Love Lies

instantly and unapologetically the very best Scottie Taylor can be. He beams, holds my hand in the air and then twirls me around. Utterly, utterly delighted in me, as I am with him, as we are with each other; we exist in an endless circle of delight.

I’m dizzy.

Through the blur of handbags and gladrags I spot Rachel Weisz in a stunning silver Vera Wang gown (I can’t believe I recognize the designer! I probably wouldn’t have but I saw the very same dress today on Rodeo Drive). I am a big fan of Rachel Weisz’s work and I want to tell her how talented I think she is. I want to say it in a way that is profound, or at least funny or original. After an age I come up with, ‘Nice dress,’ and beam at her. Gracefully, she ignores the fact that my smile is so desperate I resemble the village idiot; she nods and smiles back warmly. It’s not the first impression I hoped for, but The Near Room to The Last Station. I just say, ‘He’s Scottish too, isn’t he? Do you know him?’ No one need point out just how lame I’m being, I know. Funny thing is I’m too excited to care.

We seem to be lingering on the red carpet longer than other stars. Scott is conscientiously signing autographs and I stand grinning until my jaws ache. I swish my dress around my legs and the material shimmies and glides across my thighs. I’m buzzing. Despite challenging my facial muscles I can’t stop smiling, and not just because those were Saadi’s instructions but because I am completely, unequivocally, utterly exultant.

Kate Hudson is looking fabulous in a gorgeous polka-dot sleeveless blouse, a satin high-waisted pencil skirt with a bright red belt and shoes (that could double as stilts). She throws me a kind smile and a big wave as she glides past, causing the camera bulbs to become frenzied once again. I consider having a word. I could tell her that I think she’s courageous, funny, talented, complex and interesting, but evidence suggests the best I’m likely to come up with is, ‘You’re gorgeous!’ Which doesn’t really lead anywhere, so I stay silent. When Cameron Diaz sashays past I’m realistic; I just concentrate, very hard, on not exploding with admiration. No one wants to see blood and guts and innards and stuff on the red carpet.

Scott lingers talking with the crowds as star after star Heat magazine and are now, larger than life, stood in front of me; actually most of them are smaller than life, wisps and slips of women, delicate and fragile. When Scott has signed dozens and dozens of the bits of paper, books, photos and knickers (clean I hope!) that are thrust under his nose, he returns to me and takes my hand once again. We start to walk towards the movie theatre, which means we have to pass a wall of photographers. I expect Scott to move us quite swiftly past the flashbulbs but in fact he stops right in front of them. Microphones pop up like acne on a teenager’s skin, obstinate and relentless. The professionals sense that Scott is going to sprinkle a few words their way and so quieten down a fraction in order not to miss a single morsel he throws out.

‘I’ve something to show you,’ he says with a big, cheeky grin. He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a small box. A ring box. The flashing begins once again in earnest. The press understand what’s happening a moment before I do.

A ring box.

My ring.

My engagement ring!

Scott opens the box and turns to me. It’s a huge, huge oval-shaped diamond on a plain, contemporary platinum band. It’s simple, it’s elegant, it’s perfect! Scott slips the ring on to my finger, carelessly dropping the box on the floor, and I squeal. Really very loudly. I’m not aware that I’m screaming or just how loud said scream is, until Scott clamps his lips over mine and the high-pitched noise

48. Fern

I float inside the theatre, vaguely aware of Saadi handing out press packs to the rabble of journos. I hear her gabble, ‘Three point five carat. We took into account her slim fingers, didn’t want anything too flashy, catch on clothes. Have to consider lifestyle when choosing a ring.’

The ring weighs delightfully heavily on my hand. I can’t take my eyes off it. Not even to look at Scott; partly because it’s out-of-this-world beautiful and partly because I’m utterly terrified that it will slip off and I’ll lose it. We are shown to our seats (we’re sat between Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Sienna Miller) but I can’t be dazzled further; if I am, I’ll die. Fact.

The lights dim and I drag my eyes from my ring to the screen; it would be rude not to but with my thumb I endlessly caress the beautiful, breathtaking ring. Occasionally the diamond catches the light bouncing from the movie and winks at me.

Everyone seems to enjoy the movie; when it’s over, people leap to their feet and clap and cheer enthusiastically. Scott stands and slowly (coolly) claps and I join him, although I have little idea whether it’s good or not as I was unable to concentrate at all. I have no need for the movies any more. I no longer need to be drip-fed other people’s romances, dramas or thrills; I am living an extraordinary life, a one hundred per cent, sensationally anyone gets to be this lucky.

After the movie there is a party.

‘Do you really want to go to the party?’ asks Scott.

I sense he doesn’t but I gently push. I don’t want to go home now. I would, if shagging were on the cards. Honestly, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – I’d like to do more than get butt naked (other than my ring!) and bang my increasingly insistent needs out with Scott. We could kiss, lick, touch, poke, caress, squeeze, sex the life out of each other. Twice, and then again in the morning. But that’s not on the cards. Damned chastity vow. So, second to that, I’d like to rub shoulders with the world’s most glamorous and dazzling people (while showing off my ring; did I mention my ring?).

‘Yes please, I really would.’

‘OK, your wish is my command,’ says Scott, giving in gracefully and quickly. He kisses me flat on the lips, which causes my knickers to cartwheel. Even through closed eyes I’m aware that someone takes a photo of us laying the lips; I don’t much care. I feel as though we are alone – despite the crowds and despite the popping camera flashes. I’m loving every moment of tonight.

‘I have to go and touch up my lipstick,’ I say, reluctantly pulling away from him.

‘I’ll wait for you.’

‘I won’t be long.’

‘Take your time, I’d wait for ever,’ he says with a wide, sincere grin.

I skip into the loos and bang straight into several dozen other women all fighting for mirror space. It seems that these women have been put together by the angels themselves. They are groomed and glammed-up beyond lovely. I’d have sex with any one of them (assuming I was a guy or at least had lesbian tendencies and assuming I wasn’t committed to a highly inconvenient chastity vow). In fact I’d marry any one of them, they’re all that gorgeous. No one’s forehead moves, true, but an animated forehead has never been a deal- breaker for me. As the clouds of perfume and hair spray dissolve I recognize two or three faces; newscasters and soap actresses, mainly. As I rummage in my handbag to locate my gloss I become aware that everyone is staring at me. Most are looking at me through the mirror while keeping up the pretence that they are still involved in fixing their shiny chins or re-applying another layer of mascara; some are slyly taking side-glances, the cheekier types are plainly ogling. I feel like a small grub under a microscope.

For a moment I think I’m twenty pounds overweight. I mourn the fact that I have a snogging rash on my chin. And I’m deeply ashamed that my forehead moves.

But then I remember I’m marrying Scottie Taylor. I’m light as a feather. He’s to blame for my snogging rash. And my boobs are pretty steady.

I must grow a fraction taller or in some other way subliminally communicate my contentment because, as though in a choreographed dance, the bony (but silky)

‘Beautiful ring,’ says one girl.

‘Thank you.’

‘I love your hair. Is it all yours?’ asks a second.

‘Yes. Thank you.’