spot.
‘Not just the Americans, everyone will love this,’ I enthuse.
‘Yes, but it’s the Americans who are important,’ says Scott seriously.
‘
‘He’s not so bad,’ I reply indignantly. I haven’t quite forgiven Mark for the pre-nup and can’t look at him without thinking about it. I don’t like thinking about it, so the easiest thing is not to have too much to do with Mark.
‘Fern, darlin’, he’s pure gold and you know it and I know it and soon the American public are going to know it too. Now he’s in luuurve he’ll be irresistible.’ Mark grins and lights a big cigar. I turn away from him and drape my arms around Scott.
‘It’s brilliant,’ I gush. ‘This album is the embodiment
Scott pulls me close to him. We stand foreheads touching, my arms around his waist, his arms hung around my neck. I can feel his breath mingling with mine. He kisses my nose and beams back at me.
‘You’re great,’ he says simply as we reluctantly break apart.
‘When’s it going to be released?’ I ask.
‘Tomorrow. Which gives us eight days for it to climb the charts before the wedding.’
‘Tomorrow?’ How’s that possible? I don’t know much about the music business (far less than I should) but I thought that it took months to bring out an album. It’s clear that we’ve been listening to the edited version and that the sound has been mastered by an engineer – but what about the packaging, won’t that take weeks to develop? I must have missed the bit where Scott gets to have his photo taken in loads of different outfits, hanging out with lots of different kinds of people – like leggy blondes, or footballers, or scuba divers or something eye-catching.
‘When’s the press conference announcing the release?’ I ask.
‘Yesterday,’ says Scott with a beam.
‘Yesterday! And the promotional tour?’
‘Just after the wedding. Things haven’t been standing still while you’ve been planning this wedding, you know,’ chips in Mark.
Clearly. Something occurs to me like a brick flying out of the horizon. ‘When you say just after the wedding you mean after the honeymoon, right?’
‘Not exactly. We thought we’d make the tour into your honeymoon. We’ll be travelling all across America; New York, Chicago, Boston, Las Vegas,’ says Mark, with a self-satisfied grin.
‘You said you always wanted to go to New York,’ adds Scott.
‘And you said you hated being on the road,’ I point out. He’d said that being on the road was soulless, that the cities, hotels and crowds always blurred and merged into one, and the long highways – that led to out-of-town fast food joints – inevitably drove him to drink. ‘The last two times you fell off the wagon was when you were on tour,’ I add. It seems like a big risk to me. Is he ready for it? ‘Shouldn’t we have discussed this?’
Scott smiles at me, kisses my nose again and then wanders back behind the glass and picks up his headset without answering my question. He doesn’t need to. In my heart of hearts I know the answer. Yes, we should have discussed this, the way we should have discussed the pre-nup and the three celebrity bridesmaids I’ve never met and the sleeping arrangements in the country hotel. Suddenly, my head is full of things Scott and I don’t discuss. We talk about feelings but not facts. Facts are Mark’s bag. I don’t have any other choice than to turn to Mark if I want answers.
‘I’d like to have been consulted,’ I say shortly.
‘He’s going to be crowned King of America, Fern,’ says Mark.
‘America doesn’t have a king,’ I say, somewhat tetchily.
‘They’ve been waiting for him.’ Mark laughs and his
‘At the cost of his health?’ I ask, by which I mean sobriety.
‘This album needs to sell at any cost,’ says Mark steadily. ‘Scott knows that. Scott wants that.’ Then he asks, ‘Is this about you not getting a honeymoon? I’ll see he makes it up to you.’ I hate Mark implying I’m being a sulky spoilsport when in fact I’m seriously worried about my fiance’s health and with good reason.
Ben is standing shoulder to shoulder next to Mark; he beams at me, reassuringly, and says, ‘I’ll come on tour too. It’ll be fun.’
I wish Ben had warned me to expect this. I could have given the matter more thought. I feel exactly as I did when presented with the pre-nup; everyone says it’s all OK, but it doesn’t feel OK. Deep down, somewhere in my gut, something feels off. It’s the oddest sensation. I remember having it as a little girl when I was playing hide and seek with my older siblings and their friends. I didn’t really understand the mechanics of the game. I’d cover my eyes and think because I couldn’t see them they couldn’t see me – that I was well hidden and safe. But they could see me as clear as day. I was the one standing alone and exposed, blind because I was covering my own eyes. Everyone around me kept playing and winning the game. It’s a creepy comparison; one I don’t enjoy making. I push the thought away.
I sigh, confused, beginning to doubt myself. Am I being a spoilsport? Scott’s happy with the decision, Mark says
‘Come on Fern, cheer up,’ says Ben. ‘Don’t be grouchy. You, more than anyone, know Scott’s full of surprises.’
Yes, I do. I do know that much.
62. Fern
The wedding guests start to arrive. Unable to suppress their excitement, they burst through the double doors at the airport arrivals; behaving much like popping corn in the microwave, they bounce in every direction. At first I go to greet friends and rellies at the airport, but it soon becomes apparent that picking up in person is impractical when my great-aunt Liz is knocked over by an overzealous photographer. He was clamouring to take a photo of me with greasy hair. I complained to Mark about the scrum of photographers; he said I shouldn’t leave the house without full makeup ever again. The majority of my guests are staying at one of the flash hotels on Sunset. They all ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ at the glamour and fantasy of the enormous rooms with glowing glass walls and white furnishings. Saadi has booked the penthouse for my mum and dad.
Everyone is excited to meet Scott and to see our home. I was concerned about how he’d respond to me trailing ten parties of eight through the house but he rose to the occasion beautifully by suggesting we throw one big pre-wedding party, around the pool, so that both families can get to know each other in a relaxed way. I worried that arranging another party just days before the wedding would be an impossible task but Mark assured me everything could be attended to without giving me extra stress.
The party is scheduled to start at about lunchtime. We’re serving Scott’s speciality, barbecued prawns marinated in lime and coriander, the meal he cooked for me the first night we arrived here – which is a really romantic touch. Although Scott isn’t going to do the barbecueing himself – obviously, we have two hundred to feed – so we’ve hired caterers instead. The expectation is that we’ll celebrate through the afternoon and into the evening. I have three outfits for the day. I plan (by which I mean Colleen has planned for me) to start by wearing a purple velvet beaded mini dress with taffeta sleeves; it’s Gucci. She said it will make a stunning but hip first impression, plus Scott loves purple. As it happens, I’m still in a dressing-gown with a towel wrapped around my head when my mum and dad arrive at 8.30 a.m. Not the dramatic first impression I wanted to present.
One of the pretty girl organizers shows my parents into my room and while my dad immediately wraps me into a brief, self-conscious hug, my mum is too busy falling over herself to be nice to the pretty girl and seems momentarily to forget I’m here at all. She actually bobs a small curtsey as the girl leaves.
‘You should have tipped her, Ray,’ my mum scolds my dad.
