Love Lies

by Adele Parks

  They come into the den. ‘What have you two been up to today?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve just picked up some zero fat frozen yogurts and a re-supply of E-boost dietary supplement from the bagel café,’ says Ben. Gone are the days when any of us would buy curry or a pickled egg at the chippie.

  ‘And now we’re meeting Colleen to talk about the wedding,’ says Fern. Of course they are.

  I’ve been so busy in the studio that I haven’t been involved in the planning at all. Too many cooks spoil the broth and all that. But Mark says I have to show I’m supportive and interested. ‘How’s it all coming together?’

  Fern looks delighted I’ve asked. She flips open her Smythson leather-bound wedding planning notebook. ‘Colleen gave me an updated status list this morning. Should I take it from the top?’

  ‘Go for it.’

  ‘Well, we’ve chosen the diamonds for my jewellery and for the bridesmaids’ presents.’

  ‘All very sparkly,’ chips in Ben.

  ‘We’ve confirmed the venue, menu, wines and champagne,’ Fern adds.

  ‘All very yummy,’ encourages Ben.

  ‘The booklets for the service are at the printers.’

  ‘We’ve ordered three thousand candles.’

  ‘Four hundred ornate birdcages.’

  ‘Packed with silk butterflies.’

  I raise my eyebrows ‘For?’

  ‘For the tables.’

  ‘Right,’ I nod.

  ‘Yesterday we earnestly discussed feathers, tea-light holders, baubles and the exact shade of icing for heart-shaped biscuits for ten consecutive hours. We all agreed it was a great Hollywood moment and Colleen opened the champagne,’ says Fern with a full-on laugh.

  Ben puts his hand on Fern’s shoulders and starts to lead her out of the door. ‘Speaking of Colleen, we’re supposed to be meeting her right about now and Mark sent us to find you, Scott. He wants you to come too.’

  Mark has an A-list quota he’s keen to meet and is fanatically monitoring the replies as they come in.

  ‘But you can’t see the dress designs,’ says Fern, looking concerned. ‘It’s unlucky.’

  ‘It’s unlucky for the groom to see the bride in the actual dress,’ I correct.

  ‘Just stay by the door,’ insists Ben.

  53. Fern

  Jenny Packham is designing my dress. It was almost impossible to choose who should, as Vera Wang and Amanda Wakeley also showed me their sketches. My dilemma was that all the designs were heart-bleedingly beautiful. Saadi’s dilemma was which designer would cause the biggest sensation. In the end we plumped for Jenny because when one of Saadi’s assistants did the initial scouting to each designer’s studio she noticed that Jenny had Scott’s official calendar hanging in her office. Mark loved that and fed the story as a titbit to the gossip columns.

  Ben, Colleen, Saadi and I sit at the dining-room table looking at sketches of my wedding dress while Joy and a couple of pretty, nameless assistants mill around. The sketches are breathtaking. Jenny specializes in luxurious bias-cut dresses with delicate, intricate beading. Her creations are drenched with a dazzling glamour and beauty that harks back to gentler, more romantic days; they are elegant and feminine. I absolutely can’t wait for my first fitting.

  Mark drifts over to where we are sitting; I wondered how long he’d be able to resist interfering. He picks up a sketch of the dress.

  ‘Don’t go too flouncy, she needs to be rock chic,’ he says to Colleen.

  Hello! I’m here! I can’t get used to people talking over

  Mark goes on. ‘Don’t over-style. Loose hair. Almost dirty-looking. Was it Sting’s Trudy who arrived at the church on a horse or was that Paula Yates? That’s what we need. Something different and eye-catching.’

  Ben, Colleen, the entourage and I all glare at Mark in unison. He takes a hint and goes to sit down with Scott. The rest of us turn back to the matter in hand.

  ‘Mark’s right about one thing. We do need a unifying USP,’ says Colleen.

  ‘A what?’ I ask.

  ‘A unique selling point,’ clarifies Ben.

  ‘For my wedding?’

  ‘If not then, when?’ says Saadi, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Bollywood?’ suggests Ben. ‘Bangles, spicy food, girls in saris serving lychees.’

  ‘French boudoir? Wide skirts, bosoms on show, garters,’ suggests Joy.

  ‘Oriental? Fern could arrive on a dragon,’ says Saadi’s first assistant.

  ‘I don’t think there are any dragons left,’ sneers Saadi’s second assistant (clearly on the look-out for a promotion).

  ‘What, not even in China? We could ship in.’

  ‘Silver ice,’ offers someone else. ‘We’d need snow machines and ice sculptures. Fern could arrive in a sleigh pulled by huskies.’

  ‘Flowers,’ I say firmly. My voice slices through the madness.

  ‘That’s your theme?’ asks Joy, raising a perfectly arched (threaded rather than plucked) eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, flowers and romance. I want beads and flowers, and glitter and flowers, and satin and flowers,’ I gush. ‘Mostly just lots of flowers. Romantic flowers.’

  There’s a silence. After a while Colleen says, ‘Don’t you think romance has been done to death at weddings?’

  I ignore her and continue to describe my vision. ‘I want inches of petals for the guests to stride through and the smell of flowers floating through the air for miles around.’

  ‘Or maybe fur but I’m not talking white fur, I’m thinking leopard skin,’ says another complete stranger. I glare at her.

  ‘And flowers threaded through my hair.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting real leopard skin. The animal rights activists would be all over us, mobbing the reception. I just meant –’

  ‘Give the lady her flowers,’ Scott shouts from the corner of the room where we banished him.

  There’s a hiatus in the conversation. We’d almost forgotten he was there; a rare occurrence but his imperial power has now been reinstated.

  ‘Fine,’ says Colleen with a heavy sigh. ‘I suppose we can do something with flowers.’

  Then there’s complete silence. I turn to him and send out a look of pure, undiluted love and mouth, ‘Thank you’. He is so unselfish with me. He is one hundred per cent behind me. For me. My happiness is his everything. He’s wonderful. Adam was so wrong about him.

  54. Scott

  ‘Son, you’re a pro,’ says Mark, his delight and admiration oozing from every pore as we leave the room.

  ‘Agreed but what are you talking about in particular?’ I ask, giving in to a wide yawn. I love yawning. And stretching’s good too. Not the sort of stretching you do in yoga – can’t be doing with that. Well, I did go through a phase where I practised ashtanga yoga but that phase didn’t last long; it gets dead fucking boring, really quickly, and hideously uncomfortable too. But a normal stretch, first thing in the morning, or an I’ve-been-sat-still-too-long stretch – well, nothing beats that.

  Mark continues, ‘Stroke of genius, you intervening when the wild cats were backing Fern into a corner about the wedding theme. Now she’s feeling all gaga about you.’

  ‘Default setting.’

  ‘Yeah, but now even more so.’

  ‘Flowers mean a lot to her. It’s sweet.’

  ‘Now would be a good time to talk about the pre-nup.’

  ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think she might get upset about it.’

  ‘I think she’s bright enough to understand exactly what we are trying to achieve,’ says Mark confidently.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I mean.’ I don’t want to upset Fern. I’ve enjoyed the peaceful, no drama, no tantrum existence

  ‘Let me handle it. I’ll call the lawyers, they can be here in fifteen. At least they’d bloody better be, considering the retainer we pay them. You go and find the little lady.’

  He flicks out his phone – I think he keeps it permanently up his
sleeve, like some sort of magician.

  I wonder what approach Mark will use to introduce the subject of the pre-nup to Fern: subtle, humorous or sympathetic? He goes for direct. He clamps his chubby hand on the base of her back the moment she comes through the door and he steers her towards the gang of crows, suited and booted, huddled in the corner. I sit behind the pianoforte. I always play chopsticks at tricky moments. Everyone loves chopsticks.

  ‘These are the lawyers that are dealing with the pre-nup,’ says Mark starkly. ‘I wanted you to meet them, Fern.’

  ‘The pre-nup?’ Fern looks like a rabbit caught not just in headlights but in the actual pie.

  ‘A pre-nuptial is a contract that clarifies your shared responsibilities and gives you and your partner peace of mind, security and more time to concentrate on enjoying your relationship,’ says one of the Blues Brothers look-alikies.

  Fern looks around the room. I think she’s searching for the autocue because that sure sounded rehearsed. ‘I know what a pre-nup is,’ she snaps. ‘Although not necessarily from that description. I’m wondering why Scott and I need one.’ I feel her glance bounce my way but I keep my eyes firmly on the ivories.

  ‘To predict the outcome of any divorce settlement before the marriage even takes place,’ says another one of the gang with a studied grimace.

  ‘To prevent speculative claims following a short marriage,’ adds a third with a slight shrug.

  ‘To save thousands in legal costs in the event of a divorce,’ adds a fourth man gravely.

  Fern doesn’t say anything and the lawyers take this as encouragement enough. The lawyer who spoke first picks up the baton. He sends a thin smile in Fern’s direction but it’s too weak to make it across the room. ‘Both parties should have lawyers to represent them to ensure the agreement is enforceable. You’ll need to hire a firm. You have to have the contract for a week before you can sign it. So we’ll meet again, Ms Dickson, with your attorney, next Wednesday. Shall we say 2 p.m.?’

  He puts down the fat document and with that the suits vanish in a puff of smoke leaving Mark, Fern and me alone. I tinkle with the ivories again and wait for someone to speak. Fern is focusing on a small box of beads that Colleen has inadvertently left behind. I understand that these beads are going to be liberally scattered across the tables at the wedding, so the whole place gleams. I get the feeling Fern thinks their glistening promise is a tad tarnished in light of the lawyers’ visit. It takes a while before she finds her voice.

  ‘Did you want this, Scott?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh no. Scott rarely initiates discussions around money matters,’ says Mark jovially, saving me the effort of replying.

  ‘But you want me to sign?’ Again she launches the

  ‘It’s for the best. Look, Fern, these things aren’t water-tight if that’s what you’re fretting about. Pre-nups are, at best, a partial solution to minimizing the risks of marital property disputes in times of divorce.’

  ‘We won’t be getting divorced,’ says Fern firmly.

  ‘No one ever thinks they will, but forty per cent of the blighters who walk down the aisle are wrong, aren’t they? You can see my concern,’ says Mark.

  Finally Fern drags her eyes from me and glares at Mark. ‘No, I can’t actually. Do you think I’m just marrying Scott for his money?’

  ‘Love, no one would blame you,’ says Mark, treating Fern to some rare truth.

  ‘I would blame me! I’m not marrying him for his money.’ Glancing back at me she yells, ‘I’m not marrying you for your money.’ It’s really uncomfortable.

  ‘Then there won’t be any problem with you signing it, will there?’ says Mark reasonably.

  ‘Yes, there’s a problem. The problem is, this means Scott does not believe that we’re for ever. Or at least he’s considering the possibility that we might not be and he’s already protecting himself against that possibility.’

  It’s the first time she’s done that – talked about me as though I’m not in the room. I don’t care, as such. Everyone does it sooner or later and I’ve just blanked her direct questions. I’m just saying it’s a first for us. Fuck, I wish I wasn’t in the room. I really don’t think it was necessary for me to get involved in this.

  ‘Look, Fern, read it. Take some legal advice. It’s a very

  I leave her alone with her shiny beads.

  55. Fern

  I call Lisa.

  ‘Ouch,’ she says when I tell her about the pre-nup. It’s nearly midnight her time, but she doesn’t appear to mind. She’s very nice about the fact that I keep crying. The children are in bed and Charlie is away on business – situation normal. She’s alone with a glass of wine and the latest novel she’s reading for her book club. I can imagine it all. Her house will be calm and immaculate; she and everything in it will give off an aura of order and self-satisfaction. Often, over the last couple of years, when my old flat became grubby beyond repair (a single dirty sock breaking the camel’s back), I’d run to Lisa’s home and take sanctuary. I love it there and not just because of the pristine and expensive fixtures and fittings or the air of almost religious serenity but because of the tangible sense of contentment; Lisa has caught it and bagged it, that most precious of commodities. I hang on her every word as though she is the Dalai Lama. She’s cracked this relationship thing. I want to get it right too.

  ‘So what do you think? It’s outrageous, isn’t it?’ I demand.

  ‘Are the terms as generous as Mark says?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t read it, but that’s not the point.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’d say it is. I don’t think a pre-nup is a surprise or unreasonable, considering Scott’s wealth. You just have to make sure you’ve got a good deal. Rich people do things differently. You knew that. You wanted different,’ she says calmly.

  Suddenly, I find her calm very annoying – almost sanctimonious. Doesn’t she understand I want Scott for ever, not on loan? A pre-nup says that this is a flimsy little effort at a marriage. I want a solid commitment. It’s no surprise that Lisa assumes this is all about the cash, that’s her take on things.

  I think about calling Jess but can’t bring myself to do it. If she’s in, I’m pretty sure she won’t pour on tender words of consolation and encouragement; that hasn’t been her bag of late and if she’s out I’ll be left wondering who she’s out with. Adam? The thought does nothing to calm me. She wouldn’t, would she? He wouldn’t, would he? I can’t think about that now.

  So next, I call Rick. After giving him a lengthy blow-by-blow account of what the lawyers said to me, and what Mark said to me, and what I said to him, and what I wished I’d said to him, and what I’m going to say to Scott and what I expect Scott to say to Mark, I pause for breath.

  ‘Bummer,’ says my younger brother.

  Then, I call my big sister Fiona. Her response is at least more in-depth, although not totally comforting.

  ‘I can’t see that you have any choice but to sign.’

  Again I try to explain. ‘I’m not objecting to signing, I’m objecting to the very existence of a pre-nup and what

  I don’t get to finish. Fiona interrupts, ‘Oh, get over yourself, Fern. You’re the luckiest woman in the world. Don’t you dare muck this up. The kids are really looking forward to being bridesmaids. They’ve told everyone in school that their aunt is marrying Scottie Taylor. They’ve never been so happy. Get a lawyer, get the best deal you can and sign.’

  I’ve nobody left to call.

  I pick up the blasted pre-nup and I read the first paragraph; it’s a hefty and confusing document. I remember my history teacher explaining that contracts used to be written in Latin, now it appears they are written in gobbledygook. I need a lawyer to explain it. I don’t know any, so I call Mark and ask him to find me one.

  ‘That’s hardly independent, is it, Fern?’ he says, but he sounds relieved that I’m asking for a lawyer at all.

  ‘My othe
r choice is sticking a pin in the yellow pages,’ I point out wearily. I’m not even sure if there is such a thing as the yellow pages in LA; it’s scary that there’s so much I don’t know about my new life.

  ‘I’ll ask Colleen. She’s a wedding planner, she knows all the best divorce lawyers,’ says Mark, without apparent irony. ‘I’ll get her to set something up asap.’

  ‘Yeah, Mark, you do that.’ I put the phone down and curl up into a tight little ball on my bed.

  56. Scott

  We don’t see Fern at supper after all. There’s a whole gang of people hanging around, and she’s sent word to say she just wants a quiet one in her room. Her nutritionist sends up a bowl of snow-pea shoots, apparently rich in vitamins A, B, C and E but – let’s face it – not as tasty as chips. After supper most of the guys go to the movie room to watch a DVD and a few go to my den to play on the footie table. Ben and I wander outside to the hammocks, so we can lie on our backs and watch the stars as usual. I find this ritual the three of us have developed really relaxing; it’s a shame Fern’s not up to it tonight.

  ‘Have you checked in on Fern?’ I ask Ben.

  He sighs, flops back into the hammock and folds his long limbs in after him, in that elegant way he has.

  ‘Yeah, I did.’

  ‘She OK?’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  From his tone I guess that Fern isn’t buzzing but I don’t particularly want to get into it. Luckily, nor does Ben. He doesn’t mention the pre-nup but says instead, ‘The wedding plans are exhausting her. I’ve told her she ought to have a day off from it tomorrow, before she becomes unbearably stressy.’

  Fern does not plough fields or chop trees, she doesn’t even have to put a full day’s graft in at the flower shop

  We both stare at the blue-black sky. I can’t do that pointing out the Great Bear and the Hunting Dogs and what the fuck. I think it’s all ludicrous. Honestly, you can join the stars up to draw anything you want. But I do like counting them. Tonight there are loads and I keep losing count. Ben starts to chat about whether he should take up surfing; motivation being that there are loads of fit blokes out on the surf. And he asks me about my tattoos and whether I think he should get one. Is he too old at thirty-three, he asks. I know for a fact that he’s thirty-five but I don’t call him on it.