by Adele Parks
My family are not similarly acclimatized. I realize that Fiona has arrived as I repeatedly hear her yell at her children, ‘Don’t touch that, you’ll break it!’ or ‘Be careful of that, it will be worth a fortune.’ I pour her a large G&T as quickly as I can. My younger cousins, nieces and nephews quickly strip off and dive into the pool. Most of them have had the sense to bring swimwear but a few haven’t and dive in wearing just their underwear. My mum is outraged and keeps apologizing to Scott. Scott just
Scott’s family are indistinguishable from mine. That shouldn’t surprise me, he’s told me all about his ordinary beginnings, but somehow I was expecting them to be in some way more extraordinary; after all, his mum gave birth to him. His mum is fussing with my mum about kids running around with bare feet and his brother is talking websites and journey lengths with my big brother. If it wasn’t for the pool, the staff and endless buckets of chilled bottles of champagne I could think we were all in Mum and Dad’s back garden having a barbecue. I ought to add that just because his mum is normal doesn’t mean meeting her has been any less terrifying. Quite the reverse. As a normal mum she’s exercised her right to treat me with polite distance and a certain amount of suspicion; after all, I am about to marry her amazing son, after the most brief of whirlwind romances – of course she’s suspicious. No matter, I’m sure we’ll become far more comfortable with one another. I’ll have to get Ben to let slip that I signed a pre-nup; that ought to allay some of her fears. I want her to know that the gold I’m digging for is commitment and a happily ever after; a grown-up life with a husband and kids. All the things Adam wouldn’t give me.
Adam? Why is he in my head? Even as an unfavourable comparison he’s unwelcome. I blame Jess for insisting on bringing him to the wedding as her guest; it’s pretty difficult to ignore his existence under those circumstances. I’ve been dreading seeing him ever since Jess asked if she could bring him here. The very thought of us meeting
I drift through the gentle din of polite laughter and clinking glasses and breathe in the heady perfume of fat, waxy lilies and creamy roses. I’d wanted to arrange the flowers for the party myself, especially since it was agreed that I couldn’t manage the ones for the actual wedding (I’ll be too busy), but in the end Saadi’s third assistant hired someone else to do them. It was decided that I shouldn’t run the risk of scratching my hands on rose thorns before the ceremony. The magazine that’s got the exclusive to cover the wedding specifically asked for shots of our rings (hands clasped). Colleen said that they wouldn’t like it if my hands were grazed. I can hardly complain – the florist has done a fantastic job, as good as anything I could have done. It’s silly of me to want to be so controlling; I should let go more.
The entire party looks amazing. There are über-fit waiters, dressed in surfer shorts, carrying trays of mojitos and Alabama slammers. There are dozens of all-weather pink and purple light bulbs strung in every tree; it’s still too early and warm for them to be anything more than pretty and eye-catching, but they are most definitely that. There are ice sculptures and chocolate fountains dotted between the loungers and enormous scatter cushions. Someone has removed the cream loungers and replaced them with cerise ones. There are giant scarlet inflatable ducks floating in the pool. The place screams excitement and fun.
It’s a joy to turn and see familiar faces everywhere. My friends and family beam at me as I float between them to ask if they have everything they need. As it’s my party it’s frustrating that I don’t manage to actually talk talk to anyone. We settle for pithy and pertinent exchanges; a variation on the theme.
‘Bloody hell, Fern, you are such a lucky cow’ (said with a beam – a few of which are unconditional – most are tinged with envy or disbelief).
I smile back (careful not to gloat or boast). ‘Aren’t I? Now can I get you a drink? Something to eat?’
Most of my friends are happy to get blathered on cocktails and munch the tasty treats provided; a couple of the cheekier types test the reach of my dream world by asking for Cristal champagne or caviar and oysters, although I seriously doubt they have a real fondness for either. Whatever is requested can be found and in the end my guests tire of trying to catch me out. They grudgingly accept my life is perfection and simply try to scoop up a bit of it instead.
While the party was originally intended to be an intimate get-together for family and close friends, inevitably it has grown. I spot a number of people I’ve come to recognize as ‘the cool people’, who somehow always appear out of nowhere when there’s a gathering of any significance. Mark has invited all the cool people to our wedding. He insists their beauty lends an authenticity to a Hollywood party; without them it would just be a regular party – full of loved ones and mates having fun, which (he explained seriously) isn’t enough for a Hollywood party. Mostly the cool people in LA are actors in their twenties and someis full of friends but then I realize I recognize them from the silver screen and, despite the fact that they are coming to my wedding and are currently eating and drinking in my home, they couldn’t pick me out in a police line-up. Still, it’s exciting having all these amazingly beautiful and talented people splashing in my pool. No one could think anything else. I don’t know why I have to keep reminding myself that this is the case.
Besides the actors, musicians and models are liberally scattered too. While the actors exude good health (muscled bodies, light tans, white teeth), the musicians and models are wan and pale. Generally nocturnal species, they look startled and ever so slightly nauseous in daylight. I also spot famous photographers, famous movie producers, famous record producers, famous chefs and famous dogs. I recognize nearly everyone from the briefing notes Saadi has thoughtfully supplied for the wedding. She’s provided a photo and three pertinent facts about every one of our influential guests. I’m supposed to have memorized the notes by tomorrow but to be frank I’m struggling. I find one multi-million-dollar deal merges into the next and it’s hard to stay focused on the specifics. I’ll wing it tomorrow; I’m assuming that on my wedding day most people will want to talk about my dress and shoes and I won’t be grilled too closely about how Guest A made his enormous fortune or what film Guest B most recently directed.
It’s odd, but in this rich blend of guests I’ve yet to spy
‘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 learn
t 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
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;
‘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?
‘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 good 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
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 e
merged 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
‘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.