Love Lies

‘Have you seen Jess or anyone?’ I ask casually.

‘Not for a few days now.’

‘Does she know you are coming here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any messages?’

‘No messages.’

‘Oh.’ I wasn’t expecting any. It’s proving really difficult to stay in touch with Jess. I’ve called her a few times but I keep catching her at awkward moments. Once, she was just about to get something to eat (and just had time to remind me to call Adam), another time she was busy at work (but just had time to remind me to call Adam) and on the third occasion she was on her way out of the door (she must have been in a genuine rush because she never mentioned that I ought to call Adam). She did listen to my account of my heady night at the movie premiere but she wasn’t as thrilled about it as I’d hoped. I poured out my excitement but she seemed unable or unwilling to engage. She barely asked any questions other than whether so and so had had surgery, she always sounded vindicated when I admitted that yes, so and so had. She sniffed out words like ‘fake’, delusional’ and ‘unrealistic’. When I got to the part about my witty one-liner explaining Scott’s devotion, she didn’t even laugh. She just said, ‘It is a mystery, isn’t it?’ Which is hardly a polite thing for your best friend to say.

‘The press and magazines are fascinated by your nuptials, so who’s got the exclusive?’ asks Ben.

I’m grateful that Ben isn’t wasting his breath or our

51. Fern

I am the prodigal daughter. Following the initial rather lacklustre response to my engagement announcement my mum (which means my mum and dad because they think as one – she’s always telling him this is the case) are now extremely excited by the idea of me marrying Scott. Mum calls me every day. She says, ‘Thisiscostingafortunecallmebackstraightaway,’ and then she hangs up. I do call her back because if ever a mother and daughter are going to bond it’s going to be over a roll of tulle destined to be said daughter’s wedding dress.

On a rare occasion when I actually get to talk to my dad, I ask him what was the cause of my mother’s Damascene conversion.

‘The papers are very nice about you. Most of them say that you come from a nice home and that you are just very ordinary. She likes that,’ he says.

I’m not sure I do but as I am no longer ordinary – I am now far from it – I can ignore the former accuracy of accusation.

‘And it was part fuelled by the fact that Mrs Cooper, from up the road, her that goes on them world cruises. Can you imagine? A singles holiday at her age? Well, she turns out to be a fan,’ adds Dad. Scott would probably be horrified to hear how seriously he commands the grey pound. ‘Mrs Cooper has apparently always thought that

Dad pauses. There’s a catch in his breath which suggests to me that his fears are not completely put aside on account of Mrs Cooper’s endorsement. But after so many years of wholeheartedly agreeing with my mother he’s not foolish enough to start publicly disagreeing now.

‘She reckons he just needed the love of a good woman. Your mother seemed somewhat reassured by that but I think the deal was clinched when Mrs Cooper shook her head, in obvious bewilderment, and added, fancy that woman being your Fern. Naturally your mother was then shoved headlong into defensive outrage. What do you mean? she demanded. Well, she’s never really shown any ambition that way, says Mrs Cooper.’ Dad is clearly enjoying the drama of relaying this little exchange. He mimics both women with accuracy. ‘Any ambition what way? asked your mother.’

Mum can be very touchy about veiled criticism of her children – we have Jake’s stretch in the clink to thank for honing that particular skill.

‘And Mrs Cooper says well, she’s never shown any ambition to marry money. Plus, I never believed she really liked pop music. I thought that was the stumbling block with that other beau of hers. The last one.’

Dad and I know Mum would, if she could, rewrite history in a way that Stalin could be proud of. Given half a chance, Adam would vanish, my hymen would magically be restored to its former intact glory and she’d have the complete fairy tale. Mrs Cooper’s insistence on reminding

‘So what did Mum say to that?’ I ask Dad.

‘Oh, she told Mrs Cooper good and proper. She says our Fern is passionate about music. Pop and stuff. She said that you dumping Adam was nothing to do with him being in the music industry. Obviously, it was because he was poor.’

‘Oh, marvellous.’ I roll my eyes at my mum’s misguided attempt at defending my honour. I can’t believe she thinks it is better for people to think I’m a gold-digger than that my CD collection is limited. ‘It’s not true,’ I moan.

‘I know, love, but she couldn’t admit to the neighbours that he was tardy about making an honest woman out of you, could she?’

I suppose not.

Lisa calls regularly, as do my siblings Bill, Fiona and Rick. As Lisa, Bill and Fiona’s kids are bridesmaids and pageboys, they all have very clear views about exactly what the little darlings ought to wear. How I’m supposed to combine ‘pretty and romantic but understated’ with ‘chic and simple yet dramatic’ and ‘pink and flouncy, very, very flouncy’ is a conundrum I’m just not up to. I simply pass all comments on to Colleen and Ben; between them they are more than capable of dealing with it. Rick calls because he likes to give me updates about just how pissed he got at whichever party or gig he most recently blagged his way into. He’s suddenly garrulous, gregarious and popular as the future brother-in-law of Scottie Taylor. I’m glad he’s having so much fun. Even Jake sent a letter from prison. It was written in his messy, barely legible

Dear Sis,

Can your bloke pull any strings in here? I’m up for parole in a fortnight. Would be good to be out of this place by the time you tie the knot. Always wanted to visit LA. If no can do, can he come and visit me? Would make me look cool. You don’t need to come, just him. If that’s not happening, then send smokes.

Jake.

The combination of his naive print and upfront request affected me more than I expected. I know I can’t do anything to help his situation but it was somehow touching that he believed I could. I send the fags and loads of signed CDs.

Most people think I can help them now. I’ve received hundreds and hundreds of letters from various charities and individuals begging for my help. To start with I read them all and asked Scott for cash, signed photos, signed guitars and old clothes for raffles and auctions, then Saadi suggested I pass them straight to her second assistant to deal with. It was agreed that after the wedding I could choose a couple of charities to support but that reading fifty begging letters a day (all of which made me sob like Veruca Salt when Willy Wonka denies her an Oompa- Loompa) wasn’t doing much for my complexion. I suppose I am prone to being a bit weepy at the moment – well, it’s natural to be emotional, I’m getting married. But I never seriously considered funding a party where all the guests were supermodels – something the Institute

But it’s not just my nearest and dearest and complete strangers who think I can do something for them, it’s everyone in between too. The other day I checked my e-mails and I had one from the Friends Reunited website; it said I had 742 new messages. I joined Friends Reunited six years ago when my love life was going through a dry patch and I thought I might look up a few old boyfriends to see if any of them were worth another onceover. Most had filed the obligatory two or three lines. ‘I’m married with two beautiful kids,’ or, ‘I still live with my mum and dad – it saves on rent.’ Nothing of interest. I sent a few e-mails to old girlfriends, girls I’d gossiped to when I should have been listening to exactly how (or why!) you might calculate quadratic equations. I got just one response. It was from Helen Davis, who wanted to know if I still had her copy of Mansfield Park because she was sure she’d lent it to me just before our GCSE and I hadn’t ever returned it; she’d had to buy