by Adele Parks
‘Oh well, in that case, I can hardly refuse, can I? It would be too ungracious. Take good care of your hangover, try fizzy elderflower and greasy chips. I’ll see you tonight and you can tell me all about your gorgeous gifts.’
‘Thank you, you’re a superstar.’
I don’t bother to tell Ben that, surprisingly, I am not hungover – despite the enormous amounts Jess and I drank last night. In fact I feel wonderful.
You see, the first thing that hit me this morning when I woke up from my Scott Taylor dream-filled sleep was not the disappointment of Adam failing to propose but the excitement that Scott Taylor singled me out and sang to me! Me! That’s monumental.
I jump out of bed, drag on a tracksuit and dash to the corner 7–11 store. We need milk and I need papers. When
‘Morning,’ I smile breezily.
He grunts but doesn’t go as far as returning my greeting. Really, he’s going to have to try harder than that to ruin my day. Not only did I spend yesterday playing cards with Scott Taylor but the truth is Scott Taylor sang to me! Have I mentioned that? It’s impossible to be anything other than thrilled with life. As Adam puts the kettle on to make mugs of tea, I start to read the tabloids. Scott’s comeback gig is emblazoned all over the front pages. The reviews are great, which is excellent news. Britain’s pop prince has a tempestuous relationship with the tabloids. Sometimes he’s golden boy and other times he’s public enemy number one. I imagine he’ll love this coverage. He’s described as ‘dizzyingly vibrant’, ‘class entertainer’, ‘the show of his life’. I work my way through the Mirror, the Daily Mail, the Express and then the Sun. They are uniform in their praise.
‘Look at this,’ I squeal. ‘The Mirror has mentioned Scott singing to me.’
‘Fucking great,’ says Adam. He’s drinking from a carton of milk which he slams down with unnecessary violence; some splashes on the floor. I’m pretty certain it will stay there until it changes to cheese. ‘Not only do ninety thousand people witness Scottie Taylor hitting on my girl but now a further several million get to read about it.’
I start to read from the newspaper. ‘It says he sang to an “elegant, mystery girl and everyone wants to know who is this lovely ”.’ I don’t think Adam hears me because he reaches for his jacket and then charges out of the kitchen and the flat (this takes about four steps). The door slams behind him so I go to Jess’s room. I think it’s more reasonable to assume she’ll be pleased for me.
17. Fern
Jess has a hangover and she doesn’t appreciate my jumping up and down on her bed and pointing out that I’m not suffering from one because Scott Taylor sang to me! I think she may be a bit jealous. She’s used to being the one that exciting things happen to. She’s normally the one bursting into my room on a Saturday morning with a whirling head and excited chatter about new flirtations. For years I’ve watched her being wined and dined by a dazzling array of blokes, and although she swears she’d swap all the variety for a bit of consistency that’s just because she doesn’t know how disappointing consistency can be. Consistency that leads to wedding bells and babies has its advantages, I don’t doubt. But consistency which amounts to little more than an encyclopedic knowledge of Saturday TV schedules and the menus of all the local takeaway services is not something to covet.
‘What did Adam say about Scottie’s impromptu singsong?’ she asks.
‘Well, he was huffy about it, mostly because it screwed up his light sequence, I think.’ Her question stops me jumping up and down. It’s hard to think about Adam without feeling… what? Sad? Bad? Mad?
‘He must feel a bit threatened. No man would like Scottie Taylor making a move on his girlfriend.’
‘He’s not threatened. Adam just doesn’t like me
‘That’s not true,’ says Jess gently.
‘It seems that way.’ I sit on the side of her bed. Still and serious now, I struggle to be clearer. ‘Or rather, I’m beginning to think that Adam is just indifferent to whether I have fun or not, whether I am happy or not. After all, he didn’t acknowledge my request for more commitment.’
‘You mean your scary, demanding ultimatum,’ she clarifies with a wry grin.
‘Is the thought of marrying me so scary?’ I ask with a sigh. ‘You know, I’m getting the feeling that Adam has one foot out of the door. We’re not going anywhere. If we were, he’d have proposed. Why didn’t he propose?’ Jess doesn’t reply, she doesn’t know how to. She just looks uncomfortable.
‘Will you carry out your threat? Will you break up?’ she asks.
Now I don’t know how to answer her question. We fall silent. I get a feeling similar to that of being at a wake. I think we might be burying my relationship with Adam. I use the pause to think about what Jess first said.
‘So, do you think Scott was making a move?’ I try to keep the hope in my voice subdued to a reasonable level.
‘Well, yes, he probably does fancy you but that’s not important, is it?’
‘No,’ I lie. Actually, hearing that Scott might fancy me seems magnificently important, especially right now when I feel Adam has passed up the chance to be with me. A boyfriend of four years not wanting to get married is a weighty blow to a girl’s confidence and Scott Taylor taking an interest is a mighty lift.
‘I mean, it’s not like he’s going to actively pursue you, is it?’ continues Jess. ‘He’ll have moved on today, probably slept with someone else last night.’
‘Probably,’ I mutter. My stomach is full of swiftly solidifying cement. I don’t want to hear this.
‘It was just a bit of fun, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I mumble reluctantly.
‘I mean, realistically, like you said yesterday, Scottie Taylor probably does this sort of thing all the time. Not so much a girl in every port, more a girl in every pavement crack. He can’t take a step without some woman offering herself up. Even if you rolled out of a rug and fell naked at his feet à la Cleopatra there’s no guarantee that Scottie Taylor would even recognize you today.’ Jess catches sight of my face and stops blathering. Maybe I’m not hiding my disappointment as well as I’d like to. She reaches over and squeezes my hand and gently says, ‘I mean you wouldn’t want to be just yet another woman he had sex with.’
Oh God, it’s terrible, but part of me wants exactly that. I can’t look at Jess in case she can see my wantonness written all over my face.
‘I wouldn’t mind being asked,’ I mumble. ‘Maybe Scott could ask me to sleep with him and then, obviously, I’ll say no. That way I’ll have the undisputed joy of knowing that he wanted me but the comfort of knowing that I’m a good moral person who stood by my man. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe that’s the ultimate fantasy once you hit thirty.’
Or it might just be letting him fuck my brains out and not getting caught, I don’t know.
‘Still, this little flirtation has cheered you up after the
I nod but don’t trust myself to say anything. I’m in turmoil. My confidence and ego have been on a roller-coaster ride. One minute I’m up, the next I’m down. I don’t know how to feel or act, but I do know that when I crash it will be spectacularly messy.
‘This might be the wake-up call Adam needs,’ says Jess with a sympathetic smile. ‘Now he’s been reminded that his girl is hot enough to catch the eye of Scottie Taylor, he might just get his arse in gear and pop the question.’
‘Do you think there’s even the slightest chance?’ I ask her.
‘What, of Adam popping the question? Yes, I do.’ Jess nods confidently.
And only yesterday this is exactly what I wanted to hear. All I wanted to hear. I was desperate for even the smallest glimmer of hope that Adam might propose; today everything is different. ‘No, not that. Do you think there is the smallest chance of Scott noticing me if I roll out of a rug and fall naked at his feet?’ I ask.
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ says Jess.
‘Deadly serious,’ I reply. Suddenly it’s clear to me; I’m going to have to m
ove on. Adam doesn’t want me. He had his chance and he tossed it away. Did I have a chance with Scott Taylor yesterday, a real chance? Did I toss it away? I hope not, I hate waste.
Jess doesn’t say anything more; she just flops back into bed and pulls the duvet over her head.
18. Fern
OK, the rolling naked from carpet thing might be a stretch. What worked for an Egyptian queen thousands of years ago might not do the trick for a twenty-first century, ordinary girl, but this time I do at least take great care with my outfit. I consider buying something new but don’t want to waste a morning trailing around the shops, so I plump for a high-waisted grey pencil skirt that I bought in Zara last year but have only had occasion to wear twice, a silky emerald green top with a pussy bow and high, round-toed, petrol blue patent shoes. The combination of spray-on tight skirt and stilt-height shoes means that I can barely walk but I don’t care because I know I look as good as it gets. No pain, no gain.
I hop-stroke-hobble on to the tube and set off for Wembley. Jess said I should leave Adam a note, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I can’t think about it right now, it’s all too strange and raw and unsettled. I do know that whatever I have to say should probably be said face to face. I tell myself that I’ll find Adam at the stadium and talk to him there, but I have a feeling I might be lying to me. I think I might just go directly to Scott’s dressing-room and avoid Adam like the bubonic plague. I don’t share this choice piece of info with Jess; I guess I know my intentions are far from honourable. I know that I’m not behaving especially well towards Adam right now; the knowing that I ought to be behaving better and actually behaving better don’t seem to be at all sequential.
It’s easy to find his room today. I still have a pass, and besides which I walk with a new confidence through the labyrinth of corridors. A couple of people catch my eye and nod to me. It’s possible they recognize me from last night’s gig and think I have a right and a reason to be mooching around the dressing-rooms. I’ve almost convinced myself of as much.
After just a split second of hesitation I knock on his door and then walk straight in.
He is there. We lock eyes and my heart stops. He grins and it starts again. He’s detonated a bomb of sensations. Effervescent shards of excitement, desire, fear and lust ambush me. The muddles of emotions settle, almost painfully, in my head and knickers. I am freshly overwhelmed by his presence.
‘Good morning,’ he says, with a mock formality.
‘Morning,’ I mutter, my determination and confidence flooding out of me with every passing moment.
He is sat facing the door, as though expecting me, which is impossible – so expecting someone else maybe? Again, he’s dressed casually in jeans and a simple blue T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved or combed his hair. His crumpled, just-got-out-of-bed appearance is once more irresistible. His
‘What did you think of the concert?’ he asks.
‘I was glad we met before I went to it,’ I admit truthfully.
‘Was it that bad?’ he asks with a grin, leaning forward hands on knees now.
I smile back. ‘No, not at all. It was…’ I search for a big enough word but can’t think of one. I settle for ‘Amazing. That’s what I mean. I’d have been too overwhelmed to talk to you the way I did yesterday if I’d had any idea the power you have. You are so big. I knew it but hadn’t seen what that meant up close. You’re bigger than anything I could ever have imagined.’
‘Now, that is no word of a lie. That’s not just PR, that’s true, that is.’ He jokingly grabs his crotch, in case I miss his innuendo.
He’s being obvious, just like when he humped the mike on stage last night. I’m not normally a fan of Benny Hill humour but I can’t help but wonder if his crass bragging is true. I can’t help but hope it is.
‘I didn’t mean that, exactly,’ I say, although in a way I did. The sexual energy he oozes is meshed with the creative performance. I can’t pretend I don’t find it attractive; me and several million others. ‘It was all those girls. I was quite taken aback,’ I add.
‘What do you mean?’
We haven’t taken our eyes off one another since the conversation began. The door behind me is still wide open, which is disconcerting considering the private
‘The flesh, the bums, the breasts. Just everywhere. Abundantly offered up.’
He laughs. ‘What about it?’
‘I don’t want you to think I’m like those other women in the crowd.’ The admission is awkward, mostly because to some extent I am just like them and I know it. I played strip poker with the man, shortly after meeting him for the first time. I wouldn’t have done that with anyone else or under any other circumstances, would I? Plus, I’m stood in front of him in my sexiest outfit. I’m wearing stockings for God’s sake; I’m not playing what anyone could describe as hard to get.
‘So how are you different from those women? You’re made of flesh, you have a bum, don’t you?’ He lets his gaze drop down from my eyes, to my boobs, my legs, and slowly, oh so slowly, he drags his look of longing back up to meet my eyes. My cheeks turn scarlet.
‘Yes and boobs but I’m not here to flash them at you.’
‘Shame, I’d guarantee you an appreciative audience.’
I can’t help it, I smile, but then I bravely get to the heart of what I’m afraid of. ‘Yeah, just the once, I imagine you would.’
‘That’s not what you are after?’
‘I have a boyfriend,’ I say, pretty much avoiding a direct answer. ‘And I’ve never been into one-night stands, they’re pointless; that’s why I left in such a hurry yesterday.’
Scott nods. ‘So why are you back here?’
‘Because you sang to me.’
‘I did, didn’t I.’
‘And so I thought maybe –’
He interrupts. ‘That you are different?’
‘Yeah.’ I stand on the knife edge, blade slicing my feet, waiting to see if I’ve got this all muddled.
‘And so you are, Fern, so you are.’ He beckons me. ‘Close the door.’
19. Fern
We play cards again; this time we keep our clothes on and stick to matches. Yesterday our conversation was limited to small talk about the hand we held, the room temperature, which flavour crisps we prefer. Yesterday our flirting did not have a time-line. We had flirted in the moment, for the moment, and with no regard or expectations of what, if anything, might come after. Today, we have upped the ante. Our flirtation reaches a new level. It’s not quite so glib. It feels a little more individual. It’s the sort of flirting that definitely has consequences. Plus we talk without flirting at all, which in my mind is much more of a compliment, especially after watching the show last night. I know he can flirt with anyone, anywhere, any time. Talking is a big deal. He tells me normal stuff. Stuff about himself that demonstrates a confidence in me that fills me with pride and pleasure.
Scott tells me about what he did after the gig last night (he was whisked away on the helicopter and taken to a swanky hotel in West London). ‘I fell asleep in the reception,’ he says bright-eyed and amazed.
‘I’m not surprised, you jumped around for hours on stage.’
‘I know, but it’s the first time ever that I’ve done a gig and then fallen into such a deep, relaxed slumber. No one could believe it. You see, I don’t do relaxed. Saadi, my
‘Scared?’
‘Yeah, scared, and then it was all great.’
‘That’s why you slept so well,’ I assure him. ‘The slumber of a man who knows he’s done a bloody great job.’
‘No, it wasn’t. I’ve had great gigs in the past and it’s taken me hours to come down from them.’
‘Is it because you didn’t hit the bars? You mentioned you’re clean.’
I resist adding ‘at the moment’. I know he casually volunteered this information yesterday but I’m not sure how to handle myself around addicts and don’t know what to say for the best. I don’t want to say anything that sounds like I assume
that he’ll fall off the wagon but nor do I want to sound as though I think the job’s done. I know enough to understand once an addict, always an addict, and that every day is a struggle. Life’s just harder for people born with that gene. The way it’s harder if you are born with the gene which gives you a terrible disease or a really ugly face, it’s just that the ill and even the slap-arsed ugly get more sympathy than addicts. I don’t want to seem like I’m having a go.
‘Yeah, that might have helped, but I think it was because of you,’ says Scott. The ‘you’ is dropped like an atom bomb. It mushrooms and eclipses everything that has gone before.
‘Me?’ I’m stunned.
‘Yeah. Come on. You know what I mean. You make me feel happy. Relaxed. Right in my skin. I can’t explain it,’ he says shyly.
I know exactly what he means. We stare at each other a bit stupidly, unsure what to do or say next. It’s almost a relief when there’s a knock at the door.
Scott’s entourage file in and out of the dressing-room all morning. He introduces me to everyone and I try to hang on to as many names as I can but it’s tricky. For a start, it appears there’s a uniform of scruffy jeans and black T-shirts and, another thing, I keep thinking, Oh. My. God. I can’t believe this. I’m in the same room as Scott Taylor! I’m spending a lot of effort and energy holding in my stomach and trying to touch up my makeup covertly at every given opportunity. This is undoubtedly really immature of me but cut me some slack. Scott Taylor is hitting on me!
Besides Bob, the security guy, several runners, the occasional (carefully escorted) journalist, a photographer and the guys from catering, six or seven band members wander into his room at some point in the day. The band members all wrap Scott in elaborate hugs. Hugs that involve slapping hands, sticking out their tongues and even wiggling their bums. There are waves of affection flowing as everyone is pleased with yesterday’s gig and excited about tonight’s. I am not on the receiving end of hugs – thank goodness. I’d be freaked out if I was deluged with mwahmwah air kisses from strangers – but I am treated to a number of grateful and genuine smiles.
