Love Lies Part 4

'No not really, you silly sod, what sort of place do you think this is?'

This time Scottie's face breaks into a really wide, genuine smile and I feel as though I've just nose-dived into a warm lagoon of beauty and possibility.

'Scott Taylor,' he says, holding out his hand for me to shake.

His gesture is sweet. There was never any doubt as to who he was. It's pleasantly self-effacing that he's pretending we're just a couple of normal people saying hi for the first time. I place my hand in his firm grip and bolts of s.e.xual lightning fire through my body, scalding every single nerve ending. We lock eyes and I wonder if he felt anything too.

'Can you play cards?' he asks.

10. Fern

Scottie's room is considerably more impressive than the band's. The look the interior designer has gone after is nightclub verging on brothel. There's red flock wallpaper and thick red s.h.a.g pile carpet so the walls and floor seem to meet, leaving me feeling deliciously cosy, irresistibly woozy. There's a purple suede chaise longue and a number of enormous gold leather beanbags. There are a lot of mirrors with ornate bronze frames reflecting my stunned image right back at me, and whichever way I turn there are ma.s.ses of enormous vases of gallica roses; a rich, velvety, purple rose which gives off a particularly heady scent.

Scottie flings himself on the chaise longue next to a low purple smoked-gla.s.s coffee table and I grab a beanbag and sit down to face him. He starts to deal.

'What stakes shall we play with?' he asks.

'Well, it has to be coppers because even if you play with tenners, it's coppers to you but not to me which would make the game uneven,' I say, without thinking whether it's cra.s.s or not to mention that he's a squillionaire. But then this is the man who signed a multi-multi-million-pound deal with his record company and announced to the world's press, 'I'm rich, I'm obscenely rich. Isn't that f.u.c.king great!' At the time the tabloids and even a couple of the qualities had got sniffy and said that it was vulgar of him to be so publicly chuffed with himself but I thought he'd got it right. Being filthy rich must be exciting, and if he hadn't admitted as much people would have complained he was taking himself too seriously.

Scott stares at me; I think he's contemplating what I've just said about coppers versus tenners while I'm wondering what his lips taste like. I use every jot of common sense and common decency to cast the thought aside.

'Fair enough,' he agrees, nodding his approval. 'You know, no one has ever pointed that out to me before.'

Someone should open a window; it's really stifling in here. I can feel my cheeks flush with colour. 'Duh, isn't it obvious? Who do you normally play with?' I ask.

'My band, my crew, you know, the gang.'

'Well, I hope you're paying them well,' I say as I reach for my purse. I look inside; not unsurprisingly it's empty except for a serious stack of loyalty cards and a b.u.t.ton which came off my jacket last week. 'b.u.g.g.e.r, I haven't even got coppers. How about we play for matchsticks?' I suggest. 'That's what my family did when we were kids.'

Scott smiles. 'Did any of your family end up in prison on charges of arson?'

'No, but my brother Jake is doing bird for some dodgy deal he was involved in. He was distributing pirate DVDs,' I admit thoughtlessly.

Scott doesn't skip a beat but continues to deal the cards.

Oh. My. G.o.d. What made me say that? I never rush to reveal Jake's stock trade. It's hardly likely to impress anyone; usually this choice piece of family history has the opposite effect. Cards are a good idea. I can concentrate on hearts versus clubs, spades versus diamonds and stop with the moronic twittering and inappropriate reveals. I cannot believe that I am sat here with Scottie Taylor. We are sharing the same air, imagine that! He's a legend. A G.o.d. I wish to h.e.l.l I'd made an effort this morning. What made me think it was a good idea to come to the gig without even a wisp of makeup? I must be clinically insane. He's pretty unkempt too but he's wearing it much better. He hasn't shaved this morning and his hair is dishevelled; he looks as though he's just got out of bed. The thought makes me ache with something horribly close to longing. No, it can't be. That's just not right. I have a boyfriend. I can't start to feel anything like longing for anyone other than Adam. I'm just naturally curious because Scottie Taylor is a pop star, that's all. Doesn't every woman want to know what Scottie Taylor's hair feels like, what his tongue tastes of, what his sheets smell of? Just theoretically, of course. I wouldn't dream of... I don't mean, I'd ever... I have Adam. Deep breath. Deep breath. Just concentrate.

I'm actually really good at cards and know loads of games, thanks to endless caravan holidays in Britain with my family when I was a kid. We used to waste away countless wet hours playing a hand. I suggest we play German whist, a good two-player card game. Scottie knows it and agrees. Scottie plays with an admirable and steady determination too. I wonder where he learnt. I'd guess working men's clubs when he was knee high to a garden gnome. I know from stuff I've read that his mum was a cabaret singer in pubs and he and his brother were dragged around with her from an early age. Scottie became an entertainer, his brother is an accountant. I guess his brother was watching the till as Scottie was learning to sing and play cards. We both concentrate on the game and say very little to start with. That suits me; I need to gather my thoughts. It's a good game, we're equally matched and each admires the other's skill.

'You bluffer,' says Scottie with delight as I successfully beat him with a fairly average hand because he folded.

I scoop up his pile of matchsticks with the same pleasure as I would if we had been playing for tenners well, almost. As I scoop my booty, he deals the next hand and his fingertips accidentally brush the cuff of my top causing a sensation similar to riding a white-knuckle ride at a theme park. All my body parts get confused; the bits that I keep in my pants leap into my mouth, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s defy gravity as they seem to chase him round the room and my eyes dart to his, even though I know the last thing we should do is make eye contact. Eyes are dangerous. We silently stare at one another for some time. I'm not sure how long. Maybe too long. Maybe not long enough.

'No one ever beats me,' he says carefully.

'I bet everyone throws the game, like you are some sort of five-year-old.' I try to sound playful; we have to let the s.e.xual tension swill away or I might drown.

He takes my cue and jokes to lighten the mood. 'G.o.d, I hadn't considered that. I just thought that I was really good, you know? The superior player. But now you've mentioned it maybe that's exactly what they do.'

'Oh, Scottie is a poor little rich boy,' I tease. I get the sense that he likes me gently taking the p.i.s.s out of him; it's probably a novelty but I don't like hurting anyone's feelings so just in case I've gone too far I add, 'Of course it might just be that you are the superior player to those guys you usually play with but you're just not as good as me.'

'Rematch. I demand it,' he laughs. 'And call me Scott, not Scottie. Only people who don't know me call me Scottie.'

We play on. OK, deep breath. So I described Scott Taylor as the perfect fantasy man; that didn't mean I expected to like like him if I met him for real. Frankly, distanced from his lyrics and the airbrush I expected him to be a big let-down; an infantile t.o.s.s.e.r with an ego the size of a planet and a brain the size of a pinp.r.i.c.k. But after just two hours in his company I realize that my preconceptions were totally, utterly, completely wrong. him if I met him for real. Frankly, distanced from his lyrics and the airbrush I expected him to be a big let-down; an infantile t.o.s.s.e.r with an ego the size of a planet and a brain the size of a pinp.r.i.c.k. But after just two hours in his company I realize that my preconceptions were totally, utterly, completely wrong.

Scott is not a manufactured, brainless bore. He's the real deal. I've heard it said that if a girl met some super-star in a supermarket she probably wouldn't even notice him. And, honestly, I think I would leave Justin Timber-lake stacking shelves and it's possible that even Mark Owen would not cause me to get all fl.u.s.tered while squeezing my fruit and veg. But I'd notice Scott. He could take me even in the dairy aisle and it's really cold there. There are no screaming fans buoying him up as we play cards, no sign of an enormous entourage, no photographers, and he's not wearing clothes embroidered with gold leaf or any outward sign of his colossal wealth, and yet he oozes that ephemeral star quality that only one person in ten million is lucky enough to be born with. He is breathtakingly compelling.

I realize that Scott has asked me to play cards on a whim. This is not the start of a lifelong friends.h.i.+p. This dream will end when he gets hungry and needs to call for food or when something else catches or demands his attention, so I squirrel away every last detail of this experience. I know that I'll want to savour each moment over and over again, on my own and with friends. h.e.l.l, I might throw a party to tell people about this. Although I guess I'd have to edit slightly for Adam's sake. Not that I've actually done done anything wrong but I imagine he'd be less than happy to hear that I'm zapped with l.u.s.t every time Scott so much as glances at me. I watch the way Scott stands, moves, talks, stays silent, sips from his water bottle and it is absolutely fascinating to me. I'm entranced. anything wrong but I imagine he'd be less than happy to hear that I'm zapped with l.u.s.t every time Scott so much as glances at me. I watch the way Scott stands, moves, talks, stays silent, sips from his water bottle and it is absolutely fascinating to me. I'm entranced.

We are joined by a mountain of a man who appears not to be accustomed to smiling. I a.s.sume he is a personal security guard. He doesn't have a uniform but he checks behind doors and in cupboards and he examines the phones before he finally sits in a chair, in the corner of the room. Even then his eyes don't settle but dart constantly from left to right. He asks if he can look in my bag. Scott says it isn't necessary but I hand it over anyway.

'What was he looking for, my hairbrush?' I joke.

Scott grins as he glances across to the bald-as-a-coot security guard. 'Tape recorder, drugs, a gun,' he replies with a shrug.

'You're kidding?'

'No. I'm clean at the moment and these guys are paid to help me keep it that way. The last thing I need is some s.e.xy siren coming in with a stash of crack, then getting me to do and say all sorts of weird things that she's recording so as she can serve them up cold in the tabloids the next day.'

I'm crazily fl.u.s.tered because he's just indirectly referred to me as a s.e.xy siren. I wonder what sort of weird things does he imagine I might get him to do? I try to stay on track. 'A gun?'

'Never happened yet. Least not to me. But two words, John Lennon. Lots of fans are really mixed up and get into that "if I can't have you, no one can" mindset. It's f.u.c.king scary.'

'G.o.d, it must be,' I s.h.i.+ft in my beanbag. I had been quite resentful of the security guard interrupting our tete-a-tete but now I'm glad to have him here. I quickly return to the deck and deal again. Scott picks up his hand and stares at me over his cards. I swallow hard. I've worked out that if I don't look at him or think about who I'm actually playing with, I manage quite well. The moment I catch his eye I find I'm floored.

He is absolutely b.l.o.o.d.y gorgeous.

Besides his strength, and height, and dirty grin and soul-searing eyes, he has broad shoulders that reduce to a neat stomach, slim hips and the cutest b.u.m. Anyone who has ever read a copy of Heat Heat magazine knows that his weight and level of fitness tend to fluctuate depending on how much boozing he's doing at the time, but right now I'd put money on him having stomach muscles taut enough to climb up. He is wearing a pale grey T-s.h.i.+rt and some battered, low-slung jeans that threaten to slip that is part of the allure no socks or shoes. I'm not normally a feet sort of girl. I couldn't tell you what Adam's feet look like because I avoid them as much as humanly possible, but Scott's are large, neat and tanned and his nails are smooth and shaped. I want to swoop down and kiss them. I throw down my first card and he reaches to pick up; his hand brushes up against mine, directly, this time. Flesh to flesh, not just the cuff of my top. His touch burns. I actually flinch. Shaking, I lunge about for a bottle of water which I plan to throw over myself. magazine knows that his weight and level of fitness tend to fluctuate depending on how much boozing he's doing at the time, but right now I'd put money on him having stomach muscles taut enough to climb up. He is wearing a pale grey T-s.h.i.+rt and some battered, low-slung jeans that threaten to slip that is part of the allure no socks or shoes. I'm not normally a feet sort of girl. I couldn't tell you what Adam's feet look like because I avoid them as much as humanly possible, but Scott's are large, neat and tanned and his nails are smooth and shaped. I want to swoop down and kiss them. I throw down my first card and he reaches to pick up; his hand brushes up against mine, directly, this time. Flesh to flesh, not just the cuff of my top. His touch burns. I actually flinch. Shaking, I lunge about for a bottle of water which I plan to throw over myself.

'It's hot in here,' I comment pathetically.

Scott stares at me and holds my gaze. 'Isn't it,' he murmurs. I know, know, know that he's a practised seducer. He is sort of Don Juan, Casanova and James Bond all at once. Of course, he will have looked at hundreds, perhaps thousands, of women in exactly the same way as he's looking at me now. And I know, know, know that should make him less desirable But it doesn't.

'Have you ever played strip poker?' he asks, flas.h.i.+ng me his famous flirty-flirty grin.

'No. And I don't think I've ever been asked to, least not since I was about thirteen,' I laugh, nervously.

What a daft, obvious thing to suggest. How ridiculous. Like I'm going to fall for that. I have a boyfriend; it's inappropriate to even imagine that I might consider it. A live-in boyfriend. We are practically married.

Practically.

We're not married, are we? We're not even engaged. And this flirtation with Scott is just a bit of fun, it doesn't mean mean anything. It isn't anything. It isn't going going anywhere. Anyone would do the same. Kill for the chance to. No one is going to get hurt by this bit of fun. Playing strip poker would just be a bit anywhere. Anyone would do the same. Kill for the chance to. No one is going to get hurt by this bit of fun. Playing strip poker would just be a bit more more fun; a lot more, maybe. It's not serious. Besides, he's bare-footed, wearing jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt, add in boxers (a.s.suming he's not commando); that's just three items of clothes. I'm wearing pumps, a vest top, a skirt, a zip-up top, knickers, bra, belt, earrings and about a dozen bangles plus I'm pretty d.a.m.n good at cards. fun; a lot more, maybe. It's not serious. Besides, he's bare-footed, wearing jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt, add in boxers (a.s.suming he's not commando); that's just three items of clothes. I'm wearing pumps, a vest top, a skirt, a zip-up top, knickers, bra, belt, earrings and about a dozen bangles plus I'm pretty d.a.m.n good at cards.

'It's a laugh,' he says with another filthy, bold, irresistible smile. He speaks with great certainty and a hint of challenge, and his words slosh my common sense clean away. I'm high on his presence and the crazy red room; even though I haven't been drinking I feel as drunk as a sailor.

'OK, deal.'

11. Fern

We are evenly matched but I stupidly lose my advantage every time I consider the possibility of seeing Scott Taylor in his undies. It is a real possibility because he's not afraid of showing his crown jewels (there are a number of websites that prove my point here by displaying photos of him flas.h.i.+ng his bits), plus he often shows his a.s.s to the press if they've irritated him. My distraction makes me careless and hasty in my betting decisions. He seems to be able to keep a clear head and plays a ruthless game. Before I know it my shoes, zip-up top, belt and jewellery are piled in a heap to one side and he hasn't lost an item of clothes.

'You are a hustler,' I say. 'You were sh.e.l.ling out match-sticks left, right and centre but since we've been playing for clothes you haven't lost a hand.'

He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and smiles at my charge; proud rather than chastised. 'I win, again,' he mutters, laying down his superior cards.

b.u.g.g.e.r, now I'm in real trouble. Skirt or vest top? Shedding either is going to leave me very exposed. I offer thanks to the cellulite G.o.d for not having sent that plague my way just yet (it's due on tomorrow's bus no doubt, now I'm thirty) but in the meantime I could probably risk taking my skirt off and not scaring him. But, my knickers! They are cheap, faded, big and blue. Not worthy of an outing. I dressed in such a mood and hurry this morning I never considered wearing any cute panties. What a mistake. My mum is always saying make sure you wear decent underwear, you never know what might happen. Mind you, I think she's on about me being knocked down by a bus rather than being bowled over by Scott Taylor. I could just throw in my hand, call it a day, cite Adam as an excuse. I pick up my bottle of water and take a sip to buy time while I decide what to take off. Scott stays silent and doesn't hurry me. His very silence is driving me wild with desire, how can that be? This is all very wrong and yet I don't want this to end. I giggle, nervously.

'You are biting your lip,' says Scott.

'I do that when I'm nervous,' I admit. I hope the lip-nibbling is provocative rather than creating the impression that I'm entering a gurning compet.i.tion.

's.h.i.+t, you've drawn blood.' His face instantly floods with genuine concern. 'Fern, Christ, it's not that serious, keep your top on. It's a game.' He leans close and carefully but firmly smudges his thumb across my lips; he shows me the smallest drop of blood on his thumb and then sucks the blood clean away. It is the most erotic gesture I have ever been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of.

Good G.o.d, I've died and gone to heaven.

I quickly glance towards the security guy but he's seemingly oblivious to our floor show. He's reading a tabloid and has his back towards us. In a flash I put my hand up my skirt and drag off my baggy blue knickers. Triumphant at solving the immediate dilemma of which garment to shed, I fling the knickers to one side and say firmly (and I hope, very s.e.xily), 'Deal again.'

I'm not a vain girl but I'm not stupid either. He has the most enormous b.o.n.e.r straining at his jeans. Result. I win the next two hands in quick succession. Scott Taylor can't concentrate on anything other than me me because I'm knickerless! because I'm knickerless!

'I think we should call it a day now,' I say as he starts to unb.u.t.ton his jeans.

'Really?' He pauses, fingers on his fly b.u.t.tons, ready to snap and tug if I give the word.

'Really,' I say with quite some reluctance. On the one hand there's nothing I'd like more than to be buck naked with Scott Taylor. It's the stuff fantasies are made of but I can't go any further. I shouldn't. I mustn't. The room is hot and red and the plumes of smoke hang in the air, creating a vibe similar to that of the nightclubs of old. I can taste sin. It's delicious. But can I stomach it? I don't think I can.

But then.

He moves a fraction closer and our lips are just centimetres apart. If I kissed him now, he'd kiss me back. I know he would. It wouldn't mean anything, I realize that it's just the sort of thing rock stars do, but but he would kiss me. Which would be fantastic, wouldn't it? What a story. What a way to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. That single kiss would s.n.a.t.c.h me from the jaws of normality. For just a moment I'd spit back at the ordinariness that suffocates my days. If I kissed this rock legend I would at least have something to tell my grandkids when I'm a wizened and ugly old woman. I lean a smidgen closer too. he would kiss me. Which would be fantastic, wouldn't it? What a story. What a way to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. That single kiss would s.n.a.t.c.h me from the jaws of normality. For just a moment I'd spit back at the ordinariness that suffocates my days. If I kissed this rock legend I would at least have something to tell my grandkids when I'm a wizened and ugly old woman. I lean a smidgen closer too.

Grandchildren.

Adam.

f.u.c.k.

Adam!

I pull away from Scott a moment before our lips mesh. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, what am I thinking of? I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend of four years who I've always been absolutely faithful to. I can't snog a man just because I've been playing cards with him for two hours and I have no knickers on. What in the world am I doing with no knickers on? Hot flushes of shame rush through my body, overwhelming the feelings of l.u.s.t that have dwelt there all morning. How have I allowed this to happen? Why haven't I had any control? A fantasy figure is my birthright. A flirtation is understandable. An affair is downright nasty. I'm not nasty although I am a disgrace! Being with Scott has made me forget Adam even exists. That's terrible. OK, this morning Adam disappointed me horribly, we clearly have a lot to talk about and sort out, but I can't just rush off and kiss another man. Even if the man is Scott Taylor. Even if it is my birthday. Even if...

His lips are rose pink, plump cus.h.i.+ons. Slightly fuller lower lip. Cheeky. Up-turned. Tempting. I feel myself edging towards him again.

No! There are no even ifs even ifs. It's clear cut. I have a boyfriend. Adam. I have Adam. I have to pull away. 'It's my birthday today,' I blurt suddenly, jarring my head away from his. I don't know why I say this, a desperate attempt to break the tension I suppose.

'Happy birthday,' says Scott, jumping up and moving quickly away from me.

I fight a fleeting feeling of disappointment. What did I expect? That he'd demand I kiss him? That he'd be in the slightest bit regretful that we didn't play tongue tennis? How stupid. The man probably never had any intention of kissing me; it was probably all in my imagination in the first place. Or if he was going to kiss me it obviously meant nothing to him. No more than sipping on his water bottle an impulse to quench.

'Your birthday, cool. How are you celebrating?' he asks as he lights another cigarette.

'Erm, well, I'm coming to see your gig,' I reply lamely.

'That's sweet.' He smiles and then he looks away. 'I'm hungry.' He turns towards the security guy. 'Bob, can you get me a club sandwich? But no tomatoes. I hate tomatoes.'

12. Fern

About eight members of Scott's entourage arrive with the sandwich and sadly, it's clear my moment is over. I hastily grab my zip-up top, jewellery and shoes but I can't find my ugly knickers. Sod it. I'll leave them. I feel truly miserable when I consider that there's probably a pile of other girls' knickers stashed in this room, under beanbags and the like. The intimacy I felt between us, real or otherwise, has now totally vanished. I make my excuses and back out of the door as quickly as I can.

Scott calls, 'Have a great birthday, enjoy the gig,' but he doesn't get up from his chair. A woman in black leggings with a tidy blonde bob is giving him a shoulder ma.s.sage. Her fingers are thin and strong. She kneads his muscles as though she's baking bread and it's obvious that she's done the same thing for him on numerous other occasions. The familiarity between them causes a spike of irrational jealousy to poke my innards. I leave quickly.

I scuttle back to the canteen, where the riggers, sound engineers and other crew members are eating their club sandwiches. The hall, which I'd previously thought impressive, looks lack-l.u.s.tre now in comparison to the cosy room where Scott is holed up.

I spot Adam. He's sat with some of his team. I wait for my heart to leap. Nothing. Yet all morning I've felt as though I've swallowed a box of frogs. I sigh and, resigned, I weave through the rows of benches and make my way towards him; what else can I do? He nods at me as I sit down besides him.

'All right, Fern-girl?' he asks, but he doesn't wait for me to reply. Instead he turns back to his friends and they argue whether Status Quo or the Rolling Stones are the greatest grey entertainers of all time. Scott has listened to me all morning, he's valued every word I've uttered; Adam can't even be bothered to wait for my response to his most perfunctory of questions. It's so disappointing. Adam is disappointing. I stare at him and feel nothing other than bleak, steely resentment. I resent his very existence. If it wasn't for him I wouldn't have had to pull away from Scott's kiss. I wouldn't have to be so eternally, boringly, b.l.o.o.d.y ordinary. And why did I pull away? Does Adam deserve my loyalty? What if I've just thrown away the most exciting opportunity of my life and Adam is indifferent towards me? He certainly didn't take my ultimatum seriously. I glower at Adam but he's oblivious. I might as well be invisible because I don't have cable trailing from my b.u.t.t attaching me to a bank of speakers or lights.

Thinking about Adam makes me feel irritable and agitated so instead I choose to fall back into thoughts of Scott, which are comforting and exhilarating. I think about Scott's smile, Scott's laugh and the way Scott's brows sort of take a bow when his head creases up with concentration and I'm crazed with excitement. That was the heaviest bout of flirtation I have ever ever indulged in. I'm hot and sticky all over just thinking about it. Where the h.e.l.l can I buy knickers? I can't go commando all day; I'm wearing a skirt! I wonder if they sell any knickers in the merchandise stalls. They probably do, ones with pictures of Scott's face on them. I'm not the only girl who has fantasies of having him between her legs not by a long shot. indulged in. I'm hot and sticky all over just thinking about it. Where the h.e.l.l can I buy knickers? I can't go commando all day; I'm wearing a skirt! I wonder if they sell any knickers in the merchandise stalls. They probably do, ones with pictures of Scott's face on them. I'm not the only girl who has fantasies of having him between her legs not by a long shot.

The unexpected but deeply intense encounter is probably work-a-day for Scott, all part of the rock and roll handbook, but I've never played strip poker and I've never dreamt of playing it with Scottie Taylor. For the first time since I issued the ultimatum to Adam I feel joyful. As long as I can deliberately shove all thoughts of Adam out of my head, then I am profoundly happy; there's a chance that this will, after all, be the best birthday ever ever.

Although it's actually not easy to shove all thoughts of Adam out of my head, especially when he's sat right next to me, braying with his friends and doing ridiculous impressions of Russell Brand. I stare at him with frustration; annoyingly the frustration is peppered with something hideously close to guilt. I don't want to feel guilty on my birthday so I quickly start a little rea.s.suring self-justification. I tell myself that I haven't got anything to feel guilty about. I pulled back, didn't I? I may have walked right to the edge but I pulled back when it mattered; not every woman would have done the same. I almost almost believe me. believe me.

'What have you been up to this morning?' asks Adam, finally turning his attention to me.

'Nothing much; just looking around,' I mutter.