by Adele Parks
Keeping on the move, filling my day, just doing stuff was seen as a good thing when I was a kid. Uncles would pat me on the head and give me fifty pence, tell me I was keen and dedicated when I ran around the football pitch more than the other boys and practised harder at keepy-uppies. I was that fanatical about my training that people used to ask me whether I wanted to be a football player. Maybe. I didn’t know for sure. What I did know is I didn’t want to be still. Because still people aren’t successful. The best a still person can hope for, the pinnacle of their career, is to end up in the middle of Covent Garden, painted bronze, pretending to be Rodin’s ‘Thinker’. A hat full of loose change at his feet for making like he’s a statue; what’s that about? How can
I find doing something over and over again makes me feel good, deep, deep in my soul. It makes me feel useful and purposeful. Am I the only one who has noticed that we are just one breath away from admitting that it’s all futile? Everything. The busier I am, the less chance there is of that thought swallowing me up. Doing something over and over again is soothing. Some of my addictions, most actually, are harmless. No one minded when I became addicted to the game Uno or Ludo or even Four-in-a-Row. Clink yellow counter slips into place, two in a line. Clink red counter blocks. Clink yellow counter going for the diagonal now. Clink red falls. Clink yellow dropped so quickly it might not be noticed. Clink red thrown in randomly. Clink yellow four in a row and then crash. It was that crash I relished; the sound of releasing all the counters to start a fresh game. I still love to hear a game of Four-in-a-Row in play, it’s so relaxing. No one cared much when I became addicted to records; as long as I bought them myself and I didn’t steal to pay for them, I could have as many as I wanted. My addiction to learning the guitar was actively encouraged. But then it started to go screwy.
In my adult life I’ve been addicted to fags, wanking, running, alcohol, food, sex, drugs, work, fame, tattoos, coffee, playing dominoes, playing cards and playing the fool. This is not a definitive list. More off the top of my head. And, to be clear, the addictions aren’t mutually exclusive, some run in parallel.
Problem is, while they say the devil makes work for can’t do moderation. So, what I have to do is get addicted to safe substances. Chocolate is not that. If I’m jowly I’m as good as dead. Fern is safe. No one can have a problem with a man obsessing about a girl. It’s what makes the world go round.
In many ways I wish I hadn’t ever found drugs, of course I do, I’m not insane. I prefer waking up in the morning and having a clear memory of the night before. I prefer waking up in the morning and finding that my clear memory of the night before doesn’t paralyse me with shame and regret. Indeed, I simply prefer waking up in the morning. Taking drugs reduces my chances of any of these three things happening.
But, if you ask anyone who’s ever been in love whether it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? They will confirm yes it is, even if they’ve been left with a big gaping hole where their shattered heart once beat. If they don’t agree, I’d say they weren’t really in love, probably in lust, more like. Drugs are the same; just as many people feel about a worthless lover, I can’t help but regret that I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life without them. Everyone assumes drugs are
Music is the same. Music makes things more. More meaningful, more true, more important. The difference is music doesn’t stop. There is no come down.
But should I tell you the hardest substance to kick, the addiction that crawls through my body, pumped by my own heart into my bloodstream, to rule every fibre of my being? Success. Success is addictive. And relentless. And fruitless. And I’m hooked.
22. Fern
I had no idea that such total happiness was available to me.
Scott and I have spent all day together. On Friday I met the man and watched the myth perform at the gig. Now, having spent all day with him, I realize that the two are intrinsically linked. The bloke, who snacks on jelly beans and occasionally scratches his balls when he thinks no one is looking, is just as amazing to me as the man who entertains millions.
I’m attracted to his quick mind and quick tongue, his hard-man northern roots, his just-submerged vulnerability, his excessive power and his excessive personality. He is droll, magnetic, poised, unexpected. I glitter in his company. The whole experience is surreal. A dreamy, singular, shiny, irresponsible occasion.
It’s fun.
Scott and I reluctantly say goodbye to each other at about 6 p.m. when I slip off to meet Ben and Jess. Lisa has gracefully bowed out of tonight’s gig. She said the excitement of last night was enough to last her a year. Jess, known more for her opportunism than her graceful behaviour, simply assumed I’d be giving her one of the tickets again tonight. That suited me fine, as it meant she was able to meet Ben and hand over the spare ticket. Plus, Jess is bringing me a warm top and trainers to change
Ben is delighted with the idea of free tickets for a Scottie Taylor gig; not because he’s a particular fan but because he says all the dancers and half the audience will be gay, rich pickings.
‘We’re sitting here? Darling, your man is a genius,’ Ben says. ‘I hate rubbing shoulders with the great unwashed.’ It takes me a moment to understand that by ‘My man’, Ben means Adam. It’s not how I think of Adam any more. Like yesterday, the seats Adam has secured tonight are only metres away from the stage. In fact, they are so good even Scott said he couldn’t swap them for anything better. I wish I could feel grateful. ‘You must have been utterly thrilled when Adam gave you these tickets for your birthday,’ gushes Ben.
‘He didn’t actually pay for them,’ I point out, a little unnecessarily.
‘Yes, but even so, it’s great fun, isn’t it?’ he insists. ‘You must be so proud of him getting this job. What’s his title again? Stage manager?’
‘He’s assistant stage manager,’ I mutter.
Ben tries to catch my eye and I try to avoid his. As the support band starts up he asks, ‘Everything OK, darling?’
I beam at him, ‘Never better.’
‘Well, I thought that was the case when I first set eyes on you. You look radiant, Fern, I thought Adam had finally popped the question, as you’d stipulated, er… I
‘You assume correctly.’
‘Yet something has put a smile on her face,’ chips in Jess. She pauses. ‘Or someone.’
Ben raises his eyebrows theatrically. ‘Come on darling, spill. What are you hiding from me? I know there’s a story. What’s the mystery?’ he teases. Ben can’t bear not to be in the know.
‘She’s the mystery,’ says Jess, rolling her eyes. ‘She’s the mystery girl that Scottie Taylor sang to last night.’
‘The one who’s in all the papers?’ Ben practically leaps out of his seat and on to my lap in an effort to get close. ‘The one he called “really lovely”?’ I grin and nod. ‘Hell, how exciting!’
‘It is, isn’t it,’ I agree, beaming broadly at Ben.
‘Unless of course you’re Adam,’ says Jess, throwing cold water.
‘Why should Adam care? It’s not as though this is anything more than a fabulous bit of fun. Scottie Taylor isn’t likely to whisk Fern away, is he? And it isn’t as though Fern would even want that, is it?’ asks Ben.
My beam falters slightly. I choose not to answer the question but rather to interpret it as rhetorical. Ben and I have worked side by side for over four years now and we know each other inside out. Working in a flower shop often leads to long discussions on many of the more profound aspects of life; it’s not all ‘Do you like the yellow ribbon or the gold on these sunflowers?’ I know Ben’s views on the afterlife, the holy sanctity of marriage, and
‘Oh darling, you haven’t fallen for Scottie Taylor, have you? You’re not taking this seriously?’
‘We have a connection,’ I say carefully.
‘She’s talking of leaving Adam,’ chips in Jess. I can tell she doesn’t approve.
Ben continues, ‘My sweet girl, you ha
ve to remember Scottie Taylor is a practised seducer. Of course it’s flattering but –’
‘I think it’s more than that,’ I say tentatively. My friends look sceptical. I know it’s hard to believe, I’m struggling with it too. I mean why should I be attractive to Scott Taylor?
My eyes scan the tens of thousands of glowing faces. It’s pretty much as it was last night; an abundance of excited girls and women, a scattering of indulgent, patient boyfriends and a raw smell of desire.
‘Look over there,’ laughs Jess. At first I think she’s changing the subject but then I see she’s just making a point. I follow her finger over the mass of pink cowboy hats and skimpy vest tops adorning expectant, fully made-up beauties and find a washing line of identical pink knickers. There’s a large letter sewn on to each. It spells out, SCOTTIE. MARRY ME. A dozen women are holding the line of
‘I wonder which one wants to marry him?’ muses Ben.
‘They all do,’ I sigh.
Scott bounces on to the stage; the cheer is breath-stealing. The moment I see him my heart leaps into my mouth and then, through some anatomical ambiguity, it leaps into my knickers too. While it’s exactly the same run of songs as it was last night, I feel totally overwhelmed and surprised by the show all over again.
‘He’s a marvel,’ says Ben in awe. ‘I had no idea I could ever be this entertained by a straight guy.’
I nod with a level of enthusiasm I thought I was saving until someone complimented me on the intelligence of my firstborn. My cheeks are aching from grinning. Pride swills through my body, carousing with excitement and a sense of privilege. I know that man. I’ve spent the last two days with him. I am different from every other woman in this stadium. Me. Me. Who’d have thought it? Fern Dickson is different.
And I do feel different.
‘I’m living the dream,’ Scott yells from the stage. And for a brief moment, I am living it along with him.
Countless girls are on their boyfriends’ shoulders. The guys can manage the burden because they know their girls are as horny as hell and they are going to get rewarded with the best sex ever tonight. Who the hell cares if it is displacement sex as long as it’s good displacement sex?
While Ben is distracted by the gig and the cute blond guy sat next to him, Jess grills me.
‘So where’ve you been all day?’ she asks.
‘With him.’ I point over the heads of ninety thousand and towards the stage.
‘Have you shagged him yet?’ she asks.
‘No.’ I want to sound outraged. Me? Shag a man when I (technically) have a boyfriend? Unfortunately, I think I just sound regretful.
‘Why not?’ asks Jess.
‘No opportunity,’ I admit with more honesty than I’d been intending.
Jess raises her eyebrow. ‘So nothing to do with the fact that it would break Adam’s heart then?’ she asks wryly.
I turn to my best pal. I’ve known Jess for years. I’ve never lied to her. I’m not going to start doing so now, I don’t even want to. I want to tell her the tremendous truth.
‘I think I’m in love with Scott,’ I gush.
‘You daft cow.’ She splutters her beer down the back of the girl in front. The girl doesn’t seem to notice, as she’s so engrossed in the lyrics of ‘Hate to Love You’.
‘No, seriously, I am.’ I’m a bit frustrated that she’s laughing so much beer is coming out of her nose now.
‘You and everyone else, sister. Take a look around you.’
‘But I’m different from them,’ I insist.
‘Not to him,’ she says calmly.
‘I am. I know him. He talks to me.’
‘Of course it’s attractive,’ she says more patiently. ‘He’s a rock star. He’s oozing success and power.’
‘That alone I could have walked away from. He’s more than that. Much more than that to me.’
‘And Adam?’
Right now, Adam’s name is not synonymous with success and power. Or happiness. Or even sexual attraction. All I can say to Jess is, ‘He’s hanging on by a thread called loyalty.’
‘You need to talk to Adam. You need to tell him how you feel.’
‘Or more accurately how I no longer feel.’
‘Be careful, Fern,’ says Jess. ‘Don’t throw away a good man for a fantasy.’
‘I keep telling you, Jess, what we have feels very real. I know it’s hard to digest and accept but I’m sure he likes me.’
Jess turns back to the stage, just as Scott picks out a young girl from the audience and pulls her on to the stage. He folds her in his arms and I watch as the skinny brunette melts. The crowd goes wild as he sings the romantic lyrics, ‘Come Back to Me’, to this fortunate. Every one of the ninety thousand hates and envies the girl he’s picked out but they love him all the more for making her dream come true. It’s clear from her closed-eyed look of absolute contentment that the girl in Scott’s arms is entirely unaware of anyone other than him. Jess watches me. I shrug.
‘It’s part of the act. He did the same thing last night,’ I point out.
‘It’s all an act with him,’ says Jess. ‘It’s not even his fault. It has to be like that.’
The girl he’s singing to touches his bum – cheeky bint. I swallow hard as I know, from the gig last night, the next thing he does is kiss the girl – a full-on lipsmacker.
Scott quickly kisses the girl on the forehead and then releases her. I swear his eyes flick in my direction. I might be mistaken; the gesture was too brief for me to be certain, but… I stare at Jess to see if she’s also spotted the change in his gig routine and whether she’s drawn the same conclusions as me.
She gawks back at me, open-mouthed. ‘Bloody hell,’ she mutters, shaking her head with disbelief. ‘I think you might be right. He might like you. I don’t know if that’s good or bad news.’
‘Don’t be an arse, Jess. If he likes me, how can it be anything other than good news?’ I reply. I’m getting more than a little fed up with her gallons of cold water. I’d expect Lisa to preach caution and care but I thought I’d have one hundred per cent support from Jess. Jess does reckless and romantic. What’s going on? Why isn’t she being more supportive? We don’t say much else to one another but watch the rest of the concert in silence.
Between the songs he tells the audience he loves us all. His voice sends shivers throughout the stadium; women close their eyes and let his horny, husky melodies wash over them. He’s able to change his mood with every song. He’s pensive, sorrowful, cheeky, noisy and rude by turn. He’s an actor, with an elastic face and dozens of poses. Are any of them for real? Jess obviously doubts it and I don’t know for sure. But right at this moment, I don’t
He completes his set and then he returns to sing his encore. He fulfils his contractual obligations and sings ‘Stamp on Your Demons’ as agreed with the TV and DVD producers. He runs back on to the stage one more time and he jumps into the air and punches it. The ripples are, no doubt, felt in Scotland. The crowd go wild. Screaming and crying and begging for more, more. Scott gazes around the auditorium; he’s a satisfied man. He’ll sleep well tonight, I’m sure of it. There seems to be no sign of the crowd ever relaxing their screams of adoration until –
‘I’ve had a perfect day,’ he growls in a sexy, deliberately not-quite-singing voice. ‘I’m glad I spent it with you.’ Then he sings Lou Reed’s full version of ‘Perfect Day’.
This time there’s no mistaking it. Scott is looking directly at me. His liquid green eyes glisten, sparking up a fire in my stomach that I am incapable of dousing.
Incapable and unwilling.
23. Fern
I don’t have to walk back to the station, after all. When the gig finishes Saadi, Scott’s PA, appears from nowhere and informs me there’s a car to take me and my friends home. Before I even get a chance to squeal with excitement she adds, ‘The same car will pick you up at ten a.m. tomorrow, OK?’
‘OK,’ I nod, not quite understanding what I’m agreeing to b
ut happy to go along.
‘It was a sublime gig, don’t you think?’ Saadi asks.
‘Yes.’ I beam, and hope she understands the depth of my delight as I seem incapable of actually saying much, not something I’m often charged with.
‘You appear to be good for his music,’ she says, drily.
She stares at me for a moment, clearly questioning how this can possibly be the case. She obviously regards me as part of the great unwashed and must be intrigued to discover the source of the magic between Scott and me. Then she shrugs and grins, a busy woman – she doesn’t have too long to ponder. I think she’s decided that she doesn’t much care what the source of the magic is, as long as it keeps flowing.
‘Tell Scott goodnight from me,’ I garble.
She nods. ‘Get a good night’s sleep yourself.’
No chance.
My mind has never been so intoxicated. It’s not just me, telling me I gave him a perfect day. My sense is smashed and splintered as I think back over today’s conversations. I’m inebriated at the thought of his eyes that flash with the promise of something totally, irresistibly, irreversibly extraordinary. Nothing can affect my mood; not Ben’s insensible, animated, garbling nor Jess’s sulky silence. I’m separate from them. I’m cocooned.
When Adam gets home I’m sat in front of the TV, carelessly hopping from one channel to the next, not expecting to find anything that will hold my attention. How can anything on TV, or in my flat, or in my normal life hold my attention after a day like today? I’ve changed out of my stockings, pencil skirt and silky top, as I knew the sight of me in such a sexy get-up would certainly lead to a row. Sad really. Once upon a time the sight of me in such a sexy get-up was sure to lead to sex. But Adam is no fool; he’d know I didn’t wear that outfit this morning for his benefit. Jess drank the best part of a bottle of champagne (through a straw) on the journey home and so staggered to bed the moment we stepped through the door of the flat. I stayed up to face the music.
