Love Lies Part 3

Carefully, slowly, I start to open the envelope. I can't fake enthusiasm; it's all I can do to hide my face; b.a.s.t.a.r.d, telltale tears of hurt and disappointment are springing into my eyes. I won't let him see that. I open the second envelope and there are three more tickets, this time to Sat.u.r.day's gig. I don't understand.

'Tadaa.' Adam pushes a third envelope into my hand.

'What?'

'Open it and see,' he says. He's grinning like the Ches.h.i.+re cat. Why? What makes him think buying two sets of tickets to the same artist's gig is a good idea? Is he mad? Two sets, these things cost almost fifty quid each.

'Three sets,' I say as I open the third envelope.

'Sunday's gig,' says Adam with hideous zeal. 'Of course you don't need to take Jess and Lisa every night. Maybe Eliza might fancy it, or Ben.'

I stare at Adam in pure bewilderment. 'You've blown four hundred and fifty quid on this?' I demand. I'm so shocked I can't summon the necessary torrent of abuse. I'm not worried; I know it will come, just as soon as I start to breathe again.

'That's the beauty of it. I didn't have to pay pay for any of them,' he replies. for any of them,' he replies.

'What, they are knock-off?' The words are strangled by outrage.

'No,' laughs Adam. 'I'm working at the gig. These are freebies. I've got a job with Scottie Taylor. It's silly money. You couldn't guess. Like six times the amount I'd normally get for a similar event. Apparently Scottie has this thing about sharing his wealth. I've known about the job for a while but I kept quiet about it so as to surprise you today.'

Adam pauses, no doubt waiting for me to leap on top of him and tell him how marvellous he is. I want to pummel him to death with the soggy toast.

'Fern, you are looking at Scottie Taylor's a.s.sistant stage manager. I have a team team, Fern. It's a promotion. A big one. We are moving forward, like you wanted.'

I shake my head. 'You didn't pay for these?'

'No. I said so, didn't I? They were free. How cool is that?'

No ring, no ring. b.l.o.o.d.y gig tickets but no ring. Free Free b.l.o.o.d.y gig tickets but no ring. b.l.o.o.d.y gig tickets but no ring.

I hate him.

8. Fern

I don't have much time to demonstrate the hate. There's no opportunity to huffily push him away as he makes stealthy s.e.xual advances because he doesn't make any advances stealthy or otherwise. Even Even though it's my birthday! though it's my birthday!

Instead he says we have to get up quickly, or at least he does because he has to be at Wembley by nine. He suggests I should come along with him because he has backstage pa.s.ses and he says it will be interesting for me to see what he does.

'I know what you do,' I mutter grumpily. 'You climb up and down ladders, twiddle k.n.o.bs and put bulbs in lamps.'

Adam looks hurt. 'There's more to it than that, Fern. I am part of a vital team. My contribution to this spectacular is valid. It's like being part of an orchestra; even the guy with the triangle thing is crucial to the overall symphony,' he says.

'Get over yourself, Adam. Being in an orchestra is like being in an orchestra. You are a rigger. You put up scaffolding,' I snap. He doesn't bother to correct me and point out that he's an a.s.sistant stage manager now. I think he knows it will be cold comfort.

'Come anyway, we always need an extra pair of hands to run to the catering hall for coffee and you are on holiday so you've nothing better to do.'

The truth of his statement is horribly shocking. It's my thirtieth birthday and I have nothing better to do than fetch coffee for a bunch of guys, most of whom aren't even on nodding terms with soap. I wake Jess and give her an update. She's as sympathetic as I could hope for, considering it's this early in the day.

'Can you skive off for the day and keep me company before the gig?' I ask, not bothering to keep the self-pity out of my voice.

'I'd love to, sweetie, but I can't.' She squeezes my arm. 'My area manager knows that Adam got us these freebies and is letting me leave the shop an hour before the end of my s.h.i.+ft as it is. He'd smell a rat if I failed to turn up at all today. Plus I'd feel a bit of a cow since he's already agreed to give me the extra hour with pay. You understand, don't you?'

'Suppose,' I mutter, without any grace. My mind is whirling. Seemingly, I veer off on a tangent but in fact it's all related. 'Do you realize I've never been on a club 1830 holiday? I can't now. That's a missed opportunity.'

'I'd hardly cla.s.s that as a missed opportunity. Who wants to drink luminous c.o.c.ktails with h.o.r.n.y, desperate strangers until you puke or skinny dip?' asks Jess.

'I wonder how many other opportunities I've missed,' I muse.

'Very few, from what I remember of your misspent youth,' says Jess matter-of-factly. 'Do you want your pressie?'

Jess has bought me some fabulous Mac makeup brushes. They are really glam and grown up. I thank her and resist commenting that right now all I want to do is stick them up Adam's backside.

'I'll call Lisa and we'll see you at the gig. Once you're there, do a bit of a recce and then text me to arrange exactly where to meet,' says Jess, as she kisses her ticket.

I dress with little care and can barely summon the energy to wave a mascara wand or draw a slash of red lippy over my lips. I'd imagined that I would start the day with a long (post-loving) luxurious bubble bath. I thought I might sip champagne in muted candlelight and maybe even persuade Adam to rub a bit of body oil into my back and shoulders. Then, I'd planned to pop to the hairdressers on the corner, to see if they could squeeze me in for a trim and blow dry. My hair has so many split ends, running off in opposite directions, it could be clinically diagnosed as schizophrenic. But But I hoped I was going to be celebrating my engagement. Now, I haven't got the necessary emotional energy for that level of indulgent pampering. I don't like myself enough. I hoped I was going to be celebrating my engagement. Now, I haven't got the necessary emotional energy for that level of indulgent pampering. I don't like myself enough.

'You look great,' Adam lies, as we set off towards the tube. 'The whole dishevelled look is very rock chic.'

I glare at him but don't answer. In fact I don't say anything all the way to Wembley. I'm not sure if he notices because he's reading the sports pages of his tabloid newspaper and even if I came up with a new tool to patch up the ozone and scientific data to prove little green men do indeed inhabit Mars, he'd probably just grunt.

Loads of London venues are being tarted up for the 2012 Olympics and you can't spit nowadays without hitting an imposing building (or at least the plan or crane for one), but I've heard it argued that Wembley is still the most impressive stadium on offer. Renowned architects started work on the project when Noah was a lad and I remember hearing on the news that at one point there were more than three and a half thousand construction workers on site. Of course the project was dogged with delays; ambitious projects always are. On arrival I vacuously gaze around the enormous venue, too wrapped up in my own concerns to bother to make a judgement as to whether the state-of-the-art creation was worth the wait. Adam, on the other hand, is br.i.m.m.i.n.g with enthusiasm.

'There are seventy-five thousand seats and there will be fifteen thousand standing tonight,' he says. He shakes his head, marvelling at the enormity of the upcoming spectacle that he's part of. The seats, arranged in a bowl, are all protected from the elements by a sliding roof. The stadium's signature feature is a circular section trellis arch which Adam informs me has an internal diameter of seven metres and a 315-metre span. The arch is not upright but (again Adam's geeky info) is erected some twenty-two degrees off true; it rises to a striking 140 metres tall. Everything is super-sized. Adam, oblivious to my moody silence, tells me that the new Wembley is the largest stadium in the world.

'There are two thousand, six hundred and eighteen toilets, more than any other venue on the planet.'

'Fascinating,' I mumble sarcastically. I wonder how much enthusiasm he'd show if I started to relay my own treasured statistics? The average age for a woman to marry is twenty-nine, for instance.

'The stadium has a circ.u.mference of a kilometre.'

'Right.' The average length of an engagement in the US is sixteen months; I'm still searching for the equivalent data for the UK.

'There are thirty-five miles of heavy-duty power cables in the stadium. Ninety thousand cubic metres of concrete.' The average number of bridesmaids is three. 'And twenty-three thousand tonnes of steel were used in the construction.' The average cost of a wedding is twenty-one thousand pounds, but you can do it for a couple of hundred quid.

Someone please give me a drink; a stiff and large one. While I can see Adam's point (yeah, yeah, the place is big), I'm finding it impossible to pretend I give a d.a.m.n.

'Each of the two giant screens in the new stadium is the size of six hundred domestic television sets.'

Marry me. Those were the only words I wanted to hear today. Not this inventory of dull facts. Marry me. Why not? Why couldn't he bring himself to do it? Am I not his one? Am I just the current one? Or the fill-in one until the next one, who really will be the one? The thought hits me with such force I believe I might implode, right here, right now at Wembley Stadium. I sway slightly, like a cobweb in a spring breeze; there's a real danger I'll blow away. Adam reaches for my hand; a habitual gesture but I can't follow our routine. I don't take his hand and gently squeeze, I pull away. My heart is hard with thoughts of other ones ones and the one he might propose to one day. and the one he might propose to one day.

'You are dumbstruck, aren't you?' he says with a wide, crazy grin. I stare back resentful and shocked that he can't read me better. 'I just knew that tickets for the Scottie gig would be the perfect present,' he beams.

OK, I suppose I can admit that normally going to a Scottie Taylor gig would be something I'd get excited about. It would have been the perfect present if it was any other birthday. I saw Scottie live once before, about eight years ago, and he was b.l.o.o.d.y amazing; I couldn't sleep for days, I was that high on the buzz he left me with. And yes, any other day than today the day I'd hoped and hoped and hoped Adam would ask me to be his wife I might have been thrilled with an 'Access All Areas' pa.s.s; as things are, the c.r.a.ppy little bit of plastic seems like an insult. Adam casually flashes his pa.s.s and a smug grin at the bulky guys on the door. They nod with respect and check out my legs; I glare back resentfully.

Inside the stadium, it seems to me that everything is set to go. Adam tells me that his recent late nights have all been spent here, setting up for rehearsals. Adam is flying high as a kite. He's giggling like a seven-year-old girl, flinging orders and cheery h.e.l.los by turn at the guys and girls who I a.s.sume are his team.

I am now familiar with what to expect behind the scenes before the razzamatazz of the show; I've waited in the wings often enough. I scan the endless rows of lights, the towering stacks of speakers, the white cyclorama, the heavy drapes, and the jet black front curtain which are all carefully suspended from complicated zigzag girders hidden in the roof high above. It looks complex bordering on the chaotic. I know that it does demand a lot of patience and skill to get the set-up spot-on and I know that it is crucial for Adam and his team to get every detail pinned down if the trademark Scottie Taylor attention-grabbing spectacle of a concert is to be nailed. I recognize that this stage is bigger than most; there are more dazzling lights and larger stacks of speakers than I've ever seen before. I don't doubt that the set-up has been arduous and that Adam being the a.s.sistant stage manager is a big deal.

The thing is I don't give a toss.

A girl is meant to take an interest, isn't she? A good girlfriend should care about her boyfriend's job. But I don't. Not today. Whatever is going on here isn't as glossy and polished as a diamond on my third finger would be. I should be really pleased Adam's got this great promotion and his career is taking off but I'm not impressed. I wish I was. Adam whips off his leather jacket and flings it my way. He practically leaps up a ladder like some sort of stuntman because he's seen an out-of-place cable. I can't remember when he last gave me the same attention.

I kill time watching guys in black T-s.h.i.+rts scuttling like beetles to and fro. On the stage the instruments are already laid out. They are still, waiting for life to be given to them by Scottie's enormously talented band. The s.h.i.+ny red and silver drums are set up high on a platform, centre stage. There's not just one keyboard but a whole gaggle of them to the left and the right and there are racks of guitars hung all over the place.

On the outer reaches of the stage there's a horrendous confusion of wires and plugs that presumably make sense to someone. The maze of wires ultimately leads to chunky black cabinets and monitors. Smoke generated from machines drifts across the stage and hangs around at knee level, giving substance to the beams of continuously flas.h.i.+ng lights that slice across the floor.

I check my watch it's just after ten. Scottie Taylor won't be on this stage for another ten or eleven hours and yet it's as though he's among us already. His presence can be felt in everyone else's sense of self-importance; not one bod here can believe they are working with such an enormous star. There are so many dreams coming true on one stage, at this one point in time, that it is likely to be some sort of world record. I can see tension, fear and excitement in everyone's faces. There's probably enough energy to power an inner city if it could be harnessed correctly. This is a big gig. Enormous. It means a king's ransom to everybody.

With the possible exception of me.

My dreams are not coming true on this stage, or any other, come to that.

Adam is still up a ladder and doesn't seem to remember I'm here at all. I can see from the concentration on his face that he has a lot on his mind. I'd put money on it that he's not thinking about a princess-cut diamond versus baguette.

I check my phone. There are text messages from two of my four siblings and a voicemail from my mum. I sometimes think mobile phones were invented just so families could avoid talking to one another.

Whenever you tell people you have four siblings they offer up a brief prayer for my mum's slack stomach muscles and the lattice grid of stretchmarks which she must surely have, and then ask if we are all alike.

No, we are not. Despite the fact that we all have the same mum and dad, and we were brought up with the same Protestant work ethic in the same lower-middle-cla.s.s semi-detached in Reading, we are pretty much opposed in every way. In an attempt to ensure a close family, poor Mum went to the enormous effort of pus.h.i.+ng out a kid every two years which I find scarier than watching the movie Alien Alien (actually, I imagine the whole experience was like (actually, I imagine the whole experience was like Alien Alien, a series of exploding stomachs). Therefore it must be a bit galling for Mum and Dad that ever since we could all walk, we've been walking in separate directions, doing everything we can to carve out a bit of s.p.a.ce and individuality.

We are nothing like the Russian doll set that my parents imagined. One of my brothers, Bill, went to Cambridge University to read politics. He glided through exams without having to break into a sweat; he didn't even appear to break the spine of the cover of a book he's just dizzyingly intelligent. He's gone on to be a trust fund manager. Please don't ask me what that is because I have no idea. I do know that he drives a top-of-the-range X5 BMW, which, as my dad put it, 'must have cost a bob or two', and he married an equally bright (and smug) lawyer and they now live in a huge, tastefully decorated pile in Holland Park with their three kids. The type of kids who watched Baby Einstein on TV from birth and now have an opinion on international current affairs. I'm truly intimidated by my young nephews and baby niece. I usually try to read the quality newspapers before I visit them so that I have topics of conversation to discuss with the eldest (he's four). Neither Bill, nor his wife, has sent me a text to wish me happy birthday. BMW, which, as my dad put it, 'must have cost a bob or two', and he married an equally bright (and smug) lawyer and they now live in a huge, tastefully decorated pile in Holland Park with their three kids. The type of kids who watched Baby Einstein on TV from birth and now have an opinion on international current affairs. I'm truly intimidated by my young nephews and baby niece. I usually try to read the quality newspapers before I visit them so that I have topics of conversation to discuss with the eldest (he's four). Neither Bill, nor his wife, has sent me a text to wish me happy birthday.

My sister, Fiona, managed to get to Salford nursing college but, h.e.l.l, did she have to work to scrabble together the grades. She's a dedicated (read knackered) nurse at some OAP hospital, up north somewhere. I truly admire her but just can't imagine why she wants to work with the smell of pee. She's incredibly busy, lives miles away and has two kids, so we rarely see each other. When we do meet up (Christmas, big birthdays and Mum and Dad's anniversary) it's always excruciatingly embarra.s.sing. I get the sense that we'd both like to be close but we find we have nothing in common and we struggle for something to talk about. My attempts at small talk seem silly in light of the fact that Fiona is pretty much Florence Nightingale and Mother Teresa in one neat, determined package. I once commented how I always think of her when I have to deliver a bouquet of flowers to a hospital. She said that flowers were a b.l.o.o.d.y nuisance and nurses didn't have time to run around looking for vases, plus they set off sneezing among patients with hay fever. That sort of brought the conversation to an end. Fiona's text reads: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FGR+D. She doesn't have thumb time to text her family's full names.

Then there's Jake. I didn't really expect a call from him since he's resting at Her Majesty's pleasure; nine months for some piracy crime. I don't know the details because I avoided reading about them in the local rag and I tune out whenever Mum starts explaining the circ.u.mstances of his arrest. Mum maintains my brother Jake suffers from middle child syndrome. He tried too hard to carve out a point of difference in the family. It's her excuse for him being a criminal; she can make as many excuses for him as she likes. He was a thieving b.a.s.t.a.r.d from the day he could walk and I'll never forgive him for selling my Barbie doll in the playground when I was seven; Airhostess Barbie was a difficult doll to come by.

Then there's me. I've resisted sending a text to myself or posting cards to myself, as though I'm some sort of Mr Bean saddo. My younger brother, Rick's, text reads: :-) bday sis. mAk suR itz a gud l. hav lots of SX w Adam while he stil fancies u. jst kidding. hav a gr8 dA. :-) bday sis. mAk suR itz a gud l. hav lots of SX w Adam while he stil fancies u. jst kidding. hav a gr8 dA.

It takes me a while to translate. Ha ha very funny. The chance of having lots of s.e.x with Adam never arose, did it? Clearly, Adam has already reached the point of no return in terms of l.u.s.ting after me.

If I had to pick a sibling I'd take with me to a desert island it would probably be Rick. Something to do with him being the only one I could boss around, perhaps. No one in our family has any idea whether Rick's naturally brilliant, like Bill, but we do know that he's not prepared to work like Fiona. All Rick wants to do, has ever wanted to do, is play video games. He discovered Pac Man Pac Man when he was about three years old and has been surgically attached to b.u.t.tons and screens ever since. Mum and Dad despaired. Mum regularly tortures herself by going on to the internet, late at night, and reading cases about psychotic murderers who listed video game playing on their otherwise blank CVs. Fortunately, and somewhat miraculously, Rick hasn't turned out to be a psycho (one jailbird is enough for any family struggling to appear respectable) and he's somehow managed to turn his obsession with games into a career; he's a games tester for Sony. He does conform to stereotype in so much as he does smell and he doesn't talk. Which is why his long text is quite thoughtful. when he was about three years old and has been surgically attached to b.u.t.tons and screens ever since. Mum and Dad despaired. Mum regularly tortures herself by going on to the internet, late at night, and reading cases about psychotic murderers who listed video game playing on their otherwise blank CVs. Fortunately, and somewhat miraculously, Rick hasn't turned out to be a psycho (one jailbird is enough for any family struggling to appear respectable) and he's somehow managed to turn his obsession with games into a career; he's a games tester for Sony. He does conform to stereotype in so much as he does smell and he doesn't talk. Which is why his long text is quite thoughtful.

Still, that's the sum total of messages. Ben will no doubt call when he gets a minute but he's in the shop on his own, which he never likes; he's probably busy. Lisa will be dropping the kids off at nursery and the gym creche. She'll probably call after her aerobics cla.s.s. As I mentioned, nothing comes between Lisa and her being 'well turned out' not even a thirtieth birthday.

I sigh. The low number of messages wis.h.i.+ng me many happy returns is depressing. In my opinion birthday celebrations peak when you are about six and ever after there is an annual decrease in merriment (with quite a steep gradient). Rationally, I know that there are a number of people scattered across the country who will look at the calendar today and think, 'Oh, it's Fern's birthday!' A few of them might have popped a card in the post. Of course, I can't expect everyone I know to interrupt their busy schedules just to shower me with gifts and present me with balloons, cakes and las.h.i.+ngs of champagne, but I blame the media, or books, or movies, or ten seasons of Friends Friends or all of these things combined. Because, truth is, a little part of me does expect everyone I know to interrupt their busy schedules to shower me with gifts and present me with balloons, cakes and las.h.i.+ngs of champagne because the media, books, movies and or all of these things combined. Because, truth is, a little part of me does expect everyone I know to interrupt their busy schedules to shower me with gifts and present me with balloons, cakes and las.h.i.+ngs of champagne because the media, books, movies and Friends Friends especially especially Friends Friends have conspired between them to somehow create the impression that life would be just a little bit have conspired between them to somehow create the impression that life would be just a little bit more more than this. Especially today. than this. Especially today.

I'm bored watching Adam play chief and decide I might as well take full advantage of my 'Access All Areas' pa.s.s by wandering into the catering hall. It's quite something; clearly, feeding the team is taken seriously by Scottie Taylor. There are two chefs and about six more staff cooking breakfast. There's a choice of bacon b.u.t.ties, eggs (fried, scrambled, poached, boiled), sausages, tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, even black pudding who the h.e.l.l eats that? Maybe it's an ironic nod at Scottie Taylor's northern roots; he's from Hull, a city that (as far as I'm aware) is famous for absolutely nothing other than Scottie I've heard him joke in interviews that Hull is the new Manchester but no one believes him. Still, it's nice that he's proud of it. Besides the cooked breakfast there are yogurts, croissants, Danish pastries, mountains of fresh fruit and about a dozen cereals to choose from.

I'm not hungry, but like most women when I eat, and even how much I eat, has little to do with hunger. I eat because it's a mealtime, I eat when I'm fed up and when I'm in a really good mood, I eat loads when I'm premenstrual and often just because food is there. So far, this complete lack of discipline has had no adverse effect because I'm lucky enough to have inherited my father's metabolism. Honestly, he eats like a pig but looks like a whippet. It's the one thing worth inheriting (as one of five in a family that tends to 'make do and mend', I'm not holding out for any family heirlooms). Today I feel ent.i.tled to pile my plate with everything I can, except for the black pudding, and I wash the lot down with two huge mugs of tea.

I eat really quickly (again it's the result of being one of five kids) and so despite the mountain of food I find that by 10.35 a.m. I am once again twiddling my thumbs, or more accurately the cord of the weighty AAA pa.s.s which hangs around my neck. Idly, I wonder exactly how far it can get me. Maybe I could have a snoop around the dressing-rooms. I have no interest in what Adam is doing front of stage, but as an avid reader of glossy gossipy magazines I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being just a tiny bit interested in seeing what Scottie Taylor's dressing-room is like. After all, I'm flesh and blood. Yes, disappointed flesh and blood but all the same... I wonder what sort of riders and demands Scottie Taylor makes? Adam once worked on a gig for a very famous boy band and they all insisted on having their own dressing-room with en-suite bathrooms, which isn't so strange, except they all had their baths filled with M&M sweets. Total madness but I can't criticize. Who's to say what I'd ask for if I could have anything? I bet those guys couldn't believe their silly request had been taken seriously. Scottie and his band won't be arriving for hours yet. Usually the artist arrives by helicopter just before the gig starts; it's part of the theatre of the event. I think I could have a little poke around the dressing-room without disturbing anyone.

I follow my nose through a labyrinth of corridors. I hope that stars' dressing-rooms truly do have enormous glittering stars on the door or else I won't have a clue which door to open. I pa.s.s a few busy-looking people, all of whom are smoking, which is illegal as this is a public building. I don't think they care; breaking rules is what they do. Some are carrying clipboards or instruments, everyone nods at me but no one strikes up a conversation or demands to know what I'm doing aimlessly wandering about backstage. Other than the smoking, the people I run into seem to have little in common. They are not uniformly young and breathtakingly beautiful, as might be expected from a Scottie Taylor entourage, nor are they all decked out in fabulous designer clothes. They do have a higher than average hit of slightly weird and whacky hair styles but that is about all that defines them as rock and roll. That, and the fact they are all very focused on whatever it is they are supposed to be doing, and so no one bothers with me. I imitate their efficient and purposeful strides so as to blend in. After a while I spot a door with the words THE BAND emblazoned in large red letters. I reach for the handle but before I push the door open I listen to see if there's anyone inside.

I can't hear anything so I risk a sneaky peek. I can always say I'm lost if I do get spotted and questioned by anyone. The dressing-room is not as glitzy as I expected. There are enormous leather couches pushed against two of the walls and a huge low gla.s.s coffee table in between. On the table there's a nice arrangement of large white calla lilies; I check the tips and they are fresh, they've probably just gone in water. I hope whoever put the flowers here put a drop of lemonade in the vase too; it gets a good few extra days of freshness out of most stems. There's a wall of mirrors with high stools lined up like soldiers and trolleys full of makeup. There's a bar; it's well stocked with various brands of canned and bottled beer and water but not much else. There is nothing to indicate that the band backing the current rock G.o.d phenomenon dresses here; no baths of M&Ms, no baskets of Labrador puppies, no lines of clothes or c.o.ke.

A bit disappointed, I leave and continue down the corridor to the next room. On the door, in even bigger red letters than the first, is written, SCOTTIE TAYLOR STAR STAR. I get the sense that the huge and bold letters are a bit of a joke. The sort of joke I imagine Scottie Taylor would make; a tongue-in-cheek prod at 'Don't you know who I am?' Grinning, I open the door and stride in.

The voice bangs through the air. 'What are you doing in here?'

9. Fern

I want to be forthcoming but my throat tightens and chokes my words; he's got these eyes, you see, green, sparkling, soul-slicing eyes. He flashes them at me and with one single glance he strips me naked. I honestly feel my clothes come away at the seams and land in a heap at my feet. The sensation is so real that I look down just to check.

It's the man himself. Scottie Taylor. It takes a fraction of a second for me to understand this and I acknowledge the fact between my ears and between my legs simultaneously; I feel dizzy in both places. Close up he looks much bigger than I imagined. When I saw him in concert, eight years ago, he was a tiny dot on the stage. OK, so I was at the back in the c.r.a.p seats but his size is still a surprise. I mean, most stars I've ever seen in real life are much tinier than you expect. Although, thinking about this theory, I ought to confess now that the sum total of stars I've seen in real life includes Beppe off EastEnders EastEnders (I saw him in Covent Garden once, he was just coming out of a shop selling jacket potatoes) and Patrick Duffy (you know, Bobby from (I saw him in Covent Garden once, he was just coming out of a shop selling jacket potatoes) and Patrick Duffy (you know, Bobby from Dallas Dallas; I took my nephews to a panto last Christmas and he played Cinderella's dad) so my theory is not based on what you'd call a robust study.

Scottie has huge muscled arms and he's about six foot one. He became famous when he was practically in short trousers, so it's easy to think of him as boyish. But that was then and this is now. There's no element of boy any more. He's man. One hundred per cent. My palms start to moisten; oh my G.o.d, so do other parts of my body!

'What are you doing in here?' He repeats the question; his tone is suspicious and cool.

Finally, I find my voice. 'Being nosey. Look, I'm sorry, I'll leave,' I squeak as I begin to edge out of the door. While my reply is absolutely accurate I don't think it got to the heart of what Scottie was trying to establish.

'Who are you?' He doesn't sound rude but he doesn't sound charmed either. He sounds wary.

I am at a total loss as to how to answer even this, the simplest of questions. I don't know what to say or do. I am utterly without common sense or even a simple grasp at good manners. For a moment I can't remember my name. My mind is a spongy black hole. Oh my G.o.d, my nipples are becoming solid. Can he tell? I'm practically dribbling.

'I'm Fern,' I reply. 'I'm not a journalist, or a nutcase fan, or anything like that.' I try to smile and rea.s.sure us both. I want to summon my most megawatt smile, the one I use to attract barmen when I'm waiting to get served, but I don't manage more than a lopsided, self-conscious grin. 'Well, I am am a fan, a big fan; I'm not saying I don't like you because I do. Loads. You're great,' I garble. 'In fact my boyfriend is always taking the p.i.s.s out of me for how much I like you. He buys me your official calendar for Christmas every year, not as the main pressie, just a stocking filler, he's not that tight. But it's not like I have a crush on you and I'm some sort of mad stalker. I don't want you to worry about that. You're totally safe. I've never stalked anyone in my life. Well, who does? Well, some people do, I know that, but I'm not one of them. My crush isn't a serious one. That would be crazy at my age. Far, far too old for a crush. Not that I'm old. I buy my boyfriend Kylie's calendar. It's a couple thing, you know?' a fan, a big fan; I'm not saying I don't like you because I do. Loads. You're great,' I garble. 'In fact my boyfriend is always taking the p.i.s.s out of me for how much I like you. He buys me your official calendar for Christmas every year, not as the main pressie, just a stocking filler, he's not that tight. But it's not like I have a crush on you and I'm some sort of mad stalker. I don't want you to worry about that. You're totally safe. I've never stalked anyone in my life. Well, who does? Well, some people do, I know that, but I'm not one of them. My crush isn't a serious one. That would be crazy at my age. Far, far too old for a crush. Not that I'm old. I buy my boyfriend Kylie's calendar. It's a couple thing, you know?'

Maybe I was in a better place when my mouth was clamped shut and I had a search party out looking for my tongue.

'I'm here with my boyfriend actually. He's your a.s.sistant stage manager,' I add in an effort to make myself sound normal. Then I realize I might have just landed Adam in a whole load of do-do. Who knows if this Scottie Taylor is some sort of megalomaniac control freak? 'He's not going to get into trouble because I'm wandering about, is he? He doesn't know I'm in your dressing-room. I was bored watching him do his thing on stage and I was just killing time. It's not his fault, so don't sack him because he'd be devastated. I didn't think you'd be here. I just wanted to see if you keep M&Ms in your bath or anything.'

I finally stop twittering. For which Scottie Taylor is probably offering up prayers of thanks to all the heathen and traditional G.o.ds. Have I ever behaved like such a total imbecile in my entire life? Was it absolutely essential to blab all that? I steel myself to look at Scottie.

He's grinning. My pathetic verbal incontinence amused him, at least.

'So the lucky guy is that dark, tall bloke. Adam Cooper, right?'

'Right.' I'm stunned Scottie Taylor knows the name of his a.s.sistant stage manager.

'Yeah, I know him. He's good. I won't sack him.' I risk a small smile as I am an itsy bit proud that Scottie has noticed Adam and rates him; maybe what Adam does is part of a great symphony after all. 'I'll expect you to have s.e.x with me by way of recompense, though,' adds Scottie.

'Really?' I ask, part horrified, part delighted. Certainly more delighted than is respectable.