by Adele Parks
There are two male guitarists, one female, a drummer, a pianist and a couple of backing singers. Surprisingly,
The production manager and two people from wardrobe also visit Scott. They remind him that tonight the concert is being filmed for TV and DVD. The production manager steals a quick glance my way and then says, ‘You can’t do the “Happy Birthday” thing tonight, Scott. It won’t work on DVD.’
Scott stares at his employee for some time and then says, ‘It’s not Fern’s birthday tonight, it was her birthday last night, so there is no danger of me singing “Happy Birthday” to her tonight. That would be silly.’
The production guy looks relieved and slightly miffed at the same time. He realizes that Scott is being vaguely condescending. Nothing mean; he’s just flexing his muscles. A shiver of excitement runs up my back as I realize that Scott is flexing his muscles for my benefit. It’s just like some kid showing he’s the big boy in the playground in order to get the attention of the little girl
He turns to me and says, ‘Adam said hi.’ He leaves the dressing-room before I can stammer a response.
Scott catches my eye but sensibly says nothing.
Adam, bloody hell, Adam. He knows I’m in here. What a nightmare. It’s as though the production guy has just thrown a hair shirt on me. I itch with a terrible sensation of panic and unease. I really haven’t given Adam any thought since I entered Scott’s dressing-room. I’m shocked at myself that I have forgotten him so completely, so quickly; it’s as though I’m on another planet, one lit by a dazzling, brilliant star. My old world – the world I shared with Adam – doesn’t seem to even be in the same galaxy.
I stare at Scott and silently will him to reassure me. He reads my mind.
‘You OK?’ he asks.
‘I think so,’ I mutter.
‘I could sack him,’ Scott offers, casually.
‘Adam?’ I’m horrified.
‘No, the production guy.’ Scott grins at me to show that he’s just joking anyway. He then steps forward and wraps me in a big hug. He strokes my hair and his touch is both comforting and wild. I barely understand it. Our bodies throb as one. I am aware of every single muscle, sinew, nerve; his and mine but I don’t know where one starts and the other stops. ‘I’m sorry for Adam,’ he whis
Oh. My. God. What is Scott saying? Have I slipped away? I think I have.
The woman with the blonde bob who massaged Scott’s shoulders yesterday turns out to be Saadi, his PA. She coughs, taps Scott on the shoulder and tells him that the choreographer needs to run through small changes to the dance routine. With painful reluctance Scott and I break apart. Bereft, we stare at one another until the choreographer practically drags Scott away and Saadi frogmarches me to the other end of the room.
‘You OK?’ she asks me, clicking her fingers in front of my face.
She has an Australian accent. I always warm to Australians. I think they are all my friends because they are the one nation with a positive cultural stereotype. I like the fact that they are known for their easy-going temperaments and their no-bullshit approach to life. In Britain you can know someone for years before you get the same level of honesty that you can get from an Australian after just two beers. It’s not that we Brits are intrinsically mistrustful; it’s just we live in fear of saying the wrong thing and therefore prefer not to say anything meaningful at all. The best of us hide behind impeccable manners, the worst of us think like an angry mob and covet ASBOs the way other nations covet Olympic medals.
‘Never better,’ I reply with a broad, open grin. It’s true. I feel like a winner. I have never felt more excited and exciting in my entire life. This blows away when I got
‘Have you had sex with him yet?’ asks Saadi.
The question startles me; it certainly causes me to focus on her instead of staring dreamingly at the door Scott’s just walked out through. Even for an Aussie, that question is upfront. She asked it in the same way the nurse who performs smears asks you to open your legs and relax; a clinical probing that seems cold and unnatural.
‘No,’ I stammer, hating myself for revealing so much. What has it to do with her?
‘That’s great,’ she smiles. ‘Do you mind holding off until Sunday?’
‘Sunday?’ I stutter, unsure why I’m having this conversation with Saadi. Surely this is a negotiation Scott and I should be having – if sex is ever going to be negotiated, that is, and yes, yes, yes I admit it, I hope it is. My body is throbbing for his after that tight hug.
‘These gigs are really important to him. To us. To everyone. A lot of money is riding on them. A lot. More than you could imagine in your wildest dreams. Just one night of sex can ruin months and months of planning and hard, hard work.’
‘Sorry?’
She smiles and pats my hand. Her hand is cool and makes me think of a strict and demanding schoolteacher. ‘Look, I don’t want to spoil his fun. Or yours, for that matter. It’s just sex complicates everything, unnecessarily so.’
This conversation is surreal. ‘In what way?’
‘Well, think about it. If it is good sex then he stays up
‘It would be great sex,’ I assure her, hotly.
‘No doubt,’ says Saadi. She doesn’t look as though she cares either way. ‘I’m just asking for a little co-operation here. A bit of help. You can wait until Sunday, can’t you? I wouldn’t mention it if it wasn’t in Scott’s best interests.’
Saadi smiles, briefly, coolly. The conversation is over. In truth she isn’t asking for my help; she’s telling me how things are going to be. She picks up her plastic cup of coffee and clipboard and swiftly exits the room.
20. Fern
Scott returns but it takes about another twenty minutes before everyone else has left the room. Everyone except Bob, the security guy, that is, but I’m getting used to his constant presence. I can’t ignore him the way Scott does – I feel the need to keep making small talk with him – but he’s settled into his Sudoku now and it’s almost as though Scott and I are alone. I’m still feeling weird about the conversation I’ve just had with Saadi and can’t decide whether to mention it to Scott. If I do, I’m openly acknowledging the fact that everyone else (and therefore us, too) thinks sex is a natural next step. I’m not sure I’m ready for that conversation. I have to finish things with Adam first. Cleanly and properly.
Is it the next natural step? Is that why I am here? To have sex? Will it just be sex? I’m not sure. I’d be mad to hope for more than that and yet the way he looks at me, the way he concentrates when I’m speaking – if it was any other man I’d think there was more. Scott excites me, he delights me and yet he also lulls me and soothes me. It’s practically a miracle but he manages to make me feel calm and lovely even when we are talking about my family and my schooling. He listens carefully as I tell him about my sister and brothers; he comments, ‘You wish you were all closer, don’t you? You have the same dream as your mum. One big happy family.’
I nod. ‘Yeah, but I’m realistic now. I know that I have nothing in common with any of my siblings, with the possible exception of Rick. Even then it could be that I credit Rick with more feeling for me than he has because I want his silence to speak volumes. The odd thing is I know that we all love each other even though we don’t like each other much. It’s enough. It’s got to be because it’s all there is. What about you?’
‘I have one brother. He’s an accountant. I’m a rock star. What do you think?’
‘I imagine he’s screwed up with jealousy.’
‘Or disgust,’ adds Scott.
‘Does he do your accounting?’ I ask.
‘No, I have a team for that.’
‘You should ask him to be part of that team. Or to head it up. He might like to be involved,’ I say enthusiastically.
Scott smiles at me the way some dads smile at their little girls; indulgently marvelling at their naivety and wondering why they wasted their money on school fees. My father never smiles at me like that. For one
thing I didn’t go to a posh fee-paying school and besides, if I do say something he believes to be gauche or ill-considered, he’s more likely to mutter, ‘You daft mare,’ than he is to smile fondly at me.
‘It’s not realistic. My brother specializes in corporate accounting. I need accountants who specialize in royalty fees etc. Besides, he wouldn’t like to work for me and I wouldn’t like him to work for me. You can’t be friends with people who work for you and while we’re not what you call friends now, I live in hope that one day we might
‘Maybe we should introduce your brother to my big brother Bill, the trust fund manager, I bet they’d get on,’ I say flippantly.
‘Yeah, we should throw a dinner party.’
And while I know he’s only joking I can’t slow down the part of my brain that is visualizing the dinner party where our families meet. We’d be in Scott’s apartment. I have no idea what his apartment looks like, how many he has or even where they might be scattered across the globe, but I’m pretty sure his apartment won’t be anything like the flat I share with Jess and Adam. My family never visit me at my flat because it’s hard to squeeze all the animals of the zoo into a bird cage. I’m certain Scott’s apartment wouldn’t feel claustrophobic, there’d never be stale milk in the fridge, dirty socks on the floor and the carpet wouldn’t be stained with beer spills. There wouldn’t be a carpet at all, there would be dark wooden floorboards and clean white walls, there’d be an entire wall of windows and the view would stretch out over all of London. The view from my bedroom window is of the back yard – not even a back yard we are permitted to use, as (illogically) it belongs to the flat upstairs. It’s not a loss, as there are often used condoms and empty cans in the back yard, thrown over the brick wall. If I stand on the wash basket in the bathroom and crane my neck to the right, I can see a bit of green; it’s someone else’s garden. But the last time I did, I fell off the wash basket and banged my foot on the side of the loo. It really hurt. I bet Scott’s view of London is of the Houses of Parliament, the Eye and
The families would all sit around an enormous trestle table, we’d eat elaborate, expensive food with difficult-to-pronounce names and even Bill would be impressed. Everyone would get on. We’d laugh all evening. My mum and dad would finally stop worrying about me. I’d be a success. It would be a tremendous moment.
I probably need to think about something else now.
Scott and I listen to music. It’s a huge relief and a pleasant surprise that Scott does not ask me what I usually listen to but instead excitedly tells me about his favourite artists. I actively try to like the stuff Scott’s introducing me to; I mean he must know a thing or two. Adam used to do the same but I never liked the bands Adam listened to and never tried to change that opinion. Oh God, I’m thinking about Adam in the past tense. It’s over but he doesn’t know. A brief flicker of shame licks my innards. I suppose I have to call him. But what can I say? He knows I’m here with Scott; he sent a message via the production manager. How pathetic, how typical, he couldn’t even be bothered to come in person. He’s not interested in fighting for me – just in embarrassing me.
I find it’s more comfortable to be indignant than racked with guilt.
Scott and I talk as though we’ve known each other for ever but haven’t seen each other for a very long time. Everything I say seems interesting to him, he seems to want to approve of me, he envelops me in an over
He showers me with stunning compliments in a way that seems casual and yet authentic. Not insincere or creepy. ‘You’re enthralling,’ ‘You’re remarkable,’ ‘You’re gorgeous.’ These compliments are unusual and enormous. They should jar or appear disingenuous but they don’t; it feels natural and I don’t doubt him for a second. With him, I am these amazing things.
Besides music we talk about movies, food, favourite smells, school, chocolate and TV. They’re small, everyday subjects but everything seems larger than life as I wrestle to be clearer, more truthful and concise than ever before. I want to find the most true and perfect words, so that I can dignify this magic.
Scott asks, ‘Where were you born?’
‘Reading.’ I pause.
‘What?’
‘I was wondering if I should pretend that I don’t know you were born in Hull, just for conversational form,’ I admit.
Scott starts to grin. ‘That’s the first time anyone has ever admitted to that dilemma. Mostly people think they know me really well and don’t ask any of the pleasantries
‘Such as?’
‘About sex mostly. They ask me if I’ve ever blar blar blar and if not why not? Do I want to? For blar, blar, blar you can use your imagination. I’ve been asked about every weird sexual perversion you could possibly think of, largely by total strangers.’
‘Right,’ I nod, embarrassed for Scott, myself and the unimaginative idiots who have intruded on his privacy in the past. After a brief pause I ask, ‘Did you walk to school, ride your bike, take a bus, or get a lift? Which?’
It seems a banal question but actually I think it tells you quite a lot about the person you are talking to. Nowadays, all kids seem to be driven to school as part of their parents’ inexplicable quest to contribute to child obesity, but when we were kids most people walked. You only got a lift if you were posh and went to a private school miles away. You caught the school bus if you lived in the sticks and you rode your bike if you were cool.
Scott grins at me. ‘I rode my chopper. You?’
‘Blue Raleigh,’ I beam back, knowing he understands the transport code. ‘I went to a state school about five minutes up the road from where I lived and received just the sort of education you would expect if you only travel five minutes to get it.’
‘Were you a good girl?’ He can’t resist a cheeky grin.
‘According to my school reports I was the very worst sort of pupil. All the teachers believed that I was bright and just not giving my studies my all. Could try harder was as good as tattooed across my forehead.’
Scott nods. ‘I had that same experience. Every new school year began in exactly the same way. Teachers were initially enthusiastic and smiley with me. They were hopeful, perhaps even determined, to be the one that would make a difference, to unlock and unleash all that I’d kept carefully hidden from other staff members. But, towards the end of the academic year, I was invariably greeted with frustrated sighs and weary shrugs from those previously keen members of staff.’
‘A result of one too many missed assignments or rushed pieces of coursework, completed during registration on the day it was due to be handed in?’ I offer helpfully. It’s clear we had the same experience.
‘I just didn’t want to be there,’ says Scott simply. ‘We only did music for one hour a week and then only until we were about fourteen. I didn’t go to the sort of school where prodigies were discovered and tutored. We didn’t have a music department as such. Certainly not an orchestra. Prodigies were more like clipped round the ear and told to sit down, shut up.’ He’s laughing but I sense bitterness. Maybe not for himself. He’s made good. He’s made excellent. But how many more kids are overlooked just because they don’t or can’t flourish under similar regimes?
‘They had me all wrong at my school too,’ I acknowledge. ‘I was not a bright pupil unwilling to try, I was pretty average and doing all I could to keep my head above water. I’d somehow managed to create the impression that I was hiding some sort of light under a bushel because I was generally smiley and polite and most teenagers simply aren’t. Plus I had a curious but extended general knowledge about flowers.’
‘Flowers?’
‘They’re my thing. I’m a florist. A passionate interest in anything, especially something a little unusual, tends to create an illusion of deeper intelligence. Often wrongly. Really people should have seen me for what I was – a flower geek.’
‘Tell me about being a florist.’ Scott sits on the edge of the purple suede chaise longue and he looks riveted. His interest is very flattering.
‘Well, like I said, I’m the fourth one down out of five kids, so my parents were pretty worn out with the whole parenting thing by the time they got to me and they happily agreed to let me leave school at sixteen so as I could go to the local technical college to study floristry. It’s a two-year course –’
‘No, no, not all the getting qualification stuff. Tell me why flowers?’ insists Scott.
So I tell him that being in the garden with my gran, picking flowers, was the nearest I’ve ever felt to perfect peace. I explain how flowers mystify, exhilarate and thrill me. I explain that I believe the scent of flowers somehow flows through my veins, as much my lifeline as blood. I use that exact expression and I’m not embarrassed or ashamed. This man is a creative genius. If anyone is ever going to get it – get me – then he will.
‘What’s your favourite flower?’ he asks.
‘Pink peonies,’ I say without hesitation. ‘Flowers heal. They are important. They are so much more than a cheerful, colourful pressie. Flowers are there when we are born and all the way through until we die. They offer comfort and assurance. Plus they articulate stuff most
‘In that way flowers are just like songs,’ says Scott, proving he understands completely.
‘Just like songs,’ I beam at him.
21. Scott
I’ve been to rehab twice. It’s no picnic. Do not believe it if you read in the press that rehab is some sort of day spa for the rich and gormless. Rehab is full of people who’ve fucked up and that alone is enough to make me want to run a mile in the opposite direction.
I have an addictive personality. It took lots of eminent doctors (each with a string of letters after their name) a long time to come up with that. They could’ve just asked my mum. People with my condition find it difficult to relax, bore easily, rarely have successful relationships and they toe tap.
