Love Lies

by Unknown

  Fern is so clear-cut and straightforward. Her dilemmas are few and far between and so ordinary. The Americans are really going to relate.

  ‘The stuff you talk about, Fern, is so fresh and frank and authentic. I love it. You’re helping me think new thoughts. I’ve written so much in the last week. I’m working on this new album, called Wedding Album, it’s a bunch of love ballads. Something very different for me. It’s all about you.’

  ‘Really?’ Fern flashes one of her astonishing smiles.

  No, not really if she means really in the absolutely, one hundred per cent truthful sense. But yes, really, the album is all about her, now. I’ve dropped her name into two or three of the songs, which only required the smallest of changes in the lyrics. It’s pedantic to insist on believing that just because I wrote the vast majority of the album before I met her, it’s any less about her than it would have been if I’d written it after I’d met her. I’m like dedicating it to her. The press will think it’s about her. My fans will think it’s about her. And in my experience if enough people think a thing, it makes it true. True enough. The thing is, more people will buy it if they think it’s about her.

  I start to tell Fern more stories about myself. This isn’t just because I like talking about me, I’m wondering how she will react to it all. She’s appropriately (and understandably) enthralled, but more than that, her responses to my experiences are really fascinating. Fern understands my ordinary roots and extraordinary flowering. That’s special. I offer up fragile, immersed memories and she appreciates what I’m on about; I can elaborate on them, giving them warmth and texture and a meaning they sure as hell didn’t have when I was living them. Story after story pours forth. Some are blazingly bizarre; she’s surprised to hear I’ve had coffee with Nelson Mandela. Others are painfully predictable; everyone expects me to have snorted cocaine off the arses of women whose names I never knew.

  ‘I think it’s brilliant that I can tell you all this stuff,’ I mutter as I kiss her. I slip my tongue in her mouth and my hand up her skirt. I feel her warm wetness in both places. We’re lying side by side on the sand. It’s fun to push a fraction further, go a bit deeper, play a little harder. I allow this kiss to linger before I pull away, fall flat on my back and look at the sky. ‘I wonder if we’re going to manage this pre-wedding chastity thing?’

  ‘Not if you insist on giving me filthy looks and probing kisses in the sunshine,’ she laughs. We both know she wants it.

  I love it that she’s so horny for me but I love controlling myself (and her) more, so I keep talking. There’s loads more stuff to tell her about me yet and she, like everyone else, can’t get enough. The difference between her and everyone else is that I don’t edit. If she’s shocked she doesn’t show it. The thing is, for a long time I believed that as a rock star I sort of had a duty to enjoy myself to the absolute limit. That’s what’s supposed to happen; it’s part of the natural order of things and rock stars don’t enjoy themselves line-dancing or whipping up a really tasty meal for two with only four ingredients. Decadence and depravity are the birthright of the rock star. It’s my job to be reckless and extreme. People expect it, because if I’m not shagging and snorting to excess then who the hell is? It would be an ungrateful waste of opportunity to be a rock star and to just turn up at a gig or the studio, play some songs and leave quietly by the back door. No one wants that. I’m in a unique position, not even models or princes get the same opportunities. I answer to no one. The stuff I’ve done isn’t evil; it’s just dirty. Really, very much so.

  I tell her about parties where people left their clothes and sense at the door, where joints and women were rolled on glass-top tables and champagne and bullshit flowed and was lapped up with ravenous greed.

  However sensationally beautiful and cool the party venues were (and they always were), it surprised me to learn that by the early hours of the morning these places had always become menacingly sinister and balefully sordid. Penthouses – with minimalist wood-burning fire-places, enormous glass chandeliers and custom Starck-designed furnishings – were hell. Luxury yachts, with polished decks and sharp white sails, docked in Monaco marinas, became prisons. Hotel suites with Jacuzzis, flat-panel HD TVs, Dean & Deluca gourmet mini-bars seemed like pokey brothels. It turns out that the lushly landscaped terraces with panoramic city views are forgettable – despite what the host might promise. But the memory of emaciated models, eyes blackened with smudged makeup and lives, sliding on the floor, gamine legs splayed as they slip in their own spilt spirits (both literal and metaphysical), is an enduring one. Sadly.

  ‘I guess we won’t be going to many parties,’ comments Fern.

  ‘No, not at the moment. I don’t feel like it. Does that bother you?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitates and then adds, ‘But maybe parties would be more fun together than they ever were when you were alone.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. That’s what I’m hoping.’

  We kiss again and I don’t tell her that my hope has a way of vanishing; I spend it like liquid gold. That sort of thought won’t help Wedding Album; it’s not the right chi. Instead I say, ‘It’s great that I can tell you the most sensational and sinister things about myself and you seem equally interested in both.’ I shake my head with a mix of disbelief and delight.

  ‘That’s what love is, accepting the person faults and mistakes and all,’ says Fern in a matter-of-fact way.

  ‘So it appears.’

  We stare peacefully out to sea for a few moments, then Fern asks, ‘Do you think I’ll get a signal here? I’d really like to call another one of my mates, Lisa.’

  And we were having such a nice time; she must be a glutton for punishment. I smile and try to appear supportive. As it happens it pans out better than I hoped as this Lisa practically wets herself when I grab Fern’s phone and talk to her.

  ‘Hello, Scottie Taylor here,’ I say. ‘How’s tricks?’ This is the routine I use at my gigs. I grab the phone off someone in the crowd who is taking a photo and then I call their mum. It’s hilarious. The effect is just as awesome with Fern’s friend as it is with the people in the crowds. Of course, Lisa squeals with laughter.

  I like this Lisa better than the other mate. At least she doesn’t give Fern a hard time about leaving her old boyfriend in the lurch. In fact, she doesn’t say much at all beyond, ‘Fern is a lucky, lucky cow.’ Which she says about ninety times, but sort of nicely.

  Fern takes the phone off me and asks Lisa to be bridesmaid so I hope she’s fit. Lisa says yes and gushes that she’ll do anything to help out, that she’ll come to LA at the drop of a hat. But when Fern offers to fly her out and to hire a nanny for her sprogs Lisa says she is meant to be running the NCT nearly new sale in the town hall next Saturday, so it’s tricky. I’m not sure what that is but it must be pretty important, sort of on a par with a global summit about climate change, I guess. Fern looks crushed. I point to my watch and to my stomach and so she says goodbye to her lacklustre mate and we head off to find a burger and fries.

  Poor Fern, I think she’s beginning to realize that the tiresome thing about getting what you want is that you always have to lose what you had.

  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 photo
s 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.’