‘Not to him,’ she says calmly.
‘I am. I know him. He talks to me.’
‘Of course it’s attractive,’ she says more patiently. ‘He’s a rock star. He’s oozing success and power.’
‘That alone I could have walked away from. He’s more than that. Much more than that to me.’
‘And Adam?’
Right now, Adam’s name is not synonymous with success and power. Or happiness. Or even sexual attraction. All I can say to Jess is, ‘He’s hanging on by a thread called loyalty.’
‘You need to talk to Adam. You need to tell him how you feel.’
‘Or more accurately how I no longer feel.’
‘Be careful, Fern,’ says Jess. ‘Don’t throw away a good man for a fantasy.’
‘I keep telling you, Jess, what we have feels very real. I know it’s hard to digest and accept but I’m sure he likes me.’
Jess turns back to the stage, just as Scott picks out a young girl from the audience and pulls her on to the stage. He folds her in his arms and I watch as the skinny brunette melts. The crowd goes wild as he sings the romantic lyrics, ‘Come Back to Me’, to this fortunate. Every one of the ninety thousand hates and envies the girl he’s picked out but they love him all the more for making her dream come true. It’s clear from her closed-eyed look of absolute contentment that the girl in Scott’s arms is entirely unaware of anyone other than him. Jess watches me. I shrug.
‘It’s part of the act. He did the same thing last night,’ I point out.
‘It’s all an act with him,’ says Jess. ‘It’s not even his fault. It has to be like that.’
The girl he’s singing to touches his bum – cheeky bint. I swallow hard as I know, from the gig last night, the next thing he does is kiss the girl – a full-on lipsmacker.
Scott quickly kisses the girl on the forehead and then releases her. I swear his eyes flick in my direction. I might be mistaken; the gesture was too brief for me to be certain, but… I stare at Jess to see if she’s also spotted the change in his gig routine and whether she’s drawn the same conclusions as me.
She gawks back at me, open-mouthed. ‘Bloody hell,’ she mutters, shaking her head with disbelief. ‘I think you might be right. He
‘Don’t be an arse, Jess. If he likes me, how can it be anything other than good news?’ I reply. I’m getting more than a little fed up with her gallons of cold water. I’d expect Lisa to preach caution and care but I thought I’d have one hundred per cent support from Jess. Jess does reckless and romantic. What’s going on? Why isn’t she being more supportive? We don’t say much else to one another but watch the rest of the concert in silence.
Between the songs he tells the audience he loves us all. His voice sends shivers throughout the stadium; women close their eyes and let his horny, husky melodies wash over them. He’s able to change his mood with every song. He’s pensive, sorrowful, cheeky, noisy and rude by turn. He’s an actor, with an elastic face and dozens of poses. Are any of them for real? Jess obviously doubts it and I don’t know for sure. But right at this moment, I don’t
He completes his set and then he returns to sing his encore. He fulfils his contractual obligations and sings ‘Stamp on Your Demons’ as agreed with the TV and DVD producers. He runs back on to the stage one more time and he jumps into the air and punches it. The ripples are, no doubt, felt in Scotland. The crowd go wild. Screaming and crying and begging for more, more. Scott gazes around the auditorium; he’s a satisfied man. He’ll sleep well tonight, I’m sure of it. There seems to be no sign of the crowd ever relaxing their screams of adoration until –
‘I’ve had a perfect day,’ he growls in a sexy, deliberately not-quite-singing voice. ‘I’m glad I spent it with you.’ Then he sings Lou Reed’s full version of ‘Perfect Day’.
This time there’s no mistaking it. Scott is looking directly at me. His liquid green eyes glisten, sparking up a fire in my stomach that I am incapable of dousing.
Incapable and unwilling.
23. Fern
I don’t have to walk back to the station, after all. When the gig finishes Saadi, Scott’s PA, appears from nowhere and informs me there’s a car to take me and my friends home. Before I even get a chance to squeal with excitement she adds, ‘The same car will pick you up at ten a.m. tomorrow, OK?’
‘OK,’ I nod, not quite understanding what I’m agreeing to but happy to go along.
‘It was a sublime gig, don’t you think?’ Saadi asks.
‘Yes.’ I beam, and hope she understands the depth of my delight as I seem incapable of actually saying much, not something I’m often charged with.
‘You appear to be good for his music,’ she says, drily.
She stares at me for a moment, clearly questioning how this can possibly be the case. She obviously regards me as part of the great unwashed and must be intrigued to discover the source of the magic between Scott and me. Then she shrugs and grins, a busy woman – she doesn’t have too long to ponder. I think she’s decided that she doesn’t much care what the source of the magic is, as long as it keeps flowing.
‘Tell Scott goodnight from me,’ I garble.
She nods. ‘Get a good night’s sleep yourself.’
No chance.
My mind has never been so intoxicated. It’s not just
When Adam gets home I’m sat in front of the TV, carelessly hopping from one channel to the next, not expecting to find anything that will hold my attention. How can anything on TV, or in my flat, or in my normal life hold my attention after a day like today? I’ve changed out of my stockings, pencil skirt and silky top, as I knew the sight of me in such a sexy get-up would certainly lead to a row. Sad really. Once upon a time the sight of me in such a sexy get-up was sure to lead to sex. But Adam is no fool; he’d know I didn’t wear that outfit this morning for his benefit. Jess drank the best part of a bottle of champagne (through a straw) on the journey home and so staggered to bed the moment we stepped through the door of the flat. I stayed up to face the music.
But not to dance.
All day my stomach has been full of delighted trembling butterflies, but when I set eyes on Adam, I feel their tiny
‘Where’ve you been all day?’ he asks. The moment he opens his mouth I’m hit by evidence of serious boozing. It must be very serious for me to notice, as I’ve had my ample share tonight. Adam’s breath smells of whisky – such a depressing drink – and his speech is slurred. ‘Where’ve you been all day?’ he asks again, unsure whether I understood him the first time.
He knows the answer and I know he knows. I wonder if he wants me to lie so that we can limp on, ignore this thing with Scott and hope it will go away. Or does he want me to tell him the truth so that he can scream abuse at me and give our relationship a decent funeral.
‘With Scott.’
‘What, talking?’ he sneers cruelly, jumping to the conclusion that the last thing anyone would do with Scottie Taylor is talk.
‘Yes, actually, just talking.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’ A tiny dot of Adam’s spittle escapes because he’s in too much of a fury to control it. It lands on my cheek and I have to force myself not to rub it away. The gesture would be horribly inflammatory and Adam is itching for a fight. I’m not so keen. I’ve never seen him this nasty and furious. He’s normally a jolly drunk. He’s normally a jolly everything. It’s bizarre that the thought of his spittle on my cheek is distressing me. His bodily fluids repulse me. When did that happen? Overnight? Two days ago I wanted this man to ask me to marry him. I wanted his babies. That would
