by Adele Parks
Eventually we arrive at a room in the back of the house. I can tell by Scott’s body language that he’s especially excited to reveal what’s behind the fourteen-foot-high oak double doors. What should I expect? I’ve seen the cinema room, the gym, and the indoor swimming-pool.
‘I could live in this one room. What am I talking about, I more or less do,’ says Scott, as he flings open the doors and reveals a room that is bigger than the entire flat Adam and I have shared with Jess for four years. The walls are painted a deep aubergine purple and the floor is a rich dark oak wood. One wall is made entirely of glass but I have no clue as to what the view is because blinds are pulled down, meaning the only source of light is from the various dim lamps scattered around the place. The lamps throw off dramatic hues that are reflected off the ceiling, as it is covered in mosaic mirror tiles.
This room is, without doubt, the ultimate man’s playroom. So much so, I feel the need to buy a strap-on willy just to visit.
‘Let me show you around. Here are a few of my favourite things.’ He sings that line in a mock Julie Andrews soprano voice. I grin at him.
One corner of the room houses a mini gym, in case Scott can’t be bothered to walk to the main gym.
‘My dumbbells,’ he says proudly. ‘They’re solid granite.’
I have no idea as to the prestige or usefulness of granite dumbbells over any other kind of dumbbells; I guess it’s a luxury thing.
‘My “Good Versus Evil” Opus football table. It’s made by the Eleven Forty Company.’ Scott raises his voice at the end of the sentence showing that he’s assuming I’ll recognize the designer. I don’t. I notice that men are always this enthusiastic about their toys. Adam would love this footie table. I shake my head a fraction. Why the hell is Adam, the loser, popping in there? It must be the effects of the flight; jet lag is making me lose focus. I push the thought of Adam out of my mind.
‘Who usually wins?’
‘Evil has had quite a run of luck but I’m thinking that might all change now I’ve met you.’ Scott flashes me one of his oh-so-familiar, utterly delicious smiles and I swear my heart is beating between my legs.
A stunning grey leather corner settee divides the room. I wonder if Scott will throw me on it and ravage me until sunrise. I wouldn’t mind, despite the jet lag. Because, here’s the thing, as hard as this is to believe, when we left the fabulous country hotel, the sheets were barely disturbed. It was good news that I’d slept so deeply but, as I closed the door behind me, I couldn’t help but sigh as I tried to exhale the dull disappointment that I had not left the sheets tangled and used. No sex. No damn sex. I’m engaged to Scott Taylor for goodness sake! It’s
We have been so, so busy in the last few days we haven’t managed anything more than a lengthy snog and a heady fumble. We are always together (chatting, laughing, playing cards) but we are never alone (which would certainly lead to much more carnal entertainment). To be frank, I’m more than a bit frustrated with the situation. I am so pleased to be here in our home; now we’ll have more privacy. Bob, the security guy, is a great bloke but his constant burly presence is a bit of a passion killer, and Saadi and her BlackBerry ought to be marketed as the western world’s most effective contraceptive; talk about barrier method. But, hey, here we are… alone… in love… I linger by the beautiful settee and finger the wonderful cool leather. I hope Scott can read my mind.
He can’t. It appears Scott isn’t thinking what I’m thinking. He doesn’t fling me on the cool leather and start to flick his tongue across my body. Instead he walks around the exquisite piece of furniture and excitedly points out the arcade game coffee table, the cashmere-lined hammock and the retro Champion Level 2 turntable. Now Adam would sell his mother to buy that. There’s a sixty-inch flat screen TV dominating the room. Scott follows my gaze.
‘Maybe we should watch a movie tonight. Let’s make popcorn.’
Tonight? No way. Won’t we be swinging from the chandeliers tonight? Surely. Watching movies is the sort of thing you do on the fifth or sixth date, after you’ve had loads of sex and talked yourself hoarse. Is there a way of saying this without sounding like a total hussy? I remain hushed while I think about it.
I notice that his shelves are full of amazing books about the history of art and photography. The range is incredibly broad. There are books about Neolithic, Egyptian and Grecian art. There are more on the Gothic period, Renaissance, Impressionism and Art Nouveau. (I’m reading this from the spines.) Cubism, Fauvism, Rayonism, Pop art and Kinetic art. I am so impressed.
‘I didn’t know you were so interested in art,’ I say, trying not to sound too sickeningly struck. Everything he does overwhelms me. I’m worried I might pop with the intensity of the imprint.
‘I haven’t read any of them,’ he says. His tone is a bit bored, a bit resentful and a bit apologetic.
‘Oh.’ I consider; am I as impressed knowing he has plans to read these books but hasn’t actually read them yet?
‘I don’t really know much about art except that I know what I like,’ he says with a shrug.
‘Fair enough, I’m just the same about wine.’ Should I leave it at that? I can’t. ‘In that case, why so many art books?’ I enquire.
‘Well, I had shelves that needed filling. There’s nothing more depressing than an empty shelf, is there? I mean, do know about. He’s taken my photo. Look.’
Scott reaches for a big glossy book, Portraits, and starts to flick through it efficiently. Beautiful images of the beautiful people in our world jump out at me. Liz Hurley looking sexy, Kate Moss looking confrontational, Gwyneth Paltrow looking elusive. Scott pauses and says, ‘Look, here I am. I love this shot.’
Testino has captured the cheeky pup Scottie. I had a postcard of this very image pinned to the cork notice-board in the back room of Ben’s shop. For a mortifying moment I wonder whether Scott spotted it last week when he made me breakfast. I hope not. I’ll appear scarily weird and teen-like, perhaps not an unfair appraisal but one I’d prefer to keep under wraps. I daren’t ask him.
‘Great shot,’ I murmur. ‘He has caught you. Or at least a particular bit of you.’
‘Yeah, no one catches the whole of me. I’m still chasing it.’ Scott snaps closed the book and turns to walk out of the room. He’s forgotten he’s in the middle of a conversation with me. I remind him.
‘So, why so many unread books?’
‘Oh yeah, the launch party was held in the National Portrait Gallery and I got all excited about art and stuff. After the party I had someone buy a copy of every book they had in their shop.’
‘But you never read any of them?’
‘No. I fell off the wagon that week. It took another eight months for me to sober up again. I’d sort of lost
I know this. I know that Scott is cleverer than I expected. In fact, as I am very familiar with his complex song lyrics I can’t help but worry that he’s almost too clever. He has the sort of mind that tires and is bored easily. The sort of mind that sees the problem of where we might all end up before he’s even enjoyed the heady beginnings of where we all set off.
‘What book is by your bed?’ I ask.
‘Mostly self-help books.’
‘You should eat more fish,’ I suggest.
‘Why?’
‘My mum says it’s good for your nerves.’ He grins at me as I hoped he would. ‘Where do you sleep?’ I ask bravely. I hold his eye and we both know what I’m suggesting. He grins at me.
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
38. Fern
‘Oh this is wild. I have never seen such a big bed in all my life,’ I scream excitedly.
‘Yeah.’ Scott grins as I lunge at the bed and immediately begin bouncing up and down on the ocean of black Egyptian cotton and turquoise silk throws. He doesn’t join me but starts to empty his pockets on to the bedside table; a packet of fags, a packet of orange tic-tacs and a small notebook. He jots down ideas for lyrics all the time.
‘Don’t you ju
st want to bounce on this bed every single night of your life?’ I ask.
‘I do actually, Sweets,’ he says with a slow sexy smile.
I can’t help myself. I know Scott is my fiancé now, and I am in fact desperate to bounce up and down with him, so a veiled reference to sex shouldn’t have me turning the colour of an overripe tomato, but hell – it’s Scott Taylor. I still can’t quite believe it.
‘No. In this instance I didn’t mean like that. I meant don’t you just want to jump on the bed because it’s enormous? For that matter, don’t you want to skateboard up and down the hallways just because you can? And don’t you want to run around the house just, well, laughing at the sheer bloody ludicrousness of everything being so damned big?’
Scott smiles at me. It’s an odd smile, almost regretful. ‘No, I’ve never done that.’
I stop bouncing for a moment. ‘But, at first you did, hey? When you got your first huge, posh flat or I don’t know…’ I search my head for the most exciting boy toy that would likely inspire unchecked exuberance. ‘Your first Ferrari.’ I understand that he has three now.
Scott’s smile drops off his face and sinks to I don’t know where, somewhere too deep to retrieve. ‘You know, Fern, I don’t think I ever had your enthusiasm for it all. I mean I like it. I love being rich and having nice stuff, of course. But the actual things, they let me down.’
‘In what way?’ I sit down on the edge of the bed and he sits next to me.
‘Well, take those Bang and Olufsen BeoLab5 speakers, for example, I thought owning those would make me happy. Being able to spend five grand on speakers should make you happy, right? And they did, but only for a tiny, tiny amount of time and that’s not happy enough. So they sort of let me down.’
‘But they work well, hey? They do something special?’ I ask. Unsure exactly what they could do to justify a five grand price tag. Perhaps they make a cup of tea while pumping out music or run around with the vacuum if the place ever needs it.
‘Yeah, they work. The acoustic lens technology means that music is projected around obstacles so you can place them up against a wall without distorting sound. But that’s not my point. What I mean is, however much stuff I cram in my life it doesn’t feel full.’
‘Oh Scott, please don’t give me the money doesn’t buy you happiness routine. Because let me remind you, honey, being broke isn’t such a giggle either.’
Scott’s grin bounces back on to his face. ‘You are so straight up. I love it. You’re going to tell me I haven’t been shopping in the right places, hey?’
‘No.’ I lean towards Scott, our foreheads are touching. We hold unblinking eye contact. We are so close to each other that our breathing is all muddled up and his breath out is my breath in. ‘From the look of this place you have definitely been shopping in the right places, just not with the right people.’
‘Are you the right person?’
‘Yup, Scott. I am.’
‘So this is what it’s like; moving from the multiple choice to the singular?’ he asks.
‘Yes, in this and all matters of intimacy you’ll find less is more.’
He kisses me. And I kiss him back. Tender for a moment and then ravenous. At last! We start to devour each other. His touch is desperate, swift and mind-blowing. His fingers burn me but the scalding sensation is totally pleasurable. I’m fettered to his lips just as though he’d tied me up; I never want to be anywhere other than here. Tinder in his hands, I feel I’m about to explode with wanting and desire. He starts to tug at my clothes and his own. For once, he doesn’t seem in the slightest bit practised, he’s clumsy with nerves or excitement. He doesn’t know whose buttons or flies to loosen first and nor do I. Our fingers become tangled with one another. Never before have just days of abstinence created this intense build-up of lust in me, but as Scott pushes me back on to the black sheets, I swear I can hear the blood pounding around my body; in my heart, in my head, in my silky, frilly Agent Provocateur panties.
There’s a knock at the door.
‘Go away,’ shouts Scott, breaking from our kisses, just for a moment.
The knock is repeated, this time louder and more forceful.
‘Piss off.’ He’s also louder and more forceful.
The door opens and Mark, Scott’s manager, walks in. So far I’ve had little to do with Mark. We nod at one another and pass pleasantries but nothing more. Saadi deals with me. Mark deals with Scott. I thought Scott would deal with everything: me, Mark and Saadi. I thought he’d be in charge, but I’m beginning to understand that is not the case. I think Mark is in charge. I suppose if I’m to continue Saadi’s analogy that we are all a team, then Mark is the manager and Scott is the captain. Saadi’s in goal. And what am I? I’m left field at the moment; I’d rather be a striker. I shake my head, this is madness; I don’t even like football.
Mark has been in the music business since he dropped out of art college in the 70s. No one needs qualifications in this business. They need wits and talent, and as intrusive as I find Mark’s presence (particularly at this moment!) I have to admit he comes with bags of both. He’s in his fifties and has resisted the stereotype of looking, dressing or behaving like an old rocker. He does not have long hair, nor does he wear skinny jeans, from what I’ve seen he does not screw groupies and he’s done enough drink and drugs in the past that nowadays he is happy with an orange juice and a packet of crisps. He looks like an easy-going uncle. He’s bald, tubby and generally affable. He looks as though he buys his clothes
Scott told me that in the mid and late 70s Mark managed a number of rock legends. In the 80s he snorted his fortune and then spent a number of years getting clean and starting up again; first with small bands – one-hit wonders – and then he stumbled across Scott. I think Mark saw a lot of himself in Scott. Raw talent that needed channelling and controlling, otherwise income and opportunity would be blown away or rather, sniffed up. Mark has made Scott very, very rich and obviously has done quite nicely out of the arrangement too. It’s clear that this time he’s not going to let his fortune slip through his fingers like sand through a glass timer. He’s staying sober and in charge. This is never clearer than when he sits on the bed next to Scott and me and starts to talk business, without so much as apologizing for interrupting our pash sesh.
As I mentioned, it’s a big bed. I’m in no danger of actually coming into physical contact with Mark but even so I feel an irrational sense of claustrophobia; something like you expect to experience in a crowded lift. My shirt is unbuttoned and I’m flashing my bra, for goodness sake. I scrabble to the opposite side of the bed and hurry to make myself decent; I run my fingers through my hair and use the back of my hand to rub away my lipstick, which is, likely as not, smeared all around my mouth. I flash a look of resentment at Mark but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Genially, he says, ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I? Plenty of time for all that. I just wanted to bring you the
‘Couldn’t that have waited?’ snaps Scott. I notice that he has grabbed a magazine and is holding it on his lap, obviously waiting for the evidence of our session to subside.
Mark doesn’t answer directly. Instead he drops the papers on the bed. ‘These are the British ones. Afternoon editions mostly. We’ll see the full story tomorrow in the British press and – with a bit of luck – here in the US.’
I can’t believe he’s interrupted us to show us the Evening Standard. Scott doesn’t pick up the paper. He continues to glare at Mark; he’s clearly pissed off. I pick up the paper, just to be polite. The headline reads FERN DICKSON IS THE ONE. It’s weird to see my name in print. I read the story. They describe me as a twenty-seven-year-old beauty, who runs her own florist’s.
‘But I’m thirty,’ I say to Mark. ‘And the flower shop is Ben’s, he runs it. I work in it.’ I wonder if Ben will think I told them differently.
‘Yeah, yeah, love, I know all that. But thirty isn’t a romantic age, is it?’ says Mark.
‘Well, I thought
not, but then I met –’
‘Look, you’ll thank me when you are thirty-five and they have you down as thirty,’ he continues.
‘But that wouldn’t add up.’
‘The thing about them saying you own the florist wasn’t me, though. I did give the real deal on that stuff. I thought the humble background thing would wash really well. But journos don’t listen. They come to press conferences or interviews, make a big thing about recording the proceed
‘No they couldn’t,’ I say with a laugh.
‘Yeah, they could. You did that catwalk thing at school.’
How does Mark know that? I told Scott, he must have mentioned it. How sweet! He must be talking about me all the time, the way people do when they are besotted with someone. The way I would talk about him if I could get through to either Jess or Lisa.
‘It was a fundraiser. I modelled the clothes I’d made in home economics. An elasticized top and a pair of pedal pushers. All the girls in my home economics class did the same, that’s hardly modelling.’
‘I’m just saying the press might have made that your thing.’ Mark shrugs carelessly. We three sit in a loud silence until Mark gets the hint. ‘Oh, got it, right. I’ll let you get back to it.’
‘Yeah, let’s catch up tomorrow, hey?’ shouts Scott as Mark closes the door. We lie back and stare at the ceiling. We’re finally alone but the needy lust of earlier seems to have been dampened. Mark is a heavy cologne user, I can still smell his aftershave lingering in the room – it’s almost as though he’s still here with us, which is quite some passion killer.
‘We’ll have tonight though. I’ll make it special for you,’ Scott says, reading my mind and kissing my nose.
And the anticipation alone creates a feeling of creamy yumminess, much like wading into warm sea for a swim.
