by Unknown
‘Why should Adam care? It’s not as though this is anything more than a fabulous bit of fun. Scottie Taylor isn’t likely to whisk Fern away, is he? And it isn’t as though Fern would even want that, is it?’ asks Ben.
My beam falters slightly. I choose not to answer the question but rather to interpret it as rhetorical. Ben and I have worked side by side for over four years now and we know each other inside out. Working in a flower shop often leads to long discussions on many of the more profound aspects of life; it’s not all ‘Do you like the yellow ribbon or the gold on these sunflowers?’ I know Ben’s views on the afterlife, the holy sanctity of marriage, and I know his pet hate is losing half a digestive in his cup of tea, mid-dunk. He refuses to simply fish out the offending biscuit and carry on drinking – disgusted by the certainty of finding a sludgy mess of biscuit when he finally drains the cup. Instead, he insists on making an entirely fresh brew. That’s not deep, it’s just an example of how well we know each other. He takes one look at me and knows.
‘Oh darling, you haven’t fallen for Scottie Taylor, have you? You’re not taking this seriously?’
‘We have a connection,’ I say carefully.
‘She’s talking of leaving Adam,’ chips in Jess. I can tell she doesn’t approve.
Ben continues, ‘My sweet girl, you have to remember Scottie Taylor is a practised seducer. Of course it’s flattering but –’
‘I think it’s more than that,’ I say tentatively. My friends look sceptical. I know it’s hard to believe, I’m struggling with it too. I mean why should I be attractive to Scott Taylor?
My eyes scan the tens of thousands of glowing faces. It’s pretty much as it was last night; an abundance of excited girls and women, a scattering of indulgent, patient boyfriends and a raw smell of desire.
‘Look over there,’ laughs Jess. At first I think she’s changing the subject but then I see she’s just making a point. I follow her finger over the mass of pink cowboy hats and skimpy vest tops adorning expectant, fully made-up beauties and find a washing line of identical pink knickers. There’s a large letter sewn on to each. It spells out, SCOTTIE. MARRY ME. A dozen women are holding the line of knickers above their heads and from time to time they hoist it a bit higher and chant ‘Scot-tie, Scot-tie’.
‘I wonder which one wants to marry him?’ muses Ben.
‘They all do,’ I sigh.
Scott bounces on to the stage; the cheer is breath-stealing. The moment I see him my heart leaps into my mouth and then, through some anatomical ambiguity, it leaps into my knickers too. While it’s exactly the same run of songs as it was last night, I feel totally overwhelmed and surprised by the show all over again.
‘He’s a marvel,’ says Ben in awe. ‘I had no idea I could ever be this entertained by a straight guy.’
I nod with a level of enthusiasm I thought I was saving until someone complimented me on the intelligence of my firstborn. My cheeks are aching from grinning. Pride swills through my body, carousing with excitement and a sense of privilege. I know that man. I’ve spent the last two days with him. I am different from every other woman in this stadium. Me. Me. Who’d have thought it? Fern Dickson is different.
And I do feel different.
‘I’m living the dream,’ Scott yells from the stage. And for a brief moment, I am living it along with him.
Countless girls are on their boyfriends’ shoulders. The guys can manage the burden because they know their girls are as horny as hell and they are going to get rewarded with the best sex ever tonight. Who the hell cares if it is displacement sex as long as it’s good displacement sex?
While Ben is distracted by the gig and the cute blond guy sat next to him, Jess grills me.
‘So where’ve you been all day?’ she asks.
‘With him.’ I point over the heads of ninety thousand and towards the stage.
‘Have you shagged him yet?’ she asks.
‘No.’ I want to sound outraged. Me? Shag a man when I (technically) have a boyfriend? Unfortunately, I think I just sound regretful.
‘Why not?’ asks Jess.
‘No opportunity,’ I admit with more honesty than I’d been intending.
Jess raises her eyebrow. ‘So nothing to do with the fact that it would break Adam’s heart then?’ she asks wryly.
I turn to my best pal. I’ve known Jess for years. I’ve never lied to her. I’m not going to start doing so now, I don’t even want to. I want to tell her the tremendous truth.
‘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 sexual 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 bum – 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 sexual 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. ‘Bloody hell,’ she mutters, shaking her head with disbelief. ‘I think you might be right. He might like you. I don’t know if that’s good or bad news.’
‘Don’t be an arse, 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 shivers throu
ghout the stadium; women close their eyes and let his horny, 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 sexy, 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, 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 cocooned.
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 sexy get-up would certainly lead to a row. Sad really. Once upon a time the sight of me in such a sexy get-up was sure to lead to sex. 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 butterflies, 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 relationship 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, passionate, 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 relationship, 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. Hell, 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 relationship. It sm
ells 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 fucked 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 fucked Scott.
‘No.’
‘Liar.’ More spittle. His face creases with disbelief; he’s purple and unrecognizable. Normally serene, Adam has transformed from unassuming 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 fucking 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 assumption 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 fucking 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.
