by Unknown
I turn to Scott. And what does Scott want? Scott longs to love one person, with all his heart, his soul, his mind, his body. That’s what was said in the reading. He wants this despite the odds, despite his pleas that he can’t control himself, that he has intimacy issues and that infidelity is part of his makeup. Secretly, he wants one person. I’m not that person. Ben thinks he might be.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter. I do love him even when he’s unlikeable, I do see the small child in him, just like the reading asked. But the love I feel is all about friendship. And while he’s my only offer on the table and he’s a very good offer, he’s not the offer I want. He’s not the one. I have to take responsibility in and out of a marriage. I manage to squeak again, ‘Sorry.’
Then I turn and run. I do the whole Cinderella thing, except I don’t even leave a shoe. I dash from that church and I just keep running.
73. Fern
No one tries to stop me. The congregation is frozen with shock and confusion and I’m determined to escape, so despite my precarious heel height, I’m nimble. Besides, even in a moment of extreme crisis Mark has the sense to assess the situation; no doubt he realizes a bundle of hefty security guards tackling me to the floor is not going to help this PR disaster.
Frantically I search for a vehicle to get me away from this nightmare. The horses and carriage I arrived with won’t cut it. I spot one of Scott’s security guards in a black BMW.
‘Change of plan,’ I yell as I pull at his arm and drag him from the car. Terrified by my crazy, irrational behaviour he gives up the fight – and the car – immediately.
I drive and drive. I’m unsure where to go and initially I have no plan. I can’t go directly to the airport, I don’t have a passport and I’m wearing my wedding gown – that sort of thing causes quite a stir at airports. I don’t want to go back to Scott’s; I’ve just dumped him at the altar. I don’t want to check into a hotel or go anywhere people might recognize me and call the press. The last thing I need now is a howling pack of paparazzi on my trail. I think of the places where I’ve been happy in LA. The Getty Center? Disneyland? I think I’m a little overdressed to merge into the crowds at either of those places. Suddenly, it comes to me. I know where I should go. Not somewhere I’ve visited yet but somewhere I’ve ached to see: the Los Angeles flower district – home of the most enormous flower market. Flowers soothe. Flowers heal. I desperately need to be among dozens and dozens of fresh, therapeutic, calming blooms.
I haven’t done much driving in America since I arrived here, I’ve always had Barry to ferry me around, but, from the passenger seat, I’ve managed to pick up the majority of the city’s geography. I thank God for the US grid pattern; their roads are so logical and uncomplicated, it doesn’t take long before I am heading downtown towards the flower district in Wall Street.
I park the car as close as I can to the block-long row of stalls. The attendant notes my attire and asks laughingly whether a delivery failed to show. I don’t find the words to answer but instead start to float towards the beautiful scent of lush blooms that signposts what I anticipate to be a staggering array of flowers.
I spot a huge, open warehouse. I can already see stall after stall of colourful amaryllis, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums and gerberas; the sight of them is the equivalent of seeing a good friend holding a glass of wine and a bar of chocolate. A plump, smiley lady asks me for a two-dollar entrance fee. I mutter that I’m not carrying any money. She shrugs and says, ‘Well, it’s late, we’re closing up anyways soon. You might as well go on in there.’
I try to smile to convey my thanks.
‘Nice dress,’ she adds. ‘Don’t get it wet.’
The bustling activity I normally expect to encounter at a flower market has started to subside. No doubt most of the day’s trading has been completed; growers, shippers, wholesalers, distributors, floral designers, event planners and retail florists will have poured through these doors this morning, even earlier than Colleen surged into my bedroom. Now there are just a few non-commercial customers wandering around. Women who are throwing dinner parties this weekend looking for deals on the flora for their centrepieces and some guys buying bouquets for their mothers and lovers. There are a few couples; most look newly engaged. Brides-to-be can be easily identified because they are generally stressed but determined; the grooms-to-be are romantic but clueless and together they search for floral inspiration for their big day. More than one bride-to-be looks at me with horror and suspicion, then takes a wide berth as though I’m bad luck. Admittedly, I must be a sight. I’m wearing the most exquisite wedding gown ever created and I’m wearing my mascara in panda bear patches. I probably do look unlucky.
On the other hand, the burly men who are closing up their stalls barely give me a second glance. Perhaps they’ve seen other brides wander among their flowers like lost ghosts. I watch the stallholders’ efficient and confident actions as they pack and stack empty crates, hose the floor and load up their vans. I’m soothed by the familiarity of their simple, uncomplicated work. I’ve missed the clank of trolleys, the thud of plastic buckets clunking on wet cement floor and the noisy blaring radios pulsing in the background. LA flower market has its own flavour. In Covent Garden I used to be surrounded by robust, cheeky cockneys; here there is a melody of languages, Spanish, Chinese, Singaporean – the effect is mystical and exotic.
I wander aimlessly around the vast market, concentrating on nothing other than breathing deeply. I cross my arms in front of my body and frantically rub my hands up and down my arms, over and over again, in a hopeless effort to warm up. I’m freezing because I’m wearing a scant, shimmery number and there are dozens of huge fridges, introduced to keep the flowers cool on piping hot days, but this slight physical discomfort hardly matters. What have I done?
I realize I’ve probably ruined Scott’s career, although I know I haven’t broken his heart – it doesn’t belong to me. By running out on the wedding I’ve wasted hundreds of thousands of pounds and I’ve passed up the opportunity to enjoy millions more. As soon as the world’s press gets hold of the story everyone will agree that I am the most stupid, ungrateful woman on the planet.
But the more I stare at orchids wrapped like newborn babies – with tenderness and padding – and the deeper I breathe in the elegant fragrance of radiant ranunculus, which refreshes my lungs after so many dark smoky days behind closed doors, the more I think I’ve just done the bravest and best thing in my life. I thought my future was all about a wedding but it’s not. When I saw Scott on stage he seemed to offer an escape route. I should have recognized it for what it was; a stonking great crush. I got carried away. No, I ran away. There’s a difference.
I watch a group of voluble and raucous Mexican guys selling irises; they are wearing a uniform of chunky gold jewellery, tight T-shirts emblazoned with slogans and baggy pants. They don’t look poor but they are a long way from wealthy. Ordinary. They look happy. Which makes them extraordinary. I wonder what my ordinary will be?
The question pops into my head, despite my resolute efforts to block any soul-searching. I concentrate hard on the startling amaryllis and the delicate dendrobium orchids. But the harsh realities won’t go away. I have no boyfriend, no job, no home, no future. These facts are icy cold and can’t be softened, even by confident lisianthus. The flowers begin to swim in front of me. I realize I’m crying when I almost fail to recognize the peonies that are laid out in rows, ranging from the palest, most tender pinks to hot, urgent crimson.
I slump down on the cold floor and practically hug the nearest crate of blooms.
‘Good God, Fern, that was quite an exit. Haven’t they taught you anything here? It’s a dramatic entrance that a girl is meant to make.’ His voice pours through the noise. He’s found me.
74. Fern
‘Oh Adam, I’ve fucked it up,’ I wail.
‘I dunno. I think that was the most sensible thing you’ve done in six weeks – well, that and the new hair, it really suits you.’
>
I splutter a laugh despite the overwhelming misery that’s ripping through my gut. It’s not a good idea as it happens, because snot comes out of my nose – never a great look. ‘I don’t mean leaving him. I mean –’
I mean leaving Adam but I can’t tell him that. I did leave him and now he doesn’t want me, he said so last night. Quite clearly. Unequivocally. I have to avoid talking about us. I don’t want to frighten him away. I need a friend right now. I’d hate it if he became embarrassed or offended and left me here alone. I put him on the spot yesterday and it didn’t work, there is no point in going down that route again. Ever again. You can’t go backwards, he said that. I don’t finish the sentence. My face flushes with mortification and regret. I clear my throat and scramble around for something neutral to talk about – a pointless exercise in the circumstances, not unlike making polite small talk at a wake.
‘How did you find me?’ I ask.
‘Everyone is searching for you all over the city, but I knew you’d need flowers. You always said they help you think. And once I got here I thought I’d find you near the peony stall.’
‘Because they’re my favourite flower?’
‘No, because legend has it that mischievous nymphs like to hide in the petals of peonies, causing this magnificent bloom to be given the meaning of shame or bashfulness in the language of flowers,’ he replies.
Is he calling me a mischievous nymph? And if he is, is that a good thing? I shake my head. This is not the moment for innuendo and analogies; we’re confused enough. Another thought strikes me: since when did Adam know so much about flowers? I stare at him, dumb-founded. ‘How do you know that?’
‘You told me,’ he says, looking awkward.
Did I? I’d forgotten. ‘When?’
‘Forever ago.’
I blush again, newly doused with shame and regret. Is it possible we once talked about the meaning of flowers? How could I have forgotten that? How did I let that slip away?
Adam notices I’m scarlet and comments, ‘You look like one of these peony flowers, right now. You know, the same colour.’
He’s looking at me with an intensity that is making me wilt. I scramble about my brain for something neutral to say; something that won’t betray regret or wistfulness. Something that is impossible to misinterpret; a comment which cannot have a deeper meaning read into it. Some plain speaking.
‘Peonies tend to attract ants to the flower buds. This is due to the nectar that forms on the outside of the buds,’ I say authoritatively.
‘Are you calling me an ant?’
‘No!’ Failed there then – he still read more into my comment than I meant him to. I try to explain. ‘I’m just saying that however perfect they look there’s always a drawback.’
‘Are you talking about Scott?’
‘No! I was trying to talk about nothing!’ I sigh, defeated.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, yeah, that’ll be right, you don’t do talking. You run, don’t you,’ says Adam. Oh bugger, didn’t see that coming. Adam glares at me. Any compassion I thought I detected has been swallowed by anger. He shakes his head wearily. ‘I didn’t know what I’d done wrong, Fern. I still don’t know what went wrong. I woke up one day and that was our last and I never even knew it. We were doing fine, Fern, weren’t we?’
I can’t answer. I want to look away from him because his pain is burning in his eyes and it’s obvious in the small, tight lines around his mouth too. But I don’t look away, it would be too selfish, I should see what I’ve caused. He continues.
‘Well, I thought we were and then you left. You just weren’t there any more. People shouldn’t just bale out when the going gets tough. People should stay put and work stuff out. People should talk things through.’
‘I tried to talk to you,’ I offer gently, weakly.
‘You gave me one ultimatum and you didn’t even stick around long enough to see how I’d respond.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well, that’s good to know,’ he says sarcastically. ‘And now you’ve run away again.’
‘I thought you approved of me running out on Scott.’
‘I’m glad you’re not marrying the man but there were better ways to tell him.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat.
‘Yeah, I’m sure Scott will be stoked to hear that.’
‘He slept with Ben,’ I point out.
‘You knew that yesterday. You could have called it off yesterday before the cameras were rolling.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Life is.’ Adam spits out the words and stares in front of him. He looks irritated. Nearly all the flowers and stalls are packed away now; the warehouse looks bleak. I get the feeling that pretty soon someone is going to brush us up with the bits of stray foliage and sweep us into the bin. ‘Why didn’t you finish it yesterday?’ asks Adam.
‘Because you didn’t want me,’ I reply with a heavy sigh. I’m not delirious about admitting this but what is the point of trying to save face at this stage? ‘And I didn’t have the courage to leave without you. Or, at least, I thought I didn’t.’
We sit silently side by side. Him in a smarter suit than I have ever seen him wear – in fact, the only suit I have ever seen him wear – and me in a gown that cost six months’ salary, but we don’t look as grand and refined as we ought. We look bizarrely out of place in among the empty trestle tables.
Adam looks nervous but strangely elated. I can almost see his thoughts whirling around his head. I wonder what he’s thinking? I wonder whether he’ll let me move back into the old flat, just for a while, just as friends; I could sleep on the sofa. But even as the plan begins to take shape in my head I know this idea is hopeless. I could never sleep near Adam without sleeping with him. We’d never have managed a chastity vow. My limbs are stiff with the cold now and my eyes are stinging from lack of sleep and the constant drip of tears but I know that sooner or later I’m going to have to pick myself up and brush myself down.
I’m going to have to start all over again.
Alone.
Adam coughs. I think he’s thinking the same thing. He’s probably cold too and suffering from pins and needles because he’s scrunched down next to me. I wait for him to tell me I have to get on with it.
‘You know yesterday, when I was talking about my band and I said that they’ll never make number one because that stuff doesn’t happen to me, I’m not a number one sort of guy?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘The thing is, Fern, that sort of stuff doesn’t happen to me because, truthfully, I don’t want it enough. I don’t want it at the cost of everything else and that’s how much you have to want it in this business. That’s how much Scott wants it. He deserves his success and all that comes with it.’ His tone is slightly scathing. I don’t think there is any love lost between Adam and Scott. ‘But you know, maybe they might get into the top forty. Maybe number twenty-six or something around that mark.’
‘Yeah, you said.’
‘I’m just saying it again, so that you are clear. I’m not going to be a stonking, raving, unequivocal success. I’m more average than that.’
‘I know, Adam.’
And that’s why we could have a chance, if he’d allow it. I look at him and try to understand exactly what he’s saying. I listen very, very carefully. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Is he managing my expectations? That would mean he is at least allowing me to have expectations. How far away is starting again? Millions of miles or just around the corner?
I lean closer and closer towards him. He stops talking and I stay silent. My mouth is just inches away from his. I can feel his warm breath heat my being. Just an inch apart now. His delicious lips are right there, a nose length away.
He pulls back. The space he leaves between us is a world. Or should I say, the space I put between us is a world. He doesn’t want me. If he did, that was his moment. He could have kissed me here, among
the buckets of flowers. I’ve blown it. I start to cry again. I wish I wouldn’t. It’s girly and weak and messy but I can’t stop myself. I don’t know how I’ll make it through this.
‘Why are you crying now?’ he asks with a touch of impatience. It’s agony that even his impatience thrills me; everything about him is familiar and straightforward.
‘Because I’ve lost everything. I’ve thrown away everything.’ I give in to the big, ugly sobbing once again.
‘You don’t know what the future holds, Fern. You never know, in a year’s time you might look back at all of this and, well, laugh about it.’
I stare at him as though he’s insane.
‘OK, maybe not laugh exactly,’ he concedes. ‘But it might not seem like the end of the world if you were sitting in your lovely two, maybe even three, bedroom home in – I don’t know – let’s be realistic, the wrong end of Clapham. Not a bad place for a starter home.’
‘Not at all.’ I sniff, momentarily giving in to this fantasy he’s describing.
‘And you might be pregnant and my band will have made a bit of cash, maybe I’ll have more than one group to manage by then.’
Pregnant? How? That’s stupid. How could I have met and fallen in love with someone and decided to have a child with them in that short time? Looking at Adam right now, I can’t imagine doing even the first part of that scenario. How could I meet anyone else when I’m in love with Adam? And I am in love with Adam. What I feel for him is not a three-day infatuation, ignited behind closed doors in Wembley, already cooling as I flew across the Atlantic. What I feel for Adam is not a fairytale, it’s a love story. There’s a difference.