Love Lies

by Unknown

  ‘We’re all stunned that you’ve lasted a month,’ says Joy bitchily.

  I shoot her a filthy look and turn back to Mark. His gaze bounces around the room, resting on the drapes, the rug, the smooth obelisk ornaments; anywhere other than me. To date, I’ve been overwhelmed by the tastefulness of all that I am surrounded by. Now the room looks vulgar. It is quiet and the sun beats through the windows; I feel suffocated.

  ‘Even if I accept that Scott has fallen prey to these fleeting obsessions in the past, what we have is quite different. What we have is called love,’ I say firmly.

  Mark stands up and walks towards me. Awkwardly he puts both his hands on my shoulders and faces me. It’s the first time I can remember him deliberately touching me. It ought to be a comfort but it’s not.

  ‘I’m not saying he wants to have sex with anyone else, right now.’ Well, that’s a relief since he isn’t even having sex with me yet. ‘I’m saying somewhere along the line he might want to. Sex is just another compulsion for him. He can’t really help himself.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ I say, struggling to sound calm.

  Mark shrugs. I get the feeling he doesn’t much care what I think. ‘But if I am right and he does stray and you get fed up, well, he’s my boy. I have to look out for him.’

  Where is Scott? It never crossed my mind to go and discuss my worries about this contract with him. That’s odd. That’s not right. I think it’s because he stayed absolutely silent when the lawyers presented the pre-nup. No matter what I asked him, he played dumb. So now I’ve come to Mark, hoping he can sort it out, explain it, tidy it away. After all, that’s what Mark does.

  I was quickly made aware that there are a number of people who put themselves between Scott and me and I’ve co-operated when necessary, but I’d always assumed – hoped – they’d fade away as I settled into my life in LA. I realize the opposite has happened; their influence seems to have spread and stained – like billows of blood after a shark’s bite. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

  ‘And if I don’t agree to sign this?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, that’s your right,’ replies Mark. ‘You can say that you don’t want a pre-nup and that you want to go into this marriage with as much hope and as little chance as every other bride does.’ I nod, ferociously confirming this is indeed my wish. Mark shrugs, pauses and then adds, ‘But he might not go ahead. He might not want to marry you if he knows you can embarrass him in public, perhaps ruin him. He’s been damaged enough by the media. He might not want to take that risk.’

  I feel as though I’ve just been dropped into a bag of spiders as every hair on my body stands up tall. I can’t lose him. I can’t. Scott has become my everything. His world is my world. I love it. I love him; everyone does. I am the luckiest girl on the planet. Everyone from Ben to Amanda Amberd says so. Lisa thinks I should sign. Fiona thinks I should sign. Even Rick thinks I should.

  I look at Mark and try to weigh up whether he is a dependable conduit of communication or whether he’s as much good as the ‘telephones’ Fiona and I used to make as kids. We would tie a couple of paper cups together with a piece of string, run in opposite directions until the string was taut and then bellow to one another. The message never carried around corners and all subtleties were lost.

  Mark smiles at me. I don’t respond. He shrugs at me; it seems a more truthful gesture.

  ‘OK, I’ll sign it,’ I say wearily.

  What choice do I have? I just want to get out of the room.

  58. Scott

  Fern and I haven’t rowed but I’ve been on the receiving end of an inevitable low-grade sulk since Mark first introduced her to the lawyers. It’s to be expected, all very normal, all very predictable, but somehow, the fact that she is behaving as expected is disappointing to me. She’s not extraordinary then. She’s like all the other hundreds of women I’ve met. When I say this to Mark he sighs, ‘I hope to God you are right, son.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m counting on the fact that she’s as weak and malleable as every other bugger. The last thing we need now is an autonomous philosophy emerging; that could only lead to trouble. In fact, I think you need to go and apply a band-aid. Do a bit of fussing and soothing, make her feel better about everything. Loved up. The most important thing here is that she remains head over heels about you.’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that’s in any doubt,’ I say huffily.

  ‘No lad, I’m not. She was half in love with you before she met you. You saw the postcard pinned to her staff-room wall. I spotted the photo of her with your waxwork when I was scouring her albums.’

  Mark isn’t going to say what we both know; being half in love with the image of me is quite different from being totally and absolutely in love with the real me. Pretty much everyone on the planet is the first; my mum is the only absolute definite in the second camp.

  ‘We don’t want to fuck this up, Scott, not when we’re so close and we’ve all worked so hard,’ adds Mark, warily.

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll go and sweet-talk her.’

  I find her outside, stood near the pool. It’s getting dark but it’s still warm. I put my arms around her waist and kiss her neck. I feel the hairs on her body respond, confirming what we all need to know – I’m irresistible.

  ‘Hey, my beautiful wifie-to-be, what are you doing out here all on your own?’

  ‘Just thinking,’ says Fern. She doesn’t turn towards me but she does lean her head back to rest on my chest; she melts into me and we both silently watch the sunset. For about three and a half minutes. I can’t stay still for longer than that.

  ‘Did you have a chat with Ben today?’ I asked Ben to talk to Fern about the pre-nup stuff. To point out that he thinks it’s perfectly reasonable (which he does) and that she’s done the right thing by signing (which she has).

  ‘Yes.’

  Well, that’s good, although her staunch silence suggests that I still have to put a bit more effort in. I don’t want to talk directly about the pre-nup; it’s a can of worms, so instead, I go tactical.

  ‘What is it you want, Fern?’ I ask with a sigh.

  Clever this, for two reasons. One, by calling her Fern, instead of ‘Sweets’ or ‘Petal’ – my usual endearments – I’ll make her realize I’m being very serious, taking her very seriously, etc. etc. Women love that, and, importantly, I’ll make her feel ever so slightly insecure because ‘Fern’ is a bit cold in comparison to the other forms of address. Plus, the sigh is genius because that will make her feel sorry for me; she’ll think I’m weary with trying to please her. It’s amazing how much subtext there can be in a single sentence if it’s delivered with the correct nuance. It’s always worth remembering that you can never underestimate the level of meaning women’ll load into just one question. Always better to be a step ahead.

  ‘I wanted the fairy tale,’ she murmurs. Her answer surprises me. It’s very honest.

  ‘That’s what you’ve got, Sweets,’ I say, tightening my hold around her, drawing her closer to my body. I start to think about having sex with her because then my cock will stiffen and women love that too. They all love to think I can’t restrain myself around them; that they’re irresistible to me. Nothing doing, so I start to think of having sex with her and Scarlett Johansson. That does it. Fern doesn’t say anything, so I’m forced to go where I wanted never to tread. ‘This stuff with the lawyers doesn’t mean you have any less of a fairy tale, you know.’ Of course, this isn’t strictly true. Let’s face it, when reading Cinderella no one has ever seen the page where a bunch of overpaid, over-educated arseholes divide up Prince Charming’s property, have they?

  ‘In a way I think it does,’ says Fern, insisting on remaining committed to telling me stuff as she sees it. ‘But, actually, that’s not what I’m thinking about.’

  Really? I know curiosity killed the cat. Thing is, there are times when I can be really strong and other times I’m just dead weak. Now’s one of the weak times. I d
on’t want to, but I find myself asking, ‘So what are you thinking about?’

  ‘Oh, Jess and stuff.’

  ‘Is she still acting all jealous and grumpy?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Problem is, Fern is so wrapped up in her new life she has no idea what the people left behind are feeling. This mate – all her mates – no doubt feel jealous, abandoned, resentful or just plain old-fashioned shy – I’ve seen it all in the people I left behind. And even if I’m wrong and this mate of hers is exceptional and is genuinely blissedout by Fern’s good fortune, she still won’t know how to handle herself; she won’t want to appear sycophantic or on the make so she’ll probably go too much the other way and be chilly. I’d have thought Fern would have a grip on this by now.

  ‘Still ignoring your calls?’

  ‘She seems to have a very active social life at the moment,’ says Fern with a sigh. ‘She still hasn’t given me her measurements. I’ve had her dress made up in a size eight and a ten. It seems extravagant to make two, as the dresses are costing over a grand each, but –’

  ‘Well, we can afford it so don’t worry about it,’ I say, turning her round and leaning her face into my chest. I kiss the top of her head; her hair smells great. ‘She can try them on when she gets here.’

  ‘Mmmm, I suppose,’ mumbles Fern. She still seems distracted.

  ‘So there’s nothing else you are worrying about, right? Everything is super cool.’

  Fern tilts her head up to look at me. I see something play in her eyes and almost make it to her lips. I swoop down and kiss her. Silence her. To be honest, I’ve done my share of sensitive guy stuff for tonight. Above and beyond the line of duty, I’d say.

  We stand there for ages just holding each other. Content just to do that. After a bit Ben comes to find us.

  ‘Darlings, I’ve brought refreshments! Champagne supernova for me and Fern, and non-alkie drinkies for you, Scott.’

  Perfect.

  59. Fern

  ‘Come on, time to get up.’

  Ben draws back the bedroom curtains, allowing a ferocious shaft of sunlight to flood into the bedroom. He swiftly tugs my duvet off too. Luckily for us both I’m wearing pyjamas. I always do now. It’s not like I sleep with anyone who might appreciate the feel of my naked skin pressed up against theirs, plus living here is a bit like living in a hotel; you never quite know when someone is going to bring flowers into the room or adjust the air-con or something. Birthday suits are not an option; I’d rather save everyone’s blushes.

  ‘What is it today?’ I ask as I swing my legs out of bed. I manage to make it into the bathroom without actually opening my eyes; quite a feat. I’m so tired. Who would have known that the quest for perfection could be so exhausting?

  ‘Forty minutes in the gym, then sauna, swim, shower, blow-dry and then we need to meet Colleen and the photographer to footprint the wedding.’

  ‘Footprint the wedding?’

  ‘Walk through the event to decide on the best photo opportunities.’

  ‘I thought we agreed that the photographer was going to be discreet and unobtrusive. I wanted natural reportage shots,’ I yell over the sound of my electric toothbrush.

  ‘Of course you do, darling. They are by far the loveliest. We just want to know where exactly those reportage shots ought to be taken so that we get everybody’s best side,’ says Ben, seemingly unaware of the crazy contradiction.

  My mouth is full of toothpaste so I can’t argue, and by the time I’ve done a full two minutes for both upper and lower set (as instructed by the hygienist), the conversation has moved on and I can’t be bothered to pick it up again. I’m finding it’s often easiest to go with the flow.

  After visiting the gym, the stylist and the wedding venue, I insist that Ben and I go for lunch and I also insist that we have pizza, chips and full fat Coke. Ben appears scandalized and says he’s going to tell on me. My nutritionist and Colleen will have kittens; they’ve decided I still need to lose more weight before the wedding; perhaps I could cut my toenails and have my hair trimmed again. I ensure Ben’s silence by offering to pay for lunch and buy him the set of matching luggage from Louis Vuitton he’s been coveting.

  We make a brief stop at Rodeo and then go to eat. After just one bite I decide that I don’t care I’ve had to spend thousands of dollars to be allowed carbs. The pizza is sublime; it seems like good value to me.

  Ben squeezes my hand. ‘You know, you didn’t really have to buy the very stunning luggage – although thank you, thank you, thank you – I’m just delighted that we are out together. I would have let you cheat the diet without telling.’

  ‘You say that now!’ I laugh.

  ‘It’s been such a long time since we’ve had a good old scandalous natter.’

  ‘And even longer since we talked about anything other than the wedding,’ I add.

  ‘It is becoming all-absorbing.’

  ‘Can I tell you something?’ I lean closer to whisper in Ben’s ear although I seriously doubt there’s any press about as we’ve picked a grimy, low-key pizzeria – much to Ben’s disgust. But I thought a change is as good as a rest and, somehow, I was hankering after a place with plastic tablecloths and hopeless waiters. At least this way we won’t be continually disturbed by someone refolding our napkins or pouring gallons of water every two seconds; that level of attention is distracting and detrimental to a good old gossip. Still, I take the precaution of whispering; I’ve learnt that I have to be careful about everything I say in public now.

  ‘Tell,’ urges Ben.

  ‘I’m using the wedding to suppress my sexual desires.’

  ‘What?’ Ben looks surprised, confused and amused.

  ‘I once read, somewhere, that in the old days – when soldiers were serving long stretches away from their wives or even a convenient lady of negotiable affection with loose lips and knicker elastic – their superiors used to put bromide in their tea to suppress sexual urges. My equivalent is planning the wedding.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ shrieks Ben.

  ‘Not really, not when you think about it. Weddings are all about romance, the lace and flowers and white dress sort of romance. They have nothing to do with lust and shagging and lewdness. Perhaps they are supposed to be, that’s what relationship experts would have us believe, but it’s not actually the case.’

  Ben is laughing out loud now. ‘Women, you’re a funny lot. I’ll never understand you. It’s such a relief I have no ambitions that way.’

  ‘If they were honest, I’m sure most brides would agree that being taken roughly, behind the rose bushes on their wedding day, is the very last thing on their mind. The dress will get creased, perhaps muddy – oh, hell on earth – maybe even torn.’

  Ben chuckles some more. ‘And here’s me thinking that was the exact reason you asked Colleen about the thickness of the foliage in the hotel today.’

  ‘The purpose of the rose bushes is to make a nice backdrop for the photos. The copious champagne consumed is not to make the bride feel frisky, it’s to make her feel pretty and chatty and expensive. Wedding days are refined, exquisite, look-don’t-touch days and every bride knows it,’ I say firmly. ‘I think that’s why I’ve recently found I’m handling Scott’s sexual embargo better than I expected.’ I cram a really fat slice of pizza into my mouth and chew. The cheese sticks to my teeth.

  Something like surprise or concern, certainly extreme interest, flickers across Ben’s face. ‘You mean you aren’t desperate to do Scott.’

  The funny thing is, no, I’m not. Or at least, I’m not as desperate as I was a month ago. I know this is back to front. I know my desire should be increasing, but no, no, I’m not. The shock on Ben’s face stops me from saying quite this much. He’s looking at me as though I’m a circus freak.

  ‘Of course I am. I’m just saying that I find if I concentrate on the wedding plans, the impulse to hijack Scott at every given opportunity slowly subsides. He’s the same. He channels his energie
s into Wedding Album. We’ve both had to find distractions or else we’d go insane. As it is, I eat, sleep, breathe wedding plans.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s understandable. You’ve wanted this day for such a long time – longer than you’ve been engaged, actually.’

  ‘Thanks, Ben, I’m pretty sure that’s the sort of thing a friend is supposed to conveniently forget,’ I say as I reach for my Coke.

  ‘Although all the hours you put into planning a wedding to Adam were wasted, weren’t they? You could have used your time more wisely, perhaps tried to find a cure for the common cold. I mean, besides the fact you were never actually engaged to Adam, it’s not like any of that learning can be recycled. The plans you made then just don’t compare to the wedding you’re actually going to have.’

  True. When I imagined my wedding to Adam I took into account that there would be budget constraints. I imagined that a fair amount of time would be spent walking from one shop to the next, comparing prices and hunting for sales stuff and cheap deals. I also expected to have to cut corners by perhaps making the invites myself: I’d have arranged the flowers, my mum would have made the cake and perhaps we’d have bought the bridesmaids’ dresses off eBay. Funny to think I got so much pleasure planning that simple wedding. Naturally, planning my wedding to Scott is quite unlike anything I could have imagined. For a start I don’t take a step out of doors; everyone comes to me with their wares. I never look at a price tag; well, there aren’t any – and it’s clear that I’m being shown the sort of things that if you have to ask how much they cost you can’t afford them. I can afford anything. However, I find I’d still prefer to know prices. I like to make choices based on the best value for money – it’s what I’m used to.

  ‘You’re right. This wedding is nothing like the wedding I imagined.’ I push the final slice of pizza into my mouth. Ben hasn’t eaten half of his. He’s trying to shift a few pounds for the wedding too. He’s likely to be more successful, as he enjoys being a gym bunny. I nibble a chip and add, ‘In fact, no matter how many lists Colleen and Saadi provide me with, I’m not sure exactly what this wedding is like. Obviously, it will be beautiful, exquisite and gorgeous, that much is clear from the mood boards, samples and books that litter the many, many rooms of Scott’s house. It’s just that it has become hard to keep track of all the detail.’