As if reading my mind Saadi says, ‘We have Scott’s beautician, Joy Lewis, and his two masseuses, Linda Di Marcello and Natalie Pennant, travelling with us. Have you heard of Linda and Natalie? They work as a team.
‘Erm, not bothered.’ Two masseuses at the same time? Oh. My. God. What happens, does one do the left side while the other does the right or is it split top and bottom – so to speak? This is another world.
‘Then Joy will work on your hair and makeup. We want you to look wonderful but at this stage it’s best if you keep comments to a minimum. At least until you do the media training. If I’d known you’d be awake on this flight, I’d have arranged for someone to work with you while we were travelling.’ She looks frustrated that she’s wasted eleven hours. I get the feeling Saadi is not a time-waster. ‘So just smile, wave and – if pushed – say you’re happy.’
‘Can I say delirious?’ I ask with a grin.
She eyes me for a moment with a hint of suspicion, gauging whether I’m taking the mick. I stare back and try not to blink so she can read my sincerity.
‘I’d prefer chuffed. It’s more street and harkens back to Scott’s northern roots. Delirious has some odd connotations. Out of context that won’t work. And believe me, they’ll take every word you say out of context.’
‘How about thrilled?’
‘Bit posh. And steer well away from delighted. Just be natural.’
Right, chuffed or happy. But not delirious or delighted. Got it. ‘I don’t suppose anyone will care about what I have to say about anything anyway,’ I mumble.
Saadi shakes her head. ‘You’ll be hounded like Princess Diana, doll. Get used to the idea.’
I think it’s a bit of a sick and unnerving comparison to draw, considering poor Princess Di’s ending, but I don’t say anything as I’m distracted by Saadi’s next question.
‘Have you had any thoughts about what sort of ring you want?’ She reaches for a slim black leather file and quickly unzips it. She pulls out a number of sketches of engagement rings. ‘We’ve had jewellery designers work up a few ideas.’
The drawings are stunning. The stones are huge and cut in a dozen different ways. Mostly the drawings are of brilliant, dazzling clear diamonds. But one page shows more colourful designs.
‘I like that ruby ring,’ I comment.
‘That’s not a ruby, it’s a red diamond.’
‘I didn’t know you could get red diamonds.’
‘You can get diamonds in loads of different colours, including red, green, purple, blue and pink. They are called fancy diamonds,’ explains Saadi. ‘They’re extremely rare – out of approximately eighty thousand carats of rough diamonds mined every year, only point zero, zero one per cent are regarded as fancy colours.’
‘I bet they’re expensive,’ I mutter.
‘Very,’ she says, her tone making it clear that I can’t overestimate just how ‘very’. ‘Only twenty diamonds in the world have been certified red.’
‘Bloody hell. I don’t want one of those, what if I lost it down the sink or something when I was washing up?’
‘That’s quite unlikely now, the way things have turned out, don’t you think?’ points out Saadi.
‘Well, washing my hands then. I’ll still be doing that for myself. I think I’d better go for the normal white diamond. You know, the see-through type.’
I leaf through the designs. There are rings with princess cut, round brilliant cut, baguette, bezel, opal shapes, heart shapes, oblongs, single stones and numerous stones. I can see the technical excellence and stunning beauty of every design but I don’t really know what to say to Saadi. Whenever I’d imagined selecting an engagement ring I’d thought I’d be choosing it with my fiance, not his PA. Not that Adam had a PA, obviously, and up until recently it was always him featuring in my daydreams. Saadi fills the silence with a commentary about the sketches.
‘We’ve had three designers work something up. Two who always design for the great and the good – by which I mean the loaded – and one unknown. Some guy straight out of St Martin’s. I like his stuff and it might be a good PR ploy to discover some broke, Brit, arty guy.’
I don’t think the coverage in a newspaper should be a consideration when choosing my engagement ring, but for some reason I haven’t got the guts to say so. I say nothing at all. It’s freaky but I keep losing my voice when I’m with Saadi, like she’s some sort of female Sir Alan Sugar who can silence anyone in a single glance, let alone a wag of the finger. I’m normally reasonably assured and confident but since I’ve been surrounded by Scott’s posse I’ve lost my footing somewhat. It’s always tricky negotiating a new relationship but I honestly don’t think that’s the struggle. Scott and I are fine, or at least we would be, but from the moment we became engaged he’s been surrounded by a wall of
Saadi probably interprets my silence as some sort of stupidity. She adds, ‘If you are having trouble visualizing the ring we can get mock-ups or maybe you’d like to wander around Tiffany’s or Leviev and buy something off the shelf.’
‘Maybe,’ I mutter.
‘Well, if you can make a decision by Monday that would be great.’ She consults her BlackBerry list. I wasn’t aware we were under a deadline. The woman is a human tornado.
‘What does Scott think?’ I ask.
‘Oh, he’s happy to leave it to us, to you. Anything that you want. Good of him, hey?’
‘Yes, good of him.’ I dig deep and scramble to find my voice. I try to imagine Sir Alan Sugar naked (that’s meant to help with fear of confrontation); it doesn’t help much actually, just churns my stomach, but still I force myself to say as firmly as I can, ‘I’d like it if Scott and I chose the ring together. I’ll talk to him about it when we arrive in LA.’
‘OK,’ says Saadi. But before I can savour my victory she starts to type something into her BlackBerry. ‘I’ll schedule that meeting for tomorrow morning. 9.30 a.m.’
No, no, I mustn’t fall at first hurdle. Think, totally starkers. Not a stitch on him. It’s Scott I’m imagining this time, not Sir Alan. The image of a naked Scott fills me with confidence and fortifies my resolution without causing any of the trauma the image of a naked Sir Alan
‘It’s just the way things work round here. Scott’s a busy man,’ says Saadi, as though she’s teaching the ABC to an infant.
‘I realize that,’ I say carefully. I want to add that things might have to change now he has me, but she interrupts.
‘It’s not just a new man you’ve bagged yourself but a whole new life too. There’s more to being Scottie Taylor’s wife than being into him, you know.’ I’m beginning to realize that too. Rather than being capable of taking on truly terrifying members of the board, I am once again the new girl at the office who hasn’t got the guts to ask how the photocopier works. Saadi carries on. ‘Certain things will be expected from you, one of which is a noteworthy engagement ring with a PR story attached. Is that too much to ask?’ Her tone is impatient.
I think how lucky I am to be in this position. To be who I am now. Any woman would kill to be me. I’m marrying Scott Taylor. He is sexy, seductive, occasionally surly, consistently stupendous and stonking rich (sorry to be crass but it’s an inescapable fact). My mind, heart and wardrobe are bursting with new and expensive, oh la la delights.
I’m kowtowed.
No, I don’t suppose an engagement ring with a PR story is a lot to ask when you put it in context. Saadi suddenly adjusts her tone and digs deep to dredge up some patience. I realize she’s trying to connect with me but, sadly, the new tone she adopts reminds of my dentist’s
Saadi continues, ‘Look, I know the system, yeah? I know how things work? Why don’t you just follow my advice, because I’ve been keeping Scott happy for quite some time now. It makes sense.’ Well, yes, but isn’t that my job now? ‘And I know you are thinking that’s your job now, which it is. But it’s not yours alone. We’re a team. You, me, Mark, the band, the chefs, the staff, everyone. We all want the same thing – for Scott to be OK. That’s how he works. That’s how it works.’ I suppose. ‘A team is a good thing, hey? The more the merrier?’ I don’t think I nod or actually offer any affirmation that I agree but Saadi doesn’t wait, she just concludes, ‘Fact is, you’re not an ordinary couple. You didn’t want to be ordinary, did you?’ she reminds me.
No. No, I suppose I didn’t.
