Love Lies Part 9

'I think I'm in love with Scott,' I gush.

'You daft cow.' She splutters her beer down the back of the girl in front. The girl doesn't seem to notice, as she's so engrossed in the lyrics of 'Hate to Love You'.

'No, seriously, I am.' I'm a bit frustrated that she's laughing so much beer is coming out of her nose now.

'You and everyone else, sister. Take a look around you.'

'But I'm different from them,' I insist.

'Not to him,' she says calmly.

'I am. I know him. He talks to me.'

'Of course it's attractive,' she says more patiently. 'He's a rock star. He's oozing success and power.'

'That alone I could have walked away from. He's more than that. Much more than that to me.'

'And Adam?'

Right now, Adam's name is not synonymous with success and power. Or happiness. Or even s.e.xual attraction. All I can say to Jess is, 'He's hanging on by a thread called loyalty.'

'You need to talk to Adam. You need to tell him how you feel.'

'Or more accurately how I no longer feel.'

'Be careful, Fern,' says Jess. 'Don't throw away a good man for a fantasy.'

'I keep telling you, Jess, what we have feels very real. I know it's hard to digest and accept but I'm sure he likes me.'

Jess turns back to the stage, just as Scott picks out a young girl from the audience and pulls her on to the stage. He folds her in his arms and I watch as the skinny brunette melts. The crowd goes wild as he sings the romantic lyrics, 'Come Back to Me', to this fortunate. Every one of the ninety thousand hates and envies the girl he's picked out but they love him all the more for making her dream come true. It's clear from her closed-eyed look of absolute contentment that the girl in Scott's arms is entirely unaware of anyone other than him. Jess watches me. I shrug.

'It's part of the act. He did the same thing last night,' I point out.

'It's all an act with him,' says Jess. 'It's not even his fault. It has to be like that.'

The girl he's singing to touches his b.u.m cheeky bint. I swallow hard as I know, from the gig last night, the next thing he does is kiss the girl a full-on lipsmacker. Yesterday, I'd watched with curiosity, I'd shared the heightening s.e.xual tension that sluiced the stadium; today something in my stomach contracts with anxiety. I wonder how old the girl is? Young. Early twenties. A lot younger than me.

Scott quickly kisses the girl on the forehead and then releases her. I swear his eyes flick in my direction. I might be mistaken; the gesture was too brief for me to be certain, but... I stare at Jess to see if she's also spotted the change in his gig routine and whether she's drawn the same conclusions as me.

She gawks back at me, open-mouthed. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' she mutters, shaking her head with disbelief. 'I think you might be right. He might might like you. I don't know if that's good or bad news.' like you. I don't know if that's good or bad news.'

'Don't be an a.r.s.e, Jess. If he likes me, how can it be anything other than good news?' I reply. I'm getting more than a little fed up with her gallons of cold water. I'd expect Lisa to preach caution and care but I thought I'd have one hundred per cent support from Jess. Jess does reckless and romantic. What's going on? Why isn't she being more supportive? We don't say much else to one another but watch the rest of the concert in silence.

Between the songs he tells the audience he loves us all. His voice sends s.h.i.+vers throughout the stadium; women close their eyes and let his h.o.r.n.y, husky melodies wash over them. He's able to change his mood with every song. He's pensive, sorrowful, cheeky, noisy and rude by turn. He's an actor, with an elastic face and dozens of poses. Are any of them for real? Jess obviously doubts it and I don't know for sure. But right at this moment, I don't know and I don't care. Not knowing or caring scares and thrills me. I want to believe in him. I stare at his thirty-foot image played out on monitors by the side of the stage. I lift up my hand as though I can touch the deep creases around his mouth, evidence that he's yelled too hard, laughed too hard, drunk too hard. He looks lived in, and frankly what better place to dwell? I feel a bit foolish when Jess catches my eye and I turn the gesture into a general wave of arms as though I'm swaying along to the tunes, but I don't think she's convinced because she raises her eyebrows again and sighs dramatically.

He completes his set and then he returns to sing his encore. He fulfils his contractual obligations and sings 'Stamp on Your Demons' as agreed with the TV and DVD producers. He runs back on to the stage one more time and he jumps into the air and punches it. The ripples are, no doubt, felt in Scotland. The crowd go wild. Screaming and crying and begging for more, more. Scott gazes around the auditorium; he's a satisfied man. He'll sleep well tonight, I'm sure of it. There seems to be no sign of the crowd ever relaxing their screams of adoration until 'I've had a perfect day,' he growls in a s.e.xy, deliberately not-quite-singing voice. 'I'm glad I spent it with you.' Then he sings Lou Reed's full version of 'Perfect Day'.

This time there's no mistaking it. Scott is looking directly at me. His liquid green eyes glisten, sparking up a fire in my stomach that I am incapable of dousing.

Incapable and unwilling.

23. Fern

I don't have to walk back to the station, after all. When the gig finishes Saadi, Scott's PA, appears from nowhere and informs me there's a car to take me and my friends home. Before I even get a chance to squeal with excitement she adds, 'The same car will pick you up at ten a.m. tomorrow, OK?'

'OK,' I nod, not quite understanding what I'm agreeing to but happy to go along.

'It was a sublime gig, don't you think?' Saadi asks.

'Yes.' I beam, and hope she understands the depth of my delight as I seem incapable of actually saying much, not something I'm often charged with.

'You appear to be good for his music,' she says, drily.

She stares at me for a moment, clearly questioning how this can possibly be the case. She obviously regards me as part of the great unwashed and must be intrigued to discover the source of the magic between Scott and me. Then she shrugs and grins, a busy woman she doesn't have too long to ponder. I think she's decided that she doesn't much care what the source of the magic is, as long as it keeps flowing.

'Tell Scott goodnight from me,' I garble.

She nods. 'Get a good night's sleep yourself.'

No chance.

My mind has never been so intoxicated. It's not just the effects of the champagne that Ben, Jess and I find in the car, it's the whole adventure that's making me drunk. I'm drunk on the smell of the leather seats in the Merc, which swiftly cuts through the crowds and takes us home. I'm high on the memory of the sound of the ninety thousand voices crying out 'Scot-tie, Scot-tie' and his low, soulful voice singing to me me, telling me I gave him a perfect day. My sense is smashed and splintered as I think back over today's conversations. I'm inebriated at the thought of his eyes that flash with the promise of something totally, irresistibly, irreversibly extraordinary. Nothing can affect my mood; not Ben's insensible, animated, garbling nor Jess's sulky silence. I'm separate from them. I'm coc.o.o.ned.

When Adam gets home I'm sat in front of the TV, carelessly hopping from one channel to the next, not expecting to find anything that will hold my attention. How can anything on TV, or in my flat, or in my normal life hold my attention after a day like today? I've changed out of my stockings, pencil skirt and silky top, as I knew the sight of me in such a s.e.xy get-up would certainly lead to a row. Sad really. Once upon a time the sight of me in such a s.e.xy get-up was sure to lead to s.e.x. But Adam is no fool; he'd know I didn't wear that outfit this morning for his benefit. Jess drank the best part of a bottle of champagne (through a straw) on the journey home and so staggered to bed the moment we stepped through the door of the flat. I stayed up to face the music.

But not to dance.

All day my stomach has been full of delighted trembling b.u.t.terflies, but when I set eyes on Adam, I feel their tiny wings beat a final time and then die. Adam looks weary. Worse than yesterday. He's in pain. I hadn't expected that. I don't know what I had expected, but not that.

'Where've you been all day?' he asks. The moment he opens his mouth I'm hit by evidence of serious boozing. It must be very serious for me to notice, as I've had my ample share tonight. Adam's breath smells of whisky such a depressing drink and his speech is slurred. 'Where've you been all day?' he asks again, unsure whether I understood him the first time.

He knows the answer and I know he knows. I wonder if he wants me to lie so that we can limp on, ignore this thing with Scott and hope it will go away. Or does he want me to tell him the truth so that he can scream abuse at me and give our relations.h.i.+p a decent funeral.

'With Scott.'

'What, talking?' he sneers cruelly, jumping to the conclusion that the last thing anyone would do with Scottie Taylor is talk.

'Yes, actually, just talking.'

'And you expect me to believe that?' A tiny dot of Adam's spittle escapes because he's in too much of a fury to control it. It lands on my cheek and I have to force myself not to rub it away. The gesture would be horribly inflammatory and Adam is itching for a fight. I'm not so keen. I've never seen him this nasty and furious. He's normally a jolly drunk. He's normally a jolly everything. It's bizarre that the thought of his spittle on my cheek is distressing me. His bodily fluids repulse me. When did that happen? Overnight? Two days ago I wanted this man to ask me to marry him. I wanted his babies. That would have involved swapping more than spittle. Today, I can barely stand the fact that he's in the same room as I am.

I'm bored with him. I'm bored by the fact that this display of anger is the first real emotion I've witnessed in Adam in months. He's failed spectacularly to be charming, pa.s.sionate, interested or interesting for quite some time now but, all at once, he's found his fire. I'm not impressed by this macho display. I can't help but think his fever is nothing to do with our relations.h.i.+p, it's not about Adam and me it's about Adam and his ego. He didn't want me until someone else showed an interest. He's especially irritated that the 'someone else' happens to be his boss, happens to be a rock legend.

If Adam had truly wanted me he had plenty of opportunities to demonstrate it. He could have surprised me occasionally by running me a bath after a hard day in the shop or running the hoover over the carpets in the flat; it's not like we live in a mansion, it wouldn't take much. He might have noticed when I bought a new outfit or had my hair cut. Is there anything more depressing than spending ages trying to look pretty for someone, only to discover he hasn't even noticed? It's humiliating that I'm often forced to ask pathetically, 'How do I look?' especially as I only ever receive a disappointing. 'Fine' delivered without him taking his eyes away from the TV. If he'd wanted me he could have shown me by taking me somewhere more interesting than the local pub just once in a while. He could have helped paint the flat instead of leaving it to Jess and me. h.e.l.l, if he'd wanted me for real, we'd have our own flat.

He would have asked me to marry him.

The thought cuts through me, a blade of pure, un-diluted distress. I gasp for breath but it's hard to breathe, I'm choking on the stagnant stench of a dying relations.h.i.+p. It smells like an overflowing cesspit.

'And you expect me to believe that all you did was talk?' Adam demands.

'You can believe what you like, Adam.' I hope my tone communicates that I no longer care what he believes.

'Have you f.u.c.ked him?'

The nasty word sounds as mean as it ever can. Adam's face snarls with impotence and fury. I almost wish I could say yes. It's what he expects. It's what I want. And, by saying no, I'll give Adam a glimmer of entirely false hope. But I haven't f.u.c.ked Scott.

'No.'

'Liar.' More spittle. His face creases with disbelief; he's purple and unrecognizable. Normally serene, Adam has transformed from una.s.suming Dr Jekyll to a sinister Mr Hyde. 'You've been hanging around his room all day like some cheap groupie. He sent you home in his car. I understand he's sending another car to pick you up tomorrow, of course you're f.u.c.king him.'

Clearly the tom-tom drums have been beating among the crew. I suppose this gossip is too good to simply consume, it's the sort of gossip that has to be chewed and regurgitated.

Adam's unoriginal accusations are no doubt deserved. It's an a.s.sumption most would make, plus I've treated him quite badly in the past day or so, but at the moment I am more sober than he is so I have the opportunity to scramble up to the high ground. I like it there. Everyone does and I'm not keen to give it up. Adam ignored my ultimatum. He did not take me seriously. I have not so much as kissed Scott. On paper I'm squeaky clean. There's only one way I can keep it like that.

'It's over, Adam. We're finished.'

'Don't be so f.u.c.king stupid, Fern. You don't mean that,' says Adam irritably. I stay silent, indicating that I do. After a pause Adam adds, 'You can't think you have a future with Scottie Taylor.' Now he sounds incredulous.

'Maybe I do, maybe I don't. The point is, Adam, you made it clear that I don't have a future with you.' I'm battling to stay calm, so it's distressing that a fat tear rolls down my cheek; I wipe it away impatiently. I'm doing the chucking, why am I crying? I shouldn't be crying. 'I told you what I wanted,' I add.

'Back to the f.u.c.king engagement ring!' Adam slams his hand against the wall. Up until the last day or so he wasn't one for swearing or violence, now he's like a pot of spitting oil that's going to boil over and scald everything it touches; I don't want to be around when that happens. 'You stupid, stupid woman, don't you see he'll let you down?' yells Adam. With each word he slams his fist against the wall; again and again. It must hurt.

'That's none of your business any more, is it?' I say coolly. 'I'm going to bed. Tomorrow we can talk about who is going to move out.'

'Oh, you don't need to worry about me,' he says in a sneering voice. He's no longer hitting the wall but he won't look at me. 'I'm sorted. You're not the only one who is full of surprises.'

I don't quite get what he means but then he probably doesn't mean anything, it's just bl.u.s.tering drunken bravado. I suppose as I've finished the relations.h.i.+p I'll have to move out, or at least offer to. But I really think Adam should go and leave Jess and me to it. He's just had a promotion, he can afford something else and, after all, Jess was my friend first. Suddenly my head aches as the realities of this split hurtle towards me. Who goes? Who stays? Who gets to keep the stuff we own? Who gets to keep the friends we've made? It's going to be a mess.

I grab the spare duvet from the top of the wardrobe and throw it at Adam, indicating that he's on the couch. I close the door and undress in silence. Then I lie on the bed, which suddenly seems vast, and I breathe a deep sigh. It's a sigh of relief. There, it's done. It's over. We're finished. The relief is faintly tinged with panic. What next? Can Scott be my next? I think so but I seem to be the only one who does. But I breathe deeply, then I start to allow the wonderful happenings of the day swirl back into my head. I replay our conversations, I recall his grins and I remind myself that he sang 'Perfect Day' to me. Slowly, the b.u.t.terflies gently flap their wings in my stomach once again.

24. Fern

I wake up feeling slightly queasy. I can't work out if it's the effects of the champagne I consumed last night or the antic.i.p.ation of seeing Scott again. I dismiss the idea that it might be guilt or regret that yesterday I finished my relations.h.i.+p with Adam. I shower and dress in virtual silence; I don't want to wake Jess or Adam I can't face either of them. I know I promised Adam that we'd talk in the morning but now the morning is here I don't think I have anything else to say to him. I just want to get out of the flat and as far away as possible without another draining encounter. As I pick up my mobile I'm delighted to find a text in my inbox to tell me that the car is outside.

I spot the Merc with tinted windows that dropped me at home yesterday and fling myself into the car with the same relief as a robber diving into a getaway car after a heist.

'Morning, gorgeous.'

His flat northern tones, truly music to my ears, cause me to jump a foot into the sky.

'Jesus, you scared me. I didn't expect you '

He cuts me short by leaning over and kissing me firmly on the lips. It's a good kiss. Fabulous actually, as you'd expect. He's practised more than most. The kiss is lingering but still. It is a warm kiss that is full of purpose and implication. His lips are firm and tender. Smooth, warm, clear. We fit. We both keep our eyes wide open to see what effect we have on one another. It's devastating. Our first kiss.

'I didn't expect you,' I mutter when we finally achingly pull apart.

'You should have seen me coming, baby,' he says, quietly.

'Yes, I should have.'

'I'm right on time.' He moves some hair from out of my eyes and tucks it behind my ear. It's a gesture which seems more caring and intimate than some of the s.e.x I've had in the past.

'I think you are,' I murmur.

I also think we are talking about more than one sort of pick-up. I should have seen him coming; well, if not s.e.x G.o.d, music icon Scottie Taylor exactly, then at least I should have seen the fact that someone was going to s.n.a.t.c.h me from the jaws of the routine romance I was having with Adam. And Scott is in the nick of time. If he hadn't come along when he did I'd still be relentlessly pursuing a proposal from Adam; a proposal Adam clearly doesn't want to offer up. How could I have thought that route would lead to anything other than heartache?

But where is this thing with Scott leading?

I didn't sleep well last night, I wrestled with my conscience, heart and the facts, in an attempt to understand where I'll be dropped after this whirlwind pa.s.ses through town. I wasn't kidding when I told Jess that I think I am falling in love with Scott. Of course I b.l.o.o.d.y am; I'm only human. But what about him? What does he feel and where does he think this is going? A quick dash around the duck-down duvet? Or more? I have no idea if I can realistically expect this to go anywhere at all but I do know that I am absolutely powerless to resist the momentum. I am not vain, naive or even just plain dumb enough to count on the idea that Scott might feel the same about me as I feel about him and yet... I can't help but harbour the smallest hope that he might feel something out of the ordinary. All this that I'm feeling can't be one way. It's too profound. I need to go where the flow takes me. I only hope it flows into an enormous ocean of possibility and not down some filthy sewer of disappointment.

'I want to see your flower shop,' says Scott, interrupting my ever-decreasing circles of reason. I don't mind, my reason crumbles into longing far too easily anyhow. I'm happy to be distracted.

'It's closed on a Sunday. It won't look as lovely as it usually does,' I warn him.

'But it will be private,' he grins.

The word private has exactly the same effect on me as if he were inching down my knickers with his teeth.

During the week Ben's B&B is one of the most beautiful flower shops in London. I know there's a serious possibility I'm biased but I think I can safely claim as much. It's quite small, situated on the corner of a short string of shops, but you can normally spot it at a distance because of the large, over-hanging, stripy orange and pink canvas. This offers year-round shade and shelter to the buckets of various blooms that spill out of the shop and on to the street. It's a riot of colour. Today it will look less impressive. The canvas will be tied back and the empty aluminium buckets will be stacked inside the shop. Rather than vibrancy and cheer I'm expecting tumbleweed. But, as Scott pointed out, it's somewhere private we can go. Obviously I can't invite him back to my flat, for a chat or a coffee (read d.a.m.n good seeing to all I can think of since his lips touched mine). I understand his place is surrounded by press twenty-four-seven, and so that's out of the question. We're never alone at the stadium and if we did just want to chat and drink coffee and we nipped to the local coffee shop we'd be mobbed by every woman and girl in the neighbourhood. My florist, even if likely to be bare and damp on a Sunday, is our best option.

The shop keys are on the same ring as the keys to my flat. I dig them out of my bag and dangle them in front of Scott. He treats me to another wide, s.e.xy grin.

'Let's go.'

It takes about a minute to get to the shop, as it's just around the corner from my home.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, look, the canopy is down. That Sat.u.r.day girl is hopeless. She should have tied that back last night. If it had rained heavily it might have been damaged,' I grumble. 'Ben left her to lock up as he was rus.h.i.+ng to your gig.' As the car starts to slow I take another glance. 'The buckets the flowers '

I don't understand. The shop must be open. The buckets are all over the pavement as usual. Although, not as usual. It's Sunday. Plus there are more buckets than normal and instead of them being full of various blooms roses, tulips, chrysanthemums there are only peonies. Big, fat pink peonies. My very favourite flower, as I told Scott only yesterday. Peonies range from red to white or yellow but I love the pale pink peony that reminds me of a ballerina's cla.s.sic tutu. They have compound, deeply lobed leaves, long stems and large, fragrant flowers. They are beautiful.

Not quite understanding what's going on, I clamber out of the car. I turn to Scott; he's grinning like a cat that's just eaten a canary. He dangles another set of keys back at me; I immediately recognize the glittery heart-shaped key-ring as Ben's.