Love Lies

by Adele Parks

  I pick up the phone by the bed and press 5 for reception.

  ‘Can you put me through to Scott Taylor, please,’ I say in my most confident voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, Madame, who?’

  It’s Miss actually but I don’t bother to correct him. ‘Scott Taylor.’

  ‘We don’t have a guest of that name staying with us I’m afraid, Madame.’

  ‘Yes, you do, we’ve just checked in together. Oh – I get it. Sorry, Scottie Taylor, you’ll probably know him by that name but in fact his friends and his fiancée call him Scott,’ I say with just a smidgen of self-satisfaction.

  ‘I’m sorry, Madame. We do not have a Mr Taylor staying with us. You are mistaken, goodnight.’ The line goes dead.

  Bloody cheek, why won’t they connect me? I know he’s in the hotel. Then it occurs to me that the receptionist is probably under strict instructions not to connect anyone for security reasons. But I’m not anyone. I’m his fiancée. I wonder if I should call back and spell that out to the pimply, pompous moron who is standing between me and my man.

  I could go and look for him or for Saadi at least; I know they are in the main house. There can only be a dozen rooms at most. Didn’t Saadi say that we’ve rented them all? I could knock on every door and insist on being told his whereabouts. I’d only be disturbing Scott’s entourage and as his fiancée I must be entitled to do that, mustn’t I?

  Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with shyness. I’m not sure I want to knock on the doors of the band and crew and explain that I don’t have the mobile number or even room number of my fiancé; it looks weirdly desperate. It isn’t the way things should be.

  I sigh and slip my feet out of my shoes. I rub the arch of one foot against the under part of the other. It’s comforting, and oddly, I need comfort. How mad is that? I should be dancing a jig, cracking open the champagne, feeling those liquid gold bubbles on my tongue then shagging my fiancé until I drop with exhaustion. I’m newly engaged!

  Instead, fully clothed, I slip between the sheets. All at once I’m very tired. Maybe it’s the after-effects of the

  I’m Scott Taylor’s fiancée.

  Oh. My. God.

  31. Fern

  It seems as though my eyes have just closed when they spring open again. Light and about a hundred people flood through my door. I only have eyes for Scott. He is breathtaking. He bounds up the mezzanine stairs and nosedives on to the bed and starts to kiss me, seemingly unaware of the other ninety-nine people in the room. All of whom are carrying fresh flowers and fruit or clean towels and toiletries to replace the untouched ones in the bathroom.

  His kisses are gentle and erotic at the same time. Excitement starts to snake in my stomach and I forget to worry about morning breath or what I must look like (a state, I’m in last night’s clothes and makeup, my hair will be frizzy and knotty rather than tousled). Neither of us seems to care.

  ‘Morning, gorgeous wifie-to-be.’ A cool hand has slipped beneath the sheet and under my top. It’s lying flat on my ribcage, just centimetres from the modest swell of my breast. I’ve never experienced anything so erotic in my life. ‘Sleep well?’

  I beam at him like some sort of crazy loon and only just manage to stammer, ‘Great.’

  ‘Good.’ He kisses the corner of my mouth. It’s a slow sexy kiss, a mooching kiss, a full-of-promise kiss which causes the hairs on every inch of my body to stand erect.

  ‘Gorgeous rooms, aren’t they?’ I mumble.

  He stops kissing, glances around, as if for the first time, and then smiles at me. ‘Yeah, nice. Glad you like them.’ He resumes kissing, this time my earlobe.

  The kisses are utterly fabulous but I can’t dissolve into them completely as I’m aware that someone is opening curtains, someone else is carrying in newspapers and two other people are setting up breakfast in the room downstairs. I can’t seduce or be seduced or even discuss the detail of our sleeping arrangements in front of an audience. Scott must sense my inhibition; he pulls away from me and says, ‘I thought we’d eat breakfast together and make some plans.’ He claps his hands together with excitement. ‘Sound good?’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  It is official I am the luckiest woman on the earth. If I was in any doubt (which I’m not), it says so in all the newspapers. The tabloids have gone wild. Every one of them headlines with Scottie’s proposal. Most play with the title of one of his songs

  SCOTTIE IS FEELING FINE; THAT’S NO LIE

  SCOTTIE FINALLY LOVES TO LOVE

  SCOTTIE SAYS COME BACK AND MARRY ME

  Not that it’s clear where I’m supposed to have been in order to ‘come back’. The accuracy of the headline seems to be irrelevant. Attention-grabbing is all. The tabloids dissect Scott’s past love life, running mug shots of a variety of women (celeb and civilian) who have had the pleasure. I marvel at the array of stunning women he’s dated.

  ‘I never knew you had a thing with Madonna before she got with Guy Ritchie,’ I gasp.

  ‘Is that what the papers say?’ asks Scott with a noncommittal shrug.

  Even the qualities cover the story. Although they tend to concentrate on Scott’s creative and financial achievements rather than his sexual exploits.

  Scottie Taylor (Grammy Award-nominated, 10-time BRIT Award-winning English singer-songwriter), whose career started as a member of the pop band X-treme, stunned his fans last night at his Wembley concert by proposing to a previously unknown girlfriend. Scottie Taylor is the second biggest selling British solo artist in history – Robbie Williams being the first. Taylor’s album sales stand at over 50 million worldwide, and in addition he has also sold an estimated 12 million singles.

  I’m struck again – in fact almost paralysed – by how strange this is. Scottie Taylor is sat in the same room as I am, and he’s eating toast.

  ‘I hate it that they always bring up Robbie. He hasn’t brought out anything new for ages. Why can’t they concentrate on me and the here and now?’ says Scott peevishly. ‘Oh God, look, he’s made a comment in the Observer.’

  ‘Who has? Robbie Williams?’ I can’t hide my excitement. ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He says, “Well, at least that’s one thing Scottie beat me to,”’ says Scott. Scott looks momentarily hacked off but then his frown lines dissolve and I almost think I imagined them. ‘Well, he’s right,’ says Scott, smiling. ‘Robbie might sell more records but only just, and I have you, which, you know, is my ace card. You’re worth your weight in platinum albums.’

  I bask in the compliment.

  We slowly eat breakfast and paw over the papers. Scott jokingly comments which papers carry a photo that makes him look trim and hot. There are photos of the gig but, thankfully, there aren’t any of me. I feared there’d be a shot of me passed out in a cold faint; green face and legs splayed ungainly. Luckily, not one of the hundreds of photographers present managed to get that shot. When Scott was proposing to me no one really knew who he was talking to, and while lots of cameras were pointing in my general direction, they were all directed at a rather busty supermodel who, coincidentally, was sat three rows behind me. She seemed a likely candidate for a Scottie Taylor proposal. I (a flat-chested florist from the wrong streets in Clapham) did not.

  I let out a big sigh. Scott misinterprets my relief as disappointment.

  ‘Fern, love, don’t be disappointed. There will be hundreds of photos of you in the papers before you know it. Thousands. You should be grateful for the anonymity while you have it. It won’t last long.’

  ‘That’s not why I sighed. I’m relieved not to have my

  ‘That’s what I thought, you need time. I said that to Mark and he worked hard last night to keep your name out of the papers.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The rat pack know who you are already. I did sing happy birthday Fern. It’s an unusual name so you were easy to track down. I imagine most of your ex’s crew were rushing to spill the beans. No matter, we just struck a few deals to ask them
to hold off announcing your name just yet.’

  ‘Why? How?’

  ‘Why? Because I thought you needed time to adjust to all of this. And how, we just pointed out that the story runs for longer if the details are revealed in dribs and drabs. They’ll sell more papers. End of.’

  ‘So they do know my identity?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But they are offering a substantial financial reward to any member of the public that can identify me?’

  ‘Yup. Rule number one. You can’t believe what you read in the papers.’

  ‘Ever?’

  ‘No, not ever. Sometimes they print the truth but since

  I must look perplexed, because Scott kisses the end of my nose and says, ‘It’s a mad world, I know, but you’ll get used to it soon enough, more’s the pity.’

  For a moment he looks genuinely regretful at the thought that I’ll be dragged into the media circus that is his life.

  ‘You OK with your decision though?’ he asks, tentatively.

  ‘The one about living the rest of my days in wedded bliss with you?’ I beam at him.

  ‘Yeah,’ he laughs, but he’s too nervous for the smile to crawl into his eyes.

  ‘Certainly am.’ I pause and then bravely add, ‘If you are.’

  Say you are. Say you are. Say you are. I secretly plead.

  He nods slowly, carefully. ‘It struck me when I was hugging that girl from the audience the other night.’

  ‘Which one, the blonde or the brunette?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t even notice one was blonde and one was brunette.’

  ‘Friday was blonde, Saturday was brunette.’ I remember with horrifying clarity. On Sunday he missed that part of his act, much to my delight.

  ‘Yeah, well, whichever. I realized for the first time something that should have been obvious for years now. This is all too much for one guy on his own. I make or break dreams with the same regularity as other people make their beds. I’ve been overwhelmed by those audi

  Scott looks perplexed and vaguely alarmed. Somehow he wears even that look in a way which is knicker-ticklingly sexy. Consumed with lust, I am unable to answer. I just nod. It’s true. It does appear that he can snap their dreams just as easily as if they were the matchsticks we used when playing cards the other day. Scott continues.

  ‘But who is responsible for my dreams and my happiness?’

  I almost answer, Saadi, Mark, the enormous entourage that follows him around twenty-four-seven, but I bite my tongue. I don’t think that’s what he means.

  ‘It’s a big responsibility making all those people happy,’ he adds.

  ‘Huge,’ I agree.

  ‘And I thought you might be the best person to, you know, share it with me.’ I offer up an enormous unconditional grin. ‘I’ve known for a long time that the world is a big place, almost too big. I think that’s what the dependency on the drink and the drugs is about. Or at least that’s part of it. But I’ve been thinking it might not be so lonely if you were, you know, hanging around it with me.’

  ‘Why me?’ I ask. Because I have no idea. Really, absolutely none.

  He smiles. ‘I don’t know why exactly but I’m sure it is you.’ We’re sat opposite each other. He rests his bare foot on my chair. I fight the urge to kiss his feet and suck his toes. I shiver with the effort of restraining. Hell, he’s magnificent.

  ‘I’m not cool,’ I warn.

  ‘I like that in you. You’re fun, and fun tops cool any day of the week. Besides, it’s not all going to be palatial living and parties for you.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I pretend to sound disappointed.

  ‘I’m a bad man. Remember. I told you.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Do you think you can make me good?’

  ‘I don’t even want to.’

  Scott laughs so hard that he nearly chokes on his orange juice. He points at the enormous pile of papers now casually discarded and littering the shaggy rug. ‘Do you think you might be able to forget who I am?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really?’ I probe.

  ‘No, not really,’ he laughs again. ‘Cos I’m a god out there.’

  We laugh once more. Delighted in each other.

  32. Fern

  Some of the hundred people who invaded my room this morning brought with them a whole new wardrobe for me. Scott dismisses the rail of clothes as a mere trifle.

  ‘Just something to tide you over until we –’

  ‘Pick up my old stuff.’

  ‘I was going to say until we get to the shops together.’ Scott shrugs as though he doesn’t mind either way.

  As I start to look through the rail of stunning clothes I doubt that I will be bothering to pick up anything I own. More than likely it will all look shabby next to this lot. Carefully I trail my fingers along rows of chic skirts and shirts. There are at least a dozen pairs of jeans; boot cut, flare, straight, boy cut, high-waisted and spray on. There are piles of soft T-shirts in assorted colours and numerous floaty dresses in florals, stripes and block colours. It’s as though a whole department of Selfridges has been shipped to my door. It’s the first time since I’ve met Scott that I’ve stopped fantasizing about making love; now all I can think of is dressing up. I check out the labels surreptitiously. There are high-waisted pencil skirts and tailored jackets by Alexander McQueen, blazers by Viktor and Rolf, trousers by Chloe, tops by Miu Miu and Sportmax, dresses by Dior. I have never owned what you’d call a designer piece in my life – unless you count the copycat Hermès

  ‘Oh wow!’ I pounce on the boxes, flinging the lids aside like toffee wrappers, diving on the shoes, all carefully cosseted in tissue. Christian Louboutin, Kurt Geiger and Jimmy Choo heels, Escada pumps and Pied A Terre boots. Opium for shoe-holics.

  I check the sizes. Everything is my size; top, bottoms, even shoes. I pounce on the frilly underwear; even the bra size is spot on.

  ‘How did you know my sizes?’ I gasp, amazed at the plethora of goodies at my feet.

  ‘Saadi knows how to find out about that sort of stuff. She probably asked your friends.’

  ‘Did she pick these out for me? She has exquisite taste.’ I hold up a jade wrap dress and look at myself in the mirror. Just my colour.

  ‘No. More likely one of Saadi’s assistants or someone at the store.’

  ‘How many assistants does Saadi have?’

  ‘Not certain. Two at least, maybe three.’

  My fiancé’s assistant has assistants – two or three of them. This is off the scale. I can barely comprehend. I pull from the rail a pair of Diesel jeans and a pristine Agnès B T-shirt; mentally I toss away my high-street-purchased wardrobe at home. Once loved, all now seem slightly greying and fraying.

  ‘I’ll want to collect my photo albums and books from

  ‘Yeah, I like those too. I think I have one or two.’

  ‘In pink?’

  ‘No. I have a cream one, a powder blue one and Paul Smith did me a customized stripy one. But we can get you a pink one, no problem.’

  ‘Like I said, I have one. I just need to pick it up.’

  He looks at me quizzically. Obviously in Scott’s world it’s easier to buy new rather than go to the effort of retrieving an old anything. ‘Fair enough. We do need to go back to your flat for your passport so we could pick up your other stuff then.’

  ‘Passport?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, I was originally planning on flying out today but I guess we need to hold off a few days. I want to meet your ma and pa. And I want you to meet my mum but we have to be in LA by Friday latest. I’ve got to be in the studio by then.’

  ‘LA?’

  ‘That’s where I live.’

  Oh, yes. He does, doesn’t he. I’d forgotten that. I remember reading about it in one of my gossipy mags some months back. Scottie found the press intrusion into his life unbearable here in the UK and so he took flight. Most enormous British A-listers
end up living in LA because the Americans like success, whereas we British hate it or at least are so cripplingly jealous of it we feel an animalistic desire to destroy anyone who has achieved it.

  I’ve never been to LA. To be frank, I haven’t been

  We kept talking about going to Paris but we never did.

  LA is year-round sunshine, mountains and beaches, white teeth, tanned bodies and a load of shops. What’s not to love? OK, so there’s more than a bit of Botox; still, I can see myself living there. Yes. Why not? I take a deep breath.

  ‘Can you send someone to pick up my passport and things, if I make a list? I don’t want to go back into London.’

  Scott grins at me. ‘You’re getting the hang of this rich and shameless thing, aren’t you? Sure we can send someone to pick up your stuff, but as for your ma and pa, that we are going to have to do in person.’

  33. Fern

  Yes, my ma and pa, as he calls them.

  On the one hand I’d like to believe that my mum and dad are going to be thrilled at my enormous good fortune, and yet I can’t help but feel nervous they might not be quite as ecstatic as I’d like them to be; after all, Jess and Lisa haven’t exactly bowled me over with their enthusiasm for my whirlwind romance. I tried to call both of them this morning but Lisa’s phone went straight to voicemail (suggesting she was on the nursery school run and couldn’t pick up) and Jess had her phone switched off. Ben’s been the most supportive, even though he was with the cranial osteopath and couldn’t talk for long. He isn’t ill or injured, he just fancies the practitioner and makes up aches and pains every month. He had time to tease me about not working out my notice and told me to enjoy the ride; he then laughed in an especially mucky way which left little to the imagination in terms of which ride he was referring to.