Love Lies (22 page)

44. Fern

America is built with giants in mind. Everything is on a galactic scale. Skyscrapers actually do scrape the sky, there are ten- and twelve-lane road systems and flyovers that look big enough for spaceships to land. The plates of food are vast, the cartons of yogurt are enormous and you can swim in the beakers of coffee. And as far as I’m concerned, the best thing of all, the stores stretch on and on and on and never seem to meet the horizon. The size of the US is probably one of the reasons Scott fits in here – as he’s gargantuan too.

Scott is being such a sweetheart. He must be really busy with his album and yet he’s making a huge effort to help settle me in. He carves out time to show me all the sights. I don’t just mean the tourist stuff I’ve circled in the guidebook; he’s keen to show me his LA too.

We visit Disneyland, we go and watch the whales swimming, we visit the zoo and we go to the predictable (unmissable), if not slightly crude and tasteless, Hollywood Boulevard. There’s a shockingly bad waxwork museum there. The models are all slightly out of focus, off-scale versions of American actors. It’s not a patch on Madame Tussaud’s. I once had my photo taken with Scott’s model in Madame Tussaud’s in London but I don’t confess to it. He knows I was a fan before I met him, not a crazy fan but enough of a fan. Yet confessing to the fact that I was sad enough to pose with a glorified candle would seem weird now. I’ll have to find that photo and get rid of it. Knowing it exists sort of says I was half in love with Scott before I met him, which is bothersome.

We also visit the Guinness Book of Records Museum, where being a freak is celebrated; God Bless America. I insist that we go to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and take pictures. I’m desperate to put my hands and feet in the prints of Sophia Loren and Susan Sarandon. Scott is reluctant.

‘I’m not mad about actors,’ he says.

‘Why’s that then?’

‘The people who make it their business to be vicious about me say that’s because I’ve never been offered a role on the silver screen and I’m consumed with vulgar jealousy. It’s nothing as crass. I just don’t think they should be paid such obscene amounts for doing what the rest of us do all the time for free.’

He says this so casually that I almost miss the importance of what he’s saying. Poor Scott, he certainly has come across more than his fair share of fakers and I suppose he does have to perform for strangers a lot of the time. ‘Everyone isn’t acting all the time,’ I point out encouragingly. ‘I’m not acting. You’re not acting.’

Scott grins, ‘OK, let’s go to Grauman’s then. You know I can’t deny you anything.’

We spend a lot of time on Sunset Boulevard. The road is massive. In fact all roads are unfeasibly long in the US; when I was first given someone’s business card I thought the house number was a telephone number. Other than length, it is a surprisingly mundane road to look at. Despite this, the illustrious and celebrated regularly come here, not just to score drugs; it has history. Scott tells me that a part of Sunset is known as ‘Guitar Row’, due to the large number of guitar stores and music-industry-related business dotted about. He points out the legendary recording studios – Sunset Sound and United Western Recorders – and he takes me to the Whiskey, a club renowned for launching the Doors and where Elton John made his US debut.

We visit Johnny Depp’s old nightclub, the Viper Room, but we don’t stay long; nightclubs and addicts are an explosive brew. We move on to the Standard to eat chips at the twenty-four-hour restaurant; Leonardo Di Caprio and Cameron Diaz reportedly have shares in that establishment. We sit in a cosy booth and chat over the sound of ice being crushed as pomegranate margaritas are being prepared for other people. When I’m in the mood for champagne we pop to Chateau Marmont, a plush, fantastical hideaway, or we float in the clouds at the Sky Bar. All these celebrated hotels, with legendary bars, boast famous patrons. We (and a lot of other recognizable people) do our shopping at Ralph’s supermarket, also on Sunset. The bread’s good but the thrill for me is that I stood behind Drew Barrymore in the checkout queue. I’m secretly keeping a list detailing the famous people I’ve met or spotted. Besides Drew, I spotted Jennifer Aniston while dining at the Mondrian and I stood in the loo queue with Emily Blunt at Mel’s (it’s a diner that’s celebrated for its customers – strike that, I meant to say its waffles, strike that, I did mean the customers). I sat at a sushi bar next to Anne Marie Duff. It all leaves me gasping with excitement.

Scott keeps the best until last. Just when I start to insist that I simply can’t be any more impressed with the razzmatazz, glitz and notoriety, he takes me to Rodeo Drive.

I stand, mouth wide open, gaping in absolute awe. Rodeo Drive is truly dazzling. Everything shines; the expansive windows displaying breathtaking clothes and jewels, the dark, sleek cars, the blonde glossy women and even the older plump men who accompany them, shine. These men wear a uniform of the confident wealthy: pale blue shirts, red ties and navy blazers with buffed buttons and cufflinks and enormous watches that… yes, you’ve guessed it… shine. The street is clean enough to eat your dinner off and every street lamp is decorated with hanging baskets full of pretty bougainvillea that gently sway in the breeze. I turn around and around in circles.

‘Where should we start?’ I gasp, craning my neck to take in the enormous, shiny buildings. ‘I know, I know.’ I scrabble in my bag and find my all-singing all-dancing iPhone. ‘I have to call Ben,’ I say excitedly. He is the perfect person to appreciate this perfection.

‘Ben?’ asks Scott.

‘My old boss, remember?’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘Darling, how utterly fabulous to hear from you,’ shrieks Ben. ‘My most famous, famous, famous friend.’ I’m pretty sure Scott will have overheard him.

‘Well, I’m not really famous,’ I point out, blushing a little.

‘Clearly you haven’t been keeping up with the press, darling. You are a face,’ he yelps excitedly. ‘Every glossy has you plastered across the front page. Headline: “She’s delighted, er, make that chuffed.” Too funny.’

‘Which paper wrote that?’ I ask, distraught (Saadi had been too; Scott thought it was hilarious). ‘I sound like a trying-too-hard idiot.’

‘Most of them ran with that, since it’s the only comment you’ve made so far. And I noticed that you are taking all the credit for B&B. Most papers say you own it.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ I mutter. ‘The papers aren’t always that accurate.’

‘No kidding. Don’t sweat it. Your engagement has been marvellous for business. I’ve had to take on three new fulltime staff.’

‘Three!’

‘One permanent and two on contract. When the fuss dies down I won’t need the contractors but I might as well milk it while I can,’ says business savvy Ben.

‘So the permanent girl, she’s –’

‘To replace you, that’s right. Well, you aren’t coming back here, are you?’

‘No, I suppose not. Although it seems weird to think of someone doing my job. I love my job. I suppose I should say loved now. I miss it.’

‘What’s to miss? You hated the fact that you had to work Saturdays and you moaned that your hands were always scratched by rose thorns or chapped due to the constant dipping in and out of water,’ points out Ben.

‘True, and some of the customers were irritatingly indecisive.’

‘I know if I was in your position I wouldn’t look back and I do own the place.’ The florist is a business to Ben, flowers are a religion to me. He’d be just as happy selling chocolate or shoes as long as the chocolate and shoes were truly beautiful and his profit margin was reasonable. He could turn his hand to anything. I’m all about flowers so despite the drawbacks I still insist, ‘I loved my job.’

‘You must be loving your new life,’ says Ben more seriously.

‘Oh I am! You’ll never guess where I am right now.’

‘Rodeo Drive,’ he says drily.

‘How did you know?’

‘Because if I was in Rodeo Drive I’d be doing exactly the same thing in your shoes. I’d be calling all my friends to brag; who wouldn’t? Crazy world you’ve landed in though, isn’t it? I’ve been approached by half a dozen papers all desperate for an exclusive story. You know the sort of thing; they want details of your past loves, hopes, dreams, etc. etc.’

‘You’re not doing any interviews though, are you?’ I ask.

‘Of course I am. Adam, Jess and Lisa are being very tight-lipped, which is marvellous because that’s driving up the price the papers are prepared to pay me.’

‘But you won’t say anything too stupid, will you?’ I ask hopelessly.

‘Of course I will,’ says Ben cheerily.

I sigh. ‘What did I expect? Discretion has never been your thing. Please, please, please don’t show the press any photos of me dressed in my Moulin Rouge fancy-dress costume.’

‘New Year’s Eve 2007, when you got so drunk you ended up wearing your basque around your waist. And your modesty was only just saved because Adam strategically placed a feather boa over your –’

‘Yes,’ I say quickly, desperate to shut him up. I’m grateful that my past life was so ordinary that I have no more dramatic skeletons in the cupboard. If I did I’m pretty sure Ben would have inadvertently flung them all into the daylight by now.

‘OK, I won’t show them those photos. But don’t be greedy with this, pleeease. And don’t be a “no comment” bore. Where’s the fun in that?’ says Ben. ‘Odd to think I’m going to be famous because we shared face masks and pizza.’

‘And four years’ hard graft. Would it kill you to mention I was actually very good at my job?’ I ask.

‘OK. Will do. You don’t really object to me riding on your coat-tails, do you? I mean you couldn’t.’ His implication is painfully clear.

‘I wasn’t looking for fame, I’m in love,’ I point out.

‘Brucie bonus, darling. Now you are showing off. Your persistent belief that people care about the distinction is endearing, darling, but haven’t you noticed that they don’t? Never mind, Cinderella has got her fella. Could your life get any more perfect?’

‘Only if you came to stay with me for a few weeks,’ I suggest, impulsively.

‘You’re kidding.’ I think Ben might have stopped breathing with the excitement.

‘Not at all. I need help with –’

‘Styling. You do, don’t you? I thought you were very slouchy in this pic in Heat. I was going to say something but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Look around you. The women in LA have a rich walk, a swagger, almost. I’ve seen it on Ugly Betty. You should try to imitate that.’ I glance up and down Rodeo Drive. Ben is right. These women know how to strut. ‘Plus I have a million ideas for the wedding.’

‘There are loads of people who can help me here but I’d like a friend. I know it’s a lot to ask, especially when you are so busy in the shop.’

‘Give me an hour to pack. No, realistically give me a week.’

‘To pack?’

‘No, to brief the new staff in the shop, silly. Then I’ll be all yours.’

‘Really?’ I’m delighted. ‘What about your interviews?’

‘They’ll wait.’

‘Jess and Lisa both had their reasons for not coming. I’m so touched that you’re going to drop everything for me,’ I say, beaming from ear to ear. I was beginning to fear I didn’t have any old friends left.

‘I’ll try to pretend I’m not hurt that I was your third choice. You’ll get me Club Class though, won’t you? I’ve always wanted to fly Club.’

‘I’ll fly you First. With a bit of luck you might bump into my pal Gary. He was a steward on our flight. He’s just your type.’

I’m ecstatic that Ben is coming to visit. All aglow I hang up and turn to Scott. ‘You’ll love Ben. He’s great fun. He just wants everyone to be happy all the time.’

‘Not a bad philosophy,’ says Scott with a huge grin. ‘Now, shall we shop?’

45. Fern

Surreptitiously I finger the cool, calm, creamy cardboard bag that is sitting at my feet. Inside it (beyond the yards of thick black velvet ribbon and the endless sheets of dainty, floaty tissue paper) lies a dress that cost two months’ salary. At least, two months of my salary, that is – if I still earned a salary, which I don’t of course. In the boot of the car (or the trunk as they say over here) there lie a further dozen or so similar stiff cardboard bags, inside which there are Moschino sunglasses, a Bally bag, a pair of Jean Paul Gaultier jeans, two Matthew Williamson maxi dresses (we couldn’t decide which colour suited me!), a Tommy Hilfiger day dress, a Gucci purse and a Prada jacket. Oh. My. God.

‘Happy?’ asks Scott.

‘Very, very, very,’ I confirm.

‘What are you thinking?’

This is why Scott is more of a deity than a man. He cares what I’m thinking! ‘I was just wondering when I’ll wear the Fendi dress.’ It’s a scarlet silk dress with cap sleeves and beautiful beaded detail around the collar. It’s elegant and stylish. I can’t float around the pool in it, even an infinity pool, even if my boyfriend is a rock star. ‘It’s a going out dress. A special occasion dress.’

‘We could go to a movie premiere or a charity gala or something,’ says Scott with a yawn.

‘We could?’ I splutter on my excitement and almost choke.

‘Yeah, we could.’

‘Have we been invited to any?’

‘We’re always being asked to them, we get two or three invites a night. But Mark usually says no.’

‘He does? Why?’ Why would anyone turn down an invite to a movie premiere?

‘Worried I’ll get pissed or… I don’t know, distracted,’ murmurs Scott; he is staring out of the window now and doesn’t seem to be totally focused on our conversation. He hates travelling at this time of day, traffic jams irritate him. As do queues (which, to be fair, he rarely encounters because he can always sweep to the front of any queue).

‘Distracted? From what?’ I ask, drawing him back to the conversation. ‘From me?’ I pursue, concerned. A tiny, tiny bit of me is still terrified it might all disappear; Scott might stop thinking I’m special, just as suddenly as he decided I was. Following a secret signal Barry might skid to a violent halt; they might fling open the car door and drag me from the plush leather seats and shiny coolness of the Bentley. I might be cast on to the street and have to fend for myself by burrowing through litterbins in a desperate effort to hunt out returnable bottles and cans. I’d explode with grief. I cast a quick panicked glance at Scott. He beams at me. It’s the slow, sexy smile that sends deep crinkles around his face. Crinkles that I’m beginning to be oh-so-familiar with; crinkles I can trust.

‘No, Sweets. Of course not. From my work.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I feel a bit foolish. I have to try harder at submerging my occasional insecurity; it’s not the impression I want to give. It’s not a good look on a rock star’s chick – although let’s face it, it’s a familiar one. Whenever there’s a beautiful man, there’s usually an insecure woman following behind, just as certainly as there’s a clever and knackered woman behind every great man. Honestly, sometimes I do think it would have been easier to be born with a penis.

‘Shall I see where we’ve been invited to tonight?’ asks Scott.

‘Tonight?’

‘Why not?’

I decide there is no reason why not. Scott is a man who likes to strike while the iron is hot. Tonight he thinks it might be fun to go out and give my dress an airing; there is a possibility that by tomorrow this idea will have lost its allure. I’d be wise to grab the opportunity with both hands.

He calls Saadi. I try to follow the series of grunts, in an effort to decipher whether there is anything noteworthy on offer this evening. Scott looks nonplussed, teetering on the bored rigid, so I assume it’s not a happening night.

‘There’s a movie premiere at Mann’s,’ he says with a careless shrug.

‘A movie premiere! With a red carpet?’

‘Yes.’

I let out an involuntary yelp of excitement. It’s quite an embarrassing sound, not unlike a sound you might make in bed just before you totally give in to the big O. Still, he won’t recognize it – more is the pity. ‘And stars?’

‘Yes.’

Another ridiculous squeak escapes from my lips. I barely waste time being embarrassed as I rush to ask my question, ‘What movie?’

Scott stares at me with his huge, green unfair advantages. ‘A political thriller with George Clooney and James McAvoy –’

I start to screech and scream; a full-throttle orgasm now. Scott grins at my excitement. His vaguely jaded expression dissolves into something much more expectant. ‘Think that will be good?’

‘Immense!’ I yell, sounding not unlike my young nephew. ‘Utterly, totally and properly immense!’