Love Lies

LA is year-round sunshine, mountains and beaches, white teeth, tanned bodies and a load of shops. What’s not to love? OK, so there’s more than a bit of Botox; still, I can see myself living there. Yes. Why not? I take a deep breath.

‘Can you send someone to pick up my passport and things, if I make a list? I don’t want to go back into London.’

Scott grins at me. ‘You’re getting the hang of this rich and shameless thing, aren’t you? Sure we can send someone to pick up your stuff, but as for your ma and pa, that we are going to have to do in person.’

33. Fern

Yes, my ma and pa, as he calls them.

On the one hand I’d like to believe that my mum and dad are going to be thrilled at my enormous good fortune, and yet I can’t help but feel nervous they might not be quite as ecstatic as I’d like them to be; after all, Jess and Lisa haven’t exactly bowled me over with their enthusiasm for my whirlwind romance. I tried to call both of them this morning but Lisa’s phone went straight to voicemail (suggesting she was on the nursery school run and couldn’t pick up) and Jess had her phone switched off. Ben’s been the most supportive, even though he was with the cranial osteopath and couldn’t talk for long. He isn’t ill or injured, he just fancies the practitioner and makes up aches and pains every month. He had time to tease me about not working out my notice and told me to enjoy the ride; he then laughed in an especially mucky way which left little to the imagination in terms of which ride he was referring to.

But my parents?

Scott is keen for us to visit each other’s parents as soon as. I say I’d rather put in a call and visit in a few weeks. After all, we haven’t had that much time to ourselves yet (three and a half days and counting). Mark says meeting the parents is a PR opportunity and has to be managed with great care; we shouldn’t rush things, and while I don’t

‘OK, my fabulous Fern, if that’s what you want, I can roll with that but you ought to call your folks before the papers do.’ Scott tosses my mobile at me. Although he’s only a couple of feet away, I don’t manage to catch it coolly with one hand, instead I drop it and have to scrabble on the floor to pick it up. He grins indulgently, delighted even with my gaucheness. ‘I’ll give you some space.’

I don’t want space, I want sex. I can’t take my eyes off his butt as he leaves the room. I’m consumed with the thought of it naked and honest, framed between my clinging thighs. Oh. My. God. He’s lust on legs. It’s horribly frustrating that Scott and I have yet to make love; I’d much rather do that than call my parents. If only we could get a moment alone; it never seems to happen. Still, I guess Scott’s right, I can’t let a tabloid journo break this news to my relatives. The thought of my parents dampens the lusty fire in my mind; suddenly I’m consumed with quite a different sort of giddiness.

Why am I so nervous about calling them? They’ll be thrilled, won’t they? Of course they will.

The phone rings about eight times before anyone picks up. I’d told myself I’d allow it to ring ten times before I gave up. In fact, I know that my parents are always losing the handset and when the phone rings, general panic ensues in their home as they turn the place upside down in a desperate bid at rediscovery.

‘Hello.’ My father sounds breathless. Why, I’m unsure.

‘Hi Dad, it’s me.’

‘I’ll get your mother.’ So far so good. Situation normal.

‘Hello love,’ says my mum. ‘Did you have a nice birthday? I’ve been meaning to ring you to ask if you got our card, there was a tenner in it. Did you get it? You can’t be too sure when you send money through the post, can you? I was reading something in the Daily Mail the other week and it said that certain disreputable postmen target birthday cards and steal them because they often have money in them. That’s why I wrapped your tenner in a piece of paper and then put your card in a brown envelope. No postman is going to spot that. Anyway I was intending to call but Mrs Cooper –’ She pauses for a nanosecond to see whether I interject with the token grunt that will suggest I have a clue who Mrs Cooper is. I don’t grunt in time so she launches on. ‘You remember. Her from up the road who was married to the smiley bald man with glasses but he had a heart attack last Hallowe’en. Tragic. Well, she invited me over to look at her holiday photos. She’s been on a world cruise. Can you imagine? A singles holiday at her age! Mind, I’m not knocking it, she looks marvellous. But she had album after album to get through and she’s such a chatty sort I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. So I’m glad you called. But I would have got round to it as soon as I’d finished with the ironing and wormed the dog –’

‘Mum, I’m engaged.’

‘Well, I’m speechless!’

This is a lie. Because no sooner does she mutter that sentiment than she starts to yell to my dad. ‘Ray, Ray, our Fern and Adam are getting married. He’s popped the question. At last.’

‘No, er, Mum, that’s not right actually. Adam didn’t pop the question,’ I interject desperately.

‘Oh my God, Ray. She’s gone all modern on us. Our Fern asked Adam and it’s not even a leap year.’

‘No, Mum. That’s not what I’m saying.’ I’m almost yelling in my effort to be heard above her excitement.

‘But you are engaged?’ she asks suspiciously.

‘Yes. But not to Adam,’ I say at last.

Now she is speechless.

Eventually she mutters, ‘Then who?’

‘Scottie Taylor.’

‘I, I, I know the name.’ My mum stutters, confused and unsure. ‘Did you go to school with him?’

‘No.’

‘To college?’

‘No.’

‘Well, who the hell is this lad you are engaged to?’ she questions.

‘Scottie Taylor, the pop star.’

‘Stop being a silly sod.’

‘I’m not,’ I insist.

The longest silence in our relationship follows and is brought to a close when Mum finally says, ‘Talk to your father.’

I hear bewildered and angry snarls pass between the two but this isn’t odd. Devoted as they are to one another,

‘What’s all this bloody nonsense about you being engaged to a pop star?’ demands Dad.

Or it might be my news.

I convince Dad that I’m serious. I refer him to his paper (he takes the Mail every day of his life; he swears it’s just for the crossword) and I explain as best I can the circumstances of the proposal.

‘So you’ve been carrying on with this Scottie fella behind Adam’s back for a while now, have you?’ asks Dad, not bothering to hide his disapproval.

‘No!’ I assure him. ‘I only met Scott on Friday.’

‘Last Friday?’

‘Yes.’

‘Stop being bloody soft.’ I consider, should I fess up to an affair I haven’t had? I’m sensing that my dad would understand that better than a whirlwind romance. ‘Have you not heard of the saying “Marry in haste, repent at leisure”?’

‘Well, yes, but I love Scott.’

‘You don’t know him. You live with Adam. Better the devil you know, I always say.’

‘Dad, I’m thirty. Adam was never going to ask me to marry him.’