by Adele Parks
Some of the women seem to dissolve. A few cast shy or sly glances at Amanda and then scuttle away. Two
Amanda carefully dries her hands on one of the individual linen cloths provided and then massages moisturizer into her palms. I’ve always wondered what sort of girl actually remembers to re-apply cream every time they wash their mitts; now I know – beautiful ones with soft hands. This ritual takes a Jurassic age. Then she turns to me.
‘May I see the ring?’ Her voice still has a soft trace of her West Country origins. It’s a pleasant lilting that oozes sweetness. I can’t very well refuse, although now I wish I hadn’t ever come in here to touch up my lippy. I hold out my hand for her inspection. She clasps my finger ends and I notice that we are both trembling.
‘It’s a very beautiful ring,’ she pronounces. ‘You are very lucky. Very.’
‘I know.’ My reply comes out in a scratchy whisper. We don’t look at one another. We can’t. She suddenly drops my hand and then leaves the bathroom. Her hasty exit
I turn back to the mirror and with a trembling hand I re-apply my gloss; luckily it’s not a deep colour, as I might end up looking like Batman’s joker. The bathroom is silent. I can’t help thinking that every single woman is wondering why oh why Scott chose someone like me when he could have had Amanda Amberd as his lifelong companion. I could tell them that Scott appreciates my normality or that he’s stoked by the way I influence his song writing but I have the feeling they wouldn’t get it. I hardly do. Instead I say, ‘My pelvic floor muscles are like clamps,’ and I dash for the door.
I hope to God no one here knows about the chastity vow.
49. Scott
‘Fuck me, being someone’s fiancé is hard work.’ I throw myself on the sofa and wait for Mark to sympathize.
‘Fern can’t be as much work as the actresses and models and whatever who you’ve dated in the past,’ he reasons as he offers me a fag.
‘They came with their fair share of aggro, no doubt about it. But I’d sort of got the hang of that type of relationship.’
Providing you guarantee them enough column inches (by which I mean space in the newspapers – column inches is not a reference to my manhood), they were, often as not, more or less happy. And there are loads of ways to get the coverage. Get pissed, stay sober, go speeding, go horse riding, go to the Ivy for lunch, go to the Priory to dry out. My relationship with Fern is on a whole different level. She’s not bothered by press coverage. She wants my time.
‘Fern’s demanding in a totally different way. She always wants to be doing stuff together,’ I explain.
Mark nods. ‘That’s to be expected. Fern wanted extraordinary, you needed something a bit down to earth. The hope is you’ll meet in the middle.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, and mostly, it’s cool this couple stuff. She’s lovely. I like being with her. But she seems to want my exclusive time. And that, my friend, I no can do.
‘I know, lad, people all want a bit of you.’ I can hear the sympathy in Mark’s voice and I feel better because he gets it.
‘To be frank, I’m tiring of sight-seeing with Fern. Going out is OK but now I’m in a mood to stay in.’ I inhale deeply and scowl at Mark. I’m behaving like a kid but Mark doesn’t mind that. He knows I want him to make it better. The good news is, he can and he will. It’s Mark’s job to fight my battles. He fights the battles I don’t understand (with lawyers, accountants and the record company) and the battles I don’t want to fight (with the press and disappointed women, mostly). That’s what managers do, and because he fights my battles I get more time to do the things a rock star needs to do. Like write songs and, in the old days, get drunk and shag women. He’s a great manager; he’s so good he sometimes spots battles that I didn’t even identify to be skirmishes.
‘That’s fine,’ he says soothingly. ‘The press have plenty of shots of the two of you feeding monkeys, riding rollercoasters and eating burgers.’ He glances across at the file of recent press cuttings. I know he’s delighted with the attention Fern and I are attracting. Everything is on plan.
‘Presenting the ring was a coup,’ I say with a grin, immediately cheered when I think about how well I handled that whole show.
‘Amanda’s premiere was the perfect opportunity. We scooped the undivided attention of the world’s press,’ agrees Mark. He’s also wearing a massive self-satisfied
‘I don’t want to.’
‘OK then.’
‘I need to be in the studio more,’ I point out.
‘I’m never going to argue with that,’ says Mark. We fall silent for a moment as we both suck on our fags. Then Mark adds, ‘I have to say, you’ve done well, son.’ He stands up and walks towards me and gives me a hearty pat on the shoulder. I like it when he calls me son, which he does from time to time. In so many ways he is the dad I never had. And I am definitely the son he never had (the son he did have is a civil servant and no trouble at all but probably not much fun either). ‘I was worried about sending you out to all those watering holes. I thought it was too early. I thought you might fling yourself off the wagon.’
‘Ninety-eight dry days and counting.’
‘Well done, lad.’ He slaps my shoulder again but we don’t look at each other. We both know that in the past I once went 614 days and then woke up in my own puddle of vodka and urine. They say a day at a time because if they said what they mean – ‘for ever’ – no one would ever go to an AA meeting.
‘And you are still OK with the no sex thing?’ he asks. I detect concern in his voice.
‘Yeah. Cool.’ Actually, not having sex with Fern is hard work. The novelty is beginning to wear a bit thin; that’s the thing about novelty. But I’m too stubborn to concede a challenge.
‘Do you know what, son, if you want my advice, I’d shag her, asap.’
‘Nicely put.’
‘You’ve made your point now, you’ve known the girl three weeks and you haven’t shagged her. You not shagging someone after you’ve known them a few weeks is a bit like anyone else taking permanent Holy Orders.’
‘I made myself a promise,’ I point out.
‘But Fern is gagging for it.’
‘I know, I am too. But I hate giving up on stuff. I’ll make it worth her wait.’
Mark sighs and looks weary. His flat bulldog face constricts with concern. ‘Thing is, Scott, as you are currently off drugs and booze I’m worried you’re over-doing the abstaining thing.’
‘You’re scared I’ll break,’ I say flatly.
He won’t answer me directly. ‘Having sex with your fiancée will not damage the record label, getting high or pissed will.’
‘I’m OK.’
‘Is this your latest addiction? Are you now addicted to not having sex? God, things have really changed since my day.’ He shakes his head wearily. I stay silent and he knows better than to try to argue with me. ‘All right then, we’ll have to make sure you are very busy in the studio. Keep you out of trouble.’
‘Yeah, and I’ll exercise more.’
‘Fine.’
‘What about Fern?’
‘Oh, she’ll be easy to distract. There’s the wedding to plan, and besides, she’ll soon have her mate to keep her amused.’
‘Ben.’
‘Yup. He’s the perfect best mate for her to have. Women are jealous, heterosexual men always try their luck with pop stars’ girls, we don’t need the hassle. Homosexual best friends are a manager’s godsend,’ says Mark.
‘OK, so sounds like a plan. Studio and gym for me. Dresses and wedding cake and things for her.’
‘Sure you wouldn’t rather just fuck her?’
‘Thanks for your concern but I think I’ve got it under control.’
‘OK. Sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘OK. Great.’
‘Great.’
50. Fern
‘First Class and a chauffeur! Pinch me!’ cries Ben as he flings himself into the back of the Bentley. I do. ‘Ooch!’ He playfully
swats me away but then immediately pulls me back towards him, enveloping me in another enormous, effervescent hug. About the tenth he’s given me since he came through customs. I feel the slight scratch of his sandpaper stubble on my forehead and can smell the aeroplane on his clothes; even so his hug is delicious. It’s so fantastic to have him share all this with me!
‘Wow, look at you! You’re glowing. Posh clothes suit you. And I love what you’ve done with your hair,’ gushes Ben.
‘Thank you. Scott’s staff are engineering a re-vamp.’
‘What fun!’
‘Can be. Or can be a bit intimidating,’ I admit.
‘The knack with these people is to appear appreciative and show respect for their professional experience but don’t allow anyone to bully you.’
‘How do you know this stuff? Will you help me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Today I have an appointment with my clothes stylist. Will you come?’
‘You have a lovely little waist, we ought to make more of that.’
‘And my nutritionalist.’
‘You look so skinny. How much have you lost?’
‘I’m not sure. The scales in my old flat were always dodgy because the floor sloped and so I couldn’t get a proper reading. However much I’ve lost Joy keeps saying I need to lose more.’
‘Who’s Joy?’
‘Scott’s beautician. She seems to hate me. She lives her life as though she’s eternally auditioning for the part of wicked stepmother in the Christmas panto.’
‘She probably had a thing for Scott.’
‘Probably.’
‘Have they slept together?’
‘I don’t know. There’s no reason for me to think they have,’ I reply, taken aback by the suggestion.
‘There’s no reason for you to think they haven’t. It’s Scottie Taylor we’re talking about here,’ says Ben calmly.
Ben fusses about the car’s air-con; he insists that it’s icy and has it blasting on our calves. He comments on the towering palm trees lining the streets and then asks, ‘So how is the sex?’
‘Ben!’ I try to sound shocked.
‘I promise I won’t tell a soul, Scout’s honour, or should that be Scott’s honour,’ he grins, tickled by his own pun. ‘Tell! I want to know, I’m only human.’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I admit.
‘What?’ Ben looks as though I’ve slapped him.
‘We’re saving ourselves until our wedding day,’ I explain simply.
‘You’re kidding.’ He’s aghast.
‘Deadly serious.’
‘But why?’
‘Scott and I want to do things properly. It’s important our relationship is completely different from anything else Scott has ever known.’
‘How very romantic,’ he mutters, not really bothering to hide his dismay.
‘Not my idea. It’s a nightmare, actually. I think I’m going to explode with lust,’ I confide.
Ben looks sympathetic; touched by my frankness, he tries to comfort me. ‘Well, only about a month to go and it’s not like you are stuck for things to do. We’ll just have to keep you very, very busy. How’s the wedding planning going?’
I’m happy to move on to a less frustrating topic. ‘It’s in good hands. The wedding planner, Ms Colleen Lafontaine, born in New York and bred in LA, seems perfect for the job. She came very highly recommended, as she’s planned a number of high-profile Hollywood weddings; she understands the security requirements and the complications of working with slash keeping at bay the paparazzi.’
‘Marvellous, I can’t wait to make friends with her. I am here to encourage your inner Bridezilla, not that it needs much encouragement. We are going to have endless conversations showered with words such as sparkle, vintage, memorable, expressive and wow factor.’ I laugh at Ben’s excitement. ‘This wedding can be so much bigger than anything you could possibly have perceived of when you were with Adam,’ says Ben as a matter of fact. I shift uncomfortably on the seat. I haven’t allowed myself to say Adam’s name in my head let alone out loud for some
‘Have you seen Jess or anyone?’ I ask casually.
‘Not for a few days now.’
‘Does she know you are coming here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any messages?’
‘No messages.’
‘Oh.’ I wasn’t expecting any. It’s proving really difficult to stay in touch with Jess. I’ve called her a few times but I keep catching her at awkward moments. Once, she was just about to get something to eat (and just had time to remind me to call Adam), another time she was busy at work (but just had time to remind me to call Adam) and on the third occasion she was on her way out of the door (she must have been in a genuine rush because she never mentioned that I ought to call Adam). She did listen to my account of my heady night at the movie premiere but she wasn’t as thrilled about it as I’d hoped. I poured out my excitement but she seemed unable or unwilling to engage. She barely asked any questions other than whether so and so had had surgery, she always sounded vindicated when I admitted that yes, so and so had. She sniffed out words like ‘fake’, delusional’ and ‘unrealistic’. When I got to the part about my witty one-liner explaining Scott’s devotion, she didn’t even laugh. She just said, ‘It is a mystery, isn’t it?’ Which is hardly a polite thing for your best friend to say.
‘The press and magazines are fascinated by your nuptials, so who’s got the exclusive?’ asks Ben.
I’m grateful that Ben isn’t wasting his breath or our
51. Fern
I am the prodigal daughter. Following the initial rather lacklustre response to my engagement announcement my mum (which means my mum and dad because they think as one – she’s always telling him this is the case) are now extremely excited by the idea of me marrying Scott. Mum calls me every day. She says, ‘Thisiscostingafortunecallmebackstraightaway,’ and then she hangs up. I do call her back because if ever a mother and daughter are going to bond it’s going to be over a roll of tulle destined to be said daughter’s wedding dress.
On a rare occasion when I actually get to talk to my dad, I ask him what was the cause of my mother’s Damascene conversion.
‘The papers are very nice about you. Most of them say that you come from a nice home and that you are just very ordinary. She likes that,’ he says.
I’m not sure I do but as I am no longer ordinary – I am now far from it – I can ignore the former accuracy of accusation.
‘And it was part fuelled by the fact that Mrs Cooper, from up the road, her that goes on them world cruises. Can you imagine? A singles holiday at her age? Well, she turns out to be a fan,’ adds Dad. Scott would probably be horrified to hear how seriously he commands the grey pound. ‘Mrs Cooper has apparently always thought that
Dad pauses. There’s a catch in his breath which suggests to me that his fears are not completely put aside on account of Mrs Cooper’s endorsement. But after so many years of wholeheartedly agreeing with my mother he’s not foolish enough to start publicly disagreeing now.
‘She reckons he just needed the love of a good woman. Your mother seemed somewhat reassured by that but I think the deal was clinched when Mrs Cooper shook her head, in obvious bewilderment, and added, fancy that woman being your Fern. Naturally your mother was then shoved headlong into defensive outrage. What do you mean? she demanded. Well, she’s never really shown any ambition that way, says Mrs Cooper.’ Dad is clearly enjoying the drama of relaying this little exchange. He mimics both women with accuracy. ‘Any ambition what way? asked your mother.’
Mum can be very touchy about veiled criticism of her children – we have Jake’s stretch in the clink to thank for honing that particular skill.
‘And Mrs Cooper says well, she’s never shown any ambition to marry money. Plus, I never believed she really liked pop music. I thought that was the stumbling block with that other beau of hers. The last one.’
Dad and I know Mum would, if she could, rew
rite history in a way that Stalin could be proud of. Given half a chance, Adam would vanish, my hymen would magically be restored to its former intact glory and she’d have the complete fairy tale. Mrs Cooper’s insistence on reminding
‘So what did Mum say to that?’ I ask Dad.
‘Oh, she told Mrs Cooper good and proper. She says our Fern is passionate about music. Pop and stuff. She said that you dumping Adam was nothing to do with him being in the music industry. Obviously, it was because he was poor.’
‘Oh, marvellous.’ I roll my eyes at my mum’s misguided attempt at defending my honour. I can’t believe she thinks it is better for people to think I’m a gold-digger than that my CD collection is limited. ‘It’s not true,’ I moan.
‘I know, love, but she couldn’t admit to the neighbours that he was tardy about making an honest woman out of you, could she?’
I suppose not.
Lisa calls regularly, as do my siblings Bill, Fiona and Rick. As Lisa, Bill and Fiona’s kids are bridesmaids and pageboys, they all have very clear views about exactly what the little darlings ought to wear. How I’m supposed to combine ‘pretty and romantic but understated’ with ‘chic and simple yet dramatic’ and ‘pink and flouncy, very, very flouncy’ is a conundrum I’m just not up to. I simply pass all comments on to Colleen and Ben; between them they are more than capable of dealing with it. Rick calls because he likes to give me updates about just how pissed he got at whichever party or gig he most recently blagged his way into. He’s suddenly garrulous, gregarious and popular as the future brother-in-law of Scottie Taylor. I’m glad he’s having so much fun. Even Jake sent a letter from prison. It was written in his messy, barely legible
Dear Sis,
