by Unknown
‘Just a fling,’ mutters Scott. He snatches up my hand and holds it to his lips, staring very keenly into my eyes. ‘Nothing, nothing like this. Like us,’ he says intently.
I believe him. It’s true. I know it. It feels as though I’ve dived right into his two huge green lakes and am swimming around his brain. I might float away on this amazing, certain, flattering, overpowering exquisiteness. We kiss. The intensity lights up my entire body. Whoosh, I’m scalding, burning, blazing with desire. I feel it in my toenails and in the tips of my ears, all my extremities are buzzing with lust. I’m wet with longing.
‘Whatever,’ sighs Saadi. Coughing, no doubt slightly embarrassed by our palpable passion. You can taste sex in the air or at least, I can. ‘Just don’t be drawn. Amanda had to go into rehab after Scott dumped her, the scheduling of the film slipped, it cost the studio loads of money. Questions will be asked.’
I pull out of the kiss. ‘She had to go into rehab after a fling?’ I’m confused; I thought these starlets knew the score. I thought famous people only ever got involved with one another for publicity purposes. I didn’t think anyone ever got hurt.
‘Broke the cardinal rule,’ says Scott with a regretful sigh. ‘Poor girl. I had no idea.’
‘She fell in love with him for real,’ says Saadi with a shrug. ‘Very inconvenient. Tricky to handle. She’s popular. Scott was in danger of looking like a total louse.’
‘I really had no idea,’ repeats Scott. He looks genuinely aghast. I pity him. With so much fabulousness comes great power. He doesn’t get it.
‘Poor girl,’ I mutter.
‘Worked out OK in the end,’ says Saadi confidently. ‘She lost eighteen pounds thanks to stress. The movie got tonnes of pre-release PR. No harm done.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t be here tonight,’ I suggest, carefully. It seems really insensitive. Cruel almost. It is Amanda Amberd’s big night and I just can’t accept any woman, even an actress, would believe that losing eighteen pounds compensated for the loss of Scott. She must still be gutted. The last thing she needs tonight, or probably ever, is to see Scott again – especially with his new fiancée. Me. We can’t rub her nose in it. ‘We should turn round, go home,’ I say.
‘But you wanted to show off your new dress,’ says Scott.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I’ve worked all afternoon talking to the studio to get this cleared,’ says Saadi irritably. ‘Amanda is expecting Scott now, the press are expecting Scott now; we can’t go home. That would be a bigger snub and scandal.’
I’m doubtful, but this isn’t my world. Or rather it is, but it hasn’t been for long. It’s much more Saadi’s world. She knows what she’s doing, I have to trust her. Scott squeezes my hand. ‘She’s linked to other names now,’ he reminds me.
Yes. Three of them. All married men. If that isn’t the sign of a lost, confidence-sapped individual I don’t know what is. Why would a woman as talented, beautiful and desired as Amanda Amberd dally with married men unless her self-esteem was in ribbons?
Then I think of the poor wives of Amanda’s lovers and all my sympathy is brushed away. Amanda Amberd should not be spreading the hurt. Single people date and then split up, that’s normal. Sad but true. She must be a selfish, uppity little madam to choose the route of dating married men. She doesn’t have to, she must have potential suitors tripping over themselves to impress her; it’s spiteful and irresponsible. Sod her, she doesn’t deserve my sympathy, pity or consideration; she’s not showing any to those wives.
‘I don’t care either way,’ says Scott with a filthy, distracting, utterly fabulous smile. ‘I’m just going to look at you all night anyhow. It doesn’t matter to me whether we do that in Grauman’s or at home.’
More kissing. ‘Let’s go,’ I say.
Saadi looks relieved.
Apparently there is etiquette or at least an unwritten rule about the correct time to arrive at functions such as these. Of course there is. There’s an unwritten rule about everything. I wish someone would just write down all the blinking rules and I could learn them off by heart and not have to be subjected to the continuous eye-rolling that seems to accompany me everywhere. Not that Scott ever rolls his eyes when I ask him a specific about how something works or how I should act; he’s patience personified. He repeatedly tells me that he likes it that I’m not sullied, or jaded or in anyway tired of all the stardom stuff. He says I’m refreshing. Good-naturedly he explains that the C-and B-listers arrive first, to warm up the crowd, and only when the onlookers are practically hoarse with shouting can the A-listers start to arrive.
Saadi is given a signal and our moment has arrived. I step out and am hit by a blast of warm air and manic noise from screaming crowds. The intensity nearly knocks me over; I thought I had a clear concept of just how loud human beings could get (after all, I do faithfully attend my nieces’ and nephews’ birthday parties; I’ve been in a room with twenty little four-year-olds jacked up on Smarties), but still I’m astonished.
I (elegantly and successfully – hurrah) emerge, Scott glued to me. The warmth of him incites the giddiest feelings of pure, undiluted bliss and suddenly I’m not nervous, or tense or panicky; I am amazing.
A lot of the press are European. Because Amanda Amberd and James McAvoy are British there’s a lot of interest in this film back home. This works well for Scott, as the British press love him. Or hate him. Or whatever. It’s fair to say they want to photograph him and talk to him. I know Scott moved to the States to get away from the constant press intrusion and carve out some sort of private life, but it would be awful to turn up to a public event like this and not be recognized. The calls come thick and fast. I hardly know which way to turn.
‘Over here, love!’
‘Look this way!’
‘Fern, are you excited? Is this your first premiere?’
‘Give me a beam, darlin’!’
The Americans are impossibly positive and vibrant; even though I get the sense that they don’t recognize Scott immediately they take their lead from the UK press and tourists and they give out wild, relentless cheers. I’ve seen for myself, when watching similar events at Leicester Square on the local news at home in London, that generally rock stars don’t smile for their fans or the press. They are pretty much duty-bound to be eternally grumpy and dour. Indeed, I’ve seen photos of Scott papped with a face like thunder, but not tonight. Tonight, Scott is instantly and unapologetically the very best Scottie Taylor can be. He beams, holds my hand in the air and then twirls me around. Utterly, utterly delighted in me, as I am with him, as we are with each other; we exist in an endless circle of delight.
I’m dizzy.
Through the blur of handbags and gladrags I spot Rachel Weisz in a stunning silver Vera Wang gown (I can’t believe I recognize the designer! I probably wouldn’t have but I saw the very same dress today on Rodeo Drive). I am a big fan of Rachel Weisz’s work and I want to tell her how talented I think she is. I want to say it in a way that is profound, or at least funny or original. After an age I come up with, ‘Nice dress,’ and beam at her. Gracefully, she ignores the fact that my smile is so desperate I resemble the village idiot; she nods and smiles back warmly. It’s not the first impression I hoped for, but before I have time to kick myself Ewan McGregor shakes hands with Scott and kisses me on the cheek. He congratulates us both, poses for a quick photo and then asks me whether I’m a fan of James McAvoy. I am. But somehow I don’t manage to articulate my considered appraisal of Mr McAvoy’s work from The Near Room to The Last Station. I just say, ‘He’s Scottish too, isn’t he? Do you know him?’ No one need point out just how lame I’m being, I know. Funny thing is I’m too excited to care.
We seem to be lingering on the red carpet longer than other stars. Scott is conscientiously signing autographs and I stand grinning until my jaws ache. I swish my dress around my legs and the material shimmies and glides across my thighs. I’m buzzing. Despite challenging my facial muscles I can’t stop smilin
g, and not just because those were Saadi’s instructions but because I am completely, unequivocally, utterly exultant.
Kate Hudson is looking fabulous in a gorgeous polka-dot sleeveless blouse, a satin high-waisted pencil skirt with a bright red belt and shoes (that could double as stilts). She throws me a kind smile and a big wave as she glides past, causing the camera bulbs to become frenzied once again. I consider having a word. I could tell her that I think she’s courageous, funny, talented, complex and interesting, but evidence suggests the best I’m likely to come up with is, ‘You’re gorgeous!’ Which doesn’t really lead anywhere, so I stay silent. When Cameron Diaz sashays past I’m realistic; I just concentrate, very hard, on not exploding with admiration. No one wants to see blood and guts and innards and stuff on the red carpet.
Scott lingers talking with the crowds as star after star files past. I cannot believe these people have stepped off the pages of my Heat magazine and are now, larger than life, stood in front of me; actually most of them are smaller than life, wisps and slips of women, delicate and fragile. When Scott has signed dozens and dozens of the bits of paper, books, photos and knickers (clean I hope!) that are thrust under his nose, he returns to me and takes my hand once again. We start to walk towards the movie theatre, which means we have to pass a wall of photographers. I expect Scott to move us quite swiftly past the flashbulbs but in fact he stops right in front of them. Microphones pop up like acne on a teenager’s skin, obstinate and relentless. The professionals sense that Scott is going to sprinkle a few words their way and so quieten down a fraction in order not to miss a single morsel he throws out.
‘I’ve something to show you,’ he says with a big, cheeky grin. He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a small box. A ring box. The flashing begins once again in earnest. The press understand what’s happening a moment before I do.
A ring box.
My ring.
My engagement ring!
Scott opens the box and turns to me. It’s a huge, huge oval-shaped diamond on a plain, contemporary platinum band. It’s simple, it’s elegant, it’s perfect! Scott slips the ring on to my finger, carelessly dropping the box on the floor, and I squeal. Really very loudly. I’m not aware that I’m screaming or just how loud said scream is, until Scott clamps his lips over mine and the high-pitched noise stops. The photographers become crazed; their flashes light up the night, competing with the high-intensity searchlights that criss-cross the indigo sky. I bet we can be seen from space.
48. Fern
I float inside the theatre, vaguely aware of Saadi handing out press packs to the rabble of journos. I hear her gabble, ‘Three point five carat. We took into account her slim fingers, didn’t want anything too flashy, catch on clothes. Have to consider lifestyle when choosing a ring.’
The ring weighs delightfully heavily on my hand. I can’t take my eyes off it. Not even to look at Scott; partly because it’s out-of-this-world beautiful and partly because I’m utterly terrified that it will slip off and I’ll lose it. We are shown to our seats (we’re sat between Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Sienna Miller) but I can’t be dazzled further; if I am, I’ll die. Fact.
The lights dim and I drag my eyes from my ring to the screen; it would be rude not to but with my thumb I endlessly caress the beautiful, breathtaking ring. Occasionally the diamond catches the light bouncing from the movie and winks at me.
Everyone seems to enjoy the movie; when it’s over, people leap to their feet and clap and cheer enthusiastically. Scott stands and slowly (coolly) claps and I join him, although I have little idea whether it’s good or not as I was unable to concentrate at all. I have no need for the movies any more. I no longer need to be drip-fed other people’s romances, dramas or thrills; I am living an extraordinary life, a one hundred per cent, sensationally dream-like life. It’s all too much to fully comprehend. I feel as though I’m floating above my true self. I am just an astonished onlooker; not that dissimilar to the boisterous, buoyant crowd of fans outside. I can’t believe I’m this lucky. I can’t believe anyone gets to be this lucky.
After the movie there is a party.
‘Do you really want to go to the party?’ asks Scott.
I sense he doesn’t but I gently push. I don’t want to go home now. I would, if shagging were on the cards. Honestly, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – I’d like to do more than get butt naked (other than my ring!) and bang my increasingly insistent needs out with Scott. We could kiss, lick, touch, poke, caress, squeeze, sex the life out of each other. Twice, and then again in the morning. But that’s not on the cards. Damned chastity vow. So, second to that, I’d like to rub shoulders with the world’s most glamorous and dazzling people (while showing off my ring; did I mention my ring?).
‘Yes please, I really would.’
‘OK, your wish is my command,’ says Scott, giving in gracefully and quickly. He kisses me flat on the lips, which causes my knickers to cartwheel. Even through closed eyes I’m aware that someone takes a photo of us laying the lips; I don’t much care. I feel as though we are alone – despite the crowds and despite the popping camera flashes. I’m loving every moment of tonight.
‘I have to go and touch up my lipstick,’ I say, reluctantly pulling away from him.
‘I’ll wait for you.’
‘I won’t be long.’
‘Take your time, I’d wait for ever,’ he says with a wide, sincere grin.
I skip into the loos and bang straight into several dozen other women all fighting for mirror space. It seems that these women have been put together by the angels themselves. They are groomed and glammed-up beyond lovely. I’d have sex with any one of them (assuming I was a guy or at least had lesbian tendencies and assuming I wasn’t committed to a highly inconvenient chastity vow). In fact I’d marry any one of them, they’re all that gorgeous. No one’s forehead moves, true, but an animated forehead has never been a deal-breaker for me. As the clouds of perfume and hair spray dissolve I recognize two or three faces; newscasters and soap actresses, mainly. As I rummage in my handbag to locate my gloss I become aware that everyone is staring at me. Most are looking at me through the mirror while keeping up the pretence that they are still involved in fixing their shiny chins or re-applying another layer of mascara; some are slyly taking side-glances, the cheekier types are plainly ogling. I feel like a small grub under a microscope.
For a moment I think I’m twenty pounds overweight. I mourn the fact that I have a snogging rash on my chin. And I’m deeply ashamed that my forehead moves.
But then I remember I’m marrying Scottie Taylor. I’m light as a feather. He’s to blame for my snogging rash. And my boobs are pretty steady.
I must grow a fraction taller or in some other way subliminally communicate my contentment because, as though in a choreographed dance, the bony (but silky) elbows instantly move to make way for me; a path to the mirror opens up.
‘Beautiful ring,’ says one girl.
‘Thank you.’
‘I love your hair. Is it all yours?’ asks a second.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘The dress, is it Fendi? It’s to die for.’
‘Yes, it is. Thank you.’
Suddenly I am surrounded by a collision of smooth, moisturized, silky limbs. Women and girls are reaching out to me, touching me lightly on the arm, gently brushing their fingertips across the skirt of my dress, carefully caressing the beads of my bag. I get it. They all want a piece of me because I have him. Even if Scott is still relatively unknown to the masses in America, these women are the in-the-know elite and they understand his worth. They all want to be me, because I have him. The attention from these women is quite unlike the (almost brutal) preparation I endured from the army of stylists who work under Joy’s supervision. These women wrap me up in countless beatific smiles, their butterfly touches are like a lover’s caress, their smiles are pure and reverential. They pull cards from their adorable, glittery handbags and press them on me, inviting me to coffee, t
o shop, to cocktails. They battle to out-do one another in the extravagant compliments that cascade my way. My skin is perfect English rose, no – it’s creamy, no – it’s pearlescent. My hair is glossy, no – it’s glistening, no – it’s simply divine. And my dress? What adjectives can they pour on my dress? Before I get to find out, a cubicle door swings open and Amanda Amberd emerges, abruptly silencing my admirers.
Amanda Amberd slices through the throng and starts to wash her hands. I notice that she carefully soaps the palms and the backs of her hands and gives individual attention to each finger. The fastidious ritual takes a couple of minutes but feels like a lifetime and definitely suggests that either she has a cleanliness compulsion (very fashionable) or that she’s stalling for time. The beautiful women, who had been fawning and flattering me, abruptly turn to Amanda and proceed to shower her with compliments; many of which are identical to those that washed up my way.
The difference is, I don’t doubt for a moment that Amanda deserves these generous words. She is intensely, almost excruciatingly, superb to look at. She’s about five foot eight but is wearing heels that push her towards the six-foot mark; yet she’s the epitome of the word delicate. She reminds me of an unfurled, blush-pink rose early on a summer morning; one that is dappled with dew and sunlight. I’m not saying she’s sweaty – she’s not. I doubt this woman ever sweats, or pees or even hiccups; she seems to transcend all that is human. She has long, pale blonde hair that tumbles in fat, healthy curls around her (toned) shoulders and (pleasantly muscular) back. She’s a unique blend of ethereal and strong. Her jaunty bone structure suggests a vigour that is potently seductive. She’s wearing a plum, empire line maxi dress (without giving the impression that she is in her third trimester). She’s adorned with an antique amethyst bracelet and butterfly clip in her hair. She steals my breath.
Some of the women seem to dissolve. A few cast shy or sly glances at Amanda and then scuttle away. Two girls come into the loo, clock Amanda and me sharing a mirror and freeze. What I want to do right now is make a polite comment on the film. I know I wasn’t concentrating on the plot quite as closely as I should have been (the ring, the ring!) but I’ve seen Amanda in other movies, she’s a good actor, brilliant in fact. My tongue stays clamped firmly to the roof of my mouth. I’m aware anything I say right now might sound patronizing or gloating. This woman, this vision of loveliness, was rejected by my fiancé. I’m aware of the crowd around us; whatever I say will be quoted and misquoted and Saadi told me not to be drawn into comment. I stay resolutely silent.