of friends but then I realize I recognize them from the silver screen and, despite the fact that they are coming to my wedding and are currently eating and drinking in my home, they couldn’t pick me out in a police line-up. Still, it’s exciting having all these amazingly beautiful and talented people splashing in my pool. No one could think anything else. I don’t know why I have to keep reminding myself that this is the case.
Besides the actors, musicians and models are liberally scattered too. While the actors exude good health (muscled bodies, light tans, white teeth), the musicians and models are wan and pale. Generally nocturnal species, they look startled and ever so slightly nauseous in daylight. I also spot famous photographers, famous movie producers, famous record producers, famous chefs and famous dogs. I recognize nearly everyone from the briefing notes Saadi has thoughtfully supplied for the wedding. She’s provided a photo and three pertinent facts about every one of our influential guests. I’m supposed to have memorized the notes by tomorrow but to be frank I’m struggling. I find one multi-million-dollar deal merges into the next and it’s hard to stay focused on the specifics. I’ll wing it tomorrow; I’m assuming that on my wedding day most people will want to talk about my dress and shoes and I won’t be grilled too closely about how Guest A made his enormous fortune or what film Guest B most recently directed.
It’s odd, but in this rich blend of guests I’ve yet to spy
‘Hey you,’ she beams as she wraps me in a gawky, problematic one-arm hug. ‘We brought gifts.’
‘But what do you bring the girl who has everything?’ says Charlie as he takes a sweeping glance at the party scene stretched out in front of him. He whistles appreciatively.
‘Yourselves,’ I beam. ‘I’m so happy to see you. And cake is good too. I haven’t been allowed to touch anything the least bit sinful for weeks.’ I dip my finger into the gooey icing and cram it into my mouth.
‘So I hear,’ grins Charlie. Lisa nudges him but he can’t help himself, he starts to giggle; I guess that she’s told him about the chastity vow between me and Scott. It’s to be expected, they tell each other everything. He manages to compose himself enough to add, ‘Congratulations, Fern. This is amazing.’
The kids dash off towards the bouncy castle. I slip between Lisa and Charlie and link my arm through theirs; we follow the children at a more leisurely pace.
‘It’s so wonderful to have you both here,’ I gush. I stare at their oh-so-familiar faces and their radiant, delighted expressions douse me. It’s not until I’m with my friends that I realize just how much I’ve missed them.
Lisa, Charlie and I find seats and food and position ourselves close to the bouncy castle so that we can keep an eye on the kids.
As soon as we are all comfortable and sipping ice-cold cocktails I ask, ‘Have you seen Jess?’
‘Yes, she and Adam have the room next to ours,’ says Lisa carefully. She watches me closely as she delivers this news. I’m grateful for my oversized shades and I continue to stare resolutely at the kids flinging themselves off the inflated walls. It’s vital I don’t react. Any reaction is open to misinterpretation; I learnt that on the media training Saadi so thoughtfully organized. They’re sharing a room. Right. Fine. Right. Of course they are. That’s normal for boyfriend and girlfriend.
‘I can’t wait to meet the man himself,’ says Charlie. For a smidge of a second I think Charlie is talking about Adam; that doesn’t make sense at all – they’ve met hundreds of times. Then I understand he means Scott. Of course. Charlie is trying and failing to hide his excitement at this treat that is within his grasp. I’m not surprised that even the usually calm and collected Charlie is a little giddy; I’ve seen people shake and weep as they’ve clasped Scott’s hand. He’s a sensation.
‘I’ll go and hunt him down and bring him over,’ I say. Frankly, I’m glad of the excuse to break free of Lisa’s penetrating stare. I’ll find Scott and he’ll join the party, entertain my friends and by doing so reassure and comfort me. The reasons for needing to be reassured and comforted are a bit blurry right now. I think it’s something to do with the knowledge that imminently, I’ll be coming face to face with my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, a.k.a. my ex-best friend.
I can’t find Scott. He’s not in the pool; there’s a noisy, splashy game of handball happening there. He’s not
As I enter the house the cool marble floors and pale walls soothe me. I shouldn’t care that Adam and Jess are sharing a room. It shouldn’t matter to me. But it does. I try to be rational about the situation.
63. Scott
I’ve taken refuge in my den. There were a few blokes hanging around playing the table football, but I sent them packing. I need to be alone. I sit in a gloomy fog of fag smoke. I’m in the habit of keeping blinds and drapes drawn, because in the UK the paparazzi used to pap me through the smallest curtain chinks; they have endless photos of me scratching my belly while wandering around in my boxers. Fern strides in, looking vexed. She says she sympathizes with the issue of privacy intrusion I have to endure but she makes straight for the curtains, flings them and the patio doors open, and mutters about letting fresh breeze waft in. She stands in the doorway, desperately gulping air.
‘You should stop smoking,’ she says.
My smoking gets on her tits. I smoke a lot and all my mates smoke like chimneys too, so the smell of fags permanently lies in the folds of the curtains and the squish of a cushion, in the air, on our skins and in our eyes; it doesn’t bother me but Fern seems to need more air. Often, I sit in the den and she sits outside on the loungers. But cigarette smoke behaves like cats. Cats always search out the person they can freak out the most, the person with an allergy or a phobia, and then they rub against that person’s leg, curl up on that person’s lap. My fag smoke slinks after Fern and I watch as she tries to waft it away. It sits in the still, warm air surrounding her;
‘I can’t stop smoking, it will change my voice,’ I reason.
‘You’ll die a horrible death,’ she points out, frightening no one other than herself.
‘Yeah, well, some people live a horrible life,’ I say, as I throw her a devil-may-care grin.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
I could’ve asked her the same, except I didn’t because I’m not OK. Definitely not. I’m possibly more stressed and agitated than I’ve ever been before in her company.
‘Nervous,’ I confess. I stub out my smoke and bite my already ravaged, stubby fingernails.
She throws herself down by my side and flings her arms around me.
‘Are you nervous about the wedding?’ she asks gently. ‘There’s no need. Honestly I have – well, Colleen has – everything under control. It’s going to be amazing. We’ll have –’
‘No, it’s not the wedding.’ I stare at her, bewildered. I feel a bit like I imagine astronauts must feel when they step out of their shuttle; slightly wary and displaced but a little manic and excited too. The wedding? What the fu – ‘I’m nervous about the chart position,’ I explain.
‘The chart position?’
‘I’m thinking, is it unreasonable to be hoping for a top ten position? Or maybe at least a number thirteen or twelve? Have we rushed things? Do you think I’ll crack America this time? Do you think this is my big chance?
‘I’m sure they will,’ she says encouragingly, the moment I let her get a word in. Her response seems woefully passive. ‘But whatever happens in the charts this afternoon, it doesn’t matter. The thing to remember is that we are getting married tomorrow. It’s the biggest day of our lives. And then, after the wedding, you have the tour, you’ll keep selling through. We have so much to look forward to.’
I know she hasn’t got all the answers but she’s giving me the impression she doesn’t even understand the questions.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say. I pat her hand.
