Love Lies

by Adele Parks

  ‘To replace you, that’s right. Well, you aren’t coming back here, are you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Although it seems weird to think of someone doing my job. I love my job. I suppose I should say loved now. I miss it.’

  ‘What’s to miss? You hated the fact that you had to work Saturdays and you moaned that your hands were always scratched by rose thorns or chapped due to the constant dipping in and out of water,’ points out Ben.

  ‘True, and some of the customers were irritatingly indecisive.’

  ‘I know if I was in your position I wouldn’t look back and I do own the place.’ The florist is a business to Ben,

  ‘You must be loving your new life,’ says Ben more seriously.

  ‘Oh I am! You’ll never guess where I am right now.’

  ‘Rodeo Drive,’ he says drily.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because if I was in Rodeo Drive I’d be doing exactly the same thing in your shoes. I’d be calling all my friends to brag; who wouldn’t? Crazy world you’ve landed in though, isn’t it? I’ve been approached by half a dozen papers all desperate for an exclusive story. You know the sort of thing; they want details of your past loves, hopes, dreams, etc. etc.’

  ‘You’re not doing any interviews though, are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course I am. Adam, Jess and Lisa are being very tight-lipped, which is marvellous because that’s driving up the price the papers are prepared to pay me.’

  ‘But you won’t say anything too stupid, will you?’ I ask hopelessly.

  ‘Of course I will,’ says Ben cheerily.

  I sigh. ‘What did I expect? Discretion has never been your thing. Please, please, please don’t show the press any photos of me dressed in my Moulin Rouge fancy-dress costume.’

  ‘New Year’s Eve 2007, when you got so drunk you ended up wearing your basque around your waist. And

  ‘Yes,’ I say quickly, desperate to shut him up. I’m grateful that my past life was so ordinary that I have no more dramatic skeletons in the cupboard. If I did I’m pretty sure Ben would have inadvertently flung them all into the daylight by now.

  ‘OK, I won’t show them those photos. But don’t be greedy with this, pleeease. And don’t be a “no comment” bore. Where’s the fun in that?’ says Ben. ‘Odd to think I’m going to be famous because we shared face masks and pizza.’

  ‘And four years’ hard graft. Would it kill you to mention I was actually very good at my job?’ I ask.

  ‘OK. Will do. You don’t really object to me riding on your coat-tails, do you? I mean you couldn’t.’ His implication is painfully clear.

  ‘I wasn’t looking for fame, I’m in love,’ I point out.

  ‘Brucie bonus, darling. Now you are showing off. Your persistent belief that people care about the distinction is endearing, darling, but haven’t you noticed that they don’t? Never mind, Cinderella has got her fella. Could your life get any more perfect?’

  ‘Only if you came to stay with me for a few weeks,’ I suggest, impulsively.

  ‘You’re kidding.’ I think Ben might have stopped breathing with the excitement.

  ‘Not at all. I need help with –’

  ‘Styling. You do, don’t you? I thought you were very slouchy in this pic in Heat. I was going to say something but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Look around you. Ugly Betty. You should try to imitate that.’ I glance up and down Rodeo Drive. Ben is right. These women know how to strut. ‘Plus I have a million ideas for the wedding.’

  ‘There are loads of people who can help me here but I’d like a friend. I know it’s a lot to ask, especially when you are so busy in the shop.’

  ‘Give me an hour to pack. No, realistically give me a week.’

  ‘To pack?’

  ‘No, to brief the new staff in the shop, silly. Then I’ll be all yours.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m delighted. ‘What about your interviews?’

  ‘They’ll wait.’

  ‘Jess and Lisa both had their reasons for not coming. I’m so touched that you’re going to drop everything for me,’ I say, beaming from ear to ear. I was beginning to fear I didn’t have any old friends left.

  ‘I’ll try to pretend I’m not hurt that I was your third choice. You’ll get me Club Class though, won’t you? I’ve always wanted to fly Club.’

  ‘I’ll fly you First. With a bit of luck you might bump into my pal Gary. He was a steward on our flight. He’s just your type.’

  I’m ecstatic that Ben is coming to visit. All aglow I hang up and turn to Scott. ‘You’ll love Ben. He’s great fun. He just wants everyone to be happy all the time.’

  ‘Not a bad philosophy,’ says Scott with a huge grin. ‘Now, shall we shop?’

  45. Fern

  Surreptitiously I finger the cool, calm, creamy cardboard bag that is sitting at my feet. Inside it (beyond the yards of thick black velvet ribbon and the endless sheets of dainty, floaty tissue paper) lies a dress that cost two months’ salary. At least, two months of my salary, that is – if I still earned a salary, which I don’t of course. In the boot of the car (or the trunk as they say over here) there lie a further dozen or so similar stiff cardboard bags, inside which there are Moschino sunglasses, a Bally bag, a pair of Jean Paul Gaultier jeans, two Matthew Williamson maxi dresses (we couldn’t decide which colour suited me!), a Tommy Hilfiger day dress, a Gucci purse and a Prada jacket. Oh. My. God.

  ‘Happy?’ asks Scott.

  ‘Very, very, very,’ I confirm.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  This is why Scott is more of a deity than a man. He cares what I’m thinking! ‘I was just wondering when I’ll wear the Fendi dress.’ It’s a scarlet silk dress with cap sleeves and beautiful beaded detail around the collar. It’s elegant and stylish. I can’t float around the pool in it, even an infinity pool, even if my boyfriend is a rock star. ‘It’s a going out dress. A special occasion dress.’

  ‘We could go to a movie premiere or a charity gala or something,’ says Scott with a yawn.

  ‘We could?’ I splutter on my excitement and almost choke.

  ‘Yeah, we could.’

  ‘Have we been invited to any?’

  ‘We’re always being asked to them, we get two or three invites a night. But Mark usually says no.’

  ‘He does? Why?’ Why would anyone turn down an invite to a movie premiere?

  ‘Worried I’ll get pissed or… I don’t know, distracted,’ murmurs Scott; he is staring out of the window now and doesn’t seem to be totally focused on our conversation. He hates travelling at this time of day, traffic jams irritate him. As do queues (which, to be fair, he rarely encounters because he can always sweep to the front of any queue).

  ‘Distracted? From what?’ I ask, drawing him back to the conversation. ‘From me?’ I pursue, concerned. A tiny, tiny bit of me is still terrified it might all disappear; Scott might stop thinking I’m special, just as suddenly as he decided I was. Following a secret signal Barry might skid to a violent halt; they might fling open the car door and drag me from the plush leather seats and shiny coolness of the Bentley. I might be cast on to the street and have to fend for myself by burrowing through litterbins in a desperate effort to hunt out returnable bottles and cans. I’d explode with grief. I cast a quick panicked glance at Scott. He beams at me. It’s the slow, sexy smile that sends deep crinkles around his face. Crinkles that I’m beginning to be oh-so-familiar with; crinkles I can trust.

  ‘No, Sweets. Of course not. From my work.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I feel a bit foolish. I have to try harder at

  ‘Shall I see where we’ve been invited to tonight?’ asks Scott.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Why not?’

  I decide there is no reason why not. Scott is a man who likes to strike while the iron is hot. Tonight he thinks it might be fun to go out and give my dress an airing; there is a possibility that by tomorrow this idea will have lost its allure. I’d be wise to grab the opportun
ity with both hands.

  He calls Saadi. I try to follow the series of grunts, in an effort to decipher whether there is anything noteworthy on offer this evening. Scott looks nonplussed, teetering on the bored rigid, so I assume it’s not a happening night.

  ‘There’s a movie premiere at Mann’s,’ he says with a careless shrug.

  ‘A movie premiere! With a red carpet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I let out an involuntary yelp of excitement. It’s quite an embarrassing sound, not unlike a sound you might make in bed just before you totally give in to the big O. Still, he won’t recognize it – more is the pity. ‘And stars?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another ridiculous squeak escapes from my lips. I barely waste time being embarrassed as I rush to ask my question, ‘What movie?’

  Scott stares at me with his huge, green unfair advantages. ‘A political thriller with George Clooney and James McAvoy –’

  I start to screech and scream; a full-throttle orgasm now. Scott grins at my excitement. His vaguely jaded expression dissolves into something much more expectant. ‘Think that will be good?’

  ‘Immense!’ I yell, sounding not unlike my young nephew. ‘Utterly, totally and properly immense!’

  46. Fern

  Scott makes a few more calls to put Saadi and her team on red alert, and so the moment Barry pulls up outside Scott’s mansion I am pounced upon by a gang of hysterical women. I know the beautician, Joy, I see her almost daily now. Although I tell you Joy’s mum was being ironic when she named her; the face on that girl – she is always tripping up on it. She sighs and huffs and puffs with exasperation as she pulls me up the stairs. Linda Di Marcello and Natalie Pennant, the women with healing hands, are there too, as are a hair stylist and a fashion stylist, Saadi and two of her assistants.

  ‘There’s so much to be done and so little time,’ says Joy in despair. I start to giggle. Honestly, modesty aside, I’ve never looked better. As luck would have it, I had a spray-on tan applied yesterday and my hair is professionally blow-dried every morning. OK, maybe I’m not red-carpet perfection right this moment. After six hours of aggressive shopping my hair is no longer coiffed to be camera-ready – there are countless dangly stray bits and a few sticky-up stray bits too – but they ought to have seen the state of me on some of my dates with Adam. He knew I’d made an effort if I changed my T-shirt.

  For the next hour I’m cast adrift in an ocean of novelties such as industrial-strength girdles, fake hair and emergency skin treatments – one for the ‘blemishes’ on my

  Saadi’s assistants continually mutter the words ‘seamless and bumpless’ as though it were a catechism. They wrestle me into Spanx bodyshaper underwear that starts under my boobs and stretches all the way past my knees. I have to wonder. While these garments do dissolve love handles, muffin tops and even hide cellulite, as promised, what is the point? Even if the results do drive a girl’s amour wild with desire, no woman would ever want to be seen in them. It takes a team of dedicated experts fifteen minutes to hoist me into these anti-briefs, so how could I slip out of them at the correct moment? For the first time since I met Scott I’m actually pleased there will be no suggestion of sex tonight.

  The stylist (a new addition to my entourage, and I’m sorry to say I didn’t catch her name in all the haste) informs me that ‘Breasts have their own set of needs.’

  I’m very aware of this. Plus I’m aware that my little babies aren’t seeing as much action as they’d like, but before I can discuss the matter at length the stylist starts to chatter about Flex Body Bras, which are made of adhesive-backed silicone cups that fit separately over each boob, sort of self-sticking bras. I can only imagine the agony of taking those off, I feel squeamish with pain when peeling off elastoplasts.

  ‘Designed for busty beauties who want to wear a backless gown,’ she explains. She stares (almost pityingly) at my

  ‘It’s a backless dress,’ she points out. ‘Be grateful for the silicone versions, they are undetectable under dresses. We weren’t always so fortunate. It wasn’t long ago that we had to put cotton balls on clients and fasten with Scotch tape.’ It sounds like something out of a Blue Peter creative project. I nod, trying to meet her level of gravity and demonstrate my respect for her craft rather than hoot and express my astonishment. ‘Although you should never underestimate the importance of Scotch tape, especially the double-sided stuff. It can be wrapped beneath the breasts, squashing them together to create cleavage, used to hold spaghetti straps in place, or to keep loose dresses close to the skin and, importantly, prevent plunging necklines from becoming pornographic.’

  ‘Thank God for sticky tape,’ I mutter, just a little cheekily. She doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Amen,’ she says seriously. ‘Do you sweat much?’ Not unusually so but recently my palms seem to be constantly clammy; I’m not sure if this is something I want to share. Before I stutter any reply the stylist says, ‘It’s too late for paralysing the glands with Botox. We could try Drysol, a prescription treatment that dries up the sweat glands.’

  Lovely.

  I want to ask them all to leave. I can zip up my own dress and daub a bit of Rimmel Lash Maxxx. I’ve always managed to dress myself in the past and no one has actually thrown stones when I emerged in public. But I don’t ask them to go. For a start there are eight of them and one of me and I feel feeble. I’m pretty sure Saadi will just remind me that this is part of my job now. My first big, glam night out with Scott is bound to draw press attention; it’s my duty to look the part. And besides, I know the results they’ll achieve will be… well… better. I’m unlikely to be recognizable.

  The hair stylist clips on a mane of sleek blonde hair to my head; this finally makes me find my voice and I insist that she takes it off again. I once read this article about poor little girls in underdeveloped countries having to sell their hair to feed their family – I wouldn’t have a nice night knowing that some eight-year-old is running around looking like Kojak so that I can look like the woman from the Timotei advert. Saadi’s first assistant argues that the kid would not eat at all if people like me didn’t buy her hair. I firmly tell her to send the five hundred dollars that she spent on the hair to some charity committed to providing kids with an education. I’m quite chuffed with that. I’ll have to think of a more regular and sustained way I can ‘do more’. In the meantime we settle on an up-do and Joy says that maybe I’ll bump into Angelina Jolie tonight and get some charity tips. The way she pronounces char-idie makes me think that she’s being sarcastic but I can’t be offended because I’m bursting with excitement at the very possibility. Where there’s

  Despite the constant stream of gloom and despondency at the prospect of making me red-carpet-worthy, we do manage to get me ready in time and I look, let’s face it, fabulous. I glide down the stairs into the atrium where Scott is waiting for me, the very picture of gallantry and perfection in a midnight blue jacket with mandarin collar and skinny jeans. Obviously he resisted wearing a tux, social death for a rock star. I’m a little envious because I bet it took him ten minutes to get dressed and I doubt anyone stuck silicone to his bits.

  ‘You are breathtaking,’ he mutters, his eyes wide with desire and appreciation.

  My nipples push against the tiddlywinks and my groin aches with lust and longing. Suddenly I’m certain all the effort, all the teasing, spraying, brushing, pummelling, poking, prodding, pruning, was worth it. To get that response from Scott Taylor I’d walk on hot coals.

  47. Fern

  The grand opening of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, in Hollywood Boulevard, took place on 18 May 1927. It was the most spectacular theatre opening in motion picture history. Thousands of people lined the streets and a riot broke out as fans tried to catch a glimpse of the movie stars and other celebs as they arrived for the opening. Authorization had to be obtained from the US government to import temple bells, pagodas, stone heaven dogs and other artefacts from China to construct the ornate and opulent theatre
. Film director Moon Quon supervised Chinese artisans as they created elaborate pieces of statuary that still decorate the flamboyant and lavish interior of the theatre today. Protected by its forty-foot-high curved walls and copper-topped turrets, the theatre’s legendary forecourt serves as an oasis to the stars of yesterday and today. Ten-foot-tall lotus-shaped fountains and intricate artistry flank the footprints of some of Hollywood’s most elite and welcome its visitors into the magical world of fantasy and whim known as Hollywood.

  All of this I knew before I arrived at the premiere – I’d read it in my guidebook when Scott and I visited last week – and yet nothing could have prepared me for this spectacle.

  New movies open every week in Hollywood, of course, the most sought-after venue. I’m told they always, always, always put on a good show. Crazed fans flock religiously to premieres, in the desperate hope of snatching the briefest peek at the brightest stars. Today’s movie is especially big and has drawn unprecedented flocks of thousands.

  George Clooney and James McAvoy, undisputed sex gods, are clearly worth queueing for (even in a snowstorm – it’s sunny but you get my point), and the actress providing the love interest, Amanda Amberd, is a delicate and fragile British beauty, currently linked with no fewer than three Hollywood heart-throbs – all of whom are married. The press are desperate to inspect this precocious seducer, the fashionable need to know which designer she’s wearing, and the wives of her (alleged) lovers want to know if her boobs are fake.

  Scott and I don’t talk in the car; he hums a tune (one of his own) and drums his fingers on the creamy leather. I pray I won’t sweat, or step on the hem of my dress or flash an inelegant amount of leg as I get out of the car (by which I mean show my Spanx bodyshaper). Saadi’s first assistant has drilled me on exactly how to glide gracefully in and out of a car. She repeatedly reinforced the fact that if I forget her instructions it is the end of the world as we know it; instant social death, as my knickers are not Agent Provocateur, La Perla or similar. If they were then it wouldn’t matter if a speedy photographer got a flash of my gusset.