by Adele Parks
39. Fern
I must have fallen asleep in Scott’s arms; when I wake up it is dark outside. I reach for him but his side of the bed is cool. I feel dreamy and I don’t think it’s jetlag. I glance at the bedside clock; six thirty LA time. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep because my watch says it is early morning tomorrow in the UK. I adjust the dials. It’s 6.30 p.m. in my life now. As I stretch I notice a scarlet gerbera and a note on the pillow. Gorgeous! Aesthetically, I do like a red rose but it’s suffered through over-use and I think I’d have squirmed to find one on my pillow. A gerbera is much more original and startling.
Scott’s note instructs me to have a deep, relaxing bath and says dinner will be served at 8 p.m. He’s drawn a pic of a winking face so I know he’s being a little tongue in cheek; I shouldn’t expect a butler and the best silver – thank goodness. There’s enough new stuff to get to grips with without having to worry about formal table manners.
After stumbling into a wardrobe and a dressing-room I finally find the en-suite. The bathroom is as fabulous as I could have imagined. Oddly, this time I don’t squeal Oh. My. God. I’d have been surprised if it was anything less than stunning. It’s amazing how quickly you can get used to luxury. There’s a round sunken bath in the middle of the room. It’s big enough for an entire football team. There are two sinks, more mirrors than ideal and state-
When I emerge from the bath I find that someone or many someones have been into our bedroom and freshened it up. It’s like living in a hotel; the bed has been made and turned down, candles lit, curtains drawn and mellow, slow-tempo music (which I don’t recognize but do like) is playing out of the stereo at a gentle volume. There are no chocolates on the pillow but I can’t grumble as, instead, there’s the most beautiful lilac silk, tasselled mini dress. I check the label: Bottega Veneta, I haven’t even heard of the brand but its fabric sings dollar signs. I put it on. Like everything else that’s been bought for me it’s a perfect fit. I check my reflection. I might have benefited from bigger boobs, but hey, I look great – not much like me, but great, so who’s complaining? Next, I sit at the dressing-table so I can do my makeup.
It’s like walking into Harvey Nics at Christmas. I ought to be clear, Christmas is actually the only time I ever go into Harvey Nics. But when I do, I go with Jess and we spend about five hours in there, culminating in a glass of champagne at the bar after I’ve purchased a tin of biscuits from the fifth floor. Believe me, while I only actually emerge with one gift (and that’s for my aunt, who has no appreciation of what it means to own a box of biscuits from Harvey Nics), this is time well spent. I firmly believe the spirit of Christmas is hiding somewhere in that store. I adore my five hours of wafting around being sprayed with perfumes, tasting stollen cake, oh-ing and ah-ing over striking stationery, stunning clothes and testing my dressing-table, bought especially for me. I stare at the orgy of gorgeousness and try to breathe deeply.
It’s a bit intimidating actually.
It’s taken me seventeen years to discover which makeup I truly suit (after many, many disasters where I ended up looking like a drag queen). I’m pretty confident with my Rimmel Kohl Kajal eye pencil, suitably smudgeable, allowing me to create sexy, smoky eyes, and Rimmel’s lasting finish intense-wear lipstick; I like the pretty sugar plum colour. Having to start again with all these new posh brands and new colours is a bit of a nightmare. Suddenly, I feel the need to ring Jess. It’s crazy, but other than the one call to my parents and one brief call with Ben, I haven’t actually spoken to any of my friends or family since Scott proposed. I’ve called and left messages; we’ve swapped a couple of texts, of course, but no actual chat. I can sense the disapproval across the ocean. It’s awkward; everyone liked Adam a great deal and Scott and I have become an item so quickly that no one has got used to the idea yet. I suppose it is quite something to digest.
If only Jess knew Scott the way I do then she’d be happy for me; I know she would. The problem is love at first sight is something you can only truly believe in if you’ve experienced it for yourself.
I could ring her right now and say, ‘You won’t believe the selection of makeup that’s on my dressing table!’ It’s our habit to start conversations as though we’ve been chatting only minutes ago. Until this previous week we’ve enjoyed a fourteen-year-long uninterrupted dialogue. I could choose to ignore the last week. Least said soonest mended. I check my watch. Hell, it’s five to eight.
Obviously, if I had more time, there’s nothing I’d like more than to call Jess but I’ve got a pop star fiancé to shag. I grab the Dior mascara wand and quickly apply. It’s good stuff, I think I can get away with that and nothing more.
40. Fern
It’s just four minutes past eight when I drift into the big room that I’d call a living-room or a sitting-room although that doesn’t do it justice – not glam enough; an estate agent would describe the room as the reception. I found it after fruitlessly opening door after door in order to track down Scott. Each room is utterly tasteful, peaceful and immaculate, and after a while they blur into one. I thought he might be in his ‘boys-own’ room but there was no sign. I was starting to panic, imagining he’d done a runner. My throat tingles with a peculiar and hideously scary mix of pleasure and panic. Trying to accurately assess that mix, I’d say that ninety-eight per cent of me is utterly, utterly out of this world, stunningly, stunningly beyond happy. The remaining two per cent is pure white terror. I wish I could shake the feeling that this is all too good to be true but I can’t quite. The issue is things like this don’t happen to me. I’m the sort of girl who is a close runner-up – at best. The sort of girl who often hears shop assistants say, ‘Sorry, we don’t have that left in your size, I just sold the last one.’ The sort of girl who has never ever had a single number show up on her lottery card, despite buying them religiously for nearly a decade. What are the odds of that? But my panic subsides as soon as I enter the reception room; I know I’m in the right place.
There are about a hundred tealights scattered around
‘Seared prawns. My specialty,’ he calls when he notices me. ‘Champagne?’
I can’t believe he bothered to cook for me when he has staff falling over themselves to hold his hankie when he sneezes. It’s such a massive compliment! So very thoughtful! What can I tell you? It’s a night of undiluted romance. We chat non-stop and we laugh a lot too; it appears that I’m genuinely hilarious when I’m with him. Scott sings to me and lets me read over some lyrics he’s working on. We slow dance to a Frank Sinatra CD and I drink champagne – all night, although Scott has to stick to apple juice. It’s like something out of a movie. Right up until the fade to black moment.
As the night air cools, we move into the living-room and settle in front of the fire. Someone must have been stoking it while we were outside because it’s still roaring. It’s like living with a bunch of ghosts. Helpful ghosts, I’ll give you that.
‘So, Fern, how do you feel about an October wedding?’ asks Scott as he crams a toasted marshmallow (that he’s thoughtfully dipped into melted hot chocolate) into my mouth.
I chew quickly, swallow and then splutter, ‘This October?’
‘Yeah.’
So soon. ‘But it’s already late August. Don’t weddings take forever to plan?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I’ve never planned one before,’ says Scott with a big relaxed smile. ‘But I imagine we can pull off anything we want, if we hurl enough cash at it.’
‘I always imagined a summer wedding,’ I say, carefully.
‘It will be sunny here in LA.’
‘Here in LA? I always imagined a wedding in London,’ I say, somewhat shocked.
‘Is LA OK? I mean, only if you want to. I want you to have exactly what you want, of course. I was just thinking the shorter the lead time the less hassle we’ll get from the press and if we get married here then we’ll be able to plan it ourselves – you know – so that we can make sure it’s personal. If we had a wedding in
the UK and we were living here in LA then we’d have to hand over to someone else. I want this wedding to be about us,’ says Scott.
I think about what he’s suggesting. Less than two months away. It’s no time at all, not considering we only met a week ago. But then, why not? Didn’t I want just this? A proposal and marriage for my thirtieth. Initially, I wanted it with a different man, admittedly, but hey, let’s not get picky. Why would I want to wait a moment longer than I have to? People only ever have long engagements if they are saving up or have doubts; neither applies to me.
‘I just think we should get on with it, you know, start
‘Brilliant! Let’s do it.’
‘Great! I’ll have a couple of wedding planners come round asap so you can see who you are most comfortable with and then we can get the ball rolling.’
‘But I thought you said you wanted us to plan it ourselves,’ I say, confused.
‘Yeah. With a planner. You’ll need one for an event of this scale.’
‘What sort of scale are we talking about?’
‘I don’t know. A thousand people, maybe.’
‘A thousand? I don’t know a thousand people.’ Not even if I include all the Ben’s B&B customers and the cabin crew who flew us over here. Nowhere near.
‘You’ll soon make friends. Trust me, you won’t have a problem filling up the guest list.’
That wasn’t what I’d meant. The hairs on my neck start to bristle and it’s not through lust, as is usually the case when I’m with Scott. It’s fear, or irritation, or something I can’t quite pinpoint; it’s tricky to do so after a bottle of champagne. I don’t think I want a thousand strangers coming to my wedding.
‘You see, there are certain people we have to invite. They’ll be kind of expecting it,’ explains Scott.
‘Like grannies and great-aunts and stuff?’
‘Well, yes, obviously. But also Elton John and David Furnish, David and Victoria, I’ve been to so many fabulous parties of theirs. Tom Cruise and –’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Deadly serious.’
Suddenly, the idea of a thousand strangers coming to my wedding doesn’t seem so awful; not considering they’ll all be A list. Call me shallow. Call me human.
‘Think of the gifts,’ I blurt. I blush at my own crassness but Scott just laughs. ‘I can’t believe I said that.’ I put my hand over my mouth but it’s as much use as chocolate hair straighteners. I try to recover ground. ‘Maybe we should say no gifts, it’s not as though we need anything. Maybe we should say charity donations only. We did that at my Uncle Terry’s funeral. The announcement in the paper said no wreaths or floral tributes but donations to the lung cancer unit at St Hilda’s Infirmary welcome. The hospital rang afterwards to say they’d benefited nicely. Auntie Donna got a genuine sense of satisfaction from that. It was a great comfort,’ I garble. I’m working on the theory that if I talk for long enough the ground might swallow me up.
‘Well, let’s take advice on the etiquette, shall we?’ says Scott with a good-natured smirk.
‘Fair enough. Can we invite Brangelina?’
‘Anyone you like.’
I’m quiet for about twenty minutes as I draw up my fantasy wedding guest list. The fantasy wedding guest list that is going to come true! Jess, Adam and I used to play a game a bit like this. As we sat eating baked beans on toast we’d often quiz one another on who would attend our perfect dinner party. Jess and I would plump for Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Matt Damon; pretty much the cast of Oceans 11 to 13, while Adam would swear that he’d prefer to have Christopher Wren, Dostoevsky and
I’m glad I didn’t call Jess earlier. Now, I have even more to tell her. I check my watch. Midnight here, that makes it 8 a.m. tomorrow back home. She’ll be on the tube. I don’t want to get her voicemail; this is too good to leave another message. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow.
‘You’re happy, right?’ asks Scott, somewhat superfluously since I keep giggling to myself and I have stood up to dance a short but expressive jovial jig around the room.
‘Never more so.’
‘I have another reason for wanting to rush the wedding through,’ he adds.
‘Oh yeah?’
Scott holds out his hand and finds mine. He gently pulls me back on to the sofa and puts his arm around me. ‘I was thinking, you know, we’ve both had our fair share of partners in the past.’
‘I had a fair share. You’ve had a veritable feast, gorged yourself silly from all accounts,’ I point out.
‘Yep, I know and that’s what got me thinking. We need to be special.’
‘We are special.’
‘Different.’
‘We are different, we’re getting married, neither of us has ever done that before.’
‘I know and so I want to mark that in some way.’ What, a party for a thousand isn’t enough for him? I beam at
‘What?’ That stops me smiling.
‘I don’t mean we shouldn’t ever. I mean we shouldn’t have sex until we are married,’ says Scott.
‘But that’s two months.’ The same two months that just minutes ago had seemed oh-so-brief (too brief to plan a spectacular wedding!) now seem an eternity. Two months with no sex. It’s a terrible idea. Somehow no sex with Scott Taylor is a hundred times worse than all the no sex I’ve had in the past.
‘Yes. That way we’d be like vir-er-er-er-gins.’ He sings the word ‘virgins’ like in the Madonna song. ‘I just thought it was a way of making what we have truly special. Do you see?’
I do, sort of. The sentiment is darling but the actuality is going to be dreadful, truly hell on earth. I thought that tonight – what with the candles, the champagne and the log fire that were as good as screaming sex – that tonight would be the night.
‘I don’t know, Scott. It’s been tricky resisting thus far. Tricky and frustrating and –’
‘Hot,’ he adds.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I concede.
‘I’m loving this delayed gratification thing. The novelty alone is mind-blowing. It’s all about anticipation and control and –’
‘Shouldn’t it all be about love?’
‘Of course it’s that.’ Scott’s grin vanishes in a poof. He looks mortally offended.
‘Oh OK, go on,’ I agree, even though I really don’t want to. I can’t bear to see him unhappy. He looks so fragile. Like a child. I want to see his face brighten once more. ‘Let’s get married early October, though.’
Scott nods. ‘Agreed. I think we’d better have separate beds until the wedding, otherwise this no sex thing is going to be really hard.’
I nod, even though hard is just what I’m after.
41. Scott
My pad here in LA is awesome. Chock-full of style and luxury. I like it out here by the pool because nothing says rock and roll as eloquently as a private pool. I have a stunning infinity pool that seemingly flows out to an endless, lush garden which is as big as a public park. The size of the garden is not an indulgence, it’s a necessity. The tabloid scum have long lenses and short consciences. You can sell my discarded chewing-gum on the internet for fifty quid, so you can imagine how much a pic of me shagging a starlet fetches. Around the pool there are a number of heavy, broad wooden sun-loungers. The cream cushions lie as inviting as giant marshmallows. There are green towels, rolled into neat Swiss roll shapes. There’s the occasional marble table to be found snuggled between the beds, a comfy resting place for glasses of champagne and minted water – which all my guests are furnished with within minutes of their arses hitting the seat. I have excellent pool staff. It’s all very tasteful.
I like swimming and fooling about out here, although I don’t like lying around on the loungers the way Gary (the bass) and Mick (drummer) are right now. Their drinks sparkle in the sun, leaving individual footprints – a wet ring of condensation – on the table. I’m unsurprised to note they are drinking Bollinger (mine) even though it’s not midday. I wave to them but don’t b
other walking over.
Then I spot Fern. She’s peeking out from behind my huge cacti, which are bedded in large white plant pots the size of cauldrons. My cacti are bigger than anyone else’s in Hollywood, Saadi checked. I also have enormous bushes of bamboo, with stalks as thick as my arms; they stretch upwards to tickle the feet of anyone hanging about in heaven. The sun is almost directly overhead now and pounding down ferociously, throwing short, almost undetectable shadows on the dark marble floors. Fern starts to drag a sun-lounger into the shade, I make a move towards her to help her but one of my muscle-bound pool guys beats me to it. Fern looks faintly embarrassed but a bit chuffed as she watches his gentle exertion on her behalf.
Fern has a great body. Slim and toned without betraying a food phobia or gym obsession. I move towards her and am struck, the way I was the first time I met her, by her top-quality, pert, neat tits. Excellent. And that’s from a man who spends a lot of time being underwhelmed.
I pull up a lounger next to hers and stand over her to let the cold drips of pool water splash on to her stomach. She jumps a foot in the air, squeals and then laughs when she opens her eyes and realizes it’s me.
‘Rat. I thought it was raining,’ she says.
‘Just blue skies for you from now on in, Petal, nothing but blue skies.’ She beams at me. ‘Sleep well?’ I ask.
‘I woke up at two in the morning and stared at the ceiling until eight.’
‘Jetlag?’
‘Excitement. I fell into a deep slumber at the exact moment I stopped debating huge romantic number – wide enough to shelter an entire family – versus simple shift wedding dress, just wide enough to disguise my hips. I couldn’t switch off,’ she says with a grin. ‘Hey, look what Saadi gave me.’ Fern waves about a brand new iPhone.
‘She’s great, Saadi. She thinks of everything.’ I yawn and sit down on the lounger next to Fern’s. Let’s see if I can stay put for twenty minutes. That’s not a ridiculous target. I should be able to do twenty minutes with Fern to keep me company. Or at least fifteen.
