by Unknown
‘Er. Hi Fern, I hope you are OK. Sorry I couldn’t stay with you. Give me a bell, huh. As soon as you can.’
And that’s it. No congratulations. No shrieks of excitement. Actually, she sounded quite subdued. What’s that about? I thought that now it’s clear-cut that Scott is as crazily in love with me as I am with him Jess’d stop worrying. I press three to delete the message and listen to my second one.
‘What the heck is going on? This is wild. Call me the second you get a chance,’ insists Lisa. That’s a bit more like it. This is wild. Wildly exciting, wildly wonderful, wildly different. Again there are no actual congratulations, which is a bit weird. I whooped and hollered when she told me that Charlie had finally popped the question. Mostly out of relief; we’d been waiting for him to do so for months and I figured once he finally had, she would at least have a different topic of conversation from second-guessing where and when he’d do the popping (she did – she talked about where and when he’d take her on honeymoon). I’d have thought Lisa would be a bit more openly ecstatic though, not least because Scott is a zillionaire; that’s her currency. Although I don’t suppose she’s heard that I finished with Adam last night; I suppose, even if she has, it’s still bizarrely sudden. I can’t blame her for not understanding our speedy certainty as it wasn’t like this for her and Charlie.
‘Fern, darling, call me this instant,’ insists Ben excitedly.
‘Fern fella. What a mind blower. How long have you been secretly shagging Scottie Taylor for? Call your bro and give me the lowdown,’ says Rick. Well, at least he sounds impressed, even if he has got the wrong end of the stick. This is whirlwind and romantic, there haven’t been any deceitful long-term shenanigans.
The fifth message is from Adam, ‘You bitch.’
I stop listening to my voicemail right there. The text messages are along a similar line. There’s one each from Ben, Lisa, Jess and Rick, all insisting I get in touch. There are eight from Adam.
You bitch.
You bitch.
You bitch.
You get the idea.
I switch off my phone. I don’t want to read or hear any more. The lack of congrats is disappointing; I’m not in the mood to call any of them.
I know! I need Scott. Of course I do. He’s the one I should be turning to now. I’ll call him and tell him that I’m feeling exhilarated, nervous, and confused all at once. He’s my fiancé. He’ll hold my hand through this. He knows about jealousies. I bet he went through this with his friends when he got his mega record deal. People aren’t very gracious in the face of good fortune – at least not other people’s good fortune. I pick up my mobile, but as I’m about to press the buttons it occurs to me that I don’t know his number. We haven’t exchanged mobile numbers. Damn.
I pick up the phone by the bed and press 5 for reception.
‘Can you put me through to Scott Taylor, please,’ I say in my most confident voice.
‘I’m sorry, Madame, who?’
It’s Miss actually but I don’t bother to correct him. ‘Scott Taylor.’
‘We don’t have a guest of that name staying with us I’m afraid, Madame.’
‘Yes, you do, we’ve just checked in together. Oh – I get it. Sorry, Scottie Taylor, you’ll probably know him by that name but in fact his friends and his fiancée call him Scott,’ I say with just a smidgen of self-satisfaction.
‘I’m sorry, Madame. We do not have a Mr Taylor staying with us. You are mistaken, goodnight.’ The line goes dead.
Bloody cheek, why won’t they connect me? I know he’s in the hotel. Then it occurs to me that the receptionist is probably under strict instructions not to connect anyone for security reasons. But I’m not anyone. I’m his fiancée. I wonder if I should call back and spell that out to the pimply, pompous moron who is standing between me and my man.
I could go and look for him or for Saadi at least; I know they are in the main house. There can only be a dozen rooms at most. Didn’t Saadi say that we’ve rented them all? I could knock on every door and insist on being told his whereabouts. I’d only be disturbing Scott’s entourage and as his fiancée I must be entitled to do that, mustn’t I?
Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with shyness. I’m not sure I want to knock on the doors of the band and crew and explain that I don’t have the mobile number or even room number of my fiancé; it looks weirdly desperate. It isn’t the way things should be.
I sigh and slip my feet out of my shoes. I rub the arch of one foot against the under part of the other. It’s comforting, and oddly, I need comfort. How mad is that? I should be dancing a jig, cracking open the champagne, feeling those liquid gold bubbles on my tongue then shagging my fiancé until I drop with exhaustion. I’m newly engaged!
Instead, fully clothed, I slip between the sheets. All at once I’m very tired. Maybe it’s the after-effects of the faint. Perhaps I ought to follow doctor’s orders and get some rest. I’ll feel right as rain in the morning. It’s been a big day. Bigger than I could have possibly imagined in my wildest dreams. I ought to get some beauty sleep and tomorrow I’ll get Scott’s number. In fact from tomorrow I’ll insist that we are never apart from one another, no matter what his manager or PA says. I’m his fiancée.
I’m Scott Taylor’s fiancée.
Oh. My. God.
31. Fern
It seems as though my eyes have just closed when they spring open again. Light and about a hundred people flood through my door. I only have eyes for Scott. He is breathtaking. He bounds up the mezzanine stairs and nosedives on to the bed and starts to kiss me, seemingly unaware of the other ninety-nine people in the room. All of whom are carrying fresh flowers and fruit or clean towels and toiletries to replace the untouched ones in the bathroom.
His kisses are gentle and erotic at the same time. Excitement starts to snake in my stomach and I forget to worry about morning breath or what I must look like (a state, I’m in last night’s clothes and makeup, my hair will be frizzy and knotty rather than tousled). Neither of us seems to care.
‘Morning, gorgeous wifie-to-be.’ A cool hand has slipped beneath the sheet and under my top. It’s lying flat on my ribcage, just centimetres from the modest swell of my breast. I’ve never experienced anything so erotic in my life. ‘Sleep well?’
I beam at him like some sort of crazy loon and only just manage to stammer, ‘Great.’
‘Good.’ He kisses the corner of my mouth. It’s a slow sexy kiss, a mooching kiss, a full-of-promise kiss which causes the hairs on every inch of my body to stand erect. He edges a fraction closer towards me and I’m instantly aware of his raw want too. Wow. It’s huge. Hurrah. I wish all the room service people would bugger off and leave us alone. They don’t, so I have to force myself to stop thinking about the fact he’s so clearly proud and eager and so, so close.
‘Gorgeous rooms, aren’t they?’ I mumble.
He stops kissing, glances around, as if for the first time, and then smiles at me. ‘Yeah, nice. Glad you like them.’ He resumes kissing, this time my earlobe.
The kisses are utterly fabulous but I can’t dissolve into them completely as I’m aware that someone is opening curtains, someone else is carrying in newspapers and two other people are setting up breakfast in the room downstairs. I can’t seduce or be seduced or even discuss the detail of our sleeping arrangements in front of an audience. Scott must sense my inhibition; he pulls away from me and says, ‘I thought we’d eat breakfast together and make some plans.’ He claps his hands together with excitement. ‘Sound good?’
‘Sounds perfect.’
It is official I am the luckiest woman on the earth. If I was in any doubt (which I’m not), it says so in all the newspapers. The tabloids have gone wild. Every one of them headlines with Scottie’s proposal. Most play with the title of one of his songs
SCOTTIE IS FEELING FINE; THAT’S NO LIE
SCOTTIE FINALLY LOVES TO LOVE
SCOTTIE SAYS COME BACK AND MARRY ME
Not that it’s clear whe
re I’m supposed to have been in order to ‘come back’. The accuracy of the headline seems to be irrelevant. Attention-grabbing is all. The tabloids dissect Scott’s past love life, running mug shots of a variety of women (celeb and civilian) who have had the pleasure. I marvel at the array of stunning women he’s dated.
‘I never knew you had a thing with Madonna before she got with Guy Ritchie,’ I gasp.
‘Is that what the papers say?’ asks Scott with a noncommittal shrug.
Even the qualities cover the story. Although they tend to concentrate on Scott’s creative and financial achievements rather than his sexual exploits.
Scottie Taylor (Grammy Award-nominated, 10-time BRIT Award-winning English singer-songwriter), whose career started as a member of the pop band X-treme, stunned his fans last night at his Wembley concert by proposing to a previously unknown girlfriend. Scottie Taylor is the second biggest selling British solo artist in history – Robbie Williams being the first. Taylor’s album sales stand at over 50 million worldwide, and in addition he has also sold an estimated 12 million singles.
I’m struck again – in fact almost paralysed – by how strange this is. Scottie Taylor is sat in the same room as I am, and he’s eating toast.
‘I hate it that they always bring up Robbie. He hasn’t brought out anything new for ages. Why can’t they concentrate on me and the here and now?’ says Scott peevishly. ‘Oh God, look, he’s made a comment in the Observer.’
‘Who has? Robbie Williams?’ I can’t hide my excitement. ‘What does he say?’
‘He says, “Well, at least that’s one thing Scottie beat me to,”’ says Scott. Scott looks momentarily hacked off but then his frown lines dissolve and I almost think I imagined them. ‘Well, he’s right,’ says Scott, smiling. ‘Robbie might sell more records but only just, and I have you, which, you know, is my ace card. You’re worth your weight in platinum albums.’
I bask in the compliment.
We slowly eat breakfast and paw over the papers. Scott jokingly comments which papers carry a photo that makes him look trim and hot. There are photos of the gig but, thankfully, there aren’t any of me. I feared there’d be a shot of me passed out in a cold faint; green face and legs splayed ungainly. Luckily, not one of the hundreds of photographers present managed to get that shot. When Scott was proposing to me no one really knew who he was talking to, and while lots of cameras were pointing in my general direction, they were all directed at a rather busty supermodel who, coincidentally, was sat three rows behind me. She seemed a likely candidate for a Scottie Taylor proposal. I (a flat-chested florist from the wrong streets in Clapham) did not.
I let out a big sigh. Scott misinterprets my relief as disappointment.
‘Fern, love, don’t be disappointed. There will be hundreds of photos of you in the papers before you know it. Thousands. You should be grateful for the anonymity while you have it. It won’t last long.’
‘That’s not why I sighed. I’m relieved not to have my photo in the papers. I haven’t talked to my mum and dad yet – which I need to do. This is all so big and fast. The tabloids are collaborating to launch a national search for the “blonde beauty”, the “elegant mystery girl”, the “luckiest woman alive”.’ I nervously glance at the windows, expecting journos to smash their way through, hanging on ropes and dressed entirely in black, SAS style. ‘It’s all quite overwhelming,’ I add.
‘That’s what I thought, you need time. I said that to Mark and he worked hard last night to keep your name out of the papers.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The rat pack know who you are already. I did sing happy birthday Fern. It’s an unusual name so you were easy to track down. I imagine most of your ex’s crew were rushing to spill the beans. No matter, we just struck a few deals to ask them to hold off announcing your name just yet.’
‘Why? How?’
‘Why? Because I thought you needed time to adjust to all of this. And how, we just pointed out that the story runs for longer if the details are revealed in dribs and drabs. They’ll sell more papers. End of.’
‘So they do know my identity?’
‘Yes.’
‘But they are offering a substantial financial reward to any member of the public that can identify me?’
‘Yup. Rule number one. You can’t believe what you read in the papers.’
‘Ever?’
‘No, not ever. Sometimes they print the truth but since no one with any sense believes what they read in the papers it hardly matters. It’s a clever double bluff.’
I must look perplexed, because Scott kisses the end of my nose and says, ‘It’s a mad world, I know, but you’ll get used to it soon enough, more’s the pity.’
For a moment he looks genuinely regretful at the thought that I’ll be dragged into the media circus that is his life.
‘You OK with your decision though?’ he asks, tentatively.
‘The one about living the rest of my days in wedded bliss with you?’ I beam at him.
‘Yeah,’ he laughs, but he’s too nervous for the smile to crawl into his eyes.
‘Certainly am.’ I pause and then bravely add, ‘If you are.’
Say you are. Say you are. Say you are. I secretly plead.
He nods slowly, carefully. ‘It struck me when I was hugging that girl from the audience the other night.’
‘Which one, the blonde or the brunette?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t even notice one was blonde and one was brunette.’
‘Friday was blonde, Saturday was brunette.’ I remember with horrifying clarity. On Sunday he missed that part of his act, much to my delight.
‘Yeah, well, whichever. I realized for the first time something that should have been obvious for years now. This is all too much for one guy on his own. I make or break dreams with the same regularity as other people make their beds. I’ve been overwhelmed by those audiences over the past few days; it seemed like I was entirely responsible for their happiness.’
Scott looks perplexed and vaguely alarmed. Somehow he wears even that look in a way which is knicker-ticklingly sexy. Consumed with lust, I am unable to answer. I just nod. It’s true. It does appear that he can snap their dreams just as easily as if they were the matchsticks we used when playing cards the other day. Scott continues.
‘But who is responsible for my dreams and my happiness?’
I almost answer, Saadi, Mark, the enormous entourage that follows him around twenty-four-seven, but I bite my tongue. I don’t think that’s what he means.
‘It’s a big responsibility making all those people happy,’ he adds.
‘Huge,’ I agree.
‘And I thought you might be the best person to, you know, share it with me.’ I offer up an enormous unconditional grin. ‘I’ve known for a long time that the world is a big place, almost too big. I think that’s what the dependency on the drink and the drugs is about. Or at least that’s part of it. But I’ve been thinking it might not be so lonely if you were, you know, hanging around it with me.’
‘Why me?’ I ask. Because I have no idea. Really, absolutely none.
He smiles. ‘I don’t know why exactly but I’m sure it is you.’ We’re sat opposite each other. He rests his bare foot on my chair. I fight the urge to kiss his feet and suck his toes. I shiver with the effort of restraining. Hell, he’s magnificent.
‘I’m not cool,’ I warn.
‘I like that in you. You’re fun, and fun tops cool any day of the week. Besides, it’s not all going to be palatial living and parties for you.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I pretend to sound disappointed.
‘I’m a bad man. Remember. I told you.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Do you think you can make me good?’
‘I don’t even want to.’
Scott laughs so hard that he nearly chokes on his orange juice. He points at the enormous pile of papers now casually discarded and littering the shaggy rug. ‘Do you think
you might be able to forget who I am?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really?’ I probe.
‘No, not really,’ he laughs again. ‘Cos I’m a god out there.’
We laugh once more. Delighted in each other.
32. Fern
Some of the hundred people who invaded my room this morning brought with them a whole new wardrobe for me. Scott dismisses the rail of clothes as a mere trifle.
‘Just something to tide you over until we –’
‘Pick up my old stuff.’
‘I was going to say until we get to the shops together.’ Scott shrugs as though he doesn’t mind either way.
As I start to look through the rail of stunning clothes I doubt that I will be bothering to pick up anything I own. More than likely it will all look shabby next to this lot. Carefully I trail my fingers along rows of chic skirts and shirts. There are at least a dozen pairs of jeans; boot cut, flare, straight, boy cut, high-waisted and spray on. There are piles of soft T-shirts in assorted colours and numerous floaty dresses in florals, stripes and block colours. It’s as though a whole department of Selfridges has been shipped to my door. It’s the first time since I’ve met Scott that I’ve stopped fantasizing about making love; now all I can think of is dressing up. I check out the labels surreptitiously. There are high-waisted pencil skirts and tailored jackets by Alexander McQueen, blazers by Viktor and Rolf, trousers by Chloe, tops by Miu Miu and Sportmax, dresses by Dior. I have never owned what you’d call a designer piece in my life – unless you count the copycat Hermès travel bag that Adam bought me last Christmas and tried to pass off as the genuine thing. I gasp as I finger the silky fabrics and admire the neat, precise tailoring. Scott grins and nods to a wall of shoeboxes stacked behind the rails of clothes.
