by Adele Parks
Then Ben starts to talk about Wedding Album. He’s been to the studio once or twice now and he thinks the album is amazing; I never tire of hearing him (or anyone, for that matter) say so.
‘I take in the words and it’s like taking air into my lungs, their meaning swills about, nurturing my every organ, giving life to my body,’ he says with a big, giddy grin.
‘Wow,’ I smirk back. ‘You are so gay,’ I tease.
‘That is a point of fact. But you know what I mean, ultimate experience of life. This album is going to be huge. It’s like this album is saying Scottie Taylor has all the answers.’
‘Which is somewhat ironic, don’t you think? I know nothing.’ I say the last sentence in a jokey quasi-Mafia voice to dispel the intensity of the confession.
‘Oh, I don’t know, you’re not so ignorant,’ says Ben. ‘I think you’ve got this living stuff sussed more than the rest of us. More than you know.’
‘What’s the point of being sussed beyond your own understanding?’ I challenge. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’
It is great being sober; you can at least spot it when someone starts talking bollocks. The problem I used to have when I got drunk so often was that I started to confuse being insensible with being invincible. Maybe that’s what I liked about it at first. At least now I’m clear that I’m not invincible; even if knowing this makes me sad.
Ben sits up in the hammock. To do this well, a certain amount of grace and skill is required. Few have this but he does. The hammock sways gently as he leans back on his elbows.
‘Look around you, Scott. You’ve said yourself that no one stumbles upon success, you have to earn it, and from where I’m sitting, it appears you are up to your neck in success. You must have some of the answers.’
His confidence is touching. He reminds me of Fern, enthusiastic and optimistic – I can see why they are such good mates.
‘Should I tell you something I’ve worked out?’ I ask him. ‘It’s a secret.’
Ben looks excited. I think he’s expecting me to tell him how to achieve eternal life. I lean closer to him and whisper in his ear.
‘The truth is success doesn’t exist. At least, not for me. Anticipation of success is the best thing there is. It’s not finite, you see. It’s not complete or done with.’ Ben looks disappointed. He draws away from me sharply, as though I’ve just infected him with more than bad news. I go on. ‘Success never is actually. Which should be an exciting thing but turns out to be hugely frustrating. Whereas failure, failure is blocking and choking and everywhere, so that’s no good either.’
We stay silent for some moments. Ben pours himself another glass of champagne. It’s his fourth or fifth this evening, I think. He swallows it down in two gulps.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he says.
‘Ask away.’
‘Why are you marrying Fern?’
I thought it’d be that. ‘She’s lovely,’ I say plainly.
‘True, but you’ve met a lot of lovely women. Why her? I only ask because she’s my friend and as you said yourself, she’s lovely. I don’t want to see her –’
‘Hurt.’
‘I was going to say crucified. I’m expecting a fatal wounding.’
I don’t even pause. ‘I’m marrying her to capture the
The truth sits between us like a massive shard of glass; dangerous, brittle, beautiful.
‘I see,’ says Ben with a deep sigh.
This is an interesting moment. I like to fill my life with as many interesting moments as I can and this is definitely one. It’s dangerous and it’s faulty but it’s also honest.
‘Both those things ought to reassure you,’ I point out. ‘If I am to capture the US market I will have to be faithful and fair for a substantial period of time and I don’t plan to do drugs ever again.’ I flash him my cheeky, winning smile. It never fails. I know he’ll be flattered that we are talking so frankly. He’ll hand me his loyalty on a silver plate. In case he thinks I’m callous, I add, ‘I plan to do my best by her.’
‘How good is your best, Scott?’
‘In my career, my best is excellent. In my love life, it’s piss poor.’
‘And which is Fern part of?’ I can’t answer that. I’m undecided and that lack of clarity is not something either of us can celebrate. ‘Do you think you are ready to settle down?’ he probes.
‘Settle down is such a depressing term. I don’t want to settle for anything,’ I say awkwardly. I still want to reassure him. ‘She’s going to be OK, Ben. I’m going to give her what she wants.’
‘Which is?’
‘Marriage, babies, a home. A crack at being extraordinary. I can give her more than she could ever have imagined, even in her wildest dreams. And I don’t just mean
‘How do you know about the ultimatum? Did she tell you?’
‘No, she doesn’t know I know. She’s never talked to me about it. I guess she doesn’t consider it her finest hour.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘Saadi told me. After Fern delivered her deadline Adam was forever procrastinating with his crew. Everyone working at the Wembley gig knew all about the fact that his girl wanted to get engaged on her birthday. He didn’t deserve her. He’s a loser.’
‘You know, he isn’t such a loser,’ says Ben carefully.
‘He let her go,’ I reply firmly.
‘How could he have fought you?’
‘He could have acted before she’d even met me.’
Ben pauses, then sighs and says, ‘He had. He’d bought a house.’
‘What?’ That’s news.
Ben looks agitated, torn. ‘She doesn’t know. I never told her. I’ve often wondered whether I should have but what would the point be now? I only know because Adam let it slip the day before her birthday. He wanted it to be a big surprise. His plan was to take her there after the Friday night gig. He had the keys; he was going
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah. That’s what he thought.’
57. Fern
The lawyer spends hours trying to explain to me the ins and outs of the weighty tome. It’s very dull but she reassures me that I am getting a generous deal. After only two years’ marriage or the production of a baby, whichever is sooner, I have a good chance of walking away with half Scott’s enormous fortune. The lawyer seems really happy with the arrangement. I mumble that if she’s so happy with it then perhaps she should sign it.
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Ms Dickson. This is a marvellous contract. Drawn up by the industry’s finest but very fair. No need to be petulant. You’re marrying a very generous man.’
‘And he can prove his generosity when he divorces me,’ I mutter sulkily.
‘Providing you’re faithful,’ she cautions.
I haven’t asked a single question but suddenly one drops from the sky. ‘What about his fidelity?’
‘If you look at page 92, clause 13.4, subsection 6, item 2, addendum 3, you’ll note that his infidelity is covered.’
‘Covered? In what way?’
‘In so much as his infidelity is recognized as grounds for divorce but you would not receive any extra recompense, over and above that stated on pages 45 to 71, with particular reference to clauses 17 to 17.9, subsections 4.2 to 4.7.’
‘In English?’
‘I think your fiancé’s lawyers are anticipating infidelity.’
‘Anticipating it?’ I can’t keep the shock out of my voice.
‘At least acknowledging that it’s a very real possibility and therefore they’re not prepared to offer you extra compensation if that were indeed the case. But, as I say, the divorce terms are particularly generous anyway so you have little to worry about.’
Right.
‘The important thing to remember is that you don’t get a penny if you ever talk about any aspect of your relationship to the press. That’s covered in multiple clauses. That’s watertight.’
As if I would. How can Scott think that of me? I pick up the hefty contract and
as much of my dignity as I can scrape off the floor and go to find Mark.
He’s in the second reception room. It’s one of my favourite rooms; south-facing, it’s always warm and bright. It’s definitely sunnier than my mood. Exasperated, I demand, ‘Can you explain page 92, clause 13.4, subsection 6, item – oh, you know what I’m talking about.’
Mark, Saadi and Joy look up from their work. They’re pawing over press cuttings. Every magazine and paper in the western world finds the wedding plans fascinating. There are bets running on the number of bridesmaids I’m having (ten; including three of Scott’s celeb friends I haven’t yet met), the colour they’ll be wearing (pink, although I haven’t told Jess that yet). Tabloids are battling to discover where the wedding is going to take place but the venue is
Mark stares at me and then turns to Saadi.
‘The infidelity clause,’ she prompts. Why am I not surprised she’d know the finer details of the pre-nup by heart?
‘Oh, yeah. Well, that had to be included for obvious reasons.’
‘Obvious reasons?’ I ask. I hope my voice isn’t as shaky as my legs; I’m practically dancing a jig.
‘Don’t get us wrong. We adore Scott and want him to be happy. We’d like to believe that the pair of you will last for ever. But…’
He leaves the ‘but’ hanging in the air. It’s damning enough to have sucked all the pleasure out of the day. I’m unsure who he means by ‘us’. The record company, the band members, Scott’s mum? I have no idea, but I suddenly feel weighed down by the sense that there is a silent army behind Scott and no one in my corner. It shouldn’t matter. We’re not at war. But it does matter. I stay silent and Mark is forced to fill in the gap.
‘Well, you know how it is. Scott gets infatuated with things. With people. Spellbound almost. We’ve seen it before. And then there’s the danger he might act on that infatuation. We’re just protecting him against any possible indiscretions he might succumb to.’
Mark, to his credit, sounds embarrassed that he has to tell me this. I’ve never seen Mark stirred before. It depresses me that he gives this subject so much weight.
‘It’s nothing to be worried about. Even when he does act –’ Mark struggles to find the right word ‘– imprudently, then the interest dries up quickly enough. On average his obsessions last twenty-four hours.’
‘We’re all stunned that you’ve lasted a month,’ says Joy bitchily.
I shoot her a filthy look and turn back to Mark. His gaze bounces around the room, resting on the drapes, the rug, the smooth obelisk ornaments; anywhere other than me. To date, I’ve been overwhelmed by the tastefulness of all that I am surrounded by. Now the room looks vulgar. It is quiet and the sun beats through the windows; I feel suffocated.
‘Even if I accept that Scott has fallen prey to these fleeting obsessions in the past, what we have is quite different. What we have is called love,’ I say firmly.
Mark stands up and walks towards me. Awkwardly he puts both his hands on my shoulders and faces me. It’s the first time I can remember him deliberately touching me. It ought to be a comfort but it’s not.
‘I’m not saying he wants to have sex with anyone else, right now.’ Well, that’s a relief since he isn’t even having sex with me yet. ‘I’m saying somewhere along the line he might want to. Sex is just another compulsion for him. He can’t really help himself.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ I say, struggling to sound calm.
Mark shrugs. I get the feeling he doesn’t much care
Where is Scott? It never crossed my mind to go and discuss my worries about this contract with him. That’s odd. That’s not right. I think it’s because he stayed absolutely silent when the lawyers presented the pre-nup. No matter what I asked him, he played dumb. So now I’ve come to Mark, hoping he can sort it out, explain it, tidy it away. After all, that’s what Mark does.
I was quickly made aware that there are a number of people who put themselves between Scott and me and I’ve co-operated when necessary, but I’d always assumed – hoped – they’d fade away as I settled into my life in LA. I realize the opposite has happened; their influence seems to have spread and stained – like billows of blood after a shark’s bite. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.
‘And if I don’t agree to sign this?’ I ask.
‘Well, that’s your right,’ replies Mark. ‘You can say that you don’t want a pre-nup and that you want to go into this marriage with as much hope and as little chance as every other bride does.’ I nod, ferociously confirming this is indeed my wish. Mark shrugs, pauses and then adds, ‘But he might not go ahead. He might not want to marry you if he knows you can embarrass him in public, perhaps ruin him. He’s been damaged enough by the media. He might not want to take that risk.’
I feel as though I’ve just been dropped into a bag of spiders as every hair on my body stands up tall. I can’t lose him. I can’t. Scott has become my everything. His world is my world. I love it. I love him; everyone does. I
I look at Mark and try to weigh up whether he is a dependable conduit of communication or whether he’s as much good as the ‘telephones’ Fiona and I used to make as kids. We would tie a couple of paper cups together with a piece of string, run in opposite directions until the string was taut and then bellow to one another. The message never carried around corners and all subtleties were lost.
Mark smiles at me. I don’t respond. He shrugs at me; it seems a more truthful gesture.
‘OK, I’ll sign it,’ I say wearily.
What choice do I have? I just want to get out of the room.
58. Scott
Fern and I haven’t rowed but I’ve been on the receiving end of an inevitable low-grade sulk since Mark first introduced her to the lawyers. It’s to be expected, all very normal, all very predictable, but somehow, the fact that she is behaving as expected is disappointing to me. She’s not extraordinary then. She’s like all the other hundreds of women I’ve met. When I say this to Mark he sighs, ‘I hope to God you are right, son.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m counting on the fact that she’s as weak and malleable as every other bugger. The last thing we need now is an autonomous philosophy emerging; that could only lead to trouble. In fact, I think you need to go and apply a band-aid. Do a bit of fussing and soothing, make her feel better about everything. Loved up. The most important thing here is that she remains head over heels about you.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that’s in any doubt,’ I say huffily.
‘No lad, I’m not. She was half in love with you before she met you. You saw the postcard pinned to her staff-room wall. I spotted the photo of her with your waxwork when I was scouring her albums.’
Mark isn’t going to say what we both know; being half in love with the image of me is quite different from being real me. Pretty much everyone on the planet is the first; my mum is the only absolute definite in the second camp.
‘We don’t want to fuck this up, Scott, not when we’re so close and we’ve all worked so hard,’ adds Mark, warily.
‘OK, OK, I’ll go and sweet-talk her.’
I find her outside, stood near the pool. It’s getting dark but it’s still warm. I put my arms around her waist and kiss her neck. I feel the hairs on her body respond, confirming what we all need to know – I’m irresistible.
‘Hey, my beautiful wifie-to-be, what are you doing out here all on your own?’
‘Just thinking,’ says Fern. She doesn’t turn towards me but she does lean her head back to rest on my chest; she melts into me and we both silently watch the sunset. For about three and a half minutes. I can’t stay still for longer than that.
‘Did you have a chat with Ben today?’ I asked Ben to talk to Fern about the pre-nup stuff. To point out that he thinks it’s perfectly reasonable (which he does) and that she’s done the right thing by signing (which she has).
‘Yes.’
Well, that’s good, although her staunch silence suggests
that I still have to put a bit more effort in. I don’t want to talk directly about the pre-nup; it’s a can of worms, so instead, I go tactical.
‘What is it you want, Fern?’ I ask with a sigh.
Clever this, for two reasons. One, by calling her Fern, instead of ‘Sweets’ or ‘Petal’ – my usual endearments – I’ll make her realize I’m being very serious, taking her very
‘I wanted the fairy tale,’ she murmurs. Her answer surprises me. It’s very honest.
‘That’s what you’ve got, Sweets,’ I say, tightening my hold around her, drawing her closer to my body. I start to think about having sex with her because then my cock will stiffen and women love that too. They all love to think I can’t restrain myself around them; that they’re irresistible to me. Nothing doing, so I start to think of having sex with her and Scarlett Johansson. That does it. Fern doesn’t say anything, so I’m forced to go where I wanted never to tread. ‘This stuff with the lawyers doesn’t mean you have any less of a fairy tale, you know.’ Of course, this isn’t strictly true. Let’s face it, when reading Cinderella no one has ever seen the page where a bunch of overpaid, over-educated arseholes divide up Prince Charming’s property, have they?
‘In a way I think it does,’ says Fern, insisting on remaining committed to telling me stuff as she sees it. ‘But, actually, that’s not what I’m thinking about.’
Really? I know curiosity killed the cat. Thing is, there are times when I can be really strong and other times I’m
‘Oh, Jess and stuff.’
‘Is she still acting all jealous and grumpy?’
‘Something like that.’
Problem is, Fern is so wrapped up in her new life she has no idea what the people left behind are feeling. This mate – all her mates – no doubt feel jealous, abandoned, resentful or just plain old-fashioned shy – I’ve seen it all in the people I left behind. And even if I’m wrong and this mate of hers is exceptional and is genuinely blissedout by Fern’s good fortune, she still won’t know how to handle herself; she won’t want to appear sycophantic or on the make so she’ll probably go too much the other way and be chilly. I’d have thought Fern would have a grip on this by now.
