Love Lies Part 16

'Yeah.' Scott grins as I lunge at the bed and immediately begin bouncing up and down on the ocean of black Egyptian cotton and turquoise silk throws. He doesn't join me but starts to empty his pockets on to the bedside table; a packet of f.a.gs, a packet of orange tic-tacs and a small notebook. He jots down ideas for lyrics all the time.

'Don't you just want to bounce on this bed every single night of your life?' I ask.

'I do actually, Sweets,' he says with a slow s.e.xy smile.

I can't help myself. I know Scott is my fiance now, and I am in fact desperate to bounce up and down with him, so a veiled reference to s.e.x shouldn't have me turning the colour of an overripe tomato, but h.e.l.l it's Scott Taylor Scott Taylor. I still can't quite believe it.

'No. In this instance I didn't mean like that. I meant don't you just want to jump on the bed because it's enormous? For that matter, don't you want to skateboard up and down the hallways just because you can? And don't you want to run around the house just, well, laughing at the sheer b.l.o.o.d.y ludicrousness of everything being so d.a.m.ned big?'

Scott smiles at me. It's an odd smile, almost regretful. 'No, I've never done that.'

I stop bouncing for a moment. 'But, at first you did, hey? When you got your first huge, posh flat or I don't know...' I search my head for the most exciting boy toy that would likely inspire unchecked exuberance. 'Your first Ferrari.' I understand that he has three now.

Scott's smile drops off his face and sinks to I don't know where, somewhere too deep to retrieve. 'You know, Fern, I don't think I ever had your enthusiasm for it all. I mean I like it. I love being rich and having nice stuff, of course. But the actual things things, they let me down.'

'In what way?' I sit down on the edge of the bed and he sits next to me.

'Well, take those Bang and Olufsen BeoLab5 speakers, for example, I thought owning those would make me happy. Being able to spend five grand on speakers should make you happy, right? And they did, but only for a tiny, tiny amount of time and that's not happy enough. So they sort of let me down.'

'But they work well, hey? They do something special?' I ask. Unsure exactly what they could do to justify a five grand price tag. Perhaps they make a cup of tea while pumping out music or run around with the vacuum if the place ever needs it.

'Yeah, they work. The acoustic lens technology means that music is projected around obstacles so you can place them up against a wall without distorting sound. But that's not my point. What I mean is, however much stuff I cram in my life it doesn't feel full.'

'Oh Scott, please don't give me the money doesn't buy you happiness routine. Because let me remind you, honey, being broke isn't such a giggle either.'

Scott's grin bounces back on to his face. 'You are so straight up. I love it. You're going to tell me I haven't been shopping in the right places, hey?'

'No.' I lean towards Scott, our foreheads are touching. We hold unblinking eye contact. We are so close to each other that our breathing is all muddled up and his breath out is my breath in. 'From the look of this place you have definitely been shopping in the right places, just not with the right people.'

'Are you the right person?'

'Yup, Scott. I am.'

'So this is what it's like; moving from the multiple choice to the singular?' he asks.

'Yes, in this and all matters of intimacy you'll find less is more.'

He kisses me. And I kiss him back. Tender for a moment and then ravenous. At last! We start to devour each other. His touch is desperate, swift and mind-blowing. His fingers burn me but the scalding sensation is totally pleasurable. I'm fettered to his lips just as though he'd tied me up; I never want to be anywhere other than here. Tinder in his hands, I feel I'm about to explode with wanting and desire. He starts to tug at my clothes and his own. For once, he doesn't seem in the slightest bit practised, he's clumsy with nerves or excitement. He doesn't know whose b.u.t.tons or flies to loosen first and nor do I. Our fingers become tangled with one another. Never before have just days of abstinence created this intense build-up of l.u.s.t in me, but as Scott pushes me back on to the black sheets, I swear I can hear the blood pounding around my body; in my heart, in my head, in my silky, frilly Agent Provocateur panties.

There's a knock at the door.

'Go away,' shouts Scott, breaking from our kisses, just for a moment.

The knock is repeated, this time louder and more forceful.

'p.i.s.s off.' He's also louder and more forceful.

The door opens and Mark, Scott's manager, walks in. So far I've had little to do with Mark. We nod at one another and pa.s.s pleasantries but nothing more. Saadi deals with me. Mark deals with Scott. I thought Scott would deal with everything: me, Mark and Saadi. I thought he'd be in charge, but I'm beginning to understand that is not the case. I think Mark is in charge. I suppose if I'm to continue Saadi's a.n.a.logy that we are all a team, then Mark is the manager and Scott is the captain. Saadi's in goal. And what am I? I'm left field at the moment; I'd rather be a striker. I shake my head, this is madness; I don't even like football.

Mark has been in the music business since he dropped out of art college in the 70s. No one needs qualifications in this business. They need wits and talent, and as intrusive as I find Mark's presence (particularly at this moment!) I have to admit he comes with bags of both. He's in his fifties and has resisted the stereotype of looking, dressing or behaving like an old rocker. He does not have long hair, nor does he wear skinny jeans, from what I've seen he does not screw groupies and he's done enough drink and drugs in the past that nowadays he is happy with an orange juice and a packet of crisps. He looks like an easy-going uncle. He's bald, tubby and generally affable. He looks as though he buys his clothes in Marks & Spencer (although it's more likely to be Bond Street).

Scott told me that in the mid and late 70s Mark managed a number of rock legends. In the 80s he snorted his fortune and then spent a number of years getting clean and starting up again; first with small bands one-hit wonders and then he stumbled across Scott. I think Mark saw a lot of himself in Scott. Raw talent that needed channelling and controlling, otherwise income and opportunity would be blown away or rather, sniffed up. Mark has made Scott very, very rich and obviously has done quite nicely out of the arrangement too. It's clear that this time he's not going to let his fortune slip through his fingers like sand through a gla.s.s timer. He's staying sober and in charge. This is never clearer than when he sits on the bed next to Scott and me and starts to talk business, without so much as apologizing for interrupting our pash sesh.

As I mentioned, it's a big bed. I'm in no danger of actually coming into physical contact with Mark but even so I feel an irrational sense of claustrophobia; something like you expect to experience in a crowded lift. My s.h.i.+rt is unb.u.t.toned and I'm flas.h.i.+ng my bra, for goodness sake. I scrabble to the opposite side of the bed and hurry to make myself decent; I run my fingers through my hair and use the back of my hand to rub away my lipstick, which is, likely as not, smeared all around my mouth. I flash a look of resentment at Mark but he doesn't seem to notice.

Genially, he says, 'I'm not interrupting anything, am I? Plenty of time for all that. I just wanted to bring you the press so we could share the initial reactions to your engagement announcement.'

'Couldn't that have waited?' snaps Scott. I notice that he has grabbed a magazine and is holding it on his lap, obviously waiting for the evidence of our session to subside.

Mark doesn't answer directly. Instead he drops the papers on the bed. 'These are the British ones. Afternoon editions mostly. We'll see the full story tomorrow in the British press and with a bit of luck here in the US.'

I can't believe he's interrupted us to show us the Evening Standard Evening Standard. Scott doesn't pick up the paper. He continues to glare at Mark; he's clearly p.i.s.sed off. I pick up the paper, just to be polite. The headline reads FERN d.i.c.kSON IS THE ONE. It's weird to see my name in print. I read the story. They describe me as a twenty-seven-year-old beauty, who runs her own florist's.

'But I'm thirty,' I say to Mark. 'And the flower shop is Ben's, he runs it. I work in it.' I wonder if Ben will think I told them differently.

'Yeah, yeah, love, I know all that. But thirty isn't a romantic age, is it?' says Mark.

'Well, I thought not, but then I met '

'Look, you'll thank me when you are thirty-five and they have you down as thirty,' he continues.

'But that wouldn't add up.'

'The thing about them saying you own the florist wasn't me, though. I did give the real deal on that stuff. I thought the humble background thing would wash really well. But journos don't listen. They come to press conferences or interviews, make a big thing about recording the proceedings and asking what is on or off record and then they publish a load of c.r.a.p anyway. You're lucky, they could have had you down as an ex-model.'

'No they couldn't,' I say with a laugh.

'Yeah, they could. You did that catwalk thing at school.'

How does Mark know that? I told Scott, he must have mentioned it. How sweet! He must be talking about me all the time, the way people do when they are besotted with someone. The way I would talk about him if I could get through to either Jess or Lisa.

'It was a fundraiser. I modelled the clothes I'd made in home economics. An elasticized top and a pair of pedal pushers. All the girls in my home economics cla.s.s did the same, that's hardly modelling.'

'I'm just saying the press might have made that your thing.' Mark shrugs carelessly. We three sit in a loud silence until Mark gets the hint. 'Oh, got it, right. I'll let you get back to it.'

'Yeah, let's catch up tomorrow, hey?' shouts Scott as Mark closes the door. We lie back and stare at the ceiling. We're finally alone but the needy l.u.s.t of earlier seems to have been dampened. Mark is a heavy cologne user, I can still smell his aftershave lingering in the room it's almost as though he's still here with us, which is quite some pa.s.sion killer.

'We'll have tonight though. I'll make it special for you,' Scott says, reading my mind and kissing my nose.

And the antic.i.p.ation alone creates a feeling of creamy yumminess, much like wading into warm sea for a swim.

39. Fern

I must have fallen asleep in Scott's arms; when I wake up it is dark outside. I reach for him but his side of the bed is cool. I feel dreamy and I don't think it's jetlag. I glance at the bedside clock; six thirty LA time. I have no idea how long I've been asleep because my watch says it is early morning tomorrow in the UK. I adjust the dials. It's 6.30 p.m. in my life now. As I stretch I notice a scarlet gerbera and a note on the pillow. Gorgeous! Aesthetically, I do like a red rose but it's suffered through over-use and I think I'd have squirmed to find one on my pillow. A gerbera is much more original and startling.

Scott's note instructs me to have a deep, relaxing bath and says dinner will be served at 8 p.m. He's drawn a pic of a winking face so I know he's being a little tongue in cheek; I shouldn't expect a butler and the best silver thank goodness. There's enough new stuff to get to grips with without having to worry about formal table manners.

After stumbling into a wardrobe and a dressing-room I finally find the en-suite. The bathroom is as fabulous as I could have imagined. Oddly, this time I don't squeal Oh. My. G.o.d. I'd have been surprised if it was anything less than stunning. It's amazing how quickly you can get used to luxury. There's a round sunken bath in the middle of the room. It's big enough for an entire football team. There are two sinks, more mirrors than ideal and state-of-the-art taps that confound me for about ten minutes. I finally discover that you turn them on by clapping (or in my case shouting frustrated abuse).

When I emerge from the bath I find that someone or many someones have been into our bedroom and freshened it up. It's like living in a hotel; the bed has been made and turned down, candles lit, curtains drawn and mellow, slow-tempo music (which I don't recognize but do like) is playing out of the stereo at a gentle volume. There are no chocolates on the pillow but I can't grumble as, instead, there's the most beautiful lilac silk, ta.s.selled mini dress. I check the label: Bottega Veneta, I haven't even heard of the brand but its fabric sings dollar signs. I put it on. Like everything else that's been bought for me it's a perfect fit. I check my reflection. I might have benefited from bigger b.o.o.bs, but hey, I look great not much like me, but great, so who's complaining? Next, I sit at the dressing-table so I can do my makeup.

It's like walking into Harvey Nics at Christmas. I ought to be clear, Christmas is actually the only time I ever go into Harvey Nics. But when I do, I go with Jess and we spend about five hours in there, culminating in a gla.s.s of champagne at the bar after I've purchased a tin of biscuits from the fifth floor. Believe me, while I only actually emerge with one gift (and that's for my aunt, who has no appreciation of what it means to own a box of biscuits from Harvey Nics), this is time well spent. I firmly believe the spirit of Christmas is hiding somewhere in that store. I adore my five hours of wafting around being sprayed with perfumes, tasting stollen cake, oh-ing and ah-ing over striking stationery, stunning clothes and testing cosmetics that we can't afford. The times I've hungrily eyed the beautiful treasures on the MAC, Benefit, Stila, Chanel and Dior makeup concessions are countless. I've ached to dip my finger in a pot of something made by Prescriptives, Bobbi Brown or Kiehls and now here they are jar after jar of exquisiteness on my my dressing-table, bought especially for me. I stare at the orgy of gorgeousness and try to breathe deeply. dressing-table, bought especially for me. I stare at the orgy of gorgeousness and try to breathe deeply.

It's a bit intimidating actually.

It's taken me seventeen years to discover which makeup I truly suit (after many, many disasters where I ended up looking like a drag queen). I'm pretty confident with my Rimmel Kohl Kajal eye pencil, suitably smudgeable, allowing me to create s.e.xy, smoky eyes, and Rimmel's lasting finish intense-wear lipstick; I like the pretty sugar plum colour. Having to start again with all these new posh brands and new colours is a bit of a nightmare. Suddenly, I feel the need to ring Jess. It's crazy, but other than the one call to my parents and one brief call with Ben, I haven't actually spoken to any of my friends or family since Scott proposed. I've called and left messages; we've swapped a couple of texts, of course, but no actual chat. I can sense the disapproval across the ocean. It's awkward; everyone liked Adam a great deal and Scott and I have become an item so quickly that no one has got used to the idea yet. I suppose it is quite something to digest.

If only Jess knew Scott the way I do then she'd be happy for me; I know she would. The problem is love at first sight is something you can only truly believe in if you've experienced it for yourself.

I could ring her right now and say, 'You won't believe the selection of makeup that's on my dressing table!' It's our habit to start conversations as though we've been chatting only minutes ago. Until this previous week we've enjoyed a fourteen-year-long uninterrupted dialogue. I could choose to ignore the last week. Least said soonest mended. I check my watch. h.e.l.l, it's five to eight.

Obviously, if I had more time, there's nothing I'd like more than to call Jess but I've got a pop star fiance to s.h.a.g. I grab the Dior mascara wand and quickly apply. It's good stuff, I think I can get away with that and nothing more.

40. Fern

It's just four minutes past eight when I drift into the big room that I'd call a living-room or a sitting-room although that doesn't do it justice not glam enough; an estate agent would describe the room as the reception. I found it after fruitlessly opening door after door in order to track down Scott. Each room is utterly tasteful, peaceful and immaculate, and after a while they blur into one. I thought he might be in his 'boys-own' room but there was no sign. I was starting to panic, imagining he'd done a runner. My throat tingles with a peculiar and hideously scary mix of pleasure and panic. Trying to accurately a.s.sess that mix, I'd say that ninety-eight per cent of me is utterly, utterly out of this world, stunningly, stunningly beyond happy. The remaining two per cent is pure white terror. I wish I could shake the feeling that this is all too good to be true but I can't quite. The issue is things like this don't happen to me me. I'm the sort of girl who is a close runner-up at best. The sort of girl who often hears shop a.s.sistants say, 'Sorry, we don't have that left in your size, I just sold the last one.' The sort of girl who has never never ever had a single number show up on her lottery card, despite buying them religiously for nearly a decade. What are the odds of that? But my panic subsides as soon as I enter the reception room; I know I'm in the right place. ever had a single number show up on her lottery card, despite buying them religiously for nearly a decade. What are the odds of that? But my panic subsides as soon as I enter the reception room; I know I'm in the right place.

There are about a hundred tealights scattered around the room, giving off a fuzzy, golden glow. Even though it's a warm night there is a real log fire roaring and so the gla.s.s doors, leading out to the garden, are flung wide open. There are more lanterns and candles outside too, lined up on the decking and hanging from trees. The effect is enchanting. I spot Scott standing outside, hunched over a barbecue.

'Seared prawns. My specialty,' he calls when he notices me. 'Champagne?'

I can't believe he bothered to cook for me when he has staff falling over themselves to hold his hankie when he sneezes. It's such a ma.s.sive compliment! So very thoughtful! What can I tell you? It's a night of undiluted romance. We chat non-stop and we laugh a lot too; it appears that I'm genuinely hilarious when I'm with him. Scott sings to me and lets me read over some lyrics he's working on. We slow dance to a Frank Sinatra CD and I drink champagne all night, although Scott has to stick to apple juice. It's like something out of a movie. Right up until the fade to black moment.

As the night air cools, we move into the living-room and settle in front of the fire. Someone must have been stoking it while we were outside because it's still roaring. It's like living with a bunch of ghosts. Helpful ghosts, I'll give you that.

'So, Fern, how do you feel about an October wedding?' asks Scott as he crams a toasted marshmallow (that he's thoughtfully dipped into melted hot chocolate) into my mouth.

I chew quickly, swallow and then splutter, 'This October?'

'Yeah.'

So soon. 'But it's already late August. Don't weddings take forever to plan?'

'Well, I don't know. I've never planned one before,' says Scott with a big relaxed smile. 'But I imagine we can pull off anything we want, if we hurl enough cash at it.'

'I always imagined a summer wedding,' I say, carefully.

'It will be sunny here in LA.'

'Here in LA? I always imagined a wedding in London,' I say, somewhat shocked.

'Is LA OK? I mean, only if you want to. I want you to have exactly what you want, of course. I was just thinking the shorter the lead time the less ha.s.sle we'll get from the press and if we get married here then we'll be able to plan it ourselves you know so that we can make sure it's personal. If we had a wedding in the UK and we were living here in LA then we'd have to hand over to someone else. I want this wedding to be about us,' says Scott.

I think about what he's suggesting. Less than two months away. It's no time at all, not considering we only met a week ago. But then, why not? Didn't I want just this? A proposal and marriage for my thirtieth. Initially, I wanted it with a different man, admittedly, but hey, let's not get picky. Why would I want to wait a moment longer than I have to? People only ever have long engagements if they are saving up or have doubts; neither applies to me.

'I just think we should get on with it, you know, start making babies and be a proper family as soon as we can,' Scott adds. With those words my wavering vanishes. I fling my arms around his neck.

'Brilliant! Let's do it.'

'Great! I'll have a couple of wedding planners come round asap so you can see who you are most comfortable with and then we can get the ball rolling.'

'But I thought you said you wanted us to plan it ourselves,' I say, confused.

'Yeah. With a planner. You'll need one for an event of this scale.'

'What sort of scale are we talking about?'

'I don't know. A thousand people, maybe.'

'A thousand thousand? I don't know a thousand people.' Not even if I include all the Ben's B&B customers and the cabin crew who flew us over here. Nowhere near.

'You'll soon make friends. Trust me, you won't have a problem filling up the guest list.'

That wasn't what I'd meant. The hairs on my neck start to bristle and it's not through l.u.s.t, as is usually the case when I'm with Scott. It's fear, or irritation, or something I can't quite pinpoint; it's tricky to do so after a bottle of champagne. I don't think I want a thousand strangers coming to my wedding.

'You see, there are certain people we have to invite. They'll be kind of expecting it,' explains Scott.

'Like grannies and great-aunts and stuff?'

'Well, yes, obviously. But also Elton John and David Furnish, David and Victoria, I've been to so many fabulous parties of theirs. Tom Cruise and '

'You're kidding.'

'Deadly serious.'

Suddenly, the idea of a thousand strangers coming to my wedding doesn't seem so awful; not considering they'll all be A list. Call me shallow. Call me human.

'Think of the gifts,' I blurt. I blush at my own cra.s.sness but Scott just laughs. 'I can't believe I said that.' I put my hand over my mouth but it's as much use as chocolate hair straighteners. I try to recover ground. 'Maybe we should say no gifts, it's not as though we need anything. Maybe we should say charity donations only. We did that at my Uncle Terry's funeral. The announcement in the paper said no wreaths or floral tributes but donations to the lung cancer unit at St Hilda's Infirmary welcome. The hospital rang afterwards to say they'd benefited nicely. Auntie Donna got a genuine sense of satisfaction from that. It was a great comfort,' I garble. I'm working on the theory that if I talk for long enough the ground might swallow me up.

'Well, let's take advice on the etiquette, shall we?' says Scott with a good-natured smirk.

'Fair enough. Can we invite Brangelina?'