by Unknown
My mum’s dismissive tut has nothing to do with lack of spires. She doesn’t like LA because it’s a long way away plus there are lots of drugs there. Of course there are lots of drugs everywhere and she probably knows that too, but it’s a thought that’s too big and scary for her heart to deal with.
I think it must be torture being my mum.
I try to reassure her. ‘LA is peaceful. My relatively low profile there means I can actually walk down the street without being mobbed. In the US only the European tourists bother me for autographs.’
When they do, I put on a hilarious (and no doubt inaccurate) accent and I swear I’m not Scottie Taylor but Zoran Obradovic from Serbia. I even offer to sign their autograph books as a lookie-likie but no one is ever interested in that, which is funny when you think at home women ask me to sign their tits with their lipsticks. In Europe I’m constantly met with hysteria: in Sweden my clothes are ripped from me, shops close for me in Germany, roads close in France. A police escort is essential in all the Latin countries. I’m often trapped inside a hotel room or TV studio. The screaming has become deafening.
‘Oh Scott, love,’ says my mum sadly. I think we both know the truth. The thing is, with each unhassled footstep I take in the US, I remember Paul McCartney telling me that the most important thing to all record producers, and to most artists too, if they are honest with themselves, is to break America. The thing is, without America you’re nothing. No one. You’re not even a Hasbeen. You’re a Neverwas.
And that makes me enjoy the anonymity an awful lot less. I need America. I have to have America. Above everything.
35. Fern
Falling in love with a mammoth superstar is not ordinary. Yet in some ways it is.
Falling in love with Scott Taylor or even Scottie Taylor is exactly like falling in love with anyone else. I want to be with him every moment of the day. Everything he says is wonderfully profound, interesting and clever. I can’t eat. Or sleep. I don’t even want to. We can’t stop touching one another. We both keep giggling. We forget that we’re sharing this planet with 6.6 billion other humans.
But in other ways, falling in love with Scott Taylor is unlike anything I was capable of imagining.
Take flying, for example. Pre-Scott my experience in airports was an ‘elbows out’ affair; endless queues, ground staff who had spectacularly failed to graduate from charm school and barefaced jostling with other passengers in order to secure uncomfortable, unyielding seats – first in the waiting areas in the terminal and then on board. Every flight I have ever taken has been delayed by a minimum of three hours. Two hours fifty-four minutes of which I spend trying to resist purchasing one of the gigantic slabs of chocolate that are on offer in WH Smith. Chocolate bars the size of a mattress – intended for families of four to share over a two-week period. I always fold to temptation in the last six minutes and panic at the till as I hear my flight being called. I gobble the lot greedily as I run for the gate, thus guaranteeing I’m sick on the flight and spotty on holiday.
I had no idea there would ever be a situation where I’d be whisked through check-in and security and a nice lady from British Airways would usher me through the noise and chaos of the terminal, past the fraught and stressed, past the comfy-looking Club Class lounge and even past the prestigious First Class lounge, to finally lead me into the haven that is the secret waiting-room reserved for royalty (both pop and the more traditional variety). There, among plush suede couches, the aroma of scented candles and the relaxing chill-out tunes, I was offered champagne and elaborate nibbles, most of which I couldn’t identify (but they tasted like little mouthfuls of heaven).
Scott, Mark, Saadi and I didn’t even have to walk the ten metres from the gate to the aeroplane steps; a limo was waiting for us. At the steps we were met by a softly spoken guy with an Irish accent, gentle grey eyes and a calm smile. He introduced himself as the First Class Cabin Service Director and discreetly whispered that he and his staff would serve our every need. As professional as the crew were trying to be, they could not resist craning their necks for an extra peek at Scott. One cheeky, friendly crew member, Gary, informed me they weren’t allowed to ask for autographs but he would never wash his hand again as Scott had touched his fingers when he accepted an orange juice. I giggled and promised Gary I’d secure him an autograph before we reached LA. Gary melted in front of me and had to be scooped back into the galley. He showed his gratitude throughout the flight by playing hangman with me when I was too excited to sleep but the others (more accustomed to the splendour) slept the full eleven hours.
I’ve read my share of Heat and Grazia and a whole bunch of other glossy, gossipy magazines and I thought I had developed a reasonably good idea of how the other half lives, but it turns out I had none. I had no comprehension about how it feels to no longer need to carry a bag or a brolly or even money; someone else deals with that stuff. I had no understanding that everyone, absolutely everyone is overwhelmed by Scott’s presence and simply cannot act normally in front of him; many are overly solicitous or gushing, some are brash and hostile. It appears no one can just be normal in the presence of such wealth and success. From the glossy mags I could not grasp how scary it is when crowds of fans clamber on the car bonnet or lunge at Scott with a pair of scissors in an attempt to cut off a piece of his hair or clothes, to keep.
But then, I had no idea how much fun it could be to sit with Gary, in First Class, playing hangman while drinking champagne at two in the afternoon (or six in the morning – if you go by US time). It’s all surreal.
Gary has now dropped all pretence of being aloof and professional. Away from the eye of the Cabin Service Director his effervescent personality bubbles uncontrollably.
‘You are a lucky, lucky lady,’ he says affectionately, not quite hiding his jealousy however much he wants to; it ekes out of the corner of his mouth as he tries to force a smile – I’ve seen that expression a lot recently. I guess being Scott Taylor’s fiancée is going to attract envy with the same ease as a magnet attracts filings. I’m prepared to live with it. Gary’s form of address might seem a little presumptuous, as we’ve only known each other for six hours, but I find his camp, hush-hush, off the record, you’re my new celebrity best friend attitude refreshing. After days of people staying a respectful distance away from me I welcome the closeness, even if it is somewhat sudden.
‘I know!’ I admit indiscreetly. ‘I never thought I’d be this in love.’
‘Or this rich,’ adds Gary.
I bristle slightly. I can’t, hand on heart, say that I’m oblivious to the joys of Scott’s wealth; this morning when I slipped on a pair of Paul Smith trousers, a Matthew Williamson shirt and a pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy green sandals I practically had an orgasm. But I can, hand on heart, say I’d have taken the man without his millions. I’m sure I would. His mind is like an enormous labyrinth of wonder. I’m continually surprised, delighted and amused by him. Plus he has the body of a Greek god and can hold a tune. What’s not to love?
‘What’s he like then?’ asks Gary, leaning closer, conspiratorially.
‘He’s really clever. Always thinking about stuff. And he has this lovely way of singing to himself all the time; he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. It’s as natural to him as breathing is to us. Plus he’s really firm but fair with everyone he comes into contact with. He makes an effort to learn the names of the guys who bring the room service. He doesn’t like tomatoes. He –’
‘I meant in bed.’
‘Oh.’ Despite the three or four glasses of champagne I’ve knocked back and the dizzying effects of the altitude I’m shocked at the intimacy of this question and I recoil, ever so slightly, from my new best friend.
‘Well, that’s erm –’
‘Private,’ says Saadi, suddenly appearing from nowhere.
Gary and I both jump a fraction. He grabs the empty glasses that surround me and disappears behind the blue curtain back into the galley where the other crew members hang ou
t; Saadi clearly scares him too. I have no idea why I persist in being terrified of her – she has never been anything other than professional and polite with me – but I am. The problem is I don’t know how to peg our relationship; it’s quite unlike any other I’ve had before. She’s known Scott far longer than I have. He’s told me she’s saved his ass on dozens of occasions over the years. They are clearly very close; I suppose I’m a little threatened by that. But then Scott has said to me that you can never be true friends with anyone you employ, and in the final analysis, he pays her a wage. He’d do anything for her but she’s not quite a friend. I’m his fiancée. No buts.
I wonder how long she was listening in to my conversation with Gary. I replay it to check I didn’t say anything silly or compromising.
Saadi plonks down in the seat next to mine. We’ve bought all the seats in the First Class cabin to guarantee Scott’s privacy; she can play musical chairs if she wants to.
‘Erm, thanks. I didn’t know how to answer that,’ I admit.
‘No problem.’ She sounds efficient, rather than friendly. But she did get me out of a hole, I’ll give her that. ‘You need media training. I’ll set something up as soon as we touch down. There’s a Rottweiler in LA who will be perfect for the job.’ Saadi whips out her BlackBerry and makes a note. ‘You’d better get used to the prying. You’ll be asked that and worse. The press are going to hound you as soon as your name is released.’
‘And when will that be?’ I ask somewhat nervously.
Saadi checks her watch. ‘About two hours ago.’
‘Oh.’
‘We want the press to be waiting for the plane when we arrive in LAX.’
‘We want them there?’ I don’t get it. We went to such pains to avoid being spotted getting on the plane at Heathrow. Scott and I travelled to the airport separately. Scott wore a fake beard most of the day. We avoided the public like they had the bubonic plague, just in case one of them papped us on a mobile and wanted to make a tenner by sending the shot to the tabloids.
‘Yes. It will be a scrum,’ says Saadi.
‘We want a scrum?’
Saadi sighs as though I’m being slow. ‘Obviously. It’s his biggest story ever, this engagement. If the US media aren’t interested in this, then…’
‘Right.’ Call me shallow but I’m worrying if I’ll look my best emerging from an eleven-hour flight.
As if reading my mind Saadi says, ‘We have Scott’s beautician, Joy Lewis, and his two masseuses, Linda Di Marcello and Natalie Pennant, travelling with us. Have you heard of Linda and Natalie? They work as a team. Their hands are wonders; all the stars use them. Those two will freshen you up. What sort of massage do you prefer? Japanese shiatsu beating? Icelandic birch whipping? Swedish pummelling?’
‘Erm, not bothered.’ Two masseuses at the same time? Oh. My. God. What happens, does one do the left side while the other does the right or is it split top and bottom – so to speak? This is another world.
‘Then Joy will work on your hair and makeup. We want you to look wonderful but at this stage it’s best if you keep comments to a minimum. At least until you do the media training. If I’d known you’d be awake on this flight, I’d have arranged for someone to work with you while we were travelling.’ She looks frustrated that she’s wasted eleven hours. I get the feeling Saadi is not a time-waster. ‘So just smile, wave and – if pushed – say you’re happy.’
‘Can I say delirious?’ I ask with a grin.
She eyes me for a moment with a hint of suspicion, gauging whether I’m taking the mick. I stare back and try not to blink so she can read my sincerity.
‘I’d prefer chuffed. It’s more street and harkens back to Scott’s northern roots. Delirious has some odd connotations. Out of context that won’t work. And believe me, they’ll take every word you say out of context.’
‘How about thrilled?’
‘Bit posh. And steer well away from delighted. Just be natural.’
Right, chuffed or happy. But not delirious or delighted. Got it. ‘I don’t suppose anyone will care about what I have to say about anything anyway,’ I mumble.
Saadi shakes her head. ‘You’ll be hounded like Princess Diana, doll. Get used to the idea.’
I think it’s a bit of a sick and unnerving comparison to draw, considering poor Princess Di’s ending, but I don’t say anything as I’m distracted by Saadi’s next question.
‘Have you had any thoughts about what sort of ring you want?’ She reaches for a slim black leather file and quickly unzips it. She pulls out a number of sketches of engagement rings. ‘We’ve had jewellery designers work up a few ideas.’
The drawings are stunning. The stones are huge and cut in a dozen different ways. Mostly the drawings are of brilliant, dazzling clear diamonds. But one page shows more colourful designs.
‘I like that ruby ring,’ I comment.
‘That’s not a ruby, it’s a red diamond.’
‘I didn’t know you could get red diamonds.’
‘You can get diamonds in loads of different colours, including red, green, purple, blue and pink. They are called fancy diamonds,’ explains Saadi. ‘They’re extremely rare – out of approximately eighty thousand carats of rough diamonds mined every year, only point zero, zero one per cent are regarded as fancy colours.’
‘I bet they’re expensive,’ I mutter.
‘Very,’ she says, her tone making it clear that I can’t overestimate just how ‘very’. ‘Only twenty diamonds in the world have been certified red.’
‘Bloody hell. I don’t want one of those, what if I lost it down the sink or something when I was washing up?’
‘That’s quite unlikely now, the way things have turned out, don’t you think?’ points out Saadi.
‘Well, washing my hands then. I’ll still be doing that for myself. I think I’d better go for the normal white diamond. You know, the see-through type.’
I leaf through the designs. There are rings with princess cut, round brilliant cut, baguette, bezel, opal shapes, heart shapes, oblongs, single stones and numerous stones. I can see the technical excellence and stunning beauty of every design but I don’t really know what to say to Saadi. Whenever I’d imagined selecting an engagement ring I’d thought I’d be choosing it with my fiancé, not his PA. Not that Adam had a PA, obviously, and up until recently it was always him featuring in my daydreams. Saadi fills the silence with a commentary about the sketches.
‘We’ve had three designers work something up. Two who always design for the great and the good – by which I mean the loaded – and one unknown. Some guy straight out of St Martin’s. I like his stuff and it might be a good PR ploy to discover some broke, Brit, arty guy.’
I don’t think the coverage in a newspaper should be a consideration when choosing my engagement ring, but for some reason I haven’t got the guts to say so. I say nothing at all. It’s freaky but I keep losing my voice when I’m with Saadi, like she’s some sort of female Sir Alan Sugar who can silence anyone in a single glance, let alone a wag of the finger. I’m normally reasonably assured and confident but since I’ve been surrounded by Scott’s posse I’ve lost my footing somewhat. It’s always tricky negotiating a new relationship but I honestly don’t think that’s the struggle. Scott and I are fine, or at least we would be, but from the moment we became engaged he’s been surrounded by a wall of others. I mean Princess Di went on and on about how there were three of them in that relationship; at last count there’s about forty-five in mine, not including casual staff.
Saadi probably interprets my silence as some sort of stupidity. She adds, ‘If you are having trouble visualizing the ring we can get mock-ups or maybe you’d like to wander around Tiffany’s or Leviev and buy something off the shelf.’
‘Maybe,’ I mutter.
‘Well, if you can make a decision by Monday that would be great.’ She consults her BlackBerry list. I wasn’t aware we were under a deadline. The woman is a human tornado.
‘What d
oes Scott think?’ I ask.
‘Oh, he’s happy to leave it to us, to you. Anything that you want. Good of him, hey?’
‘Yes, good of him.’ I dig deep and scramble to find my voice. I try to imagine Sir Alan Sugar naked (that’s meant to help with fear of confrontation); it doesn’t help much actually, just churns my stomach, but still I force myself to say as firmly as I can, ‘I’d like it if Scott and I chose the ring together. I’ll talk to him about it when we arrive in LA.’
‘OK,’ says Saadi. But before I can savour my victory she starts to type something into her BlackBerry. ‘I’ll schedule that meeting for tomorrow morning. 9.30 a.m.’
No, no, I mustn’t fall at first hurdle. Think, totally starkers. Not a stitch on him. It’s Scott I’m imagining this time, not Sir Alan. The image of a naked Scott fills me with confidence and fortifies my resolution without causing any of the trauma the image of a naked Sir Alan was. I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t think Scott and I need a scheduled meeting to discuss my engagement ring.’
‘It’s just the way things work round here. Scott’s a busy man,’ says Saadi, as though she’s teaching the ABC to an infant.
‘I realize that,’ I say carefully. I want to add that things might have to change now he has me, but she interrupts.
‘It’s not just a new man you’ve bagged yourself but a whole new life too. There’s more to being Scottie Taylor’s wife than being into him, you know.’ I’m beginning to realize that too. Rather than being capable of taking on truly terrifying members of the board, I am once again the new girl at the office who hasn’t got the guts to ask how the photocopier works. Saadi carries on. ‘Certain things will be expected from you, one of which is a noteworthy engagement ring with a PR story attached. Is that too much to ask?’ Her tone is impatient.
I think how lucky I am to be in this position. To be who I am now. Any woman would kill to be me. I’m marrying Scott Taylor. He is sexy, seductive, occasionally surly, consistently stupendous and stonking rich (sorry to be crass but it’s an inescapable fact). My mind, heart and wardrobe are bursting with new and expensive, oh la la delights.
