things combined. Because, truth is, a little part of me does expect everyone I know to interrupt their busy schedules to shower me with gifts and present me with balloons, cakes and lashings of champagne because the media, books, movies and
I’m bored watching Adam play chief and decide I might as well take full advantage of my ‘Access All Areas’ pass
I’m not hungry, but like most women when I eat, and even how much I eat, has little to do with hunger. I eat because it’s a mealtime, I eat when I’m fed up and when I’m in a really good mood, I eat loads when I’m premenstrual and often just because food is there. So far, this complete lack of discipline has had no adverse effect because I’m lucky enough to have inherited my father’s metabolism. Honestly, he eats like a pig but looks like a whippet. It’s the one thing worth inheriting (as one of five in a family that tends to ‘make do and mend’, I’m not holding out for any family heirlooms). Today I feel entitled to pile my plate with everything I can, except for the black pudding, and I wash the lot down with two huge mugs of tea.
I eat really quickly (again it’s the result of being one of five kids) and so despite the mountain of food I find that by 10.35 a.m. I am once again twiddling my thumbs,
I follow my nose through a labyrinth of corridors. I hope that stars’ dressing-rooms truly do have enormous glittering stars on the door or else I won’t have a clue which door to open. I pass a few busy-looking people, all of whom are smoking, which is illegal as this is a public building. I don’t think they care; breaking rules is what they do. Some are carrying clipboards or instruments, everyone nods at me but no one strikes up a conversation or demands to know what I’m doing aimlessly wandering
I can’t hear anything so I risk a sneaky peek. I can always say I’m lost if I do get spotted and questioned by anyone. The dressing-room is not as glitzy as I expected. There are enormous leather couches pushed against two of the walls and a huge low glass coffee table in between. On the table there’s a nice arrangement of large white calla lilies; I check the tips and they are fresh, they’ve probably just gone in water. I hope whoever put the flowers here put a drop of lemonade in the vase too; it gets a good few extra days of freshness out of most stems. There’s a wall of mirrors with high stools lined up like soldiers and trolleys full of makeup. There’s a bar; it’s well stocked with various brands of canned and bottled beer and water but not much else. There is nothing to indicate that the band backing the current rock god phenomenon dresses here; no baths of M&Ms, no baskets of Labrador puppies, no lines of clothes or coke.
A bit disappointed, I leave and continue down the corridor to the next room. On the door, in even bigger red letters than the first, is written, SCOTTIE TAYLOR STAR. I get the sense that the huge and bold letters are a bit of a joke. The sort of joke I imagine Scottie Taylor would make; a tongue-in-cheek prod at ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ Grinning, I open the door and stride in.
The voice bangs through the air. ‘What are you doing in here?’
9. Fern
I want to be forthcoming but my throat tightens and chokes my words; he’s got these eyes, you see, green, sparkling, soul-slicing eyes. He flashes them at me and with one single glance he strips me naked. I honestly feel my clothes come away at the seams and land in a heap at my feet. The sensation is so real that I look down just to check.
It’s the man himself. Scottie Taylor. It takes a fraction of a second for me to understand this and I acknowledge the fact between my ears and between my legs simultaneously; I feel dizzy in both places. Close up he looks much bigger than I imagined. When I saw him in concert, eight years ago, he was a tiny dot on the stage. OK, so I was at the back in the crap seats but his size is still a surprise. I mean, most stars I’ve ever seen in real life are much tinier than you expect. Although, thinking about this theory, I ought to confess now that the sum total of stars I’ve seen in real life includes Beppe off
Scottie has huge muscled arms and he’s about six foot one. He became famous when he was practically in short
‘What are you doing in here?’ He repeats the question; his tone is suspicious and cool.
Finally, I find my voice. ‘Being nosey. Look, I’m sorry, I’ll leave,’ I squeak as I begin to edge out of the door. While my reply is absolutely accurate I don’t think it got to the heart of what Scottie was trying to establish.
‘Who are you?’ He doesn’t sound rude but he doesn’t sound charmed either. He sounds wary.
I am at a total loss as to how to answer even this, the simplest of questions. I don’t know what to say or do. I am utterly without common sense or even a simple grasp at good manners. For a moment I can’t remember my name. My mind is a spongy black hole. Oh my God, my nipples are becoming solid. Can he tell? I’m practically dribbling.
‘I’m Fern,’ I reply. ‘I’m not a journalist, or a nutcase fan, or anything like that.’ I try to smile and reassure us both. I want to summon my most megawatt smile, the one I use to attract barmen when I’m waiting to get served, but I don’t manage more than a lopsided, self-conscious grin. ‘Well, I
Maybe I was in a better place when my mouth was clamped shut and I had a search party out looking for my tongue.
‘I’m here with my boyfriend actually. He’s your assistant stage manager,’ I add in an effort to make myself sound normal. Then I realize I might have just landed Adam in a whole load of do-do. Who knows if this Scottie Taylor is some sort of megalomaniac control freak? ‘He’s not going to get into trouble because I’m wandering about, is he? He doesn’t know I’m in your dressing-room. I was bored watching him do his thing on stage and I was just killing time. It’s not his fault, so don’t sack him because he’d be devastated. I didn’t think you’d be here. I just wanted to see if you keep M&Ms in your bath or anything.’
I finally stop twittering. For which Scottie Taylor is probably offering up prayers of thanks to all the heathen and traditional gods. Have I ever behaved like such a total imbecile in my entire life? Was it absolutely essential to blab all that? I steel myself to look at Scottie.
He’s grinning. My pathetic verbal incontinence amused him, at least.
‘So the lucky guy is that dark, tall bloke. Adam Cooper, right?’
‘Right.’ I’m stunned Scottie Taylor knows the name of his assistant stage manager.
‘Yeah, I know him. He’s good. I won’t sack him.’ I risk a small smile as I am an itsy bit proud that Scottie has noticed Adam and rates him; maybe what Adam does is part of a great symphony after all. ‘I’ll expect you to have sex with me by way of recompense, though,’ adds Scottie.
‘Really?’ I ask, part horrified, part delighted. Certainly more delighted than is respectable.
‘No not really, you silly sod, what sort of place do you think this is?’
This time Scottie’s face breaks into a really wide, genuine smile and I feel as though I’ve just nose-dived into a warm lagoon of beauty and possibility.
‘Scott Taylor,’ he says, holding out his hand for me to shake.
His gesture is sweet. There was never any doubt as to who he was. It’s pleasantly self-effacing that he’s pretending we’re just a couple of normal people saying hi for the first time. I place my hand in his firm grip and bolts of sexual lightning fire through my body, scalding every single nerve ending. We lock eyes and I wonder if he felt anything too.
‘Can you play cards?’ he asks.
