by Unknown
I suppose not.
Lisa calls regularly, as do my siblings Bill, Fiona and Rick. As Lisa, Bill and Fiona’s kids are bridesmaids and pageboys, they all have very clear views about exactly what the little darlings ought to wear. How I’m supposed to combine ‘pretty and romantic but understated’ with ‘chic and simple yet dramatic’ and ‘pink and flouncy, very, very flouncy’ is a conundrum I’m just not up to. I simply pass all comments on to Colleen and Ben; between them they are more than capable of dealing with it. Rick calls because he likes to give me updates about just how pissed he got at whichever party or gig he most recently blagged his way into. He’s suddenly garrulous, gregarious and popular as the future brother-in-law of Scottie Taylor. I’m glad he’s having so much fun. Even Jake sent a letter from prison. It was written in his messy, barely legible scribble that has remained unchanged since he was about seven.
Dear Sis,
Can your bloke pull any strings in here? I’m up for parole in a fortnight. Would be good to be out of this place by the time you tie the knot. Always wanted to visit LA. If no can do, can he come and visit me? Would make me look cool. You don’t need to come, just him. If that’s not happening, then send smokes.
Jake.
The combination of his naive print and upfront request affected me more than I expected. I know I can’t do anything to help his situation but it was somehow touching that he believed I could. I send the fags and loads of signed CDs.
Most people think I can help them now. I’ve received hundreds and hundreds of letters from various charities and individuals begging for my help. To start with I read them all and asked Scott for cash, signed photos, signed guitars and old clothes for raffles and auctions, then Saadi suggested I pass them straight to her second assistant to deal with. It was agreed that after the wedding I could choose a couple of charities to support but that reading fifty begging letters a day (all of which made me sob like Veruca Salt when Willy Wonka denies her an Oompa-Loompa) wasn’t doing much for my complexion. I suppose I am prone to being a bit weepy at the moment – well, it’s natural to be emotional, I’m getting married. But I never seriously considered funding a party where all the guests were supermodels – something the Institute of Caligynephobia (fear of beautiful women) assured me was vital as part of their recovery programme. I could see that Scott was right, there was something fake-looking about their stationery, and the fact that it was signed by ‘All the lads who drink in the Black Bull’ cleared up the issue once and for all.
But it’s not just my nearest and dearest and complete strangers who think I can do something for them, it’s everyone in between too. The other day I checked my e-mails and I had one from the Friends Reunited website; it said I had 742 new messages. I joined Friends Reunited six years ago when my love life was going through a dry patch and I thought I might look up a few old boyfriends to see if any of them were worth another onceover. Most had filed the obligatory two or three lines. ‘I’m married with two beautiful kids,’ or, ‘I still live with my mum and dad – it saves on rent.’ Nothing of interest. I sent a few e-mails to old girlfriends, girls I’d gossiped to when I should have been listening to exactly how (or why!) you might calculate quadratic equations. I got just one response. It was from Helen Davis, who wanted to know if I still had her copy of Mansfield Park because she was sure she’d lent it to me just before our GCSE and I hadn’t ever returned it; she’d had to buy another copy, apparently. I e-mailed back denying all knowledge and that was the end of our correspondence. I’ve stayed registered for the last six years (because I signed up by direct debit and don’t know where people find the energy to cancel direct debits) and in those six years I’ve had a grand total of three messages, until last month.
Each and every one of the messages I opened was lovely. Everyone wished me well, congratulated me on my engagement. Surprisingly, most agreed that they’d always known I’d do something extraordinary, many said they were delighted to see my name in the newspaper because they thought of me often and had long looked for an excuse to get back in touch because we’d been so close once. Strangely, about two out of every three had an ambition to travel to LA; I hadn’t realized it was such a popular destination of choice. Helen Davis wrote again reminding me how we always liked to share books.
‘Delete the lot,’ said Scott, when I told him about the sudden influx of messages.
‘I haven’t finished reading them.’
‘Waste of time. They all want the same thing. Association. This happened to me when I got the record deal with X-treme. A zillion liggers wrote to remind me how we’d once been best mates, even my old German teacher, which was odd because I distinctly remember him saying that he hated the very sight of me and dreaded Tuesdays when he’d have to be in the same room as me.’
I deleted the messages.
There have been no messages from Jess. I miss her. It’s weird. I’m constantly surrounded by an endless trail of people. There are people to brush my hair, draw my bath, warm my towels, fix my makeup, drive me places, dress me, cook for me, do crosswords with me, whatever – but this crowd doesn’t stop me feeling… what? Lonely? Not quite lonely. That word is too strong. It’s just that while I’m vital to these people (their jobs are dependent on me) I sometimes get the strangest feeling – I feel they don’t see me. I’m invisible, and no amount of designer clothes can get me noticed the way Jess used to notice me. How odd. Of course, it’s great having Ben here and I’m sure I will make proper friends here in time; I just don’t know how much time it will take. I’ve known Jess fourteen years.
I grab my phone and call Jess again before I think of a reason not to. The weeks of not speaking properly to one another have opened up a chasm, and I wonder if I can leap over it. I want to.
Amazingly she picks up. ‘Hey Jess.’ I gush excitedly. ‘Is this a good time to call? Or am I interrupting anything?’ My opener is pretty much an apology.
‘I’m in the supermarket.’
‘Oh. How are you?’
‘Good, the same. You know.’
She sounds a bit odd. Distracted. I tell myself she’s busy but I’m pretty sure she’s miffed. The odd thing is I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong besides become rich and famous, but how can that be wrong? I don’t know what to say next. She hasn’t asked how I am. If I volunteer the information I’ll risk sounding unbearable. What can I say? Oh your life’s ‘the same,’ is it? Well, mine has completely turned round and is so unbelievably fantastic I think I might explode with joy. Er, no, not right.
‘Did you get your invite?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, and the plane ticket. Thanks, very generous of you.’ Her tone is grudging. I hoped she’d be thrilled.
‘No, not at all. It’s the least I can do. I’m the one getting married bloody miles away, I can’t expect everyone to fork out for a flight.’ I try to down-play the three grand, Club Class ticket. It’s odd. I always imagined that one of the perks of being silly rich was that you’d get to be seriously generous with your nearest and dearest. I imagined that splashing the cash would be a wonderful and rewarding thing to do. But it’s not especially. Now I have so much more money than any of my friends – well, I have so much more money than everyone really – and I don’t know how to behave. When I make big gestures I seem flash and showy but if I don’t cough up, I seem tight. I can’t win.
‘How’s Adam?’ I hadn’t planned to say that next. Or indeed ever. I just did it to fill in a conversational gap. I think Jess is as surprised as I am.
‘You said you’d call him.’
To say what? ‘I’ve been meaning to but things have been so hectic, you know.’
‘Well, you can talk to him now, if you like.’
‘He’s with you?’ I’d deliberately called Jess on her mobile and not at the flat to avoid this happening. What are they doing in the supermarket together?
‘He’s in the tinned food section, I’m in the pasta aisle. We take it in turns to cook for one another now and so it makes
sense to shop together. It makes a dreary job more fun.’
Very cosy. ‘You take turns to cook for each other?’
‘Adam wasn’t eating. He needed looking after.’ She then whispers, ‘He’s been really floored by you leaving like this, Fern. You really should talk to him.’
‘OK, OK, put him on.’ I know I have to face him eventually. I was just hoping that eventually meant on my deathbed.
I imagine Jess hunting Adam down among the baked beans or tinned sweetcorn. If she can’t find him there, he’s probably drifted over to the DVD and CD section. On the few occasions we did shop together he’d invariably drift that way and then linger while I filled the trolley, queued at the checkout, paid and packed the groceries. He was never much help shopping, although he did carry the heavy bags to the car. My God, supermarket shopping belongs to a different world. I can barely remember the pain. Scott and I have been grocery shopping but just the once, and it was a completely different experience because really we went to Ralph’s Store to star-spot and be seen rather than to actually buy stuff to eat. At Ralph’s we pointed to things we might like to try, someone else picked them up, packed them and carried them to the car – I don’t even know who, I can’t remember. We have a nutritionist and a chef, so food seems to appear magically on my plate nowadays.
After a moment Adam comes on to the phone.
‘Fern,’ he says gruffly and formally.
The formality, although probably appropriate, is strange and uncomfortable. My mouth feels dry; I could do with a drink. A large G&T might help. ‘How are you, Adam?’ I ask, stepping into the boxing ring.
‘Great.’
Not what I’ve heard, but what can I say? I try to sound bright and casual to counter his dark and serious tone. ‘So you’re cooking dinner for Jess tonight.’
‘So you are marrying Scottie Taylor next month.’
Whack. Blow straight between the eyes. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘You have no right to imply that I shouldn’t be cooking for Jess.’
‘I wasn’t implying that.’ Was I? No, I wasn’t because it doesn’t mean anything that they are shopping and cooking together. They’re just buddies, and besides even if it did mean something, it’s none of my business.
‘It doesn’t mean anything that we are shopping and cooking together. We’re just buddies, and besides even if it did mean something it’s none of your business,’ says Adam. When did he develop the ability to read my mind?
‘I know that, I’m just trying to be polite to take an interest in what you are doing with your free time.’
‘The implication being that I’ve had plenty of that recently,’ he says sarcastically.
‘Adam, don’t,’ I plead quietly.
He cuts straight to the chase. ‘You shouldn’t marry him, Fern. He’s a mistake.’
Ah, round two already, I didn’t even hear the bell. I take a deep breath and try for a measured reaction; I must not let Adam rile me.
‘You’re wrong, Adam. He’s the biggest thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Yeah, the biggest mistake you’ll ever make. I worked with him. I know what he’s like.’
‘You worked with him for a few days, you don’t know him.’
‘He has a reputation. He’s an addict. He’s a man trampled by regret and torn with choices. He’s angry and unreliable. You should keep away from him.’
This is why I didn’t want to ring Adam. Of course he’s not completely incorrect. I’d be a fool to try to pretend to Adam that I think a relationship with Scott is going to be all plain sailing; it would be easier fooling myself. Scott does have some problems, he’s the first to admit it, but we love each other and that will be enough to get us through anything, won’t it? Yes it will. I’m shocked that a flicker of doubt entered my mind even for a split second. Where did that come from? I snuff out the doubt as quickly as I can. Of course our love is strong enough to get us through. We’ve had a blast so far. Really good fun, nothing but laughs. We’re amazing. We’re different. Sod Adam for rocking my boat.
‘I’ll be able to sort it all out, smooth it all over,’ I insist.
‘You’d need to be his mother, wife, counsellor, doctor, best mate. There isn’t enough of you to go round to patch him up.’ Adam pauses; I think his attack is over. Hurrah, I can run back to the corner of the ring, relatively unscathed, but then he relaunches. ‘Look, I don’t want to shock you but he’s awash with rumours. He sleeps with everyone that moves.’
In a way it’s quite sweet that Adam, my lover of four years, thinks I might be somehow shocked to hear that my pop star fiancé is not a virgin. If Adam had any idea of the level of detail Scott has gone into when revealing his past, his hair would curl. Sometimes, I do wish Scott would keep a tiny bit back. It might have been nice if he’d been as delicate as Adam is trying to be. It’s hard not to have nightmares about the endless breasts Scott’s caressed, the legs that have wrapped around him, the lips he’s known, the sound of their moans as they’ve come. Especially since I’ve yet to have that pleasure. Adam interrupts my horrid thoughts, or rather, in some ghoulish telepathic way, he elaborates on my horrid thoughts.
‘Scott just goes from one conquest to the next. He’s incapable of commitment.’
And yet Scott’s the one who proposed. A timely reminder.
‘Well, it takes one to know one,’ I say sharply.
I wonder if this is the moment to remind Adam that I’m with Scott because Adam couldn’t commit. Wouldn’t commit. He had his chance and he didn’t want to grab it. What is he doing now? Has he turned into one of those men who doesn’t want me for himself but doesn’t want me to be happy with anyone else either? How mean! How dare he talk about my fiancé like this? What right does he have? I’ve had enough. I know Jess wants me to go easy on Adam but why the hell should I? He’s not being easy on me. I summon my dignity.
Calmly I say, ‘Adam, Scott’s told me all about his past. He’s been really honest. He told me everything. You can’t shock me. You can’t ruin this. Scott’s already dished his own dirt. But he’s clean now.’
‘And what are you? Part of his recovery plan?’
‘I would be if he needed me to be,’ I say firmly.
Adam sighs. I can hear his despair across the ocean. He must know I’m not going to listen to him and yet he carries on. I wonder why he’s bothering.
‘He’s unstable and he’s an actor. You’ll never know when he’s for real. Like, when he does that overwhelmed shrug thing to the audience, like he’s just amazed. He did that on all three nights of the concert.’
‘He was overwhelmed.’ I’m fed up with this now.
‘I’ve been watching the DVD of his Wembley gig, Fern, over and over again. The man can’t be trusted.’ It’s official, Adam has turned into a psycho. What is he doing watching Scott’s DVD over and over? ‘Do you remember he’d act all nervous and he’d beg the audience not to believe the stuff that was written in the tabloids? He’d be practically crying and then in an instant he’d be as hard as nails again. It’s an act and you don’t want to be part of that.’
‘How do you know what I want to be part of?’
‘I know you,’ he says confidently.
I swallow an elephant. That’s the first thing Adam has said that I can agree with. He does know me. Or at least did. I’m different now. Or at least things are different now. Suddenly I feel tense and anxious. I had a massage only this morning, there’s no reason for me to feel uptight. I was dreading this conversation but I didn’t expect it to be this upsetting.
‘Look, thanks for your concern, can you give the phone back to Jess now,’ I say wearily.
‘How did it go?’ asks Jess. ‘I didn’t listen in, I wanted to give you some privacy so I skulked around the yogurt section for a bit. Have you two cleared the air?’
‘You could say that.’ Or you could say that my ex is a lunatic. A vengeful, cruel lunatic. I don’t think there’s any point in saying this to Jess. It
’s clear her sympathies lie with Adam and she’s not in the frame of mind to hear it from my point of view. Instead I just add, ‘Yeah, we’re all sorted now.’
‘Good, you’ll both feel better for it. Now you can both move on.’ Jess’s tone is considerably brighter than I’ve heard from her in a long time.
‘I’ve already moved on,’ I tell her haughtily. Adam’s words, inaccurate and spiteful, have had a much bigger effect than they deserve; I feel irrationally narky. ‘I moved on weeks ago.’
‘Yes. Yes, you did and that’s why I hope you’ll have a think about what I want to ask you.’
‘What?’
‘Well, you know the invite to your wedding said plus one.’
‘Yeah.’ Please God, don’t let her ask that. Let me be wrong about what I’m sure is coming next.
‘Do you mind if I bring Adam?’ God, are you listening?
‘Bring Adam as your date?’ I ask, stunned.
‘No, no, no nothing like that. Adam isn’t ready to date, but bring him to help him get closure.’
If Adam were ready to date, is that what she’s hoping for? Jess wants to date Adam? I remember the first gig at Wembley, Jess turned up done up to the eyeballs. Lisa said Jess was hoping for a brief encounter with Scott, seems like we had that all wrong. Could she have been interested in Adam all along? How long? When we were all living together? Is that possible? I mull it over. It would explain why Jess has so suddenly and decisively distanced herself from me and why she’s been so keen for him to have closure. I distinctly remember her saying she wasn’t averse to sloppy seconds.
I feel terrible. Sick to the pit of my stomach. I don’t understand why. It’s not like I’m one of those people who doesn’t want someone but doesn’t want anyone else to have them either. It’s mean. It’s not possible that I still want him for myself. Why would I want that? I have Scott. Scottie Taylor. I have all of this. I cast my eyes around the manicured gardens; all’s quiet right now except for the sound of birds singing and the gentle whiz as the sprinklers discreetly do their job. The grass is lush and green, the sky is a vivid, vital blue; pretty soon I’ll see Scott drop from the sky in a helicopter – he’s just popped over to Mexico, as he’s buying a racehorse. While he’s there he will no doubt pick up shoes, bags and other treats for me. But. But I feel terrible.
