by Unknown
‘I know you are awake. Open your eyes. I have something for you.’
Slowly, carefully, I prise my eyes open. I feel sick. With nerves? Excitement? Fear? I’m not sure. This might be it. This might be the first moment of my grown-up life. The happily ever after I’m hankering for. I might just be about to receive the allatrope of carbon that makes every girl a princess.
Or I might be about to get the biggest kicking I’ve ever experienced.
Adam leans close and kisses me on my lips. He smells of morning but in a good way; a little bit salty, with a vague hint of last night’s booze. A little jolt of lust flickers up through my body. Down, Shep. Let’s see if he’s come up with the glistening goods first.
There is a breakfast tray on the bed. He’s tried: tea, toast and Coco Pops. There are no croissants, no freshly squeezed orange juice and no miniature jars of jam. I’m not in a bloody film. Some way from it.
I struggle to sit up and stretch out my arm to grapple to find my dressing-gown. It’s on the floor next to the bed where I left it just before I nosedived between the sheets in the dark last night. I sleep naked and I don’t want crumbs to stick to my breasts. Honestly? I don’t want my breasts on show at all. They are not bad breasts. Away ye false modesty. They are really rather nice; pert, a bit on the small side but even. Most people who have been introduced to them have greeted them quite favourably but recently I’ve started to think of my boobs as superfluous, considering Adam and I rarely have sex any more. They are a bit like a decent bottle of vintage port at an AA meeting: out of place. I pull my pink towelling dressing-gown around my body without upsetting the tray (quite a feat) and then pick up a piece of toast and bite into it although I have no real appetite. I scan the tray for something that gleams and I don’t mean a teaspoon. No sign.
‘Happy birthday, Fern-girl,’ says Adam as he leans in for another kiss.
This one is longer and more lingering than the last. I don’t bat him away but I don’t get what you’d call actively involved, not even when he does that really special thing of gently tugging at my lower lip. There was a time when I thought there was a cord attached to my lower lip that trailed through my body and fastened tightly around my G-spot. One decent smacker and I was putty. Today I need to see what he’s going to pull out of the hat first.
‘OK, Fern-girl.’ I glare at him. He shifts uncomfortably and corrects himself. ‘Fern, gorgeous, I’ve been thinking about everything you said last week.’
Is this the moment to describe what he looks like? I think so because at this fleeting point in time I’m suddenly very aware of him, all over again, as though we’d just met and I’m drinking in the details. Maybe it’s something to do with a rare shaft of sunlight flooding (past the grime) through the window. Probably. Oddly, the heaps of dirty and discarded clothes that litter our bedroom recede. All at once I’m less bothered about the trail of half-empty coffee cups that decorate our place (a unique twist as an interior design feature – other couples have fresh flowers and jars of massage oil, I’m sure). Unexpectedly, all I’m aware of is Adam.
Adam has dark, longish hair. Not ponytail length – heaven forbid! – he’s more scruffy surfer. It’s great hair. I love losing my fingers in it. He has heavy eyebrows and dark brown eyes, thick, long eyelashes that even Bambi might envy. He used to have standy-out cheekbones and a strong chin – truth be known, he’s all a bit fleshier nowadays. But still attractive. Worn in. Familiar but cute.
He’s got great shoulders. He’s not the sort of guy you’d ever hope to see down the gym (sadly) but his job is physical enough to ensure broad shoulders, upon which I love to rest my head when we are lying in bed, chatting, late at night (not as regular an occurrence as I’d like). He has enough hairs on his chest to make it clear that he’s man, rather than boy, but not so many as to create the urge for you to reach for the Shake ’n’ Vac. His stomach is rounder than a Calvin Klein model’s but not as lardy as Chris Moyles’. Sort of average for a thirty-two-year-old guy. He’s wearing black Diesel boxers – he fills them. His legs are long and thin and stick out of the end of our bed. Right now, he seems pretty damn perfect.
I’ve never loved him more.
‘So I’ve given a lot of thought to all you said and I think you’re –’
‘What?’ I nervously jump in.
‘You’re right,’ he says simply.
‘You do?’ I want to kiss him, but I hold off for the moment. I want to hear everything he has to say.
‘Yeah. I need to move on. Grow up. Offer you more than my share of the monthly rent in terms of commitment. In fact, I want you to know I’ve been thinking about this for some time. Before you, er, brought your frustrations to my attention.’
‘Really?’ Kiss me, kiss me. I silently will him to pull me tightly to him. But at the same time I don’t want him to stop talking. I’m fizzing with excitement. This is it! This is the moment I’ve been waiting for!
‘I’ve got something for you,’ says Adam. He reaches behind him.
The ring! The ring! What will it be like? A diamond solitaire? Maybe not, that would be pricey. I’d settle for something semi-precious yet stylish and meaningful. My birthstone perhaps.
Adam hands me an envelope.
‘What’s this?’ I battle to keep the fear and disappointment out of my voice. It’s too flat to be a ring. But then a thought strikes me – house details? Possibly. Maybe he’s done something über-romantic, like got details from an estate agent of a place we might buy together and he’s going to take me there this afternoon. He was very insistent that I take the day off and why else would we be starting the day so early? It’s only 7 a.m. Thinking about it, a couple of months back he did start to scan the property pages of the local freebie rag but he always made comments about how ludicrously expensive everything was – way out of our league – so I never paid much attention. My fingers seem to be incapable of following even the basic motor-skill instructions that my brain is sending to them. But eventually I rip the envelope open.
‘Tickets?’
‘To the Scottie Taylor gig.’ Adam is grinning at me.
‘But, but, I don’t understand,’ I stutter.
‘Had you good, didn’t I, Fern-girl? That whole thing I made up last April pretending I couldn’t get any tickets for the concert, not even on eBay.’
Yup, I remember. Scottie Taylor is doing this major gig tonight in Wembley Stadium. The like of which has never been seen before. He’s performing in front of a massive crowd of ninety thousand. It’s the first time he’s played a gig in over two years. He’s playing for three nights in a row. All the tickets were completely sold out in forty minutes. From the moment the lines opened for sales, I repeatedly pressed redial to the ticket office. I was gutted when I didn’t get lucky. I was furious when none of Adam’s industry contacts could help us find tickets. I wanted to go to the gig more than anything.
But that was four months ago.
The gig seems insignificant now, in light of my ultimatum, in light of my clearly communicated desire to move things on. How could Adam imagine that tickets to a pop gig are a reasonable response to everything I said last Friday?
‘There are three tickets for tonight’s gig; one for you and one each for Lisa and Jess. They are in on this. They don’t really have anything else planned, like I said they had. It was all me. This is all my idea.’
‘All you,’ I parrot, unable to trust my tongue with any sort of independence. Now I understand why my friends were exchanging wary glances. They knew this wasn’t what I was hoping for.
‘And that’s not all,’ adds Adam.
Glimmer of hope!
He reaches behind him and hands me another envelope; it’s identical.
Another crash landing. I feel the shock shudder through my body just as though I have endured a physical impact.
Carefully, slowly, I start to open the envelope. I can’t fake enthusiasm; it’s all I can do to hide my face; bastard, telltale tears of hurt and disappo
intment 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 Saturday’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 Cheshire 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 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 assistant stage manager. I have a 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. Bloody gig tickets but no ring. Free bloody 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 sexual advances because he doesn’t make any advances – stealthy or otherwise. Even 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 passes 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 knobs 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 assistant 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 shift 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 18–30 holiday? I can’t now. That’s a missed opportunity.’
‘I’d hardly class that as a missed opportunity. Who wants to drink luminous cocktails with horny, 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 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 brimming 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 circumference 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 damn.
‘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 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.
