by Adele Parks
Saadi breaks the silence in the car when she says to any comment about Amanda Amberd.’
I stare at Saadi, puzzled. ‘What sort of comment could I make? Who would want to know what I think of her frock?’
‘You don’t know?’ Saadi looks both dispirited and resigned. ‘I thought you were up on celeb goss, at least.’ It’s become transparent that I fail to fulfil many of Saadi’s expectations as to how a future Mrs Taylor should manage herself. I can’t get the hang of the remote controls for the TVs, stereos, walls, or cinema, I am forever forgetting to re-apply lipstick before I nip out of the house and I thank shop assistants – profusely. She glowers at me, silently communicating her irritation at this new disappointment.
I do read many of the gossipy glossies but not as regularly as I’d like (I’ve heard other women say the same thing about the FT but I don’t believe them, no one can regret the lack of broadsheet gloomy statistics in their life). I usually only get the chance to fully devour these orgies of guesswork and hearsay when the shop is quiet and Ben and I need something new to bitch about; during busy periods I can go for weeks completely oblivious about which star is avoiding which food group.
‘Why? What’s the story with Amanda Amberd?’ I ask.
‘Last February… a few months after Scott arrived in LA, he went to one of Amanda’s premieres…’ Saadi trails off and looks at Scott. He stares out of the window, watching the crowds that line the street. The crowds can’t see him. The windows of the limo are blacked out and
‘February is Valentine’s. It’s hectic in the shop. I don’t get a chance to read magazines.’ I start to justify and excuse my ignorance and then something flickers in the back of my head as though a light has been switched on in a room down a very, very far-off corridor. Amanda Amberd was linked to Scott. Romantically.
‘Just a fling,’ mutters Scott. He snatches up my hand and holds it to his lips, staring very keenly into my eyes. ‘Nothing, nothing like this. Like us,’ he says intently.
I believe him. It’s true. I know it. It feels as though I’ve dived right into his two huge green lakes and am swimming around his brain. I might float away on this amazing, certain, flattering, overpowering exquisiteness. We kiss. The intensity lights up my entire body. Whoosh, I’m scalding, burning, blazing with desire. I feel it in my toenails and in the tips of my ears, all my extremities are buzzing with lust. I’m wet with longing.
‘Whatever,’ sighs Saadi. Coughing, no doubt slightly embarrassed by our palpable passion. You can taste sex in the air or at least, I can. ‘Just don’t be drawn. Amanda had to go into rehab after Scott dumped her, the scheduling of the film slipped, it cost the studio loads of money. Questions will be asked.’
I pull out of the kiss. ‘She had to go into rehab after a fling?’ I’m confused; I thought these starlets knew the
‘Broke the cardinal rule,’ says Scott with a regretful sigh. ‘Poor girl. I had no idea.’
‘She fell in love with him for real,’ says Saadi with a shrug. ‘Very inconvenient. Tricky to handle. She’s popular. Scott was in danger of looking like a total louse.’
‘I really had no idea,’ repeats Scott. He looks genuinely aghast. I pity him. With so much fabulousness comes great power. He doesn’t get it.
‘Poor girl,’ I mutter.
‘Worked out OK in the end,’ says Saadi confidently. ‘She lost eighteen pounds thanks to stress. The movie got tonnes of pre-release PR. No harm done.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t be here tonight,’ I suggest, carefully. It seems really insensitive. Cruel almost. It is Amanda Amberd’s big night and I just can’t accept any woman, even an actress, would believe that losing eighteen pounds compensated for the loss of Scott. She must still be gutted. The last thing she needs tonight, or probably ever, is to see Scott again – especially with his new fiancée. Me. We can’t rub her nose in it. ‘We should turn round, go home,’ I say.
‘But you wanted to show off your new dress,’ says Scott.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I’ve worked all afternoon talking to the studio to get this cleared,’ says Saadi irritably. ‘Amanda is expecting Scott now, the press are expecting Scott now; we can’t go home. That would be a bigger snub and scandal.’
I’m doubtful, but this isn’t my world. Or rather it is, but it hasn’t been for long. It’s much more Saadi’s world. She knows what she’s doing, I have to trust her. Scott squeezes my hand. ‘She’s linked to other names now,’ he reminds me.
Yes. Three of them. All married men. If that isn’t the sign of a lost, confidence-sapped individual I don’t know what is. Why would a woman as talented, beautiful and desired as Amanda Amberd dally with married men unless her self-esteem was in ribbons?
Then I think of the poor wives of Amanda’s lovers and all my sympathy is brushed away. Amanda Amberd should not be spreading the hurt. Single people date and then split up, that’s normal. Sad but true. She must be a selfish, uppity little madam to choose the route of dating married men. She doesn’t have to, she must have potential suitors tripping over themselves to impress her; it’s spiteful and irresponsible. Sod her, she doesn’t deserve my sympathy, pity or consideration; she’s not showing any to those wives.
‘I don’t care either way,’ says Scott with a filthy, distracting, utterly fabulous smile. ‘I’m just going to look at you all night anyhow. It doesn’t matter to me whether we do that in Grauman’s or at home.’
More kissing. ‘Let’s go,’ I say.
Saadi looks relieved.
Apparently there is etiquette or at least an unwritten rule about the correct time to arrive at functions such as these. Of course there is. There’s an unwritten rule about everything. I wish someone would just write down all the blinking rules and I could learn them off by heart and not have to be subjected to the continuous eye-rolling
Saadi is given a signal and our moment has arrived. I step out and am hit by a blast of warm air and manic noise from screaming crowds. The intensity nearly knocks me over; I thought I had a clear concept of just how loud human beings could get (after all, I do faithfully attend my nieces’ and nephews’ birthday parties; I’ve been in a room with twenty little four-year-olds jacked up on Smarties), but still I’m astonished.
I (elegantly and successfully – hurrah) emerge, Scott glued to me. The warmth of him incites the giddiest feelings of pure, undiluted bliss and suddenly I’m not nervous, or tense or panicky; I am amazing.
A lot of the press are European. Because Amanda Amberd and James McAvoy are British there’s a lot of interest in this film back home. This works well for Scott, as the British press love him. Or hate him. Or whatever. It’s fair to say they want to photograph him and talk to him. I know Scott moved to the States to get away from the constant press intrusion and carve out some sort of private life, but it would be awful to turn up to a public event like this and not be recognized. The calls come thick and fast. I hardly know which way to turn.
‘Over here, love!’
‘Look this way!’
‘Fern, are you excited? Is this your first premiere?’
‘Give me a beam, darlin’!’
The Americans are impossibly positive and vibrant; even though I get the sense that they don’t recognize Scott immediately they take their lead from the UK press and tourists and they give out wild, relentless cheers. I’ve seen for myself, when watching similar events at Leicester Square on the local news at home in London, that generally rock stars don’t smile for their fans or the press. They are pretty much duty-bound to be eternally grumpy and dour. Indeed, I’ve seen photos of Scott papped with a face like thunder, but not tonight. Tonight, Scott is instantly and unapologetically the very best Scottie Taylor can be. He beams, holds my hand in the air and then twirls me around. Utterly, utterly delighted in me, as I am with him, as we are with each other; we exist in an endless circle of delight.
I’m dizzy.
Through the blur of handbags and gladrags I spot Rachel Wei
sz in a stunning silver Vera Wang gown (I can’t believe I recognize the designer! I probably wouldn’t have but I saw the very same dress today on Rodeo Drive). I am a big fan of Rachel Weisz’s work and I want to tell her how talented I think she is. I want to say it in a way that is profound, or at least funny or original. After an age I come up with, ‘Nice dress,’ and beam at her. Gracefully, she ignores the fact that my smile is so desperate I resemble the village idiot; she nods and smiles back warmly. It’s not the first impression I hoped for, but The Near Room to The Last Station. I just say, ‘He’s Scottish too, isn’t he? Do you know him?’ No one need point out just how lame I’m being, I know. Funny thing is I’m too excited to care.
We seem to be lingering on the red carpet longer than other stars. Scott is conscientiously signing autographs and I stand grinning until my jaws ache. I swish my dress around my legs and the material shimmies and glides across my thighs. I’m buzzing. Despite challenging my facial muscles I can’t stop smiling, and not just because those were Saadi’s instructions but because I am completely, unequivocally, utterly exultant.
Kate Hudson is looking fabulous in a gorgeous polka-dot sleeveless blouse, a satin high-waisted pencil skirt with a bright red belt and shoes (that could double as stilts). She throws me a kind smile and a big wave as she glides past, causing the camera bulbs to become frenzied once again. I consider having a word. I could tell her that I think she’s courageous, funny, talented, complex and interesting, but evidence suggests the best I’m likely to come up with is, ‘You’re gorgeous!’ Which doesn’t really lead anywhere, so I stay silent. When Cameron Diaz sashays past I’m realistic; I just concentrate, very hard, on not exploding with admiration. No one wants to see blood and guts and innards and stuff on the red carpet.
Scott lingers talking with the crowds as star after star Heat magazine and are now, larger than life, stood in front of me; actually most of them are smaller than life, wisps and slips of women, delicate and fragile. When Scott has signed dozens and dozens of the bits of paper, books, photos and knickers (clean I hope!) that are thrust under his nose, he returns to me and takes my hand once again. We start to walk towards the movie theatre, which means we have to pass a wall of photographers. I expect Scott to move us quite swiftly past the flashbulbs but in fact he stops right in front of them. Microphones pop up like acne on a teenager’s skin, obstinate and relentless. The professionals sense that Scott is going to sprinkle a few words their way and so quieten down a fraction in order not to miss a single morsel he throws out.
‘I’ve something to show you,’ he says with a big, cheeky grin. He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a small box. A ring box. The flashing begins once again in earnest. The press understand what’s happening a moment before I do.
A ring box.
My ring.
My engagement ring!
Scott opens the box and turns to me. It’s a huge, huge oval-shaped diamond on a plain, contemporary platinum band. It’s simple, it’s elegant, it’s perfect! Scott slips the ring on to my finger, carelessly dropping the box on the floor, and I squeal. Really very loudly. I’m not aware that I’m screaming or just how loud said scream is, until Scott clamps his lips over mine and the high-pitched noise
48. Fern
I float inside the theatre, vaguely aware of Saadi handing out press packs to the rabble of journos. I hear her gabble, ‘Three point five carat. We took into account her slim fingers, didn’t want anything too flashy, catch on clothes. Have to consider lifestyle when choosing a ring.’
The ring weighs delightfully heavily on my hand. I can’t take my eyes off it. Not even to look at Scott; partly because it’s out-of-this-world beautiful and partly because I’m utterly terrified that it will slip off and I’ll lose it. We are shown to our seats (we’re sat between Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Sienna Miller) but I can’t be dazzled further; if I am, I’ll die. Fact.
The lights dim and I drag my eyes from my ring to the screen; it would be rude not to but with my thumb I endlessly caress the beautiful, breathtaking ring. Occasionally the diamond catches the light bouncing from the movie and winks at me.
Everyone seems to enjoy the movie; when it’s over, people leap to their feet and clap and cheer enthusiastically. Scott stands and slowly (coolly) claps and I join him, although I have little idea whether it’s good or not as I was unable to concentrate at all. I have no need for the movies any more. I no longer need to be drip-fed other people’s romances, dramas or thrills; I am living an extraordinary life, a one hundred per cent, sensationally anyone gets to be this lucky.
After the movie there is a party.
‘Do you really want to go to the party?’ asks Scott.
I sense he doesn’t but I gently push. I don’t want to go home now. I would, if shagging were on the cards. Honestly, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – I’d like to do more than get butt naked (other than my ring!) and bang my increasingly insistent needs out with Scott. We could kiss, lick, touch, poke, caress, squeeze, sex the life out of each other. Twice, and then again in the morning. But that’s not on the cards. Damned chastity vow. So, second to that, I’d like to rub shoulders with the world’s most glamorous and dazzling people (while showing off my ring; did I mention my ring?).
‘Yes please, I really would.’
‘OK, your wish is my command,’ says Scott, giving in gracefully and quickly. He kisses me flat on the lips, which causes my knickers to cartwheel. Even through closed eyes I’m aware that someone takes a photo of us laying the lips; I don’t much care. I feel as though we are alone – despite the crowds and despite the popping camera flashes. I’m loving every moment of tonight.
‘I have to go and touch up my lipstick,’ I say, reluctantly pulling away from him.
‘I’ll wait for you.’
‘I won’t be long.’
‘Take your time, I’d wait for ever,’ he says with a wide, sincere grin.
I skip into the loos and bang straight into several dozen other women all fighting for mirror space. It seems that these women have been put together by the angels themselves. They are groomed and glammed-up beyond lovely. I’d have sex with any one of them (assuming I was a guy or at least had lesbian tendencies and assuming I wasn’t committed to a highly inconvenient chastity vow). In fact I’d marry any one of them, they’re all that gorgeous. No one’s forehead moves, true, but an animated forehead has never been a deal-breaker for me. As the clouds of perfume and hair spray dissolve I recognize two or three faces; newscasters and soap actresses, mainly. As I rummage in my handbag to locate my gloss I become aware that everyone is staring at me. Most are looking at me through the mirror while keeping up the pretence that they are still involved in fixing their shiny chins or re-applying another layer of mascara; some are slyly taking side-glances, the cheekier types are plainly ogling. I feel like a small grub under a microscope.
For a moment I think I’m twenty pounds overweight. I mourn the fact that I have a snogging rash on my chin. And I’m deeply ashamed that my forehead moves.
But then I remember I’m marrying Scottie Taylor. I’m light as a feather. He’s to blame for my snogging rash. And my boobs are pretty steady.
I must grow a fraction taller or in some other way subliminally communicate my contentment because, as though in a choreographed dance, the bony (but silky)
‘Beautiful ring,’ says one girl.
‘Thank you.’
‘I love your hair. Is it all yours?’ asks a second.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘The dress, is it Fendi? It’s to die for.’
‘Yes, it is. Thank you.’
Suddenly I am surrounded by a collision of smooth, moisturized, silky limbs. Women and girls are reaching out to me, touching me lightly on the arm, gently brushing their fingertips across the skirt of my dress, carefully caressing the beads of my bag. I get it. They all want a piece of me because I have him. Even if Scott is still relatively unknown to the masses in America, these wom
en are the in-the-know elite and they understand his worth. They all want to be me, because I have him. The attention from these women is quite unlike the (almost brutal) preparation I endured from the army of stylists who work under Joy’s supervision. These women wrap me up in countless beatific smiles, their butterfly touches are like a lover’s caress, their smiles are pure and reverential. They pull cards from their adorable, glittery handbags and press them on me, inviting me to coffee, to shop, to cocktails. They battle to out-do one another in the extravagant compliments that cascade my way. My skin is perfect English rose, no – it’s creamy, no – it’s pearlescent. My hair is glossy, no – it’s glistening, no – it’s simply divine. And my dress? What adjectives can they pour on my dress? Before I get to find out, a cubicle door swings open and Amanda Amberd emerges, abruptly silencing my admirers.
Amanda Amberd slices through the throng and starts to wash her hands. I notice that she carefully soaps the palms and the backs of her hands and gives individual attention to each finger. The fastidious ritual takes a couple of minutes but feels like a lifetime and definitely suggests that either she has a cleanliness compulsion (very fashionable) or that she’s stalling for time. The beautiful women, who had been fawning and flattering me, abruptly turn to Amanda and proceed to shower her with compliments; many of which are identical to those that washed up my way.
The difference is, I don’t doubt for a moment that Amanda deserves these generous words. She is intensely, almost excruciatingly, superb to look at. She’s about five foot eight but is wearing heels that push her towards the six-foot mark; yet she’s the epitome of the word delicate. She reminds me of an unfurled, blush-pink rose early on a summer morning; one that is dappled with dew and sunlight. I’m not saying she’s sweaty – she’s not. I doubt this woman ever sweats, or pees or even hiccups; she seems to transcend all that is human. She has long, pale blonde hair that tumbles in fat, healthy curls around her (toned) shoulders and (pleasantly muscular) back. She’s a unique blend of ethereal and strong. Her jaunty bone structure suggests a vigour that is potently seductive. She’s wearing a plum, empire line maxi dress (without giving the impression that she is in her third trimester). She’s adorned with an antique amethyst bracelet and butterfly clip in her hair. She steals my breath.