by Unknown
The families would all sit around an enormous trestle table, we’d eat elaborate, expensive food with difficult-to-pronounce names and even Bill would be impressed. Everyone would get on. We’d laugh all evening. My mum and dad would finally stop worrying about me. I’d be a success. It would be a tremendous moment.
I probably need to think about something else now.
Scott and I listen to music. It’s a huge relief and a pleasant surprise that Scott does not ask me what I usually listen to but instead excitedly tells me about his favourite artists. I actively try to like the stuff Scott’s introducing me to; I mean he must know a thing or two. Adam used to do the same but I never liked the bands Adam listened to and never tried to change that opinion. Oh God, I’m thinking about Adam in the past tense. It’s over but he doesn’t know. A brief flicker of shame licks my innards. I suppose I have to call him. But what can I say? He knows I’m here with Scott; he sent a message via the production manager. How pathetic, how typical, he couldn’t even be bothered to come in person. He’s not interested in fighting for me – just in embarrassing me.
I find it’s more comfortable to be indignant than racked with guilt.
Scott and I talk as though we’ve known each other for ever but haven’t seen each other for a very long time. Everything I say seems interesting to him, he seems to want to approve of me, he envelops me in an overwhelming sense of Yes. Yes, I’m funny. Yes, I’m sexy. Yes, I’m interesting. The result is I feel so utterly gorgeous that I physically morph in front of him. I swear I become taller, stronger, leaner. The blemishes on my chin vanish, my cheekbones become more pronounced, my eyebrows curve in just the correct arch and there are no stray hairs jutting out at unfortunate angles. My hair is shining, my smile is radiant and endless, and my brain has never been more alert.
He showers me with stunning compliments in a way that seems casual and yet authentic. Not insincere or creepy. ‘You’re enthralling,’ ‘You’re remarkable,’ ‘You’re gorgeous.’ These compliments are unusual and enormous. They should jar or appear disingenuous but they don’t; it feels natural and I don’t doubt him for a second. With him, I am these amazing things.
Besides music we talk about movies, food, favourite smells, school, chocolate and TV. They’re small, everyday subjects but everything seems larger than life as I wrestle to be clearer, more truthful and concise than ever before. I want to find the most true and perfect words, so that I can dignify this magic.
Scott asks, ‘Where were you born?’
‘Reading.’ I pause.
‘What?’
‘I was wondering if I should pretend that I don’t know you were born in Hull, just for conversational form,’ I admit.
Scott starts to grin. ‘That’s the first time anyone has ever admitted to that dilemma. Mostly people think they know me really well and don’t ask any of the pleasantries but dive straight in and ask the most intimate questions imaginable.’
‘Such as?’
‘About sex mostly. They ask me if I’ve ever blar blar blar and if not why not? Do I want to? For blar, blar, blar you can use your imagination. I’ve been asked about every weird sexual perversion you could possibly think of, largely by total strangers.’
‘Right,’ I nod, embarrassed for Scott, myself and the unimaginative idiots who have intruded on his privacy in the past. After a brief pause I ask, ‘Did you walk to school, ride your bike, take a bus, or get a lift? Which?’
It seems a banal question but actually I think it tells you quite a lot about the person you are talking to. Nowadays, all kids seem to be driven to school as part of their parents’ inexplicable quest to contribute to child obesity, but when we were kids most people walked. You only got a lift if you were posh and went to a private school miles away. You caught the school bus if you lived in the sticks and you rode your bike if you were cool.
Scott grins at me. ‘I rode my chopper. You?’
‘Blue Raleigh,’ I beam back, knowing he understands the transport code. ‘I went to a state school about five minutes up the road from where I lived and received just the sort of education you would expect if you only travel five minutes to get it.’
‘Were you a good girl?’ He can’t resist a cheeky grin.
‘According to my school reports I was the very worst sort of pupil. All the teachers believed that I was bright and just not giving my studies my all. Could try harder was as good as tattooed across my forehead.’
Scott nods. ‘I had that same experience. Every new school year began in exactly the same way. Teachers were initially enthusiastic and smiley with me. They were hopeful, perhaps even determined, to be the one that would make a difference, to unlock and unleash all that I’d kept carefully hidden from other staff members. But, towards the end of the academic year, I was invariably greeted with frustrated sighs and weary shrugs from those previously keen members of staff.’
‘A result of one too many missed assignments or rushed pieces of coursework, completed during registration on the day it was due to be handed in?’ I offer helpfully. It’s clear we had the same experience.
‘I just didn’t want to be there,’ says Scott simply. ‘We only did music for one hour a week and then only until we were about fourteen. I didn’t go to the sort of school where prodigies were discovered and tutored. We didn’t have a music department as such. Certainly not an orchestra. Prodigies were more like clipped round the ear and told to sit down, shut up.’ He’s laughing but I sense bitterness. Maybe not for himself. He’s made good. He’s made excellent. But how many more kids are overlooked just because they don’t or can’t flourish under similar regimes?
‘They had me all wrong at my school too,’ I acknowledge. ‘I was not a bright pupil unwilling to try, I was pretty average and doing all I could to keep my head above water. I’d somehow managed to create the impression that I was hiding some sort of light under a bushel because I was generally smiley and polite and most teenagers simply aren’t. Plus I had a curious but extended general knowledge about flowers.’
‘Flowers?’
‘They’re my thing. I’m a florist. A passionate interest in anything, especially something a little unusual, tends to create an illusion of deeper intelligence. Often wrongly. Really people should have seen me for what I was – a flower geek.’
‘Tell me about being a florist.’ Scott sits on the edge of the purple suede chaise longue and he looks riveted. His interest is very flattering.
‘Well, like I said, I’m the fourth one down out of five kids, so my parents were pretty worn out with the whole parenting thing by the time they got to me and they happily agreed to let me leave school at sixteen so as I could go to the local technical college to study floristry. It’s a two-year course –’
‘No, no, not all the getting qualification stuff. Tell me why flowers?’ insists Scott.
So I tell him that being in the garden with my gran, picking flowers, was the nearest I’ve ever felt to perfect peace. I explain how flowers mystify, exhilarate and thrill me. I explain that I believe the scent of flowers somehow flows through my veins, as much my lifeline as blood. I use that exact expression and I’m not embarrassed or ashamed. This man is a creative genius. If anyone is ever going to get it – get me – then he will.
‘What’s your favourite flower?’ he asks.
‘Pink peonies,’ I say without hesitation. ‘Flowers heal. They are important. They are so much more than a cheerful, colourful pressie. Flowers are there when we are born and all the way through until we die. They offer comfort and assurance. Plus they articulate stuff most people just can’t manage. People need flowers to say sorry, and thank you, and cheer up, and I love you, and all the difficult things we inadequate humans can’t bring ourselves to say.’
‘In that way flowers are just like songs,’ says Scott, proving he understands completely.
‘Just like songs,’ I beam at him.
21. Scott
I’ve been to rehab twice. It’s no picnic. Do not
believe it if you read in the press that rehab is some sort of day spa for the rich and gormless. Rehab is full of people who’ve fucked up and that alone is enough to make me want to run a mile in the opposite direction.
I have an addictive personality. It took lots of eminent doctors (each with a string of letters after their name) a long time to come up with that. They could’ve just asked my mum. People with my condition find it difficult to relax, bore easily, rarely have successful relationships and they toe tap.
Keeping on the move, filling my day, just doing stuff was seen as a good thing when I was a kid. Uncles would pat me on the head and give me fifty pence, tell me I was keen and dedicated when I ran around the football pitch more than the other boys and practised harder at keepy-uppies. I was that fanatical about my training that people used to ask me whether I wanted to be a football player. Maybe. I didn’t know for sure. What I did know is I didn’t want to be still. Because still people aren’t successful. The best a still person can hope for, the pinnacle of their career, is to end up in the middle of Covent Garden, painted bronze, pretending to be Rodin’s ‘Thinker’. A hat full of loose change at his feet for making like he’s a statue; what’s that about? How can that be a good way to use the life your mama gave you?
I find doing something over and over again makes me feel good, deep, deep in my soul. It makes me feel useful and purposeful. Am I the only one who has noticed that we are just one breath away from admitting that it’s all futile? Everything. The busier I am, the less chance there is of that thought swallowing me up. Doing something over and over again is soothing. Some of my addictions, most actually, are harmless. No one minded when I became addicted to the game Uno or Ludo or even Four-in-a-Row. Clink yellow counter slips into place, two in a line. Clink red counter blocks. Clink yellow counter going for the diagonal now. Clink red falls. Clink yellow dropped so quickly it might not be noticed. Clink red thrown in randomly. Clink yellow four in a row and then crash. It was that crash I relished; the sound of releasing all the counters to start a fresh game. I still love to hear a game of Four-in-a-Row in play, it’s so relaxing. No one cared much when I became addicted to records; as long as I bought them myself and I didn’t steal to pay for them, I could have as many as I wanted. My addiction to learning the guitar was actively encouraged. But then it started to go screwy.
In my adult life I’ve been addicted to fags, wanking, running, alcohol, food, sex, drugs, work, fame, tattoos, coffee, playing dominoes, playing cards and playing the fool. This is not a definitive list. More off the top of my head. And, to be clear, the addictions aren’t mutually exclusive, some run in parallel.
Problem is, while they say the devil makes work for idle hands (and that might be true) it is my experience that busy hands are often doing the work of the devil too, to sort of save him the bother, like. From the list above it is apparent that most of my adult addictions have been bad for me. Moderation is championed by all who love me – which makes me think no one knows me at all. The funny thing about being an addict is that everyone feels sorry for you until you are obscenely rich and able to feed freely your habit; then they want you to get over yourself. I can’t do moderation. So, what I have to do is get addicted to safe substances. Chocolate is not that. If I’m jowly I’m as good as dead. Fern is safe. No one can have a problem with a man obsessing about a girl. It’s what makes the world go round.
In many ways I wish I hadn’t ever found drugs, of course I do, I’m not insane. I prefer waking up in the morning and having a clear memory of the night before. I prefer waking up in the morning and finding that my clear memory of the night before doesn’t paralyse me with shame and regret. Indeed, I simply prefer waking up in the morning. Taking drugs reduces my chances of any of these three things happening.
But, if you ask anyone who’s ever been in love whether it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? They will confirm yes it is, even if they’ve been left with a big gaping hole where their shattered heart once beat. If they don’t agree, I’d say they weren’t really in love, probably in lust, more like. Drugs are the same; just as many people feel about a worthless lover, I can’t help but regret that I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life without them. Everyone assumes drugs are always to do with escapism but they weren’t, not in my case. I’m loved on the planet, truly adored. What would I want to escape from? Drugs and drink were a celebration, at least at first. The drugs and drink made things more vivid – me more vivid, at least for a while. They accelerated and accentuated my feelings of ecstatic giddiness, until they stopped doing that. You see, drugs are a lot like love.
Music is the same. Music makes things more. More meaningful, more true, more important. The difference is music doesn’t stop. There is no come down.
But should I tell you the hardest substance to kick, the addiction that crawls through my body, pumped by my own heart into my bloodstream, to rule every fibre of my being? Success. Success is addictive. And relentless. And fruitless. And I’m hooked.
22. Fern
I had no idea that such total happiness was available to me.
Scott and I have spent all day together. On Friday I met the man and watched the myth perform at the gig. Now, having spent all day with him, I realize that the two are intrinsically linked. The bloke, who snacks on jelly beans and occasionally scratches his balls when he thinks no one is looking, is just as amazing to me as the man who entertains millions.
I’m attracted to his quick mind and quick tongue, his hard-man northern roots, his just-submerged vulnerability, his excessive power and his excessive personality. He is droll, magnetic, poised, unexpected. I glitter in his company. The whole experience is surreal. A dreamy, singular, shiny, irresponsible occasion.
It’s fun.
Scott and I reluctantly say goodbye to each other at about 6 p.m. when I slip off to meet Ben and Jess. Lisa has gracefully bowed out of tonight’s gig. She said the excitement of last night was enough to last her a year. Jess, known more for her opportunism than her graceful behaviour, simply assumed I’d be giving her one of the tickets again tonight. That suited me fine, as it meant she was able to meet Ben and hand over the spare ticket. Plus, Jess is bringing me a warm top and trainers to change into. The sexy siren outfit, while perfect for a day of seduction, isn’t going to be much help tonight when the temperatures drop, and I can’t imagine tramping back to the tube station in these heels.
Ben is delighted with the idea of free tickets for a Scottie Taylor gig; not because he’s a particular fan but because he says all the dancers and half the audience will be gay, rich pickings.
‘We’re sitting here? Darling, your man is a genius,’ Ben says. ‘I hate rubbing shoulders with the great unwashed.’ It takes me a moment to understand that by ‘My man’, Ben means Adam. It’s not how I think of Adam any more. Like yesterday, the seats Adam has secured tonight are only metres away from the stage. In fact, they are so good even Scott said he couldn’t swap them for anything better. I wish I could feel grateful. ‘You must have been utterly thrilled when Adam gave you these tickets for your birthday,’ gushes Ben.
‘He didn’t actually pay for them,’ I point out, a little unnecessarily.
‘Yes, but even so, it’s great fun, isn’t it?’ he insists. ‘You must be so proud of him getting this job. What’s his title again? Stage manager?’
‘He’s assistant stage manager,’ I mutter.
Ben tries to catch my eye and I try to avoid his. As the support band starts up he asks, ‘Everything OK, darling?’
I beam at him, ‘Never better.’
‘Well, I thought that was the case when I first set eyes on you. You look radiant, Fern, I thought Adam had finally popped the question, as you’d stipulated, er… I mean, hoped. But the moment I mentioned his name your face turned to thunder, so I assume that’s not the case.’
‘You assume correctly.’
‘Yet something has put a smile on her face,’ chips in Jess. She pause
s. ‘Or someone.’
Ben raises his eyebrows theatrically. ‘Come on darling, spill. What are you hiding from me? I know there’s a story. What’s the mystery?’ he teases. Ben can’t bear not to be in the know.
‘She’s the mystery,’ says Jess, rolling her eyes. ‘She’s the mystery girl that Scottie Taylor sang to last night.’
‘The one who’s in all the papers?’ Ben practically leaps out of his seat and on to my lap in an effort to get close. ‘The one he called “really lovely”?’ I grin and nod. ‘Hell, how exciting!’
‘It is, isn’t it,’ I agree, beaming broadly at Ben.
‘Unless of course you’re Adam,’ says Jess, throwing cold water.
