Love Lies

what Mark said to me, and what I said to him, and what I wished I’d said to him, and what I’m going to say to Scott and what I expect Scott to say to Mark, I pause for breath.

‘Bummer,’ says my younger brother.

Then, I call my big sister Fiona. Her response is at least more in-depth, although not totally comforting.

‘I can’t see that you have any choice but to sign.’

Again I try to explain. ‘I’m not objecting to signing, I’m objecting to the very existence of a pre-nup and what

I don’t get to finish. Fiona interrupts, ‘Oh, get over yourself, Fern. You’re the luckiest woman in the world. Don’t you dare muck this up. The kids are really looking forward to being bridesmaids. They’ve told everyone in school that their aunt is marrying Scottie Taylor. They’ve never been so happy. Get a lawyer, get the best deal you can and sign.’

I’ve nobody left to call.

I pick up the blasted pre-nup and I read the first paragraph; it’s a hefty and confusing document. I remember my history teacher explaining that contracts used to be written in Latin, now it appears they are written in gobbledygook. I need a lawyer to explain it. I don’t know any, so I call Mark and ask him to find me one.

‘That’s hardly independent, is it, Fern?’ he says, but he sounds relieved that I’m asking for a lawyer at all.

‘My other choice is sticking a pin in the yellow pages,’ I point out wearily. I’m not even sure if there is such a thing as the yellow pages in LA; it’s scary that there’s so much I don’t know about my new life.

‘I’ll ask Colleen. She’s a wedding planner, she knows all the best divorce lawyers,’ says Mark, without apparent irony. ‘I’ll get her to set something up asap.’

‘Yeah, Mark, you do that.’ I put the phone down and curl up into a tight little ball on my bed.

56. Scott

We don’t see Fern at supper after all. There’s a whole gang of people hanging around, and she’s sent word to say she just wants a quiet one in her room. Her nutritionist sends up a bowl of snow-pea shoots, apparently rich in vitamins A, B, C and E but – let’s face it – not as tasty as chips. After supper most of the guys go to the movie room to watch a DVD and a few go to my den to play on the footie table. Ben and I wander outside to the hammocks, so we can lie on our backs and watch the stars as usual. I find this ritual the three of us have developed really relaxing; it’s a shame Fern’s not up to it tonight.

‘Have you checked in on Fern?’ I ask Ben.

He sighs, flops back into the hammock and folds his long limbs in after him, in that elegant way he has.

‘Yeah, I did.’

‘She OK?’

‘Yeah, OK.’

From his tone I guess that Fern isn’t buzzing but I don’t particularly want to get into it. Luckily, nor does Ben. He doesn’t mention the pre-nup but says instead, ‘The wedding plans are exhausting her. I’ve told her she ought to have a day off from it tomorrow, before she becomes unbearably stressy.’

Fern does not plough fields or chop trees, she doesn’t even have to put a full day’s graft in at the flower shop

We both stare at the blue-black sky. I can’t do that pointing out the Great Bear and the Hunting Dogs and what the fuck. I think it’s all ludicrous. Honestly, you can join the stars up to draw anything you want. But I do like counting them. Tonight there are loads and I keep losing count. Ben starts to chat about whether he should take up surfing; motivation being that there are loads of fit blokes out on the surf. And he asks me about my tattoos and whether I think he should get one. Is he too old at thirty-three, he asks. I know for a fact that he’s thirty-five but I don’t call him on it.

Then Ben starts to talk about Wedding Album. He’s been to the studio once or twice now and he thinks the album is amazing; I never tire of hearing him (or anyone, for that matter) say so.

‘I take in the words and it’s like taking air into my lungs, their meaning swills about, nurturing my every organ, giving life to my body,’ he says with a big, giddy grin.

‘Wow,’ I smirk back. ‘You are so gay,’ I tease.

‘That is a point of fact. But you know what I mean, ultimate experience of life. This album is going to be huge. It’s like this album is saying Scottie Taylor has all the answers.’

‘Which is somewhat ironic, don’t you think? I know nothing.’ I say the last sentence in a jokey quasi-Mafia voice to dispel the intensity of the confession.

‘Oh, I don’t know, you’re not so ignorant,’ says Ben. ‘I think you’ve got this living stuff sussed more than the rest of us. More than you know.’

‘What’s the point of being sussed beyond your own understanding?’ I challenge. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

It is great being sober; you can at least spot it when someone starts talking bollocks. The problem I used to have when I got drunk so often was that I started to confuse being insensible with being invincible. Maybe that’s what I liked about it at first. At least now I’m clear that I’m not invincible; even if knowing this makes me sad.

Ben sits up in the hammock. To do this well, a certain amount of grace and skill is required. Few have this but he does. The hammock sways gently as he leans back on his elbows.

‘Look around you, Scott. You’ve said yourself that no one stumbles upon success, you have to earn it, and from where I’m sitting, it appears you are up to your neck in success. You must have some of the answers.’

His confidence is touching. He reminds me of Fern, enthusiastic and optimistic – I can see why they are such good mates.

‘Should I tell you something I’ve worked out?’ I ask him. ‘It’s a secret.’

Ben looks excited. I think he’s expecting me to tell him how to achieve eternal life. I lean closer to him and whisper in his ear.

‘The truth is success doesn’t exist. At least, not for me. Anticipation of success is the best thing there is. It’s not finite, you see. It’s not complete or done with.’ Ben looks disappointed. He draws away from me sharply, as though I’ve just infected him with more than bad news. I go on. ‘Success never is actually. Which should be an exciting thing but turns out to be hugely frustrating. Whereas failure, failure is blocking and choking and everywhere, so that’s no good either.’

We stay silent for some moments. Ben pours himself another glass of champagne. It’s his fourth or fifth this evening, I think. He swallows it down in two gulps.

‘Can I ask you something?’ he says.

‘Ask away.’

‘Why are you marrying Fern?’

I thought it’d be that. ‘She’s lovely,’ I say plainly.

‘True, but you’ve met a lot of lovely women. Why her? I only ask because she’s my friend and as you said yourself, she’s lovely. I don’t want to see her –’

‘Hurt.’

‘I was going to say crucified. I’m expecting a fatal wounding.’

I don’t even pause. ‘I’m marrying her to capture the

The truth sits between us like a massive shard of glass; dangerous, brittle, beautiful.

‘I see,’ says Ben with a deep sigh.

This is an interesting moment. I like to fill my life with as many interesting moments as I can and this is definitely one. It’s dangerous and it’s faulty but it’s also honest.

‘Both those things ought to reassure you,’ I point out. ‘If I am to capture the US market I will have to be faithful and fair for a substantial period of time and I don’t plan to do drugs ever again.’ I flash him my cheeky,