by Adele Parks
But not to dance.
All day my stomach has been full of delighted trembling butterflies, but when I set eyes on Adam, I feel their tiny
‘Where’ve you been all day?’ he asks. The moment he opens his mouth I’m hit by evidence of serious boozing. It must be very serious for me to notice, as I’ve had my ample share tonight. Adam’s breath smells of whisky – such a depressing drink – and his speech is slurred. ‘Where’ve you been all day?’ he asks again, unsure whether I understood him the first time.
He knows the answer and I know he knows. I wonder if he wants me to lie so that we can limp on, ignore this thing with Scott and hope it will go away. Or does he want me to tell him the truth so that he can scream abuse at me and give our relationship a decent funeral.
‘With Scott.’
‘What, talking?’ he sneers cruelly, jumping to the conclusion that the last thing anyone would do with Scottie Taylor is talk.
‘Yes, actually, just talking.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’ A tiny dot of Adam’s spittle escapes because he’s in too much of a fury to control it. It lands on my cheek and I have to force myself not to rub it away. The gesture would be horribly inflammatory and Adam is itching for a fight. I’m not so keen. I’ve never seen him this nasty and furious. He’s normally a jolly drunk. He’s normally a jolly everything. It’s bizarre that the thought of his spittle on my cheek is distressing me. His bodily fluids repulse me. When did that happen? Overnight? Two days ago I wanted this man to ask me to marry him. I wanted his babies. That would
I’m bored with him. I’m bored by the fact that this display of anger is the first real emotion I’ve witnessed in Adam in months. He’s failed spectacularly to be charming, passionate, interested or interesting for quite some time now but, all at once, he’s found his fire. I’m not impressed by this macho display. I can’t help but think his fever is nothing to do with our relationship, it’s not about Adam and me – it’s about Adam and his ego. He didn’t want me until someone else showed an interest. He’s especially irritated that the ‘someone else’ happens to be his boss, happens to be a rock legend.
If Adam had truly wanted me he had plenty of opportunities to demonstrate it. He could have surprised me occasionally by running me a bath after a hard day in the shop or running the hoover over the carpets in the flat; it’s not like we live in a mansion, it wouldn’t take much. He might have noticed when I bought a new outfit or had my hair cut. Is there anything more depressing than spending ages trying to look pretty for someone, only to discover he hasn’t even noticed? It’s humiliating that I’m often forced to ask pathetically, ‘How do I look?’ especially as I only ever receive a disappointing. ‘Fine’ – delivered without him taking his eyes away from the TV. If he’d wanted me he could have shown me by taking me somewhere more interesting than the local pub – just once in a while. He could have helped paint the flat instead of leaving it to Jess and me. Hell, if he’d wanted me for real, we’d have our own flat.
He would have asked me to marry him.
The thought cuts through me, a blade of pure, un-diluted distress. I gasp for breath but it’s hard to breathe, I’m choking on the stagnant stench of a dying relationship. It smells like an overflowing cesspit.
‘And you expect me to believe that all you did was talk?’ Adam demands.
‘You can believe what you like, Adam.’ I hope my tone communicates that I no longer care what he believes.
‘Have you fucked him?’
The nasty word sounds as mean as it ever can. Adam’s face snarls with impotence and fury. I almost wish I could say yes. It’s what he expects. It’s what I want. And, by saying no, I’ll give Adam a glimmer of entirely false hope. But I haven’t fucked Scott.
‘No.’
‘Liar.’ More spittle. His face creases with disbelief; he’s purple and unrecognizable. Normally serene, Adam has transformed from unassuming Dr Jekyll to a sinister Mr Hyde. ‘You’ve been hanging around his room all day like some cheap groupie. He sent you home in his car. I understand he’s sending another car to pick you up tomorrow, of course you’re fucking him.’
Clearly the tom-tom drums have been beating among the crew. I suppose this gossip is too good to simply consume, it’s the sort of gossip that has to be chewed and regurgitated.
Adam’s unoriginal accusations are no doubt deserved. It’s an assumption most would make, plus I’ve treated him quite badly in the past day or so, but at the moment I am more sober than he is so I have the opportunity to
‘It’s over, Adam. We’re finished.’
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid, Fern. You don’t mean that,’ says Adam irritably. I stay silent, indicating that I do. After a pause Adam adds, ‘You can’t think you have a future with Scottie Taylor.’ Now he sounds incredulous.
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. The point is, Adam, you made it clear that I don’t have a future with you.’ I’m battling to stay calm, so it’s distressing that a fat tear rolls down my cheek; I wipe it away impatiently. I’m doing the chucking, why am I crying? I shouldn’t be crying. ‘I told you what I wanted,’ I add.
‘Back to the fucking engagement ring!’ Adam slams his hand against the wall. Up until the last day or so he wasn’t one for swearing or violence, now he’s like a pot of spitting oil that’s going to boil over and scald everything it touches; I don’t want to be around when that happens. ‘You stupid, stupid woman, don’t you see he’ll let you down?’ yells Adam. With each word he slams his fist against the wall; again and again. It must hurt.
‘That’s none of your business any more, is it?’ I say coolly. ‘I’m going to bed. Tomorrow we can talk about who is going to move out.’
‘Oh, you don’t need to worry about me,’ he says in a sneering voice. He’s no longer hitting the wall but he won’t look at me. ‘I’m sorted. You’re not the only one who is full of surprises.’
I don’t quite
I grab the spare duvet from the top of the wardrobe and throw it at Adam, indicating that he’s on the couch. I close the door and undress in silence. Then I lie on the bed, which suddenly seems vast, and I breathe a deep sigh. It’s a sigh of relief. There, it’s done. It’s over. We’re finished. The relief is faintly tinged with panic. What next? Can Scott be my next? I think so but I seem to be the only one who does. But I breathe deeply, then I start to allow the wonderful happenings of the day swirl back into my head. I replay our conversations, I recall his grins and I remind myself that he sang ‘Perfect Day’ to me. Slowly, the butterflies gently flap their wings in my stomach once again.
24. Fern
I wake up feeling slightly queasy. I can’t work out if it’s the effects of the champagne I consumed last night or the anticipation of seeing Scott again. I dismiss the idea that it might be guilt or regret that yesterday I finished my relationship with Adam. I shower and dress in virtual silence; I don’t want to wake Jess or Adam – I can’t face either of them. I know I promised Adam that we’d talk in the morning but now the morning is here I don’t think I have anything else to say to him. I just want to get out of the flat and as far away as possible without another draining encounter. As I pick up my mobile I’m delighted to find a text in my inbox to tell me that the car is outside.
I spot the Merc with tinted windows that dropped me at home yesterday and fling myself into the car with the same relief as a robber diving into a getaway car after a heist.
‘Morning, gorgeous.’
His flat northern tones, truly music to my ears, cause me to jump a foot into the sky.
‘Jesus, you scared me. I didn’t expect you –’
He cuts me short by leaning over and kissing me firmly on the lips. It’s a good kiss. Fabulous actually, as you’d expect. He’s practised more than most. The kiss is lingering but still. It is a warm kiss that is full of purpose and implication. His lips are firm and tender. Smooth,
‘I didn’t expect you,’ I mutter when we finally – achingly – pull apar
t.
‘You should have seen me coming, baby,’ he says, quietly.
‘Yes, I should have.’
‘I’m right on time.’ He moves some hair from out of my eyes and tucks it behind my ear. It’s a gesture which seems more caring and intimate than some of the sex I’ve had in the past.
‘I think you are,’ I murmur.
I also think we are talking about more than one sort of pick-up. I should have seen him coming; well, if not sex god, music icon Scottie Taylor exactly, then at least I should have seen the fact that someone was going to snatch me from the jaws of the routine romance I was having with Adam. And Scott is in the nick of time. If he hadn’t come along when he did I’d still be relentlessly pursuing a proposal from Adam; a proposal Adam clearly doesn’t want to offer up. How could I have thought that route would lead to anything other than heartache?
But where is this thing with Scott leading?
I didn’t sleep well last night, I wrestled with my conscience, heart and the facts, in an attempt to understand where I’ll be dropped after this whirlwind passes through town. I wasn’t kidding when I told Jess that I think I am falling in love with Scott. Of course I bloody am; I’m only human. But what about him? What does he feel and where does he think this is going? A quick dash around the
‘I want to see your flower shop,’ says Scott, interrupting my ever-decreasing circles of reason. I don’t mind, my reason crumbles into longing far too easily anyhow. I’m happy to be distracted.
‘It’s closed on a Sunday. It won’t look as lovely as it usually does,’ I warn him.
‘But it will be private,’ he grins.
The word private has exactly the same effect on me as if he were inching down my knickers with his teeth.
During the week Ben’s B&B is one of the most beautiful flower shops in London. I know there’s a serious possibility I’m biased but I think I can safely claim as much. It’s quite small, situated on the corner of a short string of shops, but you can normally spot it at a distance because of the large, over-hanging, stripy orange and pink canvas. This offers year-round shade and shelter to the buckets of various blooms that spill out of the shop and on to the street. It’s a riot of colour. Today it will look less impressive. The canvas will be tied back and the empty aluminium buckets will be stacked inside the shop. Rather
The shop keys are on the same ring as the keys to my flat. I dig them out of my bag and dangle them in front of Scott. He treats me to another wide, sexy grin.
‘Let’s go.’
It takes about a minute to get to the shop, as it’s just around the corner from my home.
‘Bloody hell, look, the canopy is down. That Saturday girl is hopeless. She should have tied that back last night. If it had rained heavily it might have been damaged,’ I grumble. ‘Ben left her to lock up as he was rushing to your gig.’ As the car starts to slow I take another glance. ‘The buckets – the flowers –’
I don’t understand. The shop must be open. The buckets are all over the pavement as usual. Although, not as usual. It’s Sunday. Plus there are more buckets than normal and instead of them being full of various blooms – roses, tulips, chrysanthemums – there are only peonies. Big, fat pink peonies. My very favourite flower, as I told Scott only yesterday. Peonies range from red to white or yellow but I love the pale pink peony that reminds me of a ballerina’s
Not quite understanding what’s going on, I clamber out of the car. I turn to Scott; he’s grinning like a cat that’s just eaten a canary. He dangles another set of keys back at me; I immediately recognize the glittery heart-shaped key-ring as Ben’s.
Scott opens the door and we squeeze into the shop. B&B is a small establishment, and today space is at a particular premium as the store is rammed with bucket, after bucket, after vase, after vase, of stunning peonies. I gasp and am bathed in their particular perfume, heady, excessive, tantalizing. I have been plunged into my very own paradise, my very own Garden of Eden. The dank sweetness seduces me.
‘Did you arrange all of this?’ I turn around and around, bewildered but trying to make sense of the excess and beauty.
‘Ben was a fantastic help,’ says Scott with a modest shrug.
‘But, how? I didn’t know you even knew Ben.’
‘There’s always a way. I had the idea and I arranged it via my driver last night. After he’d dropped off you and your mate at your place he got me on the phone and I talked to Ben. He was really gracious,’ says Scott with a shy and self-effacing smile. ‘I explained to him that I couldn’t send a florist a mere bunch of flowers and yet how could I possibly court a florist if I didn’t acknowledge flowers. He understood my dilemma.’
And fell for his charm, clearly. ‘Court’ – what sort of word is that for any self-respecting rock star to use? A
Enough chat.
I beam at Scott and then hurl myself at him. The relief. I leap into his strong arms and wrap my legs around his waist. He clasps hold of my bum and hoists me high and close. He slams me against the counter near the till, almost upsetting a vase as he urgently and repeatedly kisses me. I kiss back, just as hungrily. My hands discover his body, it’s hard and solid and totally man. There is no shyness or false modesty. We cling to one another, cleave as though we share a life source. He perches me on the counter and inches me out of my light jacket. The cool, damp air of the shop caresses me. The jacket drops to the floor, in a heap, I don’t care that I spent an age ironing it this morning. I only did it to impress him and by the way he’s eating my face, I’d say job done.
I hurriedly flick off my shoes; my toes jiggle their own little dance. I’d had them freshly manicured with a ruby red paint just before my birthday – a rare treat and well worth every penny, since Scott has dropped to his knees and is sucking my toes. His kisses trail up my calves and linger on my knees; every one of them causes me to moan and slither. He gently, but firmly, pushes my thighs apart. His kisses are precise, bottomless, alert, inquisitive. I wonder how far up my legs those kisses are going to now. His body is leaning close into mine and it’s scalding me with desire, the like of which I just haven’t come across before. I will him to inch his hand up my skirt. To plunge his fingers into me. More than his fingers. That will do to start with but I want him to sink his cock deep inside me too. It’s all I want. All I need.
I scramble for his fly.
‘No.’
No? Did he just say no? Scott jumps away from me. His breathing is heavy. I’m actually panting – it’s embarrassing – especially as he is shaking his head and he’s just said no. No what. No nookie? Please God, anything but that.
‘Wait.’
Wait is better. Better than no.
Scott closes and locks the door of the store. Just as he pulls down the blinds I see Bob take up guard outside.
‘Someone might have followed us,’ explains Scott. ‘I don’t think so. We were really careful but the rat pack can scurry into the most surprising places. You don’t need your bare arse plastered across the tabloids tomorrow.’
No I don’t. I rather liked the reference to the ‘elegant, mystery girl’ in the Mirror yesterday but I’m significantly less keen on the idea of encountering a headline like ‘Floozy
Scott wrinkles his forehead and then runs his fingers through his hair. His simple gesture grabs me between the legs. He’s a moving icon. I still can’t quite believe it. I’m sat spreadeagled on the counter of Ben’s B&B, panting from the exertions of a pre-lim, pash-sess, with one of the undisputed sex gods of the twenty-first century. How can something this amazing be happening to me? And hallelujah that it is.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ he asks tentatively.
‘No, haven’t been able to –’
‘Eat. Me neither.’ He grins at his confession that I’ve somehow disturbed him too. I’m delighted. I want to kiss him again. Kiss him and never stop.
‘But now I’m ravenous,’ I admit.
‘Got just the thing for that.’
Scott nips
into the back room where we do all our paperwork and make cups of tea. The room is not much larger than the average woman’s wardrobe, and in terms of sustenance the best he can hope to rustle up is a couple of mouldy custard creams. The Saturday girl will have polished off the chocolate Hobnobs yesterday, as she does every week.
Scott returns carrying a tray laden with breakfast goodies: a flask of coffee, enormous croissants, orange
I think of Adam’s tray of toast and coco pops – limp by comparison.
‘Just a little something I prepared earlier,’ he grins, self-consciously. ‘Fern, tell me, am I trying too hard?’ He glances around the shop, stuffed full of my favourite flowers. My eyes meet his searing green ones as he gives a cheeky wink.
‘Yeah, you are,’ I giggle.
‘Coming on a bit too strong?’
‘Yeah,’ I laugh now. ‘It’s really off-putting,’ I joke.
‘Not the moment to pull out a wedding ring then? Or reveal the vicar I’ve hidden behind the foliage, come to that?’ he asks.
I know he’s just messing around. But my heart literally leaps into my mouth and I find it impossible to swallow. Oh God, the horrible irony of that. Imagine if I were to choke to death on my own happiness in this, my perfect moment.
I get a chance to pull myself together as he sets the tray on the floor. He produces (seemingly from nowhere, but actually from the trunk of the Merc) a beige cashmere picnic rug and matching scatter cushions. We flop on to them. I lie on my back and he feeds me strawberries and I know with every single fibre of my body that life will never be sweeter.
25. Fern
By the time the croissants and strawberries have been eaten and the coffee has gone cold, neither of us is wearing much. Quelle surprise. He’s in jeans, but once again he’s revealing his tip-top chest, and I’m in just bra and knickers (revealing my best-if-I-breathe-in-and-lie-at-a-funny-angle bod). Our clothes didn’t come off in a mad passionate frenzy but – a little like when we were playing poker – we indulged in a slow, tantalizing striptease.
