by Unknown
I don’t know how Scott does it. For this is the third and final gig yet he somehow manages to scour up enough energy not only to pull off a show on a par with the previous two but somehow a show that is yet more glittering. A lesser mortal would be knackered by now and crying out for Lucozade. But Scott manages to take us all the extra mile, a mile I would have believed it impossible to travel. He has even more power than the previous two nights. He sings with a smidgen more depth and meaning. He dances with an iota more energy, he chats to the audience with a manner that’s fractionally more relaxed. He’s sensational.
‘I don’t get what you see in him,’ says Rick with a shrug and an ironic grin. I smile back. I can tell Rick’s impressed, he’s aglow. The tens of thousands of fans jump, holler, cry, scream, clap, stamp and cheer throughout the two-hour gig. It’s a storming concert and Scott is riding high in the sky. He struts around the stage, performing that magical mix of the sexual and personal that makes each girl think he’s performing just for her. He invites the entire crowd to be his friend. They scream like frenzied devil-worshippers and pledge eternal devotion. The whole audience quivers with excitement or passion or (according to Jess) cold. But she’s wrong, it’s a warm night.
Scott eventually comes on stage to sing his final song and then the encore. He repeatedly punches the air; over and over again. With every punch the crowds indulge in yet more hysterical and harried antics; women swoon, men swear, kids promise themselves they’ll grow up to be rock stars.
Scott takes in the view and treats us to a wide, unrepentant smile. After some time he holds up his hands in an effort to lull the audience into quietness. They take his gesture as a sign that he’s requesting more adoration and a fresh surge of madness is pushed into the night. It takes a drum roll and his repeated requests before the crowd finally hushes up and listens to what else he has to say or sing. I now know the run of the show, almost like the back of my hand. He’s already sung ‘Fall Apart’, ‘Come Back to Me’ and ‘Bit of Rough’, ‘Hate to Love’, ‘Demons’, ‘Dead Love’ and ‘Tell Me Something’. I search my mind for an outstanding song that he’s contractually obliged to deliver, I can’t think of one. It was at this point on Friday Scott sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and at this point on Saturday that he sang ‘Perfect Day’. I wonder if he’s going to sing to me again. Oh God, I hope so. But what will he sing?
Scott’s looking around the stadium; his eyes are glittering.
‘Ladies and ladies and ladies and gents,’ he says, acknowledging that the vast majority of the crowd are women. ‘Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you for loving me.’ The crowd erupts again; again he has to calm them down. ‘You are brilliant, you know that? You are my lifeblood. Have I made you happy?’
The response probably registered on the Richter scale.
‘I’m glad. I want you to be happy. Do you want me to be happy?’
Again they surge forward. Women fling their bras in the air in an effort to demonstrate just how happy they want to make him.
‘Boys and girls and girls and girls, you amazing people, guess what?’ He pauses and the crowd calms, hanging on his every word. ‘I think I’ve found a way I can be happy.’
After his well-reported fights with addiction to drugs and booze the crowds are ecstatic to hear this. They roar their support. I wonder what he’s going to say. Is he building up to a joke? Is he going to tell them whist is his new passion? God, I hope he doesn’t tell them about strip poker; my younger brother’s here, he might be twenty-eight but in my eyes he’s eternally a little kid.
‘I think I’ve found someone who makes me happy. Someone who is a bit different from anyone before.’
For the first time the crowd does not respond with a cheer. They look confused and uncertain. They turn to one another for reassurance. Girls and women who have been diehard fans for years somehow immediately sense that this is the end of life as they know it. I don’t sense it quite as quickly, I have no idea where Scott is going with this.
‘I’m in love.’ He yells. ‘Fuck me, I am.’ He is? There’s an enormous groan across the stadium and the sound of thousands of hearts cracking at once. The murmur instantly morphs from sadness to something more dangerous, more threatening; a grumble gathering momentum, growing into disappointment and frustration. The security guards look troubled. I see them dash to space themselves around the stage, in case there’s an influx of girls clambering to beat Scott with their cowboy hats. The security guards’ eyes seem to say, ‘Get Scott off the stage, this is going to turn nasty. What the fuck has he done now?’ But Scott holds his nerve. I daren’t breathe.
‘Aww, don’t be like that,’ he tells his fans. ‘Celebrate with me. Don’t be angry with me.’ He pulls his face into the lost puppy look, which I’ve seen before on and off stage, and people around me immediately begin to offer up a reluctant smile. He’s compelling. ‘You love me, right? You want me to be happy? You said so.’ The crowd are disinclined to agree but have to. They did scream that – just minutes ago. ‘Well, I’ve found someone who makes me happy. So bloody happy.’ Half the stadium starts to cheer, offering support. ‘Come on Wembley, you can do better than that. It’s Scott here. Your boy. Wish me luck.’
He offers up his most beautiful smile. All teeth and eyes. He’s gleaming. He’s overwhelming. He’s irresistible. The crowd meet him. They cheer for him. This time they are loud and committed. He’s turned them around, a full one hundred and eighty degrees, in just moments. Everyone is putty in his hands. He’s happy. They want him to be happy; never before have they longed for someone’s happiness with quite so much fervour. Ideally they’d want him to be happy with them but that was never really to be, so they settle for him being happy with someone else. They become wild as they comprehend. Scottie Taylor is happy.
I watch as he turns the tide and for a moment it’s all too enormous for me. All I can think is this man is bigger than King Canute. He can turn tides.
Scott roars above the cheering crowd. ‘I’ll write even better songs because of her. I promise you. I’ll be a better man because of her. I promise you. God, I hope she’ll have me.’ They writhe upon one another, spewing out the most tremendous roar of the three days. ‘I’m going to ask her to marry me.’
I don’t remember anything after that, because I faint.
27. Scott
Why the hell not?
28. Fern
The first thing I see when I come round is Saadi. Her large brown eyes are clouded with concern but the moment she sees my eyelids flapping, indicating I’m coming round, she manages to crack a joke.
‘You’re not going to be able to have sex tonight now. The doc said you have to rest up.’
I try to smile back but my body is still in that overly relaxed state where muscles feel like liquid play dough and I have no control.
‘Where am I?’ I mumble.
‘Where is she?’ The louder, more insistent question comes from Scott. He bursts through what I now recognize to be his dressing-room door and charges towards me, scattering the small crowd surrounding me and sending his larger entourage into a vague panic.
He swoops down on to his knees and stares at me with real anxiety. Even when his face is constricted with concern he oozes a sex appeal; the type which can’t be imitated, simulated or stopped.
‘Quite some upstaging you pulled off there. I’m going to have to watch you,’ he says to me, joking to hide his concern. Then turning to the room, ‘Can we have some space here, guys?’
The hordes of people, some of whom I recognize as members of the band and crew, others I don’t know, oblige. Only Bob remains put. Scott doesn’t seem to notice.
‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he says as he strokes my hair. His eyes ooze concern. His lips are so close to mine that I’m overwhelmed by his proximity and my recovery is set back. My tongue is still behaving like a beached whale and won’t respond to instruction, although the instruction is a little vague. I don’t know what to say. Perhaps I want to
say, ‘Pinch me.’
‘I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. I’m a fucking idiot. I got carried away. I should have talked to you privately first. That’s what I’d planned. I should learn to keep my big mouth shut. No self-control. That’s my problem.’ He drags his hands through his hair. ‘Have I fucked everything up? Are you hacked off with me?’
‘No,’ I mutter.
‘Really?’ His face is a beacon of happiness once again. ‘It’s just the PR team are really pissed with me. They say I’ve created chaos. That I should have done things differently, but I couldn’t, you know?’
‘I know.’
‘Who the hell can think about selling exclusive deals to Hello! at a time like this?’
‘Who indeed,’ I giggle.
‘So that’s settled then?’
‘I’ll marry you.’
29. Fern
We leave the gig via helicopter (it’s so incredibly noisy my ears hurt but it’s fast). I look down on the tens of thousands of fans swarming out of the stadium, walking back to their cars, or the tube or train, and I can’t believe I’m not among those hordes. That is where I’ve always been. I thought it was my place. Within minutes we leave behind the marching crowd and are soon above black fields of countryside. We land in the grounds of a smart country house, one of those impressive Georgian things that pops up in movies of adaptations of Jane Austen novels.
Saadi practically jumps from the helicopter before the blades have stopped rotating; she’s talking down her mobile to the person on reception just a few feet away. A number of staff in black rollneck jumpers and dark grey trousers emerge from the house and pounce on us with almost terrifying efficiency. Despite the fact that it’s a balmy night they offer blankets to put around our shoulders as we make the short walk from helicopter to hall. Scott shrugs them away; politely but firmly. I follow suit, fighting the urge to collapse into giggles – it’s not like I’m ninety.
‘There are twenty-eight bedrooms here,’ Saadi tells me. The word bed practically makes me come. I glance over at Scott; he’s divine. I want him with such a heady ferocity. Saadi goes on, ‘We’ve booked the lot so there shouldn’t be any privacy issues.’ Privacy, that word pokes and jabs me. I am sick with excitement that within minutes Scott and I will be able to enjoy some of that privacy; enjoy each other. Saadi, oblivious to my lusty thoughts, continues, ‘We’ve changed hotel every night for the last three nights to keep the press from finding us, which has worked so far, although it’s a pain having to pack up every morning. But if we stay longer than one night anywhere hotel staff always leak our whereabouts to the tabloids. It’s frustrating.’ Saadi shoots a lethal look at the bellboy who is currently scuttling past her and taking her bags upstairs. He looks terrified – trialled, hung, drawn and quartered in one look; I feel a bit sorry for him. ‘This lot are under contract to keep their mouths shut so we can set up camp for a few days if Scott wants to. There are bedrooms in the main house, the coach house, the stable block and the lodge. I’ve put you in the coach house. Scott is in the main house. There’s better security there.’
‘But –’ I look around for Scott so that he can back up my objection. Surely we are going to share a room. ‘But –’
‘Don’t worry.’ Saadi cuts me off by waving her long hand in front of my face as if pre-emptively batting away any objections I could possibly make. ‘There’s no security risk to you yet. No one knows who you are. Once they do we’ll have to think about hiring a big burly bloke to watch your back. Scott’s fans will hate you. There’s bound to be trouble. There’ll certainly be nasty threats, although I doubt any actual attacks, but you can never be too certain.’
‘Right,’ I mumble, suddenly feeling much more nervous than I ever have before. ‘But –’ I want to say that besides the security risk I’d like to be with Scott, my fiancé. Before I get the words out Saadi starts talking again.
‘Oh, don’t worry. You’ll have a lovely room. All the bedrooms are large, individually designed and equipped with the latest technology from Sony LCD screen TVs and Sony DVD players to wireless internet access. The bathrooms have stand-alone or sunken baths. Do you have a preference? Whichever it is I’m sure it can be arranged.’
‘I don’t mind, but –’ But I want to tell her that since we were in the flower shop I’ve thought of little other than Scott’s tantalizing caresses and kisses. Through clothes I’ve felt his throbbing hardness and now I want more. Or less, actually – less clothes.
‘Good. Plus there will be a full range of Molton Brown bath products for you to use. I love their stuff, don’t you?’
‘Very nice, but –’ I mutter, and before I realize quite what’s happening I notice that Scott’s manager, Mark, is shooing Scott up the mahogany staircase and Saadi is leading me back out of the reception and through the courtyard to what must be the coach house.
‘The doctor did say you need a rest,’ she insists quite firmly. ‘And Scott has a lot to talk about with Mark. It’s been quite a surprising night for everyone.’
‘Yes,’ I manage feebly.
Saadi looks at me with a peculiar mix of sympathy and envy. ‘Especially you, I suppose.’ I nearly squash a tabby cat that’s sleeping outside on the warm gravelly forecourt; as I stumble Saadi shoves me over the threshold into a beautiful room. She hands me the key and says, ‘Good-night, we’ll talk tomorrow.’ She speaks in a tone of voice that makes it quite clear that no further discussion is required, expected or permitted.
30. Fern
The room, or rather rooms, are more beautiful than any hotel rooms I have ever seen – let alone stayed in. I’ve clearly stumbled into a movie set. The place is decorated in dramatic contrasts. White walls meet black wooden floors, there’s a snow white, inches thick, shaggy rug waiting for me to sink my toes into and a huge squashy white corner sofa (leather) waiting for me to throw myself upon. I only just resist doing this right away because I’m distracted by a circular, transparent plastic chair hanging from the ceiling like a swing. That, I have to sit on. For a moment or two I dangle my legs and try to make myself go backwards and forwards but it doesn’t really swing, more just hangs there, so I hop off and wander through to the bathroom where there is a free-standing bath and, as promised, shelves of beautiful-smelling products. Then I wander up to the mezzanine, where there is an enormous bed.
That I’m supposed to sleep in all alone. I recall his fingers skittering across my groin and his deep, passionate kisses, his tongue touching mine. Aaghh, I can’t believe we’re expected to sleep separately.
What a waste.
I flop on to the bed but I’m not in the slightest bit sleepy. In fact I am more awake and alive than I have ever been in my life. Scott Taylor has just asked me to marry him and I’ve just agreed! Oh. My. God. It does not seem possible. I have to talk to someone, anyone, who can confirm that this is all happening. I reach for my handbag and scramble around for my mobile.
Who to call?
Not Adam. Usually I turn to him before anyone but that clearly wouldn’t be right under the circumstances. I can hardly ring Adam and say, ‘Hey, honey, am I really engaged to another man, a man other than you that is?’ Undoubtedly he could confirm or deny but it might be a tricky conversation. I shove Adam out of my head and determine not to think of him for as long as humanly possible. As soon as he comes to mind a lick of something disturbingly like shame engulfs my body. I guess there are kinder ways to show you’ve moved on from a relationship than getting engaged to your new beau, within twenty-four hours of splitting up and in front of an audience of ninety thousand. Still, at least there’s no room for confusion and no one likes mixed messages.
I could call Jess. Where the hell is Jess? The last I saw of her was before I fainted in the stands at the concert. Why didn’t she come backstage with me? Why didn’t Rick or Ben? I can’t believe they just buggered off and left me to all this insanity without so much as a by your leave. I’d have expected Ben to come along for the ride at least.
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Lisa? My mum and dad?
These are the people I do generally turn to in moments of extreme happiness or pressure. Normally, between them, these people congratulate, support, guide or yell at me and I feel somehow validated once they have done so. Mum and Dad endorsed my whooping and cheering (almost gloating) when I got the best marks in my year in the floristry exams. Lisa sympathized with my blind terror at a (false) pregnancy alarm just four weeks after I’d met Adam. Jess and Adam and I celebrated together when we finally found our little flat with affordable rent and just minutes from the tube. Ben comforted me when my bag was snatched on Lavender Road and he instructed me to change locks and cancel cards while he put the kettle on for a calming brew. Part of existence is having experience substantiated, legitimized or authorized by your nearest and dearest. Eating a huge slab of creamy chocolate cake is fun but it is better if you do it with a mate. Finding a tenner in the street is a great piece of luck but telling your mates and buying them a drink is worth the same again. I’m the sort of person who likes to share, whether it be news, gossip, bills or heartache. I guess that’s because I’m one of five. Secrecy is an alien concept.
But somehow tonight is different. I’m not sure who to call. I switch my phone on while I consider and it immediately starts ringing and beeping at me as though it’s R2-D2 on speed. Apparently I have ten voicemail and twelve text messages. Congratulations pouring in already, I’ll bet. I dial in for my voicemail. It’s Jess.
