I can't believe I'm not among those hordes. That is where I've always been. I thought it was my place. Within minutes we leave behind the marching crowd and are soon above black fields of countryside. We land in the grounds of a smart country house, one of those impressive Georgian things that pops up in movies of adaptations of Jane Austen novels.

Saadi practically jumps from the helicopter before the blades have stopped rotating; she's talking down her mobile to the person on reception just a few feet away. A number of staff in black rollneck jumpers and dark grey trousers emerge from the house and pounce on us with almost terrifying efficiency. Despite the fact that it's a balmy night they offer blankets to put around our shoulders as we make the short walk from helicopter to hall. Scott shrugs them away; politely but firmly. I follow suit, fighting the urge to collapse into giggles it's not like I'm ninety.

'There are twenty-eight bedrooms here,' Saadi tells me. The word bed practically makes me come. I glance over at Scott; he's divine. I want him with such a heady ferocity. Saadi goes on, 'We've booked the lot so there shouldn't be any privacy issues.' Privacy Privacy, that word pokes and jabs me. I am sick with excitement that within minutes Scott and I will be able to enjoy some of that privacy; enjoy each other. Saadi, oblivious to my l.u.s.ty thoughts, continues, 'We've changed hotel every night for the last three nights to keep the press from finding us, which has worked so far, although it's a pain having to pack up every morning. But if we stay longer than one night anywhere hotel staff always leak our whereabouts to the tabloids. It's frustrating.' Saadi shoots a lethal look at the bellboy who is currently scuttling past her and taking her bags upstairs. He looks terrified trialled, hung, drawn and quartered in one look; I feel a bit sorry for him. 'This lot are under contract to keep their mouths shut so we can set up camp for a few days if Scott wants to. There are bedrooms in the main house, the coach house, the stable block and the lodge. I've put you in the coach house. Scott is in the main house. There's better security there.'

'But ' I look around for Scott so that he can back up my objection. Surely we are going to share a room. 'But '

'Don't worry.' Saadi cuts me off by waving her long hand in front of my face as if pre-emptively batting away any objections I could possibly make. 'There's no security risk to you yet. No one knows who you are. Once they do we'll have to think about hiring a big burly bloke to watch your back. Scott's fans will hate you. There's bound to be trouble. There'll certainly be nasty threats, although I doubt any actual attacks, but you can never be too certain.'

'Right,' I mumble, suddenly feeling much more nervous than I ever have before. 'But ' I want to say that besides the security risk I'd like to be with Scott, my fiance. Before I get the words out Saadi starts talking again.

'Oh, don't worry. You'll have a lovely room. All the bedrooms are large, individually designed and equipped with the latest technology from Sony LCD screen TVs and Sony DVD players to wireless internet access. The bathrooms have stand-alone or sunken baths. Do you have a preference? Whichever it is I'm sure it can be arranged.'