by Unknown
‘Can’t you be pleased for me?’ I ask, hoping that Adam will understand my need of and delight in this shiny, wondrous occasion. Adam glares at me and then turns and kicks the wall. Very mature. I watch the small flakes of plaster from around the socket scatter and I think, lucky them – I’d like to scatter.
Because, truth is part of me wishes that Scott did mean something by the flirtation. Part of me longs to be given a swift exit from my increasingly overwhelming sense of disappointment. As Adam surreptitiously rubs his sore toe on the back of his calf I acknowledge that it’s quite a large part of me that wants the latter. I rub my eyes with the balls of my hands. I really am too tired and drunk to think clearly; I need to sleep now.
I walk into our bedroom and start to get ready for bed. I undress and then put on pyjamas; something I only ever do if I’m in a mood with Adam. Normally we like to sleep naked with our bodies squashed into one another. Adam follows me into the bedroom; he’s carrying a glass of water. I wonder if he’s going to offer it to me as a sign of peace. He glugs it back. Sod him. I know I’m going to have a stonker of a hangover tomorrow but I don’t get out of bed to get my own water, it would give him too much satisfaction.
Our bedroom is tiny; it was an unbelievable struggle to get the double bed in here when we moved in, so Adam has to sit on the bed to take his clothes off as there’s nowhere else for him to go. I find his nearness unwelcome. He starts to undress. He flings his leather jacket, jeans, T-shirt, socks and boxers in a heap in the corner of our bedroom; the corner is so close that I can smell his clothes. They smell of summer evening and faint sweat, mostly masked by deodorant. This is Adam’s usual (and not altogether unpleasant) smell. Tonight I don’t like it. I sigh and wonder does he really believe they walk to the washing machine all by themselves? I’m bored of being the laundry fairy and the shopping fairy and the cleaning fairy; there’s no magic in it for me.
Adam gets into bed and lies staring at the ceiling. He mumbles, ‘The man’s a slut, Fern. A dangerous, ruthless slut.’
‘It’s good to know you think so highly of the person who is at the very pinnacle of your industry,’ I mutter back sarcastically, and then I turn away from Adam, ensuring I take a huge share of the duvet with me.
I don’t care if Adam is sulking, or wounded or angry. He’s being silly. He should be pleased for me. It’s my birthday, for goodness sake. And Scott singing to me was the most wonderful present. The most exciting thing that has ever happened to me, ever. It doesn’t mean a thing. Not to Scott. I was just part of his show. He’s impulsive. And the fact that I really, really, really wish it did mean something to Scott doesn’t mean anything either. Does it? Scott is just a fantasy figure, as he is to millions of women. I know couples who have jokes between them about which A-lister they would bed, given the chance, and those jokes often extend to a tongue-in-cheek free pass to do just that, if the occasion ever arises.
Everyone knows those occasions don’t ever crop up.
Do they?
I lie staring at the wall and instead of counting sheep I wonder if I could have played things differently today. Perhaps I could have called Adam when I was in Scott’s dressing-room and asked him to join us in the card game. Not strip poker, obviously, that would have been a bit tricky, but the earlier games. Scott and Adam might have got on, they might have become good buddies and that would have been exciting – that would have lifted us out and above our normal humdrum existence. They might be interested in each other’s record collection, they both have guitars. And Adam only described Scott as ‘a dangerous, ruthless slut’ because he’s in a mood. We could get round that.
In the moment I let the thought into my head I boot it out again. Who am I trying to kid? I don’t want Scott, Adam and me to be friends. My feelings for Scott haven’t dilly-dallied around the platonic, they fast-tracked straight to something bigger and more overwhelming. What I feel for Scott isn’t friendship. It’s more than that.
And right now, what I feel for Adam is less.
16. Fern
The next day I call Ben from my bed and beg him for another day off.
‘It’s Saturday, darling, I can’t do without you,’ he sing-songs down the phone. I realize I’m asking a lot of him. Saturday is our busiest day and he’d have to manage basically on his own (as our dopey Saturday girl is often as much of a hindrance as she’s a help – we only keep her on because her mum is one of our best clients).
‘Oh please, please, please,’ I beg.
‘I’m guessing you had loads of hot birthday sex yesterday and now you want a repeat performance. You’re just being a greedy girl.’
‘Actually, things didn’t pan out as I expected yesterday,’ I admit glumly. ‘Adam didn’t produce a ring.’
‘But he did have a surprise for you,’ Ben interrupts excitedly.
‘Free tickets to a Scottie Taylor gig. Not what I was expecting.’ There’s a silence. Neither of us knows what to say next. No doubt Ben is trying to think of something to say to comfort me – but what can?
Well, Scott singing to me did. Scott flirting with me did. Scott saying I was lovely really did!
Briefly, I wonder how much detail I should give to Ben over the phone. I’m aware that Adam is sleeping right next to me and I decide to save all the fun bits until we can talk face to face.
‘Really? That’s it? Just the tickets?’ asks Ben eventually. He sounds disappointed, almost as disappointed as I was. Not one to stay downcast for long, he quickly jumps to the assumption that Adam will have arranged a compensatory treat for today. ‘I see, so you’re planning to do something special today and that’s why you need another day off?’ he asks encouragingly.
‘Yes,’ I say cautiously. I am planning on doing something special but not with Adam. I feel bad that Ben is under a different impression but I’ll explain everything when I see him. ‘I have tickets for tonight’s gig too. We can meet there. I’ll get Jess to bring over one of the tickets for you. Freebies,’ I say by way of persuasion.
‘Oh well, in that case, I can hardly refuse, can I? It would be too ungracious. Take good care of your hangover, try fizzy elderflower and greasy chips. I’ll see you tonight and you can tell me all about your gorgeous gifts.’
‘Thank you, you’re a superstar.’
I don’t bother to tell Ben that, surprisingly, I am not hungover – despite the enormous amounts Jess and I drank last night. In fact I feel wonderful.
You see, the first thing that hit me this morning when I woke up from my Scott Taylor dream-filled sleep was not the disappointment of Adam failing to propose but the excitement that Scott Taylor singled me out and sang to me! Me! That’s monumental.
I jump out of bed, drag on a tracksuit and dash to the corner 7–11 store. We need milk and I need papers. When I get back to the flat clutching a bunch of tabloids Adam has emerged from the shower and is stood in the kitchen hurriedly eating a slice of dry toast (we’re out of butter and I forgot to pick up any). Our flat is so tiny I practically jump on his knee just by stepping through the door. He shrinks away from me, shooting me a cross look.
‘Morning,’ I smile breezily.
He grunts but doesn’t go as far as returning my greeting. Really, he’s going to have to try harder than that to ruin my day. Not only did I spend yesterday playing cards with Scott Taylor but the truth is Scott Taylor sang to me! Have I mentioned that? It’s impossible to be anything other than thrilled with life. As Adam puts the kettle on to make mugs of tea, I start to read the tabloids. Scott’s comeback gig is emblazoned all over the front pages. The reviews are great, which is excellent news. Britain’s pop prince has a tempestuous relationship with the tabloids. Sometimes he’s golden boy and other times he’s public enemy number one. I imagine he’ll love this coverage. He’s described as ‘dizzyingly vibrant’, ‘class entertainer’, ‘the show of his life’. I work my way through the Mirror, the Daily Mail, the Express and then the Sun. They are uniform in their praise.
‘Lo
ok at this,’ I squeal. ‘The Mirror has mentioned Scott singing to me.’
‘Fucking great,’ says Adam. He’s drinking from a carton of milk which he slams down with unnecessary violence; some splashes on the floor. I’m pretty certain it will stay there until it changes to cheese. ‘Not only do ninety thousand people witness Scottie Taylor hitting on my girl but now a further several million get to read about it.’
I start to read from the newspaper. ‘It says he sang to an “elegant, mystery girl and everyone wants to know who is this lovely ”.’ I don’t think Adam hears me because he reaches for his jacket and then charges out of the kitchen and the flat (this takes about four steps). The door slams behind him so I go to Jess’s room. I think it’s more reasonable to assume she’ll be pleased for me.
17. Fern
Jess has a hangover and she doesn’t appreciate my jumping up and down on her bed and pointing out that I’m not suffering from one because Scott Taylor sang to me! I think she may be a bit jealous. She’s used to being the one that exciting things happen to. She’s normally the one bursting into my room on a Saturday morning with a whirling head and excited chatter about new flirtations. For years I’ve watched her being wined and dined by a dazzling array of blokes, and although she swears she’d swap all the variety for a bit of consistency that’s just because she doesn’t know how disappointing consistency can be. Consistency that leads to wedding bells and babies has its advantages, I don’t doubt. But consistency which amounts to little more than an encyclopedic knowledge of Saturday TV schedules and the menus of all the local takeaway services is not something to covet.
‘What did Adam say about Scottie’s impromptu singsong?’ she asks.
‘Well, he was huffy about it, mostly because it screwed up his light sequence, I think.’ Her question stops me jumping up and down. It’s hard to think about Adam without feeling… what? Sad? Bad? Mad?
‘He must feel a bit threatened. No man would like Scottie Taylor making a move on his girlfriend.’
‘He’s not threatened. Adam just doesn’t like me having fun,’ I say a bit sulkily and a bit unreasonably.
‘That’s not true,’ says Jess gently.
‘It seems that way.’ I sit on the side of her bed. Still and serious now, I struggle to be clearer. ‘Or rather, I’m beginning to think that Adam is just indifferent to whether I have fun or not, whether I am happy or not. After all, he didn’t acknowledge my request for more commitment.’
‘You mean your scary, demanding ultimatum,’ she clarifies with a wry grin.
‘Is the thought of marrying me so scary?’ I ask with a sigh. ‘You know, I’m getting the feeling that Adam has one foot out of the door. We’re not going anywhere. If we were, he’d have proposed. Why didn’t he propose?’ Jess doesn’t reply, she doesn’t know how to. She just looks uncomfortable.
‘Will you carry out your threat? Will you break up?’ she asks.
Now I don’t know how to answer her question. We fall silent. I get a feeling similar to that of being at a wake. I think we might be burying my relationship with Adam. I use the pause to think about what Jess first said.
‘So, do you think Scott was making a move?’ I try to keep the hope in my voice subdued to a reasonable level.
‘Well, yes, he probably does fancy you but that’s not important, is it?’
‘No,’ I lie. Actually, hearing that Scott might fancy me seems magnificently important, especially right now when I feel Adam has passed up the chance to be with me. A boyfriend of four years not wanting to get married is a weighty blow to a girl’s confidence and Scott Taylor taking an interest is a mighty lift.
‘I mean, it’s not like he’s going to actively pursue you, is it?’ continues Jess. ‘He’ll have moved on today, probably slept with someone else last night.’
‘Probably,’ I mutter. My stomach is full of swiftly solidifying cement. I don’t want to hear this.
‘It was just a bit of fun, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I mumble reluctantly.
‘I mean, realistically, like you said yesterday, Scottie Taylor probably does this sort of thing all the time. Not so much a girl in every port, more a girl in every pavement crack. He can’t take a step without some woman offering herself up. Even if you rolled out of a rug and fell naked at his feet à la Cleopatra there’s no guarantee that Scottie Taylor would even recognize you today.’ Jess catches sight of my face and stops blathering. Maybe I’m not hiding my disappointment as well as I’d like to. She reaches over and squeezes my hand and gently says, ‘I mean you wouldn’t want to be just yet another woman he had sex with.’
Oh God, it’s terrible, but part of me wants exactly that. I can’t look at Jess in case she can see my wantonness written all over my face.
‘I wouldn’t mind being asked,’ I mumble. ‘Maybe Scott could ask me to sleep with him and then, obviously, I’ll say no. That way I’ll have the undisputed joy of knowing that he wanted me but the comfort of knowing that I’m a good moral person who stood by my man. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe that’s the ultimate fantasy once you hit thirty.’
Or it might just be letting him fuck my brains out and not getting caught, I don’t know.
‘Still, this little flirtation has cheered you up after the disappointment of Adam not producing an engagement ring. The idiot,’ adds Jess.
I nod but don’t trust myself to say anything. I’m in turmoil. My confidence and ego have been on a roller-coaster ride. One minute I’m up, the next I’m down. I don’t know how to feel or act, but I do know that when I crash it will be spectacularly messy.
‘This might be the wake-up call Adam needs,’ says Jess with a sympathetic smile. ‘Now he’s been reminded that his girl is hot enough to catch the eye of Scottie Taylor, he might just get his arse in gear and pop the question.’
‘Do you think there’s even the slightest chance?’ I ask her.
‘What, of Adam popping the question? Yes, I do.’ Jess nods confidently.
And only yesterday this is exactly what I wanted to hear. All I wanted to hear. I was desperate for even the smallest glimmer of hope that Adam might propose; today everything is different. ‘No, not that. Do you think there is the smallest chance of Scott noticing me if I roll out of a rug and fall naked at his feet?’ I ask.
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ says Jess.
‘Deadly serious,’ I reply. Suddenly it’s clear to me; I’m going to have to move on. Adam doesn’t want me. He had his chance and he tossed it away. Did I have a chance with Scott Taylor yesterday, a real chance? Did I toss it away? I hope not, I hate waste.
Jess doesn’t say anything more; she just flops back into bed and pulls the duvet over her head.
18. Fern
OK, the rolling naked from carpet thing might be a stretch. What worked for an Egyptian queen thousands of years ago might not do the trick for a twenty-first century, ordinary girl, but this time I do at least take great care with my outfit. I consider buying something new but don’t want to waste a morning trailing around the shops, so I plump for a high-waisted grey pencil skirt that I bought in Zara last year but have only had occasion to wear twice, a silky emerald green top with a pussy bow and high, round-toed, petrol blue patent shoes. The combination of spray-on tight skirt and stilt-height shoes means that I can barely walk but I don’t care because I know I look as good as it gets. No pain, no gain.
I hop-stroke-hobble on to the tube and set off for Wembley. Jess said I should leave Adam a note, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I can’t think about it right now, it’s all too strange and raw and unsettled. I do know that whatever I have to say should probably be said face to face. I tell myself that I’ll find Adam at the stadium and talk to him there, but I have a feeling I might be lying to me. I think I might just go directly to Scott’s dressing-room and avoid Adam like the bubonic plague. I don’t share this choice piece of info with Jess; I guess I know my intentions are far from honourable. I know that I’m not behaving especially well t
owards Adam right now; the fairest thing would be to formally finish our relationship before I move on with Scott but I don’t have the luxury of time. Scott is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and despite the nasty spikes of guilt jabbing my conscience for the entire journey to Wembley, I’m determined not to blow it. It’s an odd thing, but knowing that I ought to be behaving better and actually behaving better don’t seem to be at all sequential.
It’s easy to find his room today. I still have a pass, and besides which I walk with a new confidence through the labyrinth of corridors. A couple of people catch my eye and nod to me. It’s possible they recognize me from last night’s gig and think I have a right and a reason to be mooching around the dressing-rooms. I’ve almost convinced myself of as much.
After just a split second of hesitation I knock on his door and then walk straight in.
He is there. We lock eyes and my heart stops. He grins and it starts again. He’s detonated a bomb of sensations. Effervescent shards of excitement, desire, fear and lust ambush me. The muddles of emotions settle, almost painfully, in my head and knickers. I am freshly overwhelmed by his presence.
‘Good morning,’ he says, with a mock formality.
‘Morning,’ I mutter, my determination and confidence flooding out of me with every passing moment.
He is sat facing the door, as though expecting me, which is impossible – so expecting someone else maybe? Again, he’s dressed casually in jeans and a simple blue T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved or combed his hair. His crumpled, just-got-out-of-bed appearance is once more irresistible. His legs are splayed and I can’t concentrate. I daren’t move closer to him or else I’ll be stood between his thighs, like some sort of lap dancer.
