Love Lies Part 13

'But who is responsible for my dreams and my happiness?'

I almost answer, Saadi, Mark, the enormous entourage that follows him around twenty-four-seven, but I bite my tongue. I don't think that's what he means.

'It's a big responsibility making all those people happy,' he adds.

'Huge,' I agree.

'And I thought you might be the best person to, you know, share it with me.' I offer up an enormous unconditional grin. 'I've known for a long time that the world is a big place, almost too big. I think that's what the dependency on the drink and the drugs is about. Or at least that's part of it. But I've been thinking it might not be so lonely if you were, you know, hanging around it with me.'

'Why me?' I ask. Because I have no idea. Really, absolutely none.

He smiles. 'I don't know why exactly but I'm sure it is you.' We're sat opposite each other. He rests his bare foot on my chair. I fight the urge to kiss his feet and suck his toes. I s.h.i.+ver with the effort of restraining. h.e.l.l, he's magnificent.

'I'm not cool,' I warn.

'I like that in you. You're fun, and fun tops cool any day of the week. Besides, it's not all going to be palatial living and parties for you.'

'Isn't it?' I pretend to sound disappointed.

'I'm a bad man. Remember. I told you.'

'Yes, I remember.'

'Do you think you can make me good?'

'I don't even want to.'

Scott laughs so hard that he nearly chokes on his orange juice. He points at the enormous pile of papers now casually discarded and littering the s.h.a.ggy rug. 'Do you think you might be able to forget who I am?'

'Do you want me to?'

'Yes.'

'Really?' I probe.

'No, not really,' he laughs again. 'Cos I'm a G.o.d out there.'

We laugh once more. Delighted in each other.

32. Fern

Some of the hundred people who invaded my room this morning brought with them a whole new wardrobe for me. Scott dismisses the rail of clothes as a mere trifle.

'Just something to tide you over until we '

'Pick up my old stuff.'

'I was going to say until we get to the shops together.' Scott shrugs as though he doesn't mind either way.

As I start to look through the rail of stunning clothes I doubt that I will be bothering to pick up anything I own. More than likely it will all look shabby next to this lot. Carefully I trail my fingers along rows of chic skirts and s.h.i.+rts. There are at least a dozen pairs of jeans; boot cut, flare, straight, boy cut, high-waisted and spray on. There are piles of soft T-s.h.i.+rts in a.s.sorted colours and numerous floaty dresses in florals, stripes and block colours. It's as though a whole department of Selfridges has been s.h.i.+pped to my door. It's the first time since I've met Scott that I've stopped fantasizing about making love; now all I can think of is dressing up. I check out the labels surrept.i.tiously. There are high-waisted pencil skirts and tailored jackets by Alexander McQueen, blazers by Viktor and Rolf, trousers by Chloe, tops by Miu Miu and Sportmax, dresses by Dior. I have never owned what you'd call a designer piece in my life unless you count the copycat Hermes travel bag that Adam bought me last Christmas and tried to pa.s.s off as the genuine thing. I gasp as I finger the silky fabrics and admire the neat, precise tailoring. Scott grins and nods to a wall of s...o...b..xes stacked behind the rails of clothes.

'Oh wow!' I pounce on the boxes, flinging the lids aside like toffee wrappers, diving on the shoes, all carefully cosseted in tissue. Christian Louboutin, Kurt Geiger and Jimmy Choo heels, Escada pumps and Pied A Terre boots. Opium for shoe-holics.

I check the sizes. Everything is my size; top, bottoms, even shoes. I pounce on the frilly underwear; even the bra size is spot on.

'How did you know my sizes?' I gasp, amazed at the plethora of goodies at my feet.

'Saadi knows how to find out about that sort of stuff. She probably asked your friends.'

'Did she pick these out for me? She has exquisite taste.' I hold up a jade wrap dress and look at myself in the mirror. Just my colour.

'No. More likely one of Saadi's a.s.sistants or someone at the store.'

'How many a.s.sistants does Saadi have?'

'Not certain. Two at least, maybe three.'

My fiance's a.s.sistant has a.s.sistants two or three of them. This is off the scale. I can barely comprehend. I pull from the rail a pair of Diesel jeans and a pristine Agnes B T-s.h.i.+rt; mentally I toss away my high-street-purchased wardrobe at home. Once loved, all now seem slightly greying and fraying.

'I'll want to collect my photo alb.u.ms and books from the flat though. And my pink Roberts radio. I love it. Mum and Dad bought me it last Christmas.'

'Yeah, I like those too. I think I have one or two.'

'In pink?'

'No. I have a cream one, a powder blue one and Paul Smith did me a customized stripy one. But we can get you a pink one, no problem.'

'Like I said, I have one. I just need to pick it up.'

He looks at me quizzically. Obviously in Scott's world it's easier to buy new rather than go to the effort of retrieving an old anything. 'Fair enough. We do need to go back to your flat for your pa.s.sport so we could pick up your other stuff then.'

'Pa.s.sport?' I ask.

'Yeah, I was originally planning on flying out today but I guess we need to hold off a few days. I want to meet your ma and pa. And I want you to meet my mum but we have to be in LA by Friday latest. I've got to be in the studio by then.'

'LA?'

'That's where I live.'

Oh, yes. He does, doesn't he. I'd forgotten that. I remember reading about it in one of my gossipy mags some months back. Scottie found the press intrusion into his life unbearable here in the UK and so he took flight. Most enormous British A-listers end up living in LA because the Americans like success, whereas we British hate it or at least are so cripplingly jealous of it we feel an animalistic desire to destroy anyone who has achieved it.

I've never been to LA. To be frank, I haven't been anywhere much. A few clubbing holidays to Ibiza and Greece when I was in my late teens and early twenties. Adam and I went to Edinburgh for a long weekend last year. I went with him to a gig in Hamburg once but it wasn't what you'd call a holiday; he was working and I almost drowned in the constant sheets of rain. Plus I developed a visual intolerance (bordering on repugnance) to frankfurters; seriously, I threatened that if I saw just one more I'd use it to batter Adam to death.

We kept talking about going to Paris but we never did.

LA is year-round suns.h.i.+ne, mountains and beaches, white teeth, tanned bodies and a load of shops. What's not to love? OK, so there's more than a bit of Botox; still, I can see myself living there. Yes. Why not? I take a deep breath.

'Can you send someone to pick up my pa.s.sport and things, if I make a list? I don't want to go back into London.'

Scott grins at me. 'You're getting the hang of this rich and shameless thing, aren't you? Sure we can send someone to pick up your stuff, but as for your ma and pa, that we are going to have to do in person.'

33. Fern

Yes, my ma and pa, as he calls them.

On the one hand I'd like to believe that my mum and dad are going to be thrilled at my enormous good fortune, and yet I can't help but feel nervous they might not be quite as ecstatic as I'd like them to be; after all, Jess and Lisa haven't exactly bowled me over with their enthusiasm for my whirlwind romance. I tried to call both of them this morning but Lisa's phone went straight to voicemail (suggesting she was on the nursery school run and couldn't pick up) and Jess had her phone switched off. Ben's been the most supportive, even though he was with the cranial osteopath and couldn't talk for long. He isn't ill or injured, he just fancies the pract.i.tioner and makes up aches and pains every month. He had time to tease me about not working out my notice and told me to enjoy the ride; he then laughed in an especially mucky way which left little to the imagination in terms of which ride he was referring to.

But my parents?

Scott is keen for us to visit each other's parents as soon as. I say I'd rather put in a call and visit in a few weeks. After all, we haven't had that much time to ourselves yet (three and a half days and counting). Mark says meeting the parents is a PR opportunity and has to be managed with great care; we shouldn't rush things, and while I don't see meeting my future mum-in-law as a 'PR opportunity' I am grateful for the delay, which feels horribly like a stay of execution. Scott and his mum are reportedly very close. What will she make of his impulsive proposal?

'OK, my fabulous Fern, if that's what you want, I can roll with that but you ought to call your folks before the papers do.' Scott tosses my mobile at me. Although he's only a couple of feet away, I don't manage to catch it coolly with one hand, instead I drop it and have to scrabble on the floor to pick it up. He grins indulgently, delighted even with my gaucheness. 'I'll give you some s.p.a.ce.'

I don't want s.p.a.ce, I want s.e.x. I can't take my eyes off his b.u.t.t as he leaves the room. I'm consumed with the thought of it naked and honest, framed between my clinging thighs. Oh. My. G.o.d. He's l.u.s.t on legs. It's horribly frustrating that Scott and I have yet to make love; I'd much rather do that than call my parents. If only we could get a moment alone; it never seems to happen. Still, I guess Scott's right, I can't let a tabloid journo break this news to my relatives. The thought of my parents dampens the l.u.s.ty fire in my mind; suddenly I'm consumed with quite a different sort of giddiness.

Why am I so nervous about calling them? They'll be thrilled, won't they? Of course they will.

The phone rings about eight times before anyone picks up. I'd told myself I'd allow it to ring ten times before I gave up. In fact, I know that my parents are always losing the handset and when the phone rings, general panic ensues in their home as they turn the place upside down in a desperate bid at rediscovery.

'h.e.l.lo.' My father sounds breathless. Why, I'm unsure. They've lived in the same small three-bedroom house for forty years, how can searching a tiny, familiar place result in breathlessness?

'Hi Dad, it's me.'

'I'll get your mother.' So far so good. Situation normal.

'h.e.l.lo love,' says my mum. 'Did you have a nice birthday? I've been meaning to ring you to ask if you got our card, there was a tenner in it. Did you get it? You can't be too sure when you send money through the post, can you? I was reading something in the Daily Mail Daily Mail the other week and it said that certain disreputable postmen target birthday cards and steal them because they often have money in them. That's why I wrapped your tenner in a piece of paper and then put your card in a brown envelope. No postman is going to spot that. Anyway I was intending to call but Mrs Cooper ' She pauses for a nanosecond to see whether I interject with the token grunt that will suggest I have a clue who Mrs Cooper is. I don't grunt in time so she launches on. 'You remember. Her from up the road who was married to the smiley bald man with gla.s.ses but he had a heart attack last Hallowe'en. Tragic. Well, she invited me over to look at her holiday photos. She's been on a world cruise. Can you imagine? A singles holiday at her age! Mind, I'm not knocking it, she looks marvellous. But she had alb.u.m after alb.u.m to get through and she's such a chatty sort I couldn't get a word in edgeways. So I'm glad you called. But I would have got round to it as soon as I'd finished with the ironing and wormed the dog ' the other week and it said that certain disreputable postmen target birthday cards and steal them because they often have money in them. That's why I wrapped your tenner in a piece of paper and then put your card in a brown envelope. No postman is going to spot that. Anyway I was intending to call but Mrs Cooper ' She pauses for a nanosecond to see whether I interject with the token grunt that will suggest I have a clue who Mrs Cooper is. I don't grunt in time so she launches on. 'You remember. Her from up the road who was married to the smiley bald man with gla.s.ses but he had a heart attack last Hallowe'en. Tragic. Well, she invited me over to look at her holiday photos. She's been on a world cruise. Can you imagine? A singles holiday at her age! Mind, I'm not knocking it, she looks marvellous. But she had alb.u.m after alb.u.m to get through and she's such a chatty sort I couldn't get a word in edgeways. So I'm glad you called. But I would have got round to it as soon as I'd finished with the ironing and wormed the dog '

'Mum, I'm engaged.'

'Well, I'm speechless!'

This is a lie. Because no sooner does she mutter that sentiment than she starts to yell to my dad. 'Ray, Ray, our Fern and Adam are getting married. He's popped the question. At last.'

'No, er, Mum, that's not right actually. Adam didn't pop the question,' I interject desperately.

'Oh my G.o.d, Ray. She's gone all modern on us. Our Fern asked Adam Adam and it's not even a leap year.' and it's not even a leap year.'

'No, Mum. That's not what I'm saying.' I'm almost yelling in my effort to be heard above her excitement.

'But you are engaged?' she asks suspiciously.

'Yes. But not to Adam,' I say at last.

Now she is is speechless. speechless.

Eventually she mutters, 'Then who?'

'Scottie Taylor.'

'I, I, I know the name.' My mum stutters, confused and unsure. 'Did you go to school with him?'

'No.'

'To college?'

'No.'

'Well, who the h.e.l.l is this lad you are engaged to?' she questions.

'Scottie Taylor, the pop star.'

'Stop being a silly sod.'

'I'm not,' I insist.

The longest silence in our relations.h.i.+p follows and is brought to a close when Mum finally says, 'Talk to your father.'

I hear bewildered and angry snarls pa.s.s between the two but this isn't odd. Devoted as they are to one another, they haven't swapped a pleasant word for over ten years. I don't need to a.s.sume that my parents' bewilderment or anger is necessarily anything to do with the news I've just delivered. It might be that Mum has completed Dad's crossword thus cheating him out of the satisfaction of entering the final letters or it might be that Dad has hung the was.h.i.+ng out in a way that does not meet Mum's exacting standards.

'What's all this b.l.o.o.d.y nonsense about you being engaged to a pop star?' demands Dad.

Or it might be my news.

I convince Dad that I'm serious. I refer him to his paper (he takes the Mail Mail every day of his life; he swears it's just for the crossword) and I explain as best I can the circ.u.mstances of the proposal. every day of his life; he swears it's just for the crossword) and I explain as best I can the circ.u.mstances of the proposal.

'So you've been carrying on with this Scottie fella behind Adam's back for a while now, have you?' asks Dad, not bothering to hide his disapproval.

'No!' I a.s.sure him. 'I only met Scott on Friday.'

'Last Friday?'

'Yes.'