Love Lies

‘Yesterday.’

‘I see.’ And he probably does. It’s clear-cut, isn’t it?

‘What about you? Seeing anyone special at the moment?’ I turn the spotlight.

‘Dangerous question, Miss,’ says Scott, deftly sidestepping; another skill I realize he must be practised at. At this exact second, yes. Generally, no? In my dreams.

‘Dangerous questions are part of getting to know someone,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t imagine you usually go in for this, do you?’

I’m nervous, partly because I don’t want him to affirm that he’s a heartless, relentless slapper and I’m heading for disaster and, partly, I’m shy because if he does confirm that normally he’s a heartless, relentless slapper but I’ve made him different, then I’ve definitely dug for that compliment, which puts me right back in the position I used to be in with Adam when I asked if he liked my new top.

‘No, this is fresh stuff. In the past I’ve been a bit of a careless fucker. Literally. You know, I’m a rock star, I’m young, gorgeous. What can I do?’ He stares at me and as our eyes collide, I forgive him. He’s right, he’d have to be insane not to be sticking it up every girl available. What’s the point of being who he is otherwise?

Scott lights a fag. He smokes way too much and Ben wouldn’t like it in the shop but I can’t bring myself to reprimand him. He takes a long drag and then eyes me nervously.

‘Fern, anything you’ve ever read about me is probably true. In fact, however bad it was, double it. The really bad stuff doesn’t even get into the press. When I am doing a lot of drugs and drinking far, far too much – I’m an animal.’

For the first time since we met he seems to be having difficulty in holding eye contact.

‘I shag indiscriminately. I’m careless. Heartless. Yes to whisky, yes to cocaine, yes to that hole. I’m an aggressive, rude slag. I don’t have a sense of humour. Or even a sense of where the bog is. I once pissed in my wardrobe. Ruined thousands of pounds’ worth of suits. Big shame. I don’t like the person I am when I’m drunk or high and I don’t suppose you would. Christ, my own mum doesn’t.’ He pauses and looks really pained. ‘But I don’t know who else I can be.’ He draws breath. The impact of his raw and gravelly honest words hits.

‘Well, there’s bound to be someone,’ I say carefully.

‘You think?’ He turns to me quickly, hopefully.

‘Yeah.’ I want to cheer him up. He hasn’t told me anything I haven’t already read about him (except maybe the peeing in the wardrobe bit), but just because this stuff is often splashed all over the newspapers doesn’t mean it’s not deeply personal and difficult to talk about.

‘Have you ever been around an addict?’ he asks.

‘No, not really. My auntie Linda is a bit too fond of a tipple but she hasn’t started to sell the family heirlooms to pay for her habit yet. Well, she can’t, we don’t have any family heirlooms, but you catch my drift. I don’t know anyone who does drugs. I’ve had the recreational swig of Calpol when I’ve been babysitting for my nieces and nephews, but that’s it.’

‘You’re shitting me?’

‘I’m not. My mates did that Just Say No thing that John Craven and the Grange Hill Kids peddled for years.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I thought it was because we were all fine upstanding members of the community but the truth is

‘Very understanding of you.’

‘I’m only this nice until you sleep with me then I turn into a bitch,’ I joke.

Scott pulls me close to him. My goose bumps bang into his.

‘Addicts are fucking terrible people to care about. They break your heart without even meaning to. And they don’t even notice, let alone worry. Addicts don’t give you a moment’s peace, any respect and their apologies might as well be written on bog roll,’ says Scott.

‘Why are you telling me this? Are you trying to scare me off?’

‘Yeah, I think I am.’

It won’t work. Surely Scott has encountered enough women by now to know that every woman loves a cause. Every woman wants to save and fix. It doesn’t matter if it’s a broken toy that needs glue or broken skin that needs a kiss and a band-aid; we like to be needed. Pathetic or noble, I’m undecided, but it’s where we are after eight million years of evolution. I think that’s why some grannies and great-grannies look back on the Second World War with a certain amount of fondness. The bright side to the carnage and terrible bloodshed, they were at least allowed to fulfil their true vocations; make do and mend is a woman’s battle cry. And there’s nothing we like to mend more than a battered, vulnerable heart. Especially if it comes as a box set with a pair of emerald green eyes.

I trail a finger over his stomach. I think I might have

‘Because it might be easier if you go.’

‘In what way?’

‘Because I’m beginning to realize that if you stay, everything will be different for ever more.’

Yeeeeesssssssssssssssss.

Is there anything a woman prefers to hear? I’m different. I’ll make things different for ever more. I want to punch the air and hang out bunting but I tread carefully.

‘Different isn’t bad, necessarily,’ I say gently.

‘I know that. But I’m not sure I’m ready for it, what it all means, you know? I want to be. But I’m not sure I am.’ He stares at me, practically begging me with his eyes to understand.

I think I know what he’s on about. He’s on about the really rude C word, Commitment; much more pugnacious to most men than the C word that rhymes with hunt. In the past I’ve had many a rough encounter with the male gene that makes blokes commitment-resistant (think Adam – he’s a fine example) and I haven’t always been that sympathetic. But I can see why Scott might think a change to his free and single status would be something to worry about; he’s got a really fabulous life as is. Why would he look for anything different? I’m not up against the same problem. Personally, I hanker for something different and long for change; my life is humdrum. Or at least it was until Friday. Scott has more choice than practically any other man in the world. Fascinating that choice isn’t the gift one would imagine.

As though following my thought process, Scott says, ‘I’ve never been that great with commitment. I’ve never really had what other people would call a girlfriend.’

‘Oh, come on. What about…’ Without pausing for breath I name at least five starlets and pop stars that he’s dated in the recent past.

‘Yeah, all nice girls,’ he says, explaining nothing at all. He finishes his cigarette and then elucidates a bit more. ‘But they all wanted something from me, other than me. You know. They had a record or movie to promote and it was convenient to date me for a few months, so we could be papped outside the Ivy and Nobu. That’s what happens.’

‘You are not being fair to yourself. I’m certain they enjoyed every minute they were with you,’ I say hotly, perhaps showing my hand a little.

I feel distinctly uncomfortable that I’m banged up this close to his lack of self-confidence and his vulnerability. It’s so close I can smell it. I preferred the pheromones. Scott’s inner turmoil and on/off search for true love has also been reported in the press and unofficial biographies, in exactly the same way his laddish antics have. I’ve never really bought into it. Surely it’s not hard for a man like Scott Taylor to find true love. If he can’t, then what chance do the rest of us have?

‘Maybe, but it’s hard to tell with actresses. They’d reach the same climax whether they saw their face in Heat magazine, I bought them a pair of Manolos or I shagged them raw.’

‘Right,’ I mumble, gripped with jealousy at the very suggestion that he’s shagged someone raw.

‘Anyway, I always treat them like crap in the end. Whether they turn out to be sincere or not, I usually find them stupid. I have what my psychologist calls intimacy issues.’

‘You’re warning me again.’

‘I am.’

‘OK, I consider myself warned. I’m not worried.’

‘You should be. You have no idea,’ says Scott, shaking his head with some sadness.