Love Lies

than I have to? People only ever have long engagements if they are saving up or have doubts; neither applies to me.

‘I just think we should get on with it, you know, start

‘Brilliant! Let’s do it.’

‘Great! I’ll have a couple of wedding planners come round asap so you can see who you are most comfortable with and then we can get the ball rolling.’

‘But I thought you said you wanted us to plan it ourselves,’ I say, confused.

‘Yeah. With a planner. You’ll need one for an event of this scale.’

‘What sort of scale are we talking about?’

‘I don’t know. A thousand people, maybe.’

‘A thousand? I don’t know a thousand people.’ Not even if I include all the Ben’s B&B customers and the cabin crew who flew us over here. Nowhere near.

‘You’ll soon make friends. Trust me, you won’t have a problem filling up the guest list.’

That wasn’t what I’d meant. The hairs on my neck start to bristle and it’s not through lust, as is usually the case when I’m with Scott. It’s fear, or irritation, or something I can’t quite pinpoint; it’s tricky to do so after a bottle of champagne. I don’t think I want a thousand strangers coming to my wedding.

‘You see, there are certain people we have to invite. They’ll be kind of expecting it,’ explains Scott.

‘Like grannies and great-aunts and stuff?’

‘Well, yes, obviously. But also Elton John and David Furnish, David and Victoria, I’ve been to so many fabulous parties of theirs. Tom Cruise and –’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Deadly serious.’

Suddenly, the idea of a thousand strangers coming to my wedding doesn’t seem so awful; not considering they’ll all be A list. Call me shallow. Call me human.

‘Think of the gifts,’ I blurt. I blush at my own crassness but Scott just laughs. ‘I can’t believe I said that.’ I put my hand over my mouth but it’s as much use as chocolate hair straighteners. I try to recover ground. ‘Maybe we should say no gifts, it’s not as though we need anything. Maybe we should say charity donations only. We did that at my Uncle Terry’s funeral. The announcement in the paper said no wreaths or floral tributes but donations to the lung cancer unit at St Hilda’s Infirmary welcome. The hospital rang afterwards to say they’d benefited nicely. Auntie Donna got a genuine sense of satisfaction from that. It was a great comfort,’ I garble. I’m working on the theory that if I talk for long enough the ground might swallow me up.

‘Well, let’s take advice on the etiquette, shall we?’ says Scott with a good-natured smirk.

‘Fair enough. Can we invite Brangelina?’

‘Anyone you like.’

I’m quiet for about twenty minutes as I draw up my fantasy wedding guest list. The fantasy wedding guest list that is going to come true! Jess, Adam and I used to play a game a bit like this. As we sat eating baked beans on toast we’d often quiz one another on who would attend our perfect dinner party. Jess and I would plump for Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Matt Damon; pretty much the cast of Oceans 11 to 13, while Adam would swear that he’d prefer to have Christopher Wren, Dostoevsky and

I’m glad I didn’t call Jess earlier. Now, I have even more to tell her. I check my watch. Midnight here, that makes it 8 a.m. tomorrow back home. She’ll be on the tube. I don’t want to get her voicemail; this is too good to leave another message. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow.

‘You’re happy, right?’ asks Scott, somewhat superfluously since I keep giggling to myself and I have stood up to dance a short but expressive jovial jig around the room.

‘Never more so.’

‘I have another reason for wanting to rush the wedding through,’ he adds.

‘Oh yeah?’

Scott holds out his hand and finds mine. He gently pulls me back on to the sofa and puts his arm around me. ‘I was thinking, you know, we’ve both had our fair share of partners in the past.’

‘I had a fair share. You’ve had a veritable feast, gorged yourself silly from all accounts,’ I point out.

‘Yep, I know and that’s what got me thinking. We need to be special.’

‘We are special.’

‘Different.’

‘We are different, we’re getting married, neither of us has ever done that before.’

‘I know and so I want to mark that in some way.’ What, a party for a thousand isn’t enough for him? I beam at

‘What?’ That stops me smiling.

‘I don’t mean we shouldn’t ever. I mean we shouldn’t have sex until we are married,’ says Scott.

‘But that’s two months.’ The same two months that just minutes ago had seemed oh-so-brief (too brief to plan a spectacular wedding!) now seem an eternity. Two months with no sex. It’s a terrible idea. Somehow no sex with Scott Taylor is a hundred times worse than all the no sex I’ve had in the past.

‘Yes. That way we’d be like vir-er-er-er-gins.’ He sings the word ‘virgins’ like in the Madonna song. ‘I just thought it was a way of making what we have truly special. Do you see?’

I do, sort of. The sentiment is darling but the actuality is going to be dreadful, truly hell on earth. I thought that tonight – what with the candles, the champagne and the log fire that were as good as screaming sex – that tonight would be the night.

‘I don’t know, Scott. It’s been tricky resisting thus far. Tricky and frustrating and –’

‘Hot,’ he adds.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I concede.

‘I’m loving this delayed gratification thing. The novelty alone is mind-blowing. It’s all about anticipation and control and –’

‘Shouldn’t it all be about love?’

‘Of course it’s that.’ Scott’s grin vanishes in a poof. He looks mortally offended.

‘Oh OK, go on,’ I agree, even though I really don’t want to. I can’t bear to see him unhappy. He looks so fragile. Like a child. I want to see his face brighten once more. ‘Let’s get married early October, though.’

Scott nods. ‘Agreed. I think we’d better have separate beds until the wedding, otherwise this no sex thing is going to be really hard.’

I nod, even though hard is just what I’m after.

41. Scott

My pad here in LA is awesome. Chock-full of style and luxury. I like it out here by the pool because nothing says rock and roll as eloquently as a private pool. I have a stunning infinity pool that seemingly flows out to an endless, lush garden which is as big as a public park. The size of the garden is not an indulgence, it’s a necessity. The tabloid scum have long lenses and short consciences. You can sell my discarded chewing-gum on the internet for fifty quid, so you can imagine how much a pic of me shagging a starlet fetches. Around the pool there are a number of heavy, broad wooden sun-loungers. The cream cushions lie as inviting as giant marshmallows. There are green towels, rolled into neat Swiss roll shapes. There’s the occasional marble table to be found snuggled between the beds, a comfy resting place for glasses of champagne and minted water – which all my guests are furnished with within minutes of their arses hitting the seat. I have excellent pool staff. It’s all very tasteful.

I like swimming and fooling about out here, although I don’t like lying around on the loungers the way Gary (the bass) and Mick (drummer) are right now. Their drinks sparkle in the sun, leaving individual footprints – a wet