Love Lies

by Adele Parks

  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

  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

  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 h
ave 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

  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.

  ‘And you know what else? Scott and Ben will have invited us to their wedding. They’ll be our best friends again.’

  Us to their wedding. Our best friends. Did I hear that right?

  ‘Us? But yesterday, I asked you if you would take me back? And you said no. You said you can’t go backwards.’

  ‘I said I didn’t want to be the guy you ran back to, but being the guy you ran towards, well, that’s a different you. If you’d been the type of girl who could have gone through with that farce then I had you all wrong and I didn’t want that, Fern. You had to work it out on your own, girl. I was so proud of you back there. You looked so brave and strong, telling the hottest rock singer and songwriter Britain has ever produced, the world press and your thousand guests to fuck off.’ Adam’s smiling now; it’s a broad, uninhibited smile. The best smile I’ve seen from him, or anyone for that matter, in months.

  ‘I didn’t say that exactly,’ I say with a small, shy grin.

  ‘You sort of did.’

  Once again we lapse into silence. I don’t know exactly what to say. I don’t want to rush at him, force anything, move too quickly or set any deadlines. None of these things would be right. Instead we both sit and enjoy the moment. I breathe in the smell of foliage and peonies.

  ‘Hey guys, we’re closing up now. You have to get on your way,’ calls out the guy who owns the peony stall. Adam and I scramble to our feet and splutter apologies for inconveniencing him by delaying his packing-up. The guy shrugs, not worried, not bothered.

  We start to walk out of the warehouse and towards the bright LA streets. Adam puts his arm around me. It feels just the right weight.

  ‘Tell me some more about how it might work out,’ I say. ‘You know, the future you imagine, tell me more about that. Do you really think Ben and Scott might make it?’

  ‘OK, well, let’s imagine Ben is right that Scott is gay, and you are wrong to assume he was just experimenting or indulging.’

  ‘But Ben still doubts Scott’s ability to be faithful,’ I point out.

  ‘Ah, but you might be right about Scott there. You’ve always maintained that as soon as Scott finds the right person he’ll settle down. Maybe he’ll be content and complete with Ben. Other people might catch Scott’s eye but they won’t turn his head.’

  ‘And the American market? Is his career over?’

  ‘No way. Wedding Album will go to number one. First, he can really play the jilted lover bit. That will get the sympathy gushing in and then he will tell the world he’s gay. The Americans will love Scott’s sincerity, you know, especially if he comes out on Oprah. He’ll storm America.’ I smile, delighted with this idea.

  ‘And Jess will meet someone really special and live happily ever after?’ I add, just to tie up loose ends.

  ‘Yeah, she will. It might be that guy from the Purple Lounge last night. She didn’t get back to the hotel until four a.m. and she was wearing that crazy grin of hers.’

  ‘I know the one. So, it will all be all right,’ I confirm.

  ‘Most of the time,’ says Adam.

  He pulls me towards him and we hold on to each other, enjoying our quiet moment in the baking sun. We stay like that for an age and then we break apart and set off towards the car.

  ‘Do you have any money on you for the parking lot?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it too soon to start scrounging off you?’

  ‘No,’ says Adam. ‘I’m a manager of a band now, I can slip you a few dollars. As long as you pay me back, with interest,’ he jokes.

  ‘I’m broke,’ I point out. ‘And I don’t have a job.’

  ‘Maybe you can buy the B&B off Ben. If not, you’ll have to pay me in kind,’ he grins suggestively, and I feel a faint fluttering against the lining of my stomach as excitement and hope hiccup back into my soul.

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘It’s too soon to propose, though, yeah?’ he asks.


  ‘A bit,’ I admit.

  ‘OK, I’ll ask you tomorrow,’ says Adam with a satisfied smile.

  ‘You do that,’ I beam back, smug in my ordinary ever after.

  Acknowledgements

  Enormous thanks go to Linda Di-Marcello for her generous support of Sparks, the children’s medical research charity. Their sole remit is to fund research across the entire spectrum of paediatric medicine. Their goal is for all babies to be born healthy and stay healthy.

  To learn more about Sparks, visit www.sparks.org.uk.

  Enormous thanks also go to Fern and Jim Dickson for their generous support of the Helen Feather Memorial Trust. The aims of the Trust are to support people with cancer and raise money for carefully selected Cancer Research Projects.

  To learn more about the Helen Feather Memorial Trust, visit www.helenfeathertrust.co.uk.

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