by Unknown
‘Hey you,’ she beams as she wraps me in a gawky, problematic one-arm hug. ‘We brought gifts.’
‘But what do you bring the girl who has everything?’ says Charlie as he takes a sweeping glance at the party scene stretched out in front of him. He whistles appreciatively.
‘Yourselves,’ I beam. ‘I’m so happy to see you. And cake is good too. I haven’t been allowed to touch anything the least bit sinful for weeks.’ I dip my finger into the gooey icing and cram it into my mouth.
‘So I hear,’ grins Charlie. Lisa nudges him but he can’t help himself, he starts to giggle; I guess that she’s told him about the chastity vow between me and Scott. It’s to be expected, they tell each other everything. He manages to compose himself enough to add, ‘Congratulations, Fern. This is amazing.’
The kids dash off towards the bouncy castle. I slip between Lisa and Charlie and link my arm through theirs; we follow the children at a more leisurely pace.
‘It’s so wonderful to have you both here,’ I gush. I stare at their oh-so-familiar faces and their radiant, delighted expressions douse me. It’s not until I’m with my friends that I realize just how much I’ve missed them.
Lisa, Charlie and I find seats and food and position ourselves close to the bouncy castle so that we can keep an eye on the kids.
As soon as we are all comfortable and sipping ice-cold cocktails I ask, ‘Have you seen Jess?’
‘Yes, she and Adam have the room next to ours,’ says Lisa carefully. She watches me closely as she delivers this news. I’m grateful for my oversized shades and I continue to stare resolutely at the kids flinging themselves off the inflated walls. It’s vital I don’t react. Any reaction is open to misinterpretation; I learnt that on the media training Saadi so thoughtfully organized. They’re sharing a room. Right. Fine. Right. Of course they are. That’s normal for boyfriend and girlfriend.
‘I can’t wait to meet the man himself,’ says Charlie. For a smidge of a second I think Charlie is talking about Adam; that doesn’t make sense at all – they’ve met hundreds of times. Then I understand he means Scott. Of course. Charlie is trying and failing to hide his excitement at this treat that is within his grasp. I’m not surprised that even the usually calm and collected Charlie is a little giddy; I’ve seen people shake and weep as they’ve clasped Scott’s hand. He’s a sensation.
‘I’ll go and hunt him down and bring him over,’ I say. Frankly, I’m glad of the excuse to break free of Lisa’s penetrating stare. I’ll find Scott and he’ll join the party, entertain my friends and by doing so reassure and comfort me. The reasons for needing to be reassured and comforted are a bit blurry right now. I think it’s something to do with the knowledge that imminently, I’ll be coming face to face with my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, a.k.a. my ex-best friend.
I can’t find Scott. He’s not in the pool; there’s a noisy, splashy game of handball happening there. He’s not overseeing the barbecue; the sizzling and swirling smoke is managing to happen quite independently of his skills. Nor is he on the dance floor; although there are lots of lithe, writhing bodies – his isn’t one of them. I imagine he’ll be in his den, playing on the football table with the bass guy. He loves it in there and prefers it to sunning himself on the outside deck. Yet, while I’m usually happy to indulge him, I do think that today he should be outside with our guests. I suspect he’s gone into hiding until the chart position is announced. He’s bound to be nervous, although everyone I’ve spoken to seems to assume it’s a foregone conclusion the album will have sold by the bucket and will be rocketing up the charts.
As I enter the house the cool marble floors and pale walls soothe me. I shouldn’t care that Adam and Jess are sharing a room. It shouldn’t matter to me. But it does. I try to be rational about the situation. I am the one getting married tomorrow. I’m sharing a life with Scott, although notably not a room – not a bed. I can hear the party buzz somewhere distant. It sounds like an annoying fly that I want to swipe away. What’s wrong with me? The party is the most luxurious, spoiling event of my life so far, how can I possibly be comparing it with a hideous, filthy, buzzing insect? I’m not thinking straight. I shake my head in an effort to clear it. I thought I was being steady with the cocktails but I must have drunk too much already. I have to find Scott.
63. Scott
I’ve taken refuge in my den. There were a few blokes hanging around playing the table football, but I sent them packing. I need to be alone. I sit in a gloomy fog of fag smoke. I’m in the habit of keeping blinds and drapes drawn, because in the UK the paparazzi used to pap me through the smallest curtain chinks; they have endless photos of me scratching my belly while wandering around in my boxers. Fern strides in, looking vexed. She says she sympathizes with the issue of privacy intrusion I have to endure but she makes straight for the curtains, flings them and the patio doors open, and mutters about letting fresh breeze waft in. She stands in the doorway, desperately gulping air.
‘You should stop smoking,’ she says.
My smoking gets on her tits. I smoke a lot and all my mates smoke like chimneys too, so the smell of fags permanently lies in the folds of the curtains and the squish of a cushion, in the air, on our skins and in our eyes; it doesn’t bother me but Fern seems to need more air. Often, I sit in the den and she sits outside on the loungers. But cigarette smoke behaves like cats. Cats always search out the person they can freak out the most, the person with an allergy or a phobia, and then they rub against that person’s leg, curl up on that person’s lap. My fag smoke slinks after Fern and I watch as she tries to waft it away. It sits in the still, warm air surrounding her; it lingers and clambers up her nose, no doubt, scratching her throat. I offer her a glass of champagne – that normally freshens her up – but she shakes her head; it’s not going to do the trick today.
‘I can’t stop smoking, it will change my voice,’ I reason.
‘You’ll die a horrible death,’ she points out, frightening no one other than herself.
‘Yeah, well, some people live a horrible life,’ I say, as I throw her a devil-may-care grin.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
I could’ve asked her the same, except I didn’t because I’m not OK. Definitely not. I’m possibly more stressed and agitated than I’ve ever been before in her company.
‘Nervous,’ I confess. I stub out my smoke and bite my already ravaged, stubby fingernails.
She throws herself down by my side and flings her arms around me.
‘Are you nervous about the wedding?’ she asks gently. ‘There’s no need. Honestly I have – well, Colleen has – everything under control. It’s going to be amazing. We’ll have –’
‘No, it’s not the wedding.’ I stare at her, bewildered. I feel a bit like I imagine astronauts must feel when they step out of their shuttle; slightly wary and displaced but a little manic and excited too. The wedding? What the fu – ‘I’m nervous about the chart position,’ I explain.
‘The chart position?’
‘I’m thinking, is it unreasonable to be hoping for a top ten position? Or maybe at least a number thirteen or twelve? Have we rushed things? Do you think I’ll crack America this time? Do you think this is my big chance? Or my last chance? Will the Americans love the album?’ I fire the questions at her with a rapidity she’s unable to field.
‘I’m sure they will,’ she says encouragingly, the moment I let her get a word in. Her response seems woefully passive. ‘But whatever happens in the charts this afternoon, it doesn’t matter. The thing to remember is that we are getting married tomorrow. It’s the biggest day of our lives. And then, after the wedding, you have the tour, you’ll keep selling through. We have so much to look forward to.’
I know she hasn’t got all the answers but she’s giving me the impression she doesn’t even understand the questions.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say. I pat her hand.
I wish I could believe that. It must be nice to be like Fern. She believes in all the go
od stuff. That must be great. I’m a pessimist and even so I find that being proven right isn’t as much fun as it should be. She moves to kiss me but I can’t be doing with that at the moment. Anything sexual with Fern is the last thing on my mind right now. I move first and give her an affectionate peck on the nose. I’m sure that instead of the sexless little kiss on the snout she’d prefer it if I was taking down her knickers with my teeth. But before she has a chance to voice her thoughts, Mark and a cast of thousands burst into the room.
‘Son, son, here you are! Hiding, I might have known.’ My body turns to slop. I’m unsure if my legs are holding me up. Maybe I’m a puddle on the floor. Someone might step on me. Come on Mark, spill. Shut the fuck up, Mark, I don’t want bad news. Both thoughts explode into my being simultaneously. I hardly dare breathe. ‘Well, step into the limelight, lad, I have the chart position.’ Mark is waving a piece of paper above his head as though he’s Moses just returning from Mount Sinai.
I must stand up from the couch in a hurry because I’m vaguely aware that my haste topples Fern. She slides away from me and clumsily lands on the floor. I mean to hold a hand out to help her up but I can’t tear my eyes away from Mark. All eyes are on him, actually.
‘Fuck,’ I say, because I don’t want to hear it, yet I’m aching to hear it. I pull my hands through my hair with such force I might yank out a chunk.
‘Hey, calm down. Can you imagine the wedding photos if you’ve pulled out lumps of hair?’ says Fern. She doesn’t understand. Poor thing. Lucky thing. This is it. This is what it’s all about. This is what it’s all for. I’m twitching and jittering. I can’t stay still; I look like I’m auditioning for a part in River Dance.
‘Fuck mate, don’t mess. Just tell me. Top fifteen? That would be good on the first week’s sales, hey? That would be respectable? I mean we haven’t had that much air time yet. The Americans are always cautious.’
I’m justifying my failure before I even know the results. I look at Fern; she pours back an expression of pure sympathy but she can’t wrap me in cotton wool, no one can. I want this so much. I want this more than anything.
‘Number eight, son. Number fucking eight. In your first week. You’ve made it. You’ve bloody made it!’ yells Mark.
I don’t remember how I reacted, no one waited for my reaction. This is gold. I’m swallowed by a mass of screaming and jumping bodies.
64. Fern
When Scott’s chart position is announced to the guests, the party suddenly hikes up a notch in hysteria and intensity. People fling themselves into the pool and into the arms of strangers. I had no idea my friends and family could party so hard. The mojitos and Alabama slammers have taken effect and my nearest and dearest are no longer in awe of the movie and rock stars. They’ve emerged from the safety of their tight, peripheral clusters and are now sprawled among the cool people. In fact, now that the cool people are beery and leery, smudged and shining, it’s pretty difficult to distinguish them from the other guests. Alcohol and sunshine are great levellers.
‘I guess it’s been parties like this every night, hey?’
I recognize his voice before I have to turn. I recognize it despite the fact there’s something unusually hard and sneering in his tone. It sounds as though he thinks parties are a sin, which is definitely not the case; I know he likes a party.
I can’t look at Adam, I don’t know how to greet him. In Hollywood everyone double air kisses but that wouldn’t seem right – just because it’s so over-used – but a handshake would be ludicrous. In the end I settle for staring resolutely at my feet.
‘No, actually. This is the first party we’ve had. We’re more likely to go out for dinner and to bars but even then, not that often,’ I say with a bright and entirely forced tone.
‘Of course, Scottie is sober at the moment. Well, don’t worry, things will liven up when he falls off the wagon.’
‘That’s really not very kind, Adam.’
Adam takes a deep breath and looks out across the scene. ‘No. It’s not, is it.’ He sighs and adds, ‘I apologize.’
I finally force myself to look up at him. It’s a peculiar thing, I’ve been full of trepidation at the thought of seeing him but now he’s stood in front of me I feel strangely relaxed, almost happy – despite his sarcasm. I suppose it’s because we’ve been friends for so long, well, more than friends – obviously. We never had a chaste or platonic stage in our relationship. It was all about longing and lust and then fulfilment. The happy feeling vanishes the moment I realize what I need to ask next.
‘So, you and Jess, are you an item now?’ I want to sound breezy but the words catch in my throat. I hope Adam doesn’t think that means something; that it means anything. He glances at me in surprise. Doesn’t he think I have the right to ask?
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Well, you are here together. Why else would she ask you to come?’
‘I have no idea. Maybe she thought the place would be full of coked-up wankers and she needed my company.’
Fair point. But it’s notable he hasn’t answered my questions. He’s neatly side-stepped in a way Scott would be proud of. It’s frustrating. I just need to know for sure. One way or the other. There’s a horrible silence that sits between us like a bad smell. I push on.
‘I mean not that it’s any of my business.’
‘No.’
‘I was just thinking about the seating plan for tomorrow.’
‘Right.’
‘I mean should I sit you with a bevvy of young lovelies and Jess with a throng of butch blokes or should I seat you together?’
‘I see.’
‘And that’s the only reason I asked, really.’
‘Right.’
‘I mean it must be pretty intense, since you live together.’
‘We’ve always lived together.’
‘Yes, but before it was with me too. You haven’t got anyone else in the flat apart from you two now.’
‘And where exactly would that third person sleep, Fern? With me? With Jess? In the cupboard with the cornflakes?’ Adam sighs impatiently.
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. I’d forgotten how small the flat is. I fall silent and consider what he’s just said. A third person could have moved in, if Jess had moved into the double room with Adam but that is clearly not the case. Hurrah. Somewhere deep inside I’m singing and dancing an entire tap routine. Jess hasn’t moved in with Adam!
Yet.
Music and dancing stop abruptly. Obviously that could change at any moment and, I remind myself, why shouldn’t it?
‘Oh well, at least my share of the rent will tide you over. Will you move?’ I ask.
Adam looks exasperated. Funny thing is I’ve always thought of him as eternally laid back – too laid back. Vexation and frustration were not part of his repertoire, except when the batteries ran out in the remote control and he had to get out of his chair to change channels – that always caused him to huff and puff. But now he’s snapping and sighing at me as though he’s some sort of enormous steam-powered crocodile. He’s changed.
‘We haven’t cashed your cheque, Fern. Although that was clearly a point of principle that has gone unnoticed so I’m beginning to regret it now. Especially as it’s clear that for you coughing up the dough for a few months’ rent is the equivalent to handing over the loose change you find down the back of the sofa. But we don’t need your help, thank you, we’re managing our money. We’re both working a little bit longer and harder, remember that, Fern?’
I’m humming to myself in an effort to block out his sarcasm and anger but it doesn’t work.
‘I miss it, actually,’ I confess. It’s only now, when I’m articulating this, that I realize it’s true.
‘What, working?’ Adam is incredulous, not surprisingly since he’s the person I used to grumble to most when I had to get up at 3 a.m. to go to the flower market every other day.
‘Well, yes. At least, I miss the shop and being surrounded by fl
owers. I really miss the flowers.’
‘Heart bleeds for you, Fern.’
Why does he keep calling me Fern in that cross and impersonal way? But then what did I expect? Who’d have thought I’d hanker after ‘Fern-girl’? Before I have to endure any more of his mockery I notice Jess approaching. I watch as she emerges from the crowd and makes her way towards us. She’s hurrying but it’s one of those weird moments where everything appears in slow motion. She’s looking fabulous. I have time to note her gleaming hair, broad smile and effortlessly trendy jeans and skimpy top. I’ve always considered her the prettier of the two of us. But we are so dissimilar we never had to seriously compete or compare. I like dark-haired guys, she likes blonds. Guys who like brunettes went for her, blokes who liked blondes went for me. But, in the moment that she slips her arm through Adam’s, I question whether those simple childish divisions still hold true. From where I’m standing I’d say she’s quite keen on dark guys. My guy. My ex-guy, that is.
Jess and I hug one another; it would have been an awkward hug anyway – even if she had let go of his arm.
‘Did Adam tell you his fabulous news?’ she gushes.
‘No.’ I smile and look at Adam expectantly.
‘Well, it’s not just your man who was desperate to hear the chart position today. Adam was too. His band is number forty-eight in the singles chart,’ squeals Jess. She jumps up and down and hugs Adam tightly. Her boobs squash against his arm – is that really necessary? He allows her to hug him for a moment or two before he gently disentangles himself and tries to shush and calm her.
‘Band?’ I ask, confused. ‘You’re not in a band.’
‘He’s managing a band. They’re called the Deputies. The hottest thing to come out of Wigan since, well, ever. Adam discovered this band and now he’s managing them!’ Jess is burbling delightedly. ‘He’s been brilliant for them. Changed everything around. Changed their lives – imagine. They’ve got gigs and a deal and everything,’ she prattles. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her as excited before, not even when she was reading someone else’s paper over their shoulder on the tube and she thought her numbers had come up on the lottery (they hadn’t, she just needed new glasses).