by Adele Parks
‘What’s he like then?’ asks Gary, leaning closer, conspiratorially.
‘He’s really clever. Always thinking about stuff. And he has this lovely way of singing to himself all the time; he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. It’s as natural to him as breathing is to us. Plus he’s really firm but fair with everyone he comes into contact with. He makes an effort to learn the names of the guys who bring the room service. He doesn’t like tomatoes. He –’
‘I meant in bed.’
‘Oh.’ Despite the three or four glasses of champagne I’ve knocked back and the dizzying effects of the altitude I’m shocked at the intimacy of this question and I recoil, ever so slightly, from my new best friend.
‘Well, that’s erm –’
‘Private,’ says Saadi, suddenly appearing from nowhere.
Gary and I both jump a fraction. He grabs the empty glasses that surround me and disappears behind the blue curtain back into the galley where the other crew members hang out; Saadi clearly scares him too. I have no idea why I persist in being terrified of her – she has never been anything other than professional and polite with me – but I am. The problem is I don’t know how to peg our relationship; it’s quite unlike any other I’ve had before. She’s known Scott far longer than I have. He’s told me she’s saved his ass on dozens of occasions over the years. They are clearly very close; I suppose I’m a little threatened by that. But then Scott has said to me that you can never be true friends with anyone you employ, and in the final analysis, he pays her a wage. He’d do anything for her but she’s not quite a friend. I’m his fiancée. No buts.
I wonder how long she was listening in to my conversation with Gary. I replay it to check I didn’t say anything silly or compromising.
Saadi plonks down in the seat next to mine. We’ve bought all the seats in the First Class cabin to guarantee Scott’s privacy; she can play musical chairs if she wants to.
‘Erm, thanks. I didn’t know how to answer that,’ I admit.
‘No problem.’ She sounds efficient, rather than friendly. But she did get me out of a hole, I’ll give her that. ‘You need media training. I’ll set something up as soon as we touch down. There’s a Rottweiler in LA who will be perfect for the job.’ Saadi whips out her BlackBerry and makes a note. ‘You’d better get used to the prying. You’ll be asked that and worse. The press are going to hound you as soon as your name is released.’
‘And when will that be?’ I ask somewhat nervously.
Saadi checks her watch. ‘About two hours ago.’
‘Oh.’
‘We want the press to be waiting for the plane when we arrive in LAX.’
‘We want them there?’ I don’t get it. We went to such pains to avoid being spotted getting on the plane at Heathrow. Scott and I travelled to the airport separately. Scott wore a fake beard most of the day. We avoided the public like they had the bubonic plague, just in case one of them papped us on a mobile and wanted to make a tenner by sending the shot to the tabloids.
‘Yes. It will be a scrum,’ says Saadi.
‘We want a scrum?’
Saadi sighs as though I’m being slow. ‘Obviously. It’s his biggest story ever, this engagement. If the US media aren’t interested in this, then…’
‘Right.’ Call me shallow but I’m worrying if I’ll look my best emerging from an eleven-hour flight.
As if reading my mind Saadi says, ‘We have Scott’s beautician, Joy Lewis, and his two masseuses, Linda Di Marcello and Natalie Pennant, travelling with us. Have you heard of Linda and Natalie? They work as a team.
‘Erm, not bothered.’ Two masseuses at the same time? Oh. My. God. What happens, does one do the left side while the other does the right or is it split top and bottom – so to speak? This is another world.
‘Then Joy will work on your hair and makeup. We want you to look wonderful but at this stage it’s best if you keep comments to a minimum. At least until you do the media training. If I’d known you’d be awake on this flight, I’d have arranged for someone to work with you while we were travelling.’ She looks frustrated that she’s wasted eleven hours. I get the feeling Saadi is not a time-waster. ‘So just smile, wave and – if pushed – say you’re happy.’
‘Can I say delirious?’ I ask with a grin.
She eyes me for a moment with a hint of suspicion, gauging whether I’m taking the mick. I stare back and try not to blink so she can read my sincerity.
‘I’d prefer chuffed. It’s more street and harkens back to Scott’s northern roots. Delirious has some odd connotations. Out of context that won’t work. And believe me, they’ll take every word you say out of context.’
‘How about thrilled?’
‘Bit posh. And steer well away from delighted. Just be natural.’
Right, chuffed or happy. But not delirious or delighted. Got it. ‘I don’t suppose anyone will care about what I have to say about anything anyway,’ I mumble.
Saadi shakes her head. ‘You’ll be hounded like Princess Diana, doll. Get used to the idea.’
I think it’s a bit of a sick and unnerving comparison to draw, considering poor Princess Di’s ending, but I don’t say anything as I’m distracted by Saadi’s next question.
‘Have you had any thoughts about what sort of ring you want?’ She reaches for a slim black leather file and quickly unzips it. She pulls out a number of sketches of engagement rings. ‘We’ve had jewellery designers work up a few ideas.’
The drawings are stunning. The stones are huge and cut in a dozen different ways. Mostly the drawings are of brilliant, dazzling clear diamonds. But one page shows more colourful designs.
‘I like that ruby ring,’ I comment.
‘That’s not a ruby, it’s a red diamond.’
‘I didn’t know you could get red diamonds.’
‘You can get diamonds in loads of different colours, including red, green, purple, blue and pink. They are called fancy diamonds,’ explains Saadi. ‘They’re extremely rare – out of approximately eighty thousand carats of rough diamonds mined every year, only point zero, zero one per cent are regarded as fancy colours.’
‘I bet they’re expensive,’ I mutter.
‘Very,’ she says, her tone making it clear that I can’t overestimate just how ‘very’. ‘Only twenty diamonds in the world have been certified red.’
‘Bloody hell. I don’t want one of those, what if I lost it down the sink or something when I was washing up?’
‘That’s quite unlikely now, the way things have turned out, don’t you think?’ points out Saadi.
‘Well, washing my hands then. I’ll still be doing that for myself. I think I’d better go for the normal white diamond. You know, the see-through type.’
I leaf through the designs. There are rings with princess cut, round brilliant cut, baguette, bezel, opal shapes, heart shapes, oblongs, single stones and numerous stones. I can see the technical excellence and stunning beauty of every design but I don’t really know what to say to Saadi. Whenever I’d imagined selecting an engagement ring I’d thought I’d be choosing it with my fiancé, not his PA. Not that Adam had a PA, obviously, and up until recently it was always him featuring in my daydreams. Saadi fills the silence with a commentary about the sketches.
‘We’ve had three designers work something up. Two who always design for the great and the good – by which I mean the loaded – and one unknown. Some guy straight out of St Martin’s. I like his stuff and it might be a good PR ploy to discover some broke, Brit, arty guy.’
I don’t think the coverage in a newspaper should be a consideration when choosing my engagement ring, but for some reason I haven’t got the guts to say so. I say nothing at all. It’s freaky but I keep losing my voice when I’m with Saadi, like she’s some sort of female Sir Alan Sugar who can silence anyone in a single glance, let alone a wag of the finger. I’m normally reasonably assured and confident but since I’ve been surrounded by Scott’s posse I’ve lost my footing somewhat. It’s al
ways tricky negotiating a new relationship but I honestly don’t think that’s the struggle. Scott and I are fine, or at least we would be, but from the moment we became engaged he’s been surrounded by a wall of others. I mean Princess Di went
Saadi probably interprets my silence as some sort of stupidity. She adds, ‘If you are having trouble visualizing the ring we can get mock-ups or maybe you’d like to wander around Tiffany’s or Leviev and buy something off the shelf.’
‘Maybe,’ I mutter.
‘Well, if you can make a decision by Monday that would be great.’ She consults her BlackBerry list. I wasn’t aware we were under a deadline. The woman is a human tornado.
‘What does Scott think?’ I ask.
‘Oh, he’s happy to leave it to us, to you. Anything that you want. Good of him, hey?’
‘Yes, good of him.’ I dig deep and scramble to find my voice. I try to imagine Sir Alan Sugar naked (that’s meant to help with fear of confrontation); it doesn’t help much actually, just churns my stomach, but still I force myself to say as firmly as I can, ‘I’d like it if Scott and I chose the ring together. I’ll talk to him about it when we arrive in LA.’
‘OK,’ says Saadi. But before I can savour my victory she starts to type something into her BlackBerry. ‘I’ll schedule that meeting for tomorrow morning. 9.30 a.m.’
No, no, I mustn’t fall at first hurdle. Think, totally starkers. Not a stitch on him. It’s Scott I’m imagining this time, not Sir Alan. The image of a naked Scott fills me with confidence and fortifies my resolution without causing any of the trauma the image of a naked Sir Alan
‘It’s just the way things work round here. Scott’s a busy man,’ says Saadi, as though she’s teaching the ABC to an infant.
‘I realize that,’ I say carefully. I want to add that things might have to change now he has me, but she interrupts.
‘It’s not just a new man you’ve bagged yourself but a whole new life too. There’s more to being Scottie Taylor’s wife than being into him, you know.’ I’m beginning to realize that too. Rather than being capable of taking on truly terrifying members of the board, I am once again the new girl at the office who hasn’t got the guts to ask how the photocopier works. Saadi carries on. ‘Certain things will be expected from you, one of which is a noteworthy engagement ring with a PR story attached. Is that too much to ask?’ Her tone is impatient.
I think how lucky I am to be in this position. To be who I am now. Any woman would kill to be me. I’m marrying Scott Taylor. He is sexy, seductive, occasionally surly, consistently stupendous and stonking rich (sorry to be crass but it’s an inescapable fact). My mind, heart and wardrobe are bursting with new and expensive, oh la la delights.
I’m kowtowed.
No, I don’t suppose an engagement ring with a PR story is a lot to ask when you put it in context. Saadi suddenly adjusts her tone and digs deep to dredge up some patience. I realize she’s trying to connect with me but, sadly, the new tone she adopts reminds of my dentist’s
Saadi continues, ‘Look, I know the system, yeah? I know how things work? Why don’t you just follow my advice, because I’ve been keeping Scott happy for quite some time now. It makes sense.’ Well, yes, but isn’t that my job now? ‘And I know you are thinking that’s your job now, which it is. But it’s not yours alone. We’re a team. You, me, Mark, the band, the chefs, the staff, everyone. We all want the same thing – for Scott to be OK. That’s how he works. That’s how it works.’ I suppose. ‘A team is a good thing, hey? The more the merrier?’ I don’t think I nod or actually offer any affirmation that I agree but Saadi doesn’t wait, she just concludes, ‘Fact is, you’re not an ordinary couple. You didn’t want to be ordinary, did you?’ she reminds me.
No. No, I suppose I didn’t.
36. Fern
The captain asks us all to return to our seats and fasten our seatbelts. As he says, ‘Crew cross check for landing please,’ a ripple of excitement creeps up my spine. Scott starts to stir for the first time since we took off. He stretches and looks around to find me. He treats me to a wide and joyful grin. He starts to undo his seatbelt so he can come to me; these first class seats are so spread out – it’s wild – but a strict air steward asks him to buckle up. I have to settle for a kiss blown through the air.
I stare out of the window and catch my first glimpse of America. Los Angeles is enormous. Below me there is a perfectly ordered interlaced lattice of roads, quite unlike the organic tangle of roads I left behind in England. The order and space are instantly appealing. Although the distance means the houses look like doll’s houses I can see that they are anything but small. They are all well kept; most are massive and many have pools. There are hundreds and hundreds of cars lined along the streets or parked in driveways, glittering like jewels in the sun, but there’s also lots of greenery. From where the angels hang out, LA looks perfect.
As the aeroplane door swings open I am engulfed by a gush of hot air and the smell of wet palm trees; there’s no sign of rain, so I can only assume the airport greenery has recently been hosed down by someone whose job it
The beautician, Joy, had long nails and was a tad unnecessarily rough but I’m glad I let her fix my makeup and Linda and Natalie massage out my shoulders as we are greeted by a barrage of cameras clicking and whirring and a hundred different voices shouting at me. ‘Over here, love, look this way,’ ‘Give us a smile,’ ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Are you Fern Dickson?’ ‘Show us the ring,’ ‘Why no ring?’ ‘When’s the big day?’ ‘This way darlin’, smile.’
I turn my head from left to right and back again, trying to follow the countless instructions that are being flung my way. The constant blaze of camera flashes causes me to squint. Scott squeezes my hand and slips his sunglasses over his eyes. He puts a protective arm around me and starts to speak; as he does so the dizzying glare of flashes slows down somewhat, as the reporters strain to catch his every word.
‘We haven’t picked out a ring yet. I want to design something personally that’s really special for Fern.’ He does? Wow. See, Saadi had it all wrong. I tune back in to what he’s saying. ‘As soon as we have a date for the wedding we’ll let you know. We won’t keep you waiting; I’m not a fan of long engagements. Now, I have no idea how you came to know about our arrival here today but
Scott starts to lead me away and the camera flashes start up in earnest again. ‘Oi, Fern, have you any comment?’
Scott stops to allow me to have my say. I’m on the verge of telling Scott that it was Saadi and Mark who tipped off the press and that’s how they know our whereabouts today, but then it occurs to me that he might already know this, so instead I concentrate on what Saadi said I ought to say.
‘I’m, erm, delighted,’ I say. ‘No, I mean, erm, chuffed.’
Scott tightens his squeeze and quickly leads me to the long, black car waiting for us by the roadside. It’s so shiny that the azure blue sky is reflected in the roof and on the doors like a huge mirror. I catch sight of Saadi shaking her head.
37. Fern
Oh. My. God.
Listen to me, I really need to think up a new expression to capture my constant and escalating surprise or else I’m in danger of becoming as annoying as Janice, Chandler’s ex, on Friends. But really, what are the words that can adequately sum up my astonishment? I was just getting used to the splendour of the hotel and now I’m faced with this. Scott’s home.
We’ve driven up a winding road of high fences and tall established trees. All the houses were huge and grand but Scott’s is the most enormous. It’s incredibly modern, all white walls, vast windows and light decking. It seems to go on for ever; I actually have to swivel my head like some sort of cartoon character in order to take in its breadth. Our limo crawls along the gravelled drive and grinds to a halt just outside the massive wooden door. We wander into the airy hall. The floor is covered with enormous white porcelain tiles, which shine like wet ice on a rink. It’s a double-height room with a glass ceiling. Sunlight str
eams in from above and it looks as though Scott (who is ahead of me by a step or two) is standing in a spotlight. It seems a very natural place for him to be, and I wonder whether an über-clever architect thought that through and designed the house as another place for him to be centre stage.
‘Do you want a tour?’ Scott asks.
I nod. Too overwhelmed to speak.
We wander through the rooms and corridors. The entire place is state of the art and rippling with the latest trends. There are acres of glossy wooden and marble floors and a rich scattering of plush rugs. There are lights hidden in the floor and recesses, throwing out interesting shadows and highlights. Some walls move. Others are made of glass and change colour depending on the mood Scott wants to achieve. Some rooms are minimalist, with white walls, white settees, white shelves and white books with round fires in the middle of a room rather than a traditional fireplace. Other rooms are decorated in deep, dark colours and opulent, lavish fabrics. There are curtains with double and triple linings and cushions that pile like mountains on the sofas. Occasionally Scott stops to point out something that means a lot to him.
‘That robe was worn by Muhammad Ali, October 30th, 1974, the night he fought champion George Foreman at “The Rumble in the Jungle”.’
‘That is a genuine Jackson Pollock, I bought it because I thought the colours would really work well in here.’
‘That caricature of Sinatra was done in 1947 by a guy called Sam Berman, it’s signed by the artist and old Frankie himself. I picked it up in Christie’s.’
I wonder how many rooms there are in Scott’s home. Our home. I’d guess at forty or fifty in total but I don’t bother asking. He’ll think I care more than I do. It’s not like I can be any more impressed. Besides, he’s unlikely to have the answer. When I asked how many gardeners he has (his gardens are massive and as manicured as Paris
