Love Lies Part 28

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You look fantastic,' I smile.

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

'Do you like your hotel?' I ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You wouldn't be.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Fern, you are such a lucky cow' (said with a beam a few of which are unconditional most are tinged with envy or disbelief).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Yourselves,' I beam. 'I'm so happy to see you. And cake is good too. I haven't been allowed to touch anything the least bit sinful for weeks.' I dip my finger into the gooey icing and cram it into my mouth.

'So I hear,' grins Charlie. Lisa nudges him but he can't help himself, he starts to giggle; I guess that she's told him about the chast.i.ty vow between me and Scott. It's to be expected, they tell each other everything. He manages to compose himself enough to add, 'Congratulations, Fern. This is amazing.'

The kids dash off towards the bouncy castle. I slip between Lisa and Charlie and link my arm through theirs; we follow the children at a more leisurely pace.

'It's so wonderful to have you both here,' I gush. I stare at their oh-so-familiar faces and their radiant, delighted expressions douse me. It's not until I'm with my friends that I realize just how much I've missed them.

Lisa, Charlie and I find seats and food and position ourselves close to the bouncy castle so that we can keep an eye on the kids.

As soon as we are all comfortable and sipping ice-cold c.o.c.ktails I ask, 'Have you seen Jess?'

'Yes, she and Adam have the room next to ours,' says Lisa carefully. She watches me closely as she delivers this news. I'm grateful for my oversized shades and I continue to stare resolutely at the kids flinging themselves off the inflated walls. It's vital I don't react. Any reaction is open to misinterpretation; I learnt that on the media training Saadi so thoughtfully organized. They're sharing a room. Right. Fine. Right. Of course they are. That's normal for boyfriend and girlfriend.

'I can't wait to meet the man himself,' says Charlie. For a smidge of a second I think Charlie is talking about Adam; that doesn't make sense at all they've met hundreds of times. Then I understand he means Scott. Of course. Charlie is trying and failing to hide his excitement at this treat that is within his grasp. I'm not surprised that even the usually calm and collected Charlie is a little giddy; I've seen people shake and weep as they've clasped Scott's hand. He's a sensation.

'I'll go and hunt him down and bring him over,' I say. Frankly, I'm glad of the excuse to break free of Lisa's penetrating stare. I'll find Scott and he'll join the party, entertain my friends and by doing so rea.s.sure and comfort me. The reasons for needing to be rea.s.sured and comforted are a bit blurry right now. I think it's something to do with the knowledge that imminently, I'll be coming face to face with my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, a.k.a. my ex-best friend.

I can't find Scott. He's not in the pool; there's a noisy, splashy game of handball happening there. He's not overseeing the barbecue; the sizzling and swirling smoke is managing to happen quite independently of his skills. Nor is he on the dance floor; although there are lots of lithe, writhing bodies his isn't one of them. I imagine he'll be in his den, playing on the football table with the ba.s.s guy. He loves it in there and prefers it to sunning himself on the outside deck. Yet, while I'm usually happy to indulge him, I do think that today he should be outside with our guests. I suspect he's gone into hiding until the chart position is announced. He's bound to be nervous, although everyone I've spoken to seems to a.s.sume it's a foregone conclusion the alb.u.m will have sold by the bucket and will be rocketing up the charts.

As I enter the house the cool marble floors and pale walls soothe me. I shouldn't care that Adam and Jess are sharing a room. It shouldn't matter to me. But it does. I try to be rational about the situation. I I am the one getting married am the one getting married tomorrow tomorrow. I'm sharing a life with Scott, although notably not a room not a bed. I can hear the party buzz somewhere distant. It sounds like an annoying fly that I want to swipe away. What's wrong with me? The party is the most luxurious, spoiling event of my life so far, how can I possibly be comparing it with a hideous, filthy, buzzing insect? I'm not thinking straight. I shake my head in an effort to clear it. I thought I was being steady with the c.o.c.ktails but I must have drunk too much already. I have to find Scott.

63. Scott

I've taken refuge in my den. There were a few blokes hanging around playing the table football, but I sent them packing. I need to be alone. I sit in a gloomy fog of f.a.g smoke. I'm in the habit of keeping blinds and drapes drawn, because in the UK the paparazzi used to pap me through the smallest curtain c.h.i.n.ks; they have endless photos of me scratching my belly while wandering around in my boxers. Fern strides in, looking vexed. She says she sympathizes with the issue of privacy intrusion I have to endure but she makes straight for the curtains, flings them and the patio doors open, and mutters about letting fresh breeze waft in. She stands in the doorway, desperately gulping air.

'You should stop smoking,' she says.

My smoking gets on her t.i.ts. I smoke a lot and all my mates smoke like chimneys too, so the smell of f.a.gs permanently lies in the folds of the curtains and the squish of a cus.h.i.+on, in the air, on our skins and in our eyes; it doesn't bother me but Fern seems to need more air. Often, I sit in the den and she sits outside on the loungers. But cigarette smoke behaves like cats. Cats always search out the person they can freak out the most, the person with an allergy or a phobia, and then they rub against that person's leg, curl up on that person's lap. My f.a.g smoke slinks after Fern and I watch as she tries to waft it away. It sits in the still, warm air surrounding her; it lingers and clambers up her nose, no doubt, scratching her throat. I offer her a gla.s.s of champagne that normally freshens her up but she shakes her head; it's not going to do the trick today.

'I can't stop smoking, it will change my voice,' I reason.

'You'll die a horrible death,' she points out, frightening no one other than herself.

'Yeah, well, some people live a horrible life,' I say, as I throw her a devil-may-care grin.

'Are you OK?' she asks.

I could've asked her the same, except I didn't because I'm not OK. Definitely not. I'm possibly more stressed and agitated than I've ever been before in her company.

'Nervous,' I confess. I stub out my smoke and bite my already ravaged, stubby fingernails.

She throws herself down by my side and flings her arms around me.

'Are you nervous about the wedding?' she asks gently. 'There's no need. Honestly I have well, Colleen has everything under control. It's going to be amazing. We'll have '

'No, it's not the wedding.' I stare at her, bewildered. I feel a bit like I imagine astronauts must feel when they step out of their shuttle; slightly wary and displaced but a little manic and excited too. The wedding? What the fu 'I'm nervous about the chart position,' I explain.

'The chart position?'

'I'm thinking, is it unreasonable to be hoping for a top ten position? Or maybe at least a number thirteen or twelve? Have we rushed things? Do you think I'll crack America this time? Do you think this is my big chance? Or my last chance? Will the Americans love the alb.u.m?' I fire the questions at her with a rapidity she's unable to field.

'I'm sure they will,' she says encouragingly, the moment I let her get a word in. Her response seems woefully pa.s.sive. 'But whatever happens in the charts this afternoon, it doesn't matter. The thing to remember is that we are getting married tomorrow. It's the biggest day of our lives. And then, after the wedding, you have the tour, you'll keep selling through. We have so much to look forward to.'

I know she hasn't got all the answers but she's giving me the impression she doesn't even understand the questions.

'Yeah, yeah,' I say. I pat her hand.

I wish I could believe that. It must be nice to be like Fern. She believes in all the good stuff. That must be great. I'm a pessimist and even so I find that being proven right isn't as much fun as it should be. She moves to kiss me but I can't be doing with that at the moment. Anything s.e.xual with Fern is the last thing on my mind right now. I move first and give her an affectionate peck on the nose. I'm sure that instead of the s.e.xless little kiss on the snout she'd prefer it if I was taking down her knickers with my teeth. But before she has a chance to voice her thoughts, Mark and a cast of thousands burst into the room.

'Son, son, here you are! Hiding, I might have known.' My body turns to slop. I'm unsure if my legs are holding me up. Maybe I'm a puddle on the floor. Someone might step on me. Come on Mark, spill. Shut the f.u.c.k up, Mark, I don't want bad news. Both thoughts explode into my being simultaneously. I hardly dare breathe. 'Well, step into the limelight, lad, I have the chart position.' Mark is waving a piece of paper above his head as though he's Moses just returning from Mount Sinai.

I must stand up from the couch in a hurry because I'm vaguely aware that my haste topples Fern. She slides away from me and clumsily lands on the floor. I mean to hold a hand out to help her up but I can't tear my eyes away from Mark. All eyes are on him, actually.

'f.u.c.k,' I say, because I don't want to hear it, yet I'm aching to hear it. I pull my hands through my hair with such force I might yank out a chunk.

'Hey, calm down. Can you imagine the wedding photos if you've pulled out lumps of hair?' says Fern. She doesn't understand. Poor thing. Lucky thing. This is it. This is what it's all about. This is what it's all for. I'm twitching and jittering. I can't stay still; I look like I'm auditioning for a part in River Dance River Dance.

'f.u.c.k mate, don't mess. Just tell me. Top fifteen? That would be good on the first week's sales, hey? That would be respectable? I mean we haven't had that much air time yet. The Americans are always cautious.'

I'm justifying my failure before I even know the results. I look at Fern; she pours back an expression of pure sympathy but she can't wrap me in cotton wool, no one can. I want this so much. I want this more than anything.

'Number eight, son. Number f.u.c.king eight. In your first week. You've made it. You've b.l.o.o.d.y made it!' yells Mark.

I don't remember how I reacted, no one waited for my reaction. This is gold. I'm swallowed by a ma.s.s of screaming and jumping bodies.

64. Fern

When Scott's chart position is announced to the guests, the party suddenly hikes up a notch in hysteria and intensity. People fling themselves into the pool and into the arms of strangers. I had no idea my friends and family could party so hard. The mojitos and Alabama slammers have taken effect and my nearest and dearest are no longer in awe of the movie and rock stars. They've emerged from the safety of their tight, peripheral cl.u.s.ters and are now sprawled among the cool people. In fact, now that the cool people are beery and leery, smudged and s.h.i.+ning, it's pretty difficult to distinguish them from the other guests. Alcohol and suns.h.i.+ne are great levellers.

'I guess it's been parties like this every night, hey?'

I recognize his voice before I have to turn. I recognize it despite the fact there's something unusually hard and sneering in his tone. It sounds as though he thinks parties are a sin, which is definitely not the case; I know he likes a party.

I can't look at Adam, I don't know how to greet him. In Hollywood everyone double air kisses but that wouldn't seem right just because it's so over-used but a handshake would be ludicrous. In the end I settle for staring resolutely at my feet.

'No, actually. This is the first party we've had. We're more likely to go out for dinner and to bars but even then, not that often,' I say with a bright and entirely forced tone.

'Of course, Scottie is sober at the moment. Well, don't worry, things will liven up when he falls off the wagon.'

'That's really not very kind, Adam.'

Adam takes a deep breath and looks out across the scene. 'No. It's not, is it.' He sighs and adds, 'I apologize.'

I finally force myself to look up at him. It's a peculiar thing, I've been full of trepidation at the thought of seeing him but now he's stood in front of me I feel strangely relaxed, almost happy despite his sarcasm. I suppose it's because we've been friends for so long, well, more than friends obviously. We never had a chaste or platonic stage in our our relations.h.i.+p. It was all about longing and l.u.s.t and then fulfilment. The happy feeling vanishes the moment I realize what I need to ask next. relations.h.i.+p. It was all about longing and l.u.s.t and then fulfilment. The happy feeling vanishes the moment I realize what I need to ask next.

'So, you and Jess, are you an item now?' I want to sound breezy but the words catch in my throat. I hope Adam doesn't think that means something; that it means anything. He glances at me in surprise. Doesn't he think I have the right to ask?

'What makes you ask that?'

'Well, you are here together. Why else would she ask you to come?'

'I have no idea. Maybe she thought the place would be full of c.o.ked-up w.a.n.kers and she needed my company.'

Fair point. But it's notable he hasn't answered my questions. He's neatly side-stepped in a way Scott would be proud of. It's frustrating. I just need to know for sure. One way or the other. There's a horrible silence that sits between us like a bad smell. I push on.

'I mean not that it's any of my business.'