‘Certainly am.’ I pause and then bravely add, ‘If you are.’
Say you are. Say you are. Say you are. I secretly plead.
He nods slowly, carefully. ‘It struck me when I was hugging that girl from the audience the other night.’
‘Which one, the blonde or the brunette?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t even notice one was blonde and one was brunette.’
‘Friday was blonde, Saturday was brunette.’ I remember with horrifying clarity. On Sunday he missed that part of his act, much to my delight.
‘Yeah, well, whichever. I realized for the first time something that should have been obvious for years now. This is all too much for one guy on his own. I make or break dreams with the same regularity as other people make their beds. I’ve been overwhelmed by those audi
Scott looks perplexed and vaguely alarmed. Somehow he wears even that look in a way which is knicker- ticklingly sexy. Consumed with lust, I am unable to answer. I just nod. It’s true. It does appear that he can snap their dreams just as easily as if they were the matchsticks we used when playing cards the other day. Scott continues.
‘But who is responsible for my dreams and my happiness?’
I almost answer, Saadi, Mark, the enormous entourage that follows him around twenty-four-seven, but I bite my tongue. I don’t think that’s what he means.
‘It’s a big responsibility making all those people happy,’ he adds.
‘Huge,’ I agree.
‘And I thought you might be the best person to, you know, share it with me.’ I offer up an enormous unconditional grin. ‘I’ve known for a long time that the world is a big place, almost too big. I think that’s what the dependency on the drink and the drugs is about. Or at least that’s part of it. But I’ve been thinking it might not be so lonely if you were, you know, hanging around it with me.’
‘Why me?’ I ask. Because I have no idea. Really, absolutely none.
He smiles. ‘I don’t know why exactly but I’m sure it is you.’ We’re sat opposite each other. He rests his bare foot on my chair. I fight the urge to kiss his feet and suck his toes. I shiver with the effort of restraining. Hell, he’s magnificent.
‘I’m not cool,’ I warn.
‘I like that in you. You’re fun, and fun tops cool any day of the week. Besides, it’s not all going to be palatial living and parties for you.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I pretend to sound disappointed.
‘I’m a bad man. Remember. I told you.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Do you think you can make me good?’
‘I don’t even want to.’
Scott laughs so hard that he nearly chokes on his orange juice. He points at the enormous pile of papers now casually discarded and littering the shaggy rug. ‘Do you think you might be able to forget who I am?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really?’ I probe.
‘No, not really,’ he laughs again. ‘Cos I’m a god out there.’
We laugh once more. Delighted in each other.
32. Fern
Some of the hundred people who invaded my room this morning brought with them a whole new wardrobe for me. Scott dismisses the rail of clothes as a mere trifle.
‘Just something to tide you over until we –’
‘Pick up my old stuff.’
‘I was going to say until we get to the shops together.’ Scott shrugs as though he doesn’t mind either way.
As I start to look through the rail of stunning clothes I doubt that I will be bothering to pick up anything I own. More than likely it will all look shabby next to this lot. Carefully I trail my fingers along rows of chic skirts and shirts. There are at least a dozen pairs of jeans; boot cut, flare, straight, boy cut, high-waisted and spray on. There are piles of soft T-shirts in assorted colours and numerous floaty dresses in florals, stripes and block colours. It’s as though a whole department of Selfridges has been shipped to my door. It’s the first time since I’ve met Scott that I’ve stopped fantasizing about making love; now all I can think of is dressing up. I check out the labels surreptitiously. There are high-waisted pencil skirts and tailored jackets by Alexander McQueen, blazers by Viktor and Rolf, trousers by Chloe, tops by Miu Miu and Sportmax, dresses by Dior. I have never owned what you’d call a designer piece in my life – unless you count the copycat Hermes
‘Oh wow!’ I pounce on the boxes, flinging the lids aside like toffee wrappers, diving on the shoes, all carefully cosseted in tissue. Christian Louboutin, Kurt Geiger and Jimmy Choo heels, Escada pumps and Pied A Terre boots. Opium for shoe-holics.
I check the sizes. Everything is my size; top, bottoms, even shoes. I pounce on the frilly underwear; even the bra size is spot on.
‘How did you know my sizes?’ I gasp, amazed at the plethora of goodies at my feet.
‘Saadi knows how to find out about that sort of stuff. She probably asked your friends.’
‘Did she pick these out for me? She has exquisite taste.’ I hold up a jade wrap dress and look at myself in the mirror. Just my colour.
‘No. More likely one of Saadi’s assistants or someone at the store.’
‘How many assistants does Saadi have?’
‘Not certain. Two at least, maybe three.’
My fiance’s assistant has assistants – two or three of them. This is off the scale. I can barely comprehend. I pull from the rail a pair of Diesel jeans and a pristine Agnes B T-shirt; mentally I toss away my high-street- purchased wardrobe at home. Once loved, all now seem slightly greying and fraying.
‘I’ll want to collect my photo albums and books from
‘Yeah, I like those too. I think I have one or two.’
‘In pink?’
‘No. I have a cream one, a powder blue one and Paul Smith did me a customized stripy one. But we can get you a pink one, no problem.’
‘Like I said, I have one. I just need to pick it up.’
He looks at me quizzically. Obviously in Scott’s world it’s easier to buy new rather than go to the effort of retrieving an old anything. ‘Fair enough. We do need to go back to your flat for your passport so we could pick up your other stuff then.’
‘Passport?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, I was originally planning on flying out today but I guess we need to hold off a few days. I want to meet your ma and pa. And I want you to meet my mum but we have to be in LA by Friday latest. I’ve got to be in the studio by then.’
‘LA?’
‘That’s where I live.’
Oh, yes. He does, doesn’t he. I’d forgotten that. I remember reading about it in one of my gossipy mags some months back. Scottie found the press intrusion into his life unbearable here in the UK and so he took flight. Most enormous British A-listers end up living in LA because the Americans like success, whereas we British hate it or at least are so cripplingly jealous of it we feel an animalistic desire to destroy anyone who has achieved it.
I’ve never been to LA. To be frank, I haven’t been
We kept talking about going to Paris but we never did.
