Love Lies (8 page)

12. Fern

About eight members of Scott’s entourage arrive with the sandwich and sadly, it’s clear my moment is over. I hastily grab my zip-up top, jewellery and shoes but I can’t find my ugly knickers. Sod it. I’ll leave them. I feel truly miserable when I consider that there’s probably a pile of other girls’ knickers stashed in this room, under beanbags and the like. The intimacy I felt between us, real or otherwise, has now totally vanished. I make my excuses and back out of the door as quickly as I can.

Scott calls, ‘Have a great birthday, enjoy the gig,’ but he doesn’t get up from his chair. A woman in black leggings with a tidy blonde bob is giving him a shoulder massage. Her fingers are thin and strong. She kneads his muscles as though she’s baking bread and it’s obvious that she’s done the same thing for him on numerous other occasions. The familiarity between them causes a spike of irrational jealousy to poke my innards. I leave quickly.

I scuttle back to the canteen, where the riggers, sound engineers and other crew members are eating their club sandwiches. The hall, which I’d previously thought impressive, looks lack-lustre now in comparison to the cosy room where Scott is holed up.

I spot Adam. He’s sat with some of his team. I wait for my heart to leap. Nothing. Yet all morning I’ve felt as though I’ve swallowed a box of frogs. I sigh and, resigned, I weave through the rows of benches and make my way towards him; what else can I do? He nods at me as I sit down besides him.

‘All right, Fern-girl?’ he asks, but he doesn’t wait for me to reply. Instead he turns back to his friends and they argue whether Status Quo or the Rolling Stones are the greatest grey entertainers of all time. Scott has listened to me all morning, he’s valued every word I’ve uttered; Adam can’t even be bothered to wait for my response to his most perfunctory of questions. It’s so disappointing. Adam is disappointing. I stare at him and feel nothing other than bleak, steely resentment. I resent his very existence. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t have had to pull away from Scott’s kiss. I wouldn’t have to be so eternally, boringly, bloody ordinary. And why did I pull away? Does Adam deserve my loyalty? What if I’ve just thrown away the most exciting opportunity of my life and Adam is indifferent towards me? He certainly didn’t take my ultimatum seriously. I glower at Adam but he’s oblivious. I might as well be invisible because I don’t have cable trailing from my butt attaching me to a bank of speakers or lights.

Thinking about Adam makes me feel irritable and agitated so instead I choose to fall back into thoughts of Scott, which are comforting and exhilarating. I think about Scott’s smile, Scott’s laugh and the way Scott’s brows sort of take a bow when his head creases up with concentration and I’m crazed with excitement. That was the heaviest bout of flirtation I have ever indulged in. I’m hot and sticky all over just thinking about it. Where the hell can I buy knickers? I can’t go commando all day; I’m wearing a skirt! I wonder if they sell any knickers in the merchandise stalls. They probably do, ones with pictures of Scott’s face on them. I’m not the only girl who has fantasies of having him between her legs – not by a long shot.

The unexpected but deeply intense encounter is probably work-a-day for Scott, all part of the rock and roll handbook, but I’ve never played strip poker and I’ve never dreamt of playing it with Scottie Taylor. For the first time since I issued the ultimatum to Adam I feel joyful. As long as I can deliberately shove all thoughts of Adam out of my head, then I am profoundly happy; there’s a chance that this will, after all, be the best birthday ever.

Although it’s actually not easy to shove all thoughts of Adam out of my head, especially when he’s sat right next to me, braying with his friends and doing ridiculous impressions of Russell Brand. I stare at him with frustration; annoyingly the frustration is peppered with something hideously close to guilt. I don’t want to feel guilty on my birthday so I quickly start a little reassuring self-justification. I tell myself that I haven’t got anything to feel guilty about. I pulled back, didn’t I? I may have walked right to the edge but I pulled back when it mattered; not every woman would have done the same. I almost believe me.

‘What have you been up to this morning?’ asks Adam, finally turning his attention to me.

‘Nothing much; just looking around,’ I mutter.

All I want to do is talk about Scott but obviously Adam isn’t the right audience. It’s tricky enough having to convince myself that playing strip poker with Scott is nothing for me to feel guilty about but I think it will be a whole lot trickier convincing Adam. And yet there is no reason for Adam to feel jealous of Scott because nothing is ever going to happen with Scott. Scott isn’t like an ordinary man. He’s an A-lister legend. His ultimate inaccessibility gives me a free pass to flirt with him. Doesn’t it? I wouldn’t dream of doing the same with anyone else I’d met because it might lead somewhere, it might mean something. Flirting with Scott Taylor doesn’t mean anything. He’s not real.

I suppose I could tell Adam about this morning and just leave out the bit about me whipping off my knickers but something stops me doing even that much. Scott is a delicious secret to have. Sharing those moments with him has lifted me above the horrible deadening feelings of normality that have stained my life recently. My morning was fun and special at the same time and suddenly, I feel amazing, alive and very, very sexy. I have a sense that I’ll spoil that feeling if I talk about it with Adam. I’m not sure if he’d be angry or incredulous or even dismissive. I want to hang on to the feeling that I’m special, even if it’s just for the shortest time.

‘Well, I’m pleased to see something has put a smile on your face,’ says Adam. ‘There was one awful moment this morning when I thought that you were disappointed by my birthday pressie.’

‘Erm,’ I hesitate. Should I tell him that yes I was, I am, disappointed that he didn’t respond to my ultimatum and that I still want us to talk more seriously about our future? Or should I let it go? Before I can decide on the right words he stands up and starts to leave the table.

‘Well, I’ve got to get back to work. Keep out of trouble, hey.’ And he leaves without giving me as much as a peck on the cheek.

I’m very muddled, but one thing I do know for sure is that I’m glad Adam has gone back to his work; at least now I can call Jess and Lisa to tell them how I’ve spent my morning. I call them by turn and they prove themselves to be excellent friends when I tell them about my encounter as they repeatedly squeal, ‘You lucky, lucky cow.’ They both ask what he’s like.

‘Even more gorgeous, and hot, and clever and funny than you can imagine,’ I say somewhat smugly.

I give them a great amount of detail about what the room looked like, what the flowers smelt like, what the security guy did. I describe what Scott was wearing and I tell them about his low, throaty laugh, his eyes, his broad arms and even his neat toenails.

I leave out the bit about the strip poker.

Never before have I censored any part of my life when talking with Jess and Lisa. I’ve never had to, but they probably wouldn’t understand how or why I agreed to such a thing. I barely understand it. I might mention it later on, when we are face to face, but over the phone it’s difficult to explain why it was so utterly impossible to resist anything Scott suggested.

‘What did Adam make of it?’ asks Lisa.

‘I haven’t mentioned it to him,’ I say, regretting the fact that my voice becomes slightly squeaky and thin when I admit as much. I don’t want to be defensive. Lisa makes a funny sucking sound that I recognize as part warning, part condemnation. She sometimes makes that sound when I reach for an indulgent second piece of chocolate cake. ‘He’s busy,’ I add. ‘Besides, he wouldn’t be interested or impressed. Adam and his crew probably all see Scott every day.’ I know I’m being evasive. I don’t know how to tell Lisa that sharing the encounter with Adam would somehow spoil it, risk it. ‘It’s no big deal, it’s not like I met some real gorgeous, hot, clever, funny guy,’ I joke.

‘Scott is real,’ argues Lisa.

I don’t say, true, when he sucked my blood off his thumb he did seem very real. I say, ‘No, he’s not. He’s a fantasy figure.’

‘He was a fantasy figure until you spent all morning playing cards with him and now he’s real,’ says Lisa.

‘If only,’ I sigh with obvious regret. Then I make an effort to turn the subject. ‘Now, let’s make a plan. You have to get here as soon as you can. When’s your babysitter due?’

After we’ve made our arrangements I go to the merchandise store and buy a pair of new knickers; I choose a pair with the words ‘Scottie Taylor, Deity’ emblazoned in silver, glittering letters. Then I decide to pass the rest of the afternoon sitting and thinking about my glorious secret; Scott Taylor – legend – definitely had a boner for me. It all came to such a weird abrupt halt that I can’t quite decide what Scott thought of the encounter. Not that I’m assuming he thought anything at all. As I say, this is all probably in a day’s work for him. He was probably relieved that I said no to more poker (he did at least have the opportunity to order lunch). But then I can’t help wondering would he have carried on playing – stripping – if I’d allowed him. Would he have stripped me? If I’d allowed him? I give myself a few moments to indulge in the fantasy. I shiver with delight.

Despite the fact that it’s my thirtieth birthday today I feel about fifteen. I feel pretty, so pretty, and fine and I want to leap about like some character out of a cheesy Broadway musical. My panties are twinkling with Scottie Taylor.

13. Scott

‘Let’s make this interview snappy, hey.’ I stare at Saadi and she understands. She understands that I haven’t got my rocks off, that I’m not even able to for another few days and frankly it’s pissing me off. That Fern chick was cute. Very cute. ‘Who am I talking to anyway?’

‘Dazed and Confused,’ Mark, my manager, informs me. He means that’s the name of the publication, rather than my state of mind. Although that would be accurate too.

Dazed and Confused position themselves as anarchic, feisty, real, grungy, edgy. Easy. They’ll want to talk about sex. Most people want to talk about sex with me. I’ve never been so vain as to believe my sex life is all-absorbing; unfortunately the western world disagrees with me.

‘So how did Adam Cooper’s bird wash up in your room?’ asks Saadi.

‘Fern,’ I say.

‘Yeah, Fern. She doesn’t look like a headcase.’

‘Why would you assume she’s a headcase?’

‘She’s issued Adam with this effing insane ultimatum. He has to ask her to marry him on her thirtieth or she’s going to walk.’ Saadi, a confirmed bachelor girl, shakes her head in bewilderment as to why anyone would want this.

‘It’s her birthday today. Is he going to ask her?’

Saadi shrugs. ‘Nobody knows. He’s been with her for four years but he can’t make his mind up. He keeps going on and on about her ultimatum. Should he propose? Shouldn’t he? His team are placing odds. He seems to think the whole thing is a bit of a laugh.’

‘Fucking idiot,’ I mutter.

‘Who?’ asks Mark, always on alert to my mood and nuances.

‘Well, she seems interesting. And I mean, four years, you’d know, wouldn’t you?’ I say.

‘Yeah, and you’re the expert, right? You’ve never managed a four-month relationship, let alone four years,’ says Mark with a weary sigh.

He’s getting a bit fed up with cleaning up my messes. Wherever I go, I am known for leaving behind me a bloody trail of broken hearts belonging to starlets, groupies and songwriters. At first, when I was really young, I would have sex with any girl that would let me. Soon they all let me, so I only had sex with really pretty ones. Soon they were all really pretty, so I had to find a way to make some other sort of selection. I once slept with a girl because she wore a trilby at a cute angle, and then another because she had more body piercings than I’ve ever seen before, another because she had a tattoo that started on her vag (it was a vine) and curled under and up all the way to her arsehole. She must have been on some serious drugs when she let the artist go to work on her; I thought she’d earned the attention. I slept with another because she said absolutely nothing at all and then I slept with another because she was there. That soon became the only reason I slept with someone. Nearest to hand. I started to sleep with sisters, friends and random willing groups. My selection process broke down, I guess. But it’s exhausting; hedonism is harder work than it looks.

‘Our Scott is a true romantic under all that bravado. He believes in love at first sight. You’d want to know by four days, wouldn’t you, Scott?’ says Saadi with a grin.

‘Well, who the fuck has four years to waste?’ I mutter.

Mark stares at me for a very long time and I think he’s going to say something important. He does, he says, ‘She’s got great tits, Cooper’s bird. Now enough chatter, we better get on with this interview. There’s a schedule to keep.’

To combine licentiousness with novelty takes genuine effort and a little bit of luck. I wonder is it possible that Fern is my little bit of luck? Could Fern be the antidote to all of that excess?

14. Fern

A helicopter thunders overhead. The air whooshes across the ninety-thousand-strong crowd, banners declaring ‘We Love You’ are raised and the chanting crowd move their plea up a level. ‘Scot-tie, Scot-tie.’ The assumption is that Scottie Taylor (Scott to his friends) has just landed. But I know that he’s been here since before ten this morning. The secret inside knowledge bubbles in my stomach and fizzes a little bit lower, too.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ says Jess; she’s breathless with excitement and therefore looks even more amazing than she usually does – who’d have thought such a thing was possible? ‘Adam has got us fantastic seats.’

It’s true we are only metres from the stage. There are seats all around the stadium, but we are in ones closest to the action. We’re sat with other VIPs, such as press and friends of the band. It’s thrilling; on the few occasions I do attend music events I’m normally one of the squashed and jostled individuals, stood in the mosh pit. There’s always a fantastic atmosphere down in the mosh pit but there’s also the danger of being stamped to death by hysterical women or at the very least sustaining a serious injury from a bony elbow or someone who is body surfing. I have to admit, Adam’s job has its advantages after all. Right now, decent seats to a Scott Taylor gig trumps private health plans and even a company car, the sort of perks Lisa’s Charlie enjoys.

‘You’ve really gone the extra mile tonight, Jess. Have you made all this effort because it’s my birthday?’ I ask.

Lisa interrupts, ‘You’re kidding, right? She’s done up to the nines because after your brief encounter with Scottie Taylor this morning she’s now harbouring a secret fantasy of her own.’

‘I’m not adverse to sloppy seconds in this instance,’ laughs Jess.

Jess looks like Snow White (and the magic mirror did say that Snow White was the most beautiful woman in the land). She is tiny, only about five two, and her similarities to a doll don’t stop there. She has creamy, flawless skin, bright, deep cobalt blue eyes and jet black shoulder-length hair. She always wears ruby red lipstick – it’s her trade mark. Despite (or perhaps because of) her exceptional beauty Jess is often single. I don’t think I want Scott bumping into her because even the pink, glittering cowboy hat – that she insisted on buying off a tout – can’t detract from her beauty.

Mentally, I punch myself. What am I thinking? It’s none of my business who Scott Taylor talks to. I have a boyfriend. What do I care if Jess gets her chance to play strip poker with Scott too?

I’d tear her hair out.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

Suddenly, red lights start to pulse across the stage and the crowd’s chant reaches almost hysterical levels; everyone is up out of their seats. The band members run on and take their places. As they pick up their instruments the screams of anticipation reach a near violent pitch. ‘Scottie Scot-tie.’ A sea of arms sway, claw and clap. The noise and the flesh become unrecognizable and indistinguishable; almost inhuman and yet utterly human in their basic longing for this one man. The lights go white and then green for go. And he’s here; striding on with a warmth and confidence that grabs every single member of the audience by the throat.

He’s wearing a dark suit which is lined with a red fabric – the devil’s colours – an acknowledgement that everyone wants to get naughty with him. Everyone would sell their soul in an instant if he asked them to. And he’s wearing sunglasses, which hint at a mafia connection that is somehow thrilling and the right side of dangerous. He takes off his shades and women start to literally swoon; paramedics slip between the crowds to rescue fainting damsels before they are carelessly trodden underfoot.

Then, in a flat northern voice, he says, ‘Hello, glad you could all make it. I am Scottie Taylor. And I’m here to give you a good time. Are you ready for me?’

They are. They scream, and yell, and jump and weep. And I’m part of it. I’m not in the least bit cool. I’m screaming louder than anyone. Up out of my chair, I’m shrieking, leaping, swaying. The air is so charged with hope, excitement and lust that I can almost feel my body being thrown about. His first track, ‘Funk Me’, is a catchy number with a strong beat and a risqué lyric; the entire audience are bouncing up and down on their feet, clapping hands and enjoying the party. I’m surrounded by teeth and tits, they’re all enormous. There is no sign of cynical boyfriends who have been dragged here by their lusty girlfriends. Nor any spotting of the ‘yet to be convinced he’s really special, I’m just here with my mate’ types; everyone is already converted, we’re all fans. The place is alive with a special sort of energy. Good will – uncommonly short on the ground nowadays – is suddenly everywhere; you can bathe in it.

After just one song no one cares that it will take them six hours to get out of the car park later on, or that the loos are awash with crap and the beers cost a fortune and are warm and flat. Everybody is happy. Every man wants to be him, every woman simply wants him. He weaves a special sort of spell across the entire stadium. Every single person there feels unique, despite the obvious – which is that they are thinking and feeling exactly the same as the eighty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine others who are singing along. They all believe he is singing to them and just them; more, that he knows them in a way that they’ve never been known or understood before. Despite the enormous crowd he creates a feeling of intimacy. I’m sold.

His lyrics are amazing; truly clever and thought-provoking. They talk to the innocents, the celebrity whores, the lovestruck and the cynical alike. Everybody thinks they can solve him and save him. He doesn’t let up for a moment. It’s pure gold entertainment. He works the crowd into a near frenzy, demanding, ‘Show me you love me,’ which gets the response of signs and banners being re-hoisted into the air. They read, ‘Marry me’, ‘Love me’, ‘Pick me’ and list telephone numbers. It’s weird. What do these women think he’s going to do? Look at one of them and think, ‘Oh yeah, you might make a great lifelong partner; I must make a note of your number and give you a bell to invite you to tea with my mum.’

Yes, that’s exactly what they are hoping for. It’s desperate but it’s almost an understandable desperation. I can hardly comment; I played strip poker with the man a couple of hours after meeting him.

Scott challenges one half of the stadium to sing and then the other side; he says one was louder than the other and creates a healthy competition. He singles out a girl at the front of the audience to sing to; she bursts into tears, he blows another a kiss and she lifts her top up to show him her bra. The girl next to her, determined not to be outdone, whips up her top and takes off her bra. Her huge double DD babies are caught on camera as Scott laughs and thanks her. Seemingly impromptu, he jumps off the stage and runs around the barrier touching the hands of the girls who scramble to reach him there. He pulls one girl on to the stage, sings to her and kisses her. Lucky, lucky woman. Everyone loves him.

The sun sets during the concert and we’re all bathed in a wonderful orange light as he takes the tempo down and sings the dreamy song ‘Hurtful Regrets’, which would make women leave their husbands on the spot if he gave them the nod.

Scottie works through his most famous tracks: ‘Fall Apart’, ‘Come Back to Me’ and my favourite, ‘Bit of Rough’. The audience are like long blades of grass bending in the wind and he can breeze or storm.

‘I can feel your love,’ he yells. ‘You are the best crowd I’ve ever had. You’ve made me so happy.’

The roar is deafening.

It’s pitch black by the time he sings ‘Feeling Fine, That’s a Lie’, his first solo number one and the song that is still synonymous with his enormous success, even after fourteen more number one tracks. The stadium is aglow with camera flashes, strobe lights and smiling faces. He changes the words to ‘Feeling Fine, That’s No Lie’, and tells the audience, ‘And that’s because of you, and you, and you, and you.’ He points randomly at gasping girls. With the last ‘and you’, he catches my eye and pours a massive grin my way. My knees buckle. It might have been a random act or he might have been truly delighted to have caught my eye. The moment was too fleeting to be sure.

And then that’s the end of the show. He leaps into the air and we all cheer and yell, cheer and yell some more. He doesn’t ask us to stop; he stares wide-eyed with amazement and cries, ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.’ He seems genuinely humbled.

Although he’s left the stage the audience wait with bated breath knowing there will be an encore. He hasn’t sung ‘Stamp on Your Demons’ yet and everyone is expecting it.

He bounces back on the stage and the confident, focused and devoted musicians start playing the chords we all recognize as ‘Stamp on Your Demons’.

‘Stop, stop. No, no, no,’ says Scott as he shakes his head and waves his arms. ‘I’m not singing that tonight.’

The crowd assume this is part of Scottie’s show; he’s chatted between songs, flirted and had a laugh all night but I can see the band look genuinely perplexed. Maybe this is an unrehearsed, off-the-cuff moment. The papers always report that Scott can be a loose cannon.

Scott turns to the audience. ‘Today is a special day for me. This is my first gig for two years and you lot have just been amazing. Mad. I love you.’ More cheering. ‘So, I hope you don’t mind if I just make tonight a bit special for someone else, too. You don’t mind, do you?’ Ninety thousand give him their cheer of approval. ‘A really lovely someone else, actually.’

He nods at the pianist, who is at least in on the act, and then the familiar chords of ‘Happy Birthday’ start to ooze out into the night. Scott turns to me. His eyes bang the breath out of me. The intensity of the moment carves deep into my existence. I’m trembling. The noisy surrounding crowds blur into one irrelevant, indistinct mass. We are alone in an exquisite clarity. I’m aware of my pounding heart and knickers and nothing else matters. He blows me a kiss. In a confident, slow, sexy voice, with emerald eyes glistening, he sings the entire song.

‘Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Fern, Happy birthday to you.’

To me!