by Unknown
‘So what do you think? It’s outrageous, isn’t it?’ I demand.
‘Are the terms as generous as Mark says?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t read it, but that’s not the point.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No!’
‘I’d say it is. I don’t think a pre-nup is a surprise or unreasonable, considering Scott’s wealth. You just have to make sure you’ve got a good deal. Rich people do things differently. You knew that. You wanted different,’ she says calmly.
Suddenly, I find her calm very annoying – almost sanctimonious. Doesn’t she understand I want Scott for ever, not on loan? A pre-nup says that this is a flimsy little effort at a marriage. I want a solid commitment. It’s no surprise that Lisa assumes this is all about the cash, that’s her take on things.
I think about calling Jess but can’t bring myself to do it. If she’s in, I’m pretty sure she won’t pour on tender words of consolation and encouragement; that hasn’t been her bag of late and if she’s out I’ll be left wondering who she’s out with. Adam? The thought does nothing to calm me. She wouldn’t, would she? He wouldn’t, would he? I can’t think about that now.
So next, I call Rick. After giving him a lengthy blow-by-blow account of what the lawyers said to me, and what Mark said to me, and what I said to him, and what I wished I’d said to him, and what I’m going to say to Scott and what I expect Scott to say to Mark, I pause for breath.
‘Bummer,’ says my younger brother.
Then, I call my big sister Fiona. Her response is at least more in-depth, although not totally comforting.
‘I can’t see that you have any choice but to sign.’
Again I try to explain. ‘I’m not objecting to signing, I’m objecting to the very existence of a pre-nup and what its existence says about me and Scott. We aren’t entering this marriage with the same expectations –’
I don’t get to finish. Fiona interrupts, ‘Oh, get over yourself, Fern. You’re the luckiest woman in the world. Don’t you dare muck this up. The kids are really looking forward to being bridesmaids. They’ve told everyone in school that their aunt is marrying Scottie Taylor. They’ve never been so happy. Get a lawyer, get the best deal you can and sign.’
I’ve nobody left to call.
I pick up the blasted pre-nup and I read the first paragraph; it’s a hefty and confusing document. I remember my history teacher explaining that contracts used to be written in Latin, now it appears they are written in gobbledygook. I need a lawyer to explain it. I don’t know any, so I call Mark and ask him to find me one.
‘That’s hardly independent, is it, Fern?’ he says, but he sounds relieved that I’m asking for a lawyer at all.
‘My other choice is sticking a pin in the yellow pages,’ I point out wearily. I’m not even sure if there is such a thing as the yellow pages in LA; it’s scary that there’s so much I don’t know about my new life.
‘I’ll ask Colleen. She’s a wedding planner, she knows all the best divorce lawyers,’ says Mark, without apparent irony. ‘I’ll get her to set something up asap.’
‘Yeah, Mark, you do that.’ I put the phone down and curl up into a tight little ball on my bed.
56. Scott
We don’t see Fern at supper after all. There’s a whole gang of people hanging around, and she’s sent word to say she just wants a quiet one in her room. Her nutritionist sends up a bowl of snow-pea shoots, apparently rich in vitamins A, B, C and E but – let’s face it – not as tasty as chips. After supper most of the guys go to the movie room to watch a DVD and a few go to my den to play on the footie table. Ben and I wander outside to the hammocks, so we can lie on our backs and watch the stars as usual. I find this ritual the three of us have developed really relaxing; it’s a shame Fern’s not up to it tonight.
‘Have you checked in on Fern?’ I ask Ben.
He sighs, flops back into the hammock and folds his long limbs in after him, in that elegant way he has.
‘Yeah, I did.’
‘She OK?’
‘Yeah, OK.’
From his tone I guess that Fern isn’t buzzing but I don’t particularly want to get into it. Luckily, nor does Ben. He doesn’t mention the pre-nup but says instead, ‘The wedding plans are exhausting her. I’ve told her she ought to have a day off from it tomorrow, before she becomes unbearably stressy.’
Fern does not plough fields or chop trees, she doesn’t even have to put a full day’s graft in at the flower shop any more, but Ben understands that they are now in a world where exhaustion is something someone suffers from after a gruelling day at the spa, a nightmare is a nail breaking and a global calamity is turning up to a party in a dress someone has seen you in before. Ben once again demonstrates that he gets this, all so perfectly, when he tells me that he has to go shopping for new T-shirts tomorrow because today he spotted Zac Efron in one like one of his (in a magazine, but when he tells the story you’d think they were having supper together). Ben’s funny.
We both stare at the blue-black sky. I can’t do that pointing out the Great Bear and the Hunting Dogs and what the fuck. I think it’s all ludicrous. Honestly, you can join the stars up to draw anything you want. But I do like counting them. Tonight there are loads and I keep losing count. Ben starts to chat about whether he should take up surfing; motivation being that there are loads of fit blokes out on the surf. And he asks me about my tattoos and whether I think he should get one. Is he too old at thirty-three, he asks. I know for a fact that he’s thirty-five but I don’t call him on it.
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, don’t you?’ He looks earnest and clearly wants me to get the intensity of his deep approval of my latest album. I’ve seen that solemn, desperate longing for a connection before. Often. I smile indulgently as he continues. ‘And then I breathe out and the meaning returns to where it came from, everywhere around me. These new songs chronicle the 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 US market and because when I’m not doing drugs nothing amazing happens and I’m bored.’
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 clothes and shoes and stuff. I mean the people she’ll meet, the places we’ll travel to. It will blow her mind. I can give her a fuck of a lot more than she’d ever have got out of Adam, the loser. I’m saving her from a man whose response to an ultimatum, asking for lifelong commitment, was producing a couple of blagged tickets for a gig.’
‘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 to do the whole carrying her over the threshold thing. Get down on one knee in the kitchen. But instead, he stayed late to work on the light sequence and when he got home they argued about you singing “Happy Birthday”. It was all such lousy timing. He’d bought the house before her ultimatum. He was just arsing about when he said he didn’t know how or whether to commit. He was trying to keep the surprise. Poor bugger.’
‘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 top secret. Everyone who knows anything is under contract embargoing any discussion with the press; even revealing a detail as small as what we’ll be pouring is a sackable offence. Mark predicted that the secrecy would guarantee the most lucrative media deal and the most hype. He’s right on both counts but I’m still struggling to understand why either thing matters to our wedding.
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.’