Love Lies

65. Fern

The house is no longer cool and calming, the party has spilt into here too; it’s noisy and chaotic. In the hallway I bump into a woman throwing up in our umbrella stand. I console myself with the fact that I never liked it much anyway. I call for one of the maids and ask her to get the girl a cab and hurl the hurl bucket. I also track down one of Saadi’s assistants and instruct her to get my mum and dad back to their hotel as quickly as possible. I suggest she uses blindfolds to get them into the car. She laughs but I’m not joking. Then, I wade through the grunts and moans of copulating couples and snorting singles as I start my hunt for Ben.

I haven’t seen him all day. He told me that he was going for a wax this morning; he said it was essential prep for the wedding. I thought he meant he was going to wax his car but in fact it transpired he meant he was planning on waxing his back, sacks and crack. Not an image I care to dwell on, no matter how much I love him. I’m at a loss as to why that is essential prep for the wedding; I suppose he’s hoping to get lucky.

I check his room but he’s not in there. A couple I’ve never met are making out on the pile of shirts he’s left sprawled across his bed; he’s going to be furious. I check the den but he’s not there either. Another couple are shagging on the footie table, Scott is going to be furious, have actually got a room, as there are endless naked bodies indoors too. At first I’m flustered and embarrassed but after a while I become anaesthetized to hairy bums moving up and down or bare breasts jiggling from one side to the next. It’s actually quite boring.

After a fruitless thirty-minute search I decide to find Scott, or Mark, or Saadi, anyone who can bring this party-stroke-orgy to an end. I want to go to bed. It’s been a long day and the skin around my eyes feels as though it’s been stretched on a rack. I’m getting married tomorrow morning and I desperately need my beauty sleep. I check the kitchens, the drawing-room and reception rooms, then I check Scott’s bedroom. I can’t find any of them. Where the hell are they? Have they gone out partying without me? It’s possible and irritating. Weary, I decide I’ll have to forgo Ben’s pep talk and take myself off to bed.

I left him. It’s none of my business what Adam does or who he does it with. The fact that the first surge of unfettered affection I’ve felt, or given, all day was when I folded him into a congratulatory hug is neither here nor there. The fact that I was actually excited to hear that his band was number forty-eight in the singles chart and in contrast relieved to hear Scott’s album was number eight in the album chart, isn’t significant either. I just know the wedding would be maudlin if Scott hadn’t made it to the top ten. I’m excited for Scott, of course. It’s just a different sort of excitement. I shake my head but Adam won’t slip from it.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m very tired. And a bit drunk. And very emotional. I’m getting married tomorrow. Every woman thinks about her ex the night before her wedding; it’s tradition, like wearing something old, new, borrowed and blue. It’s simply what happens. It doesn’t mean anything.

Exhausted, I open my bedroom door. Immediately I sense there’s someone else already in here. Great, just what I need, a fornicating couple on my bed. I’ll have to change the sheets. There is no way I’m going to sleep on sheets used by strangers on the eve of my wedding. It’s probably bad luck or something. At the very least it’s unhygienic.

Sure enough, through the flickering candlelight (randies with a romantic streak, they’ve taken the time to light every one of my thirty-odd Molton Brown candles) I see another naked white bum.

‘Ben?’ As Ben makes a grab for a sheet to protect his modesty (and mine for that matter), I see who is in the bed with him. ‘Scott!’

66. Fern

I’m actually sick. I make the woman I just caught puking into my umbrella stand look restrained – I haven’t even got the self-control to find a receptacle for my vomit. It splashes on the marble floor. And when I run, my designer-clad foot slips on my own up-chuck.

‘Fern! Wait!’ It’s Ben’s voice I hear call after me down the corridor and I hear Scott say, ‘I’ll get Mark.’

Bastard.

Bastards.

Both of them!

I hate them!

I run through the house and out of the front door. The gravel of the drive scrunches beneath my feet. It’s a sound I’ve always associated with wealth and luxury but I will for ever more associate it with betrayal and pain. I look around me. Drivers are helping drunken guests into their cars; the party is well and truly over. I don’t know what to do. I’m surrounded by dozens of faces but I don’t know anyone well enough to ask if I can go home with them or even ask if they’ll give me a lift, and besides, where can I go? I just found my fiance in my bed with my best boy mate, on the eve of our wedding. The thought causes my insides to turn to liquid again. I need to sit down or I’ll fall down. I start to stagger towards the lawn when I hear Barry, the driver who has ferried me on

‘You all right, Miss?’ His respectful question is part and parcel of service in the USA. Even checkout servers are polite here but even though I know that, I’m overwhelmed by the generosity of his enquiry and the quiet sympathy that seems to lie behind it.

‘Not really,’ I mutter.

‘Little too much celebrating perhaps?’ he asks kindly, as he offers an arm to steady my progress while I lower myself on to a step. My legs are shaking. My whole body is shaking. My whole world is. I crave something sweet but then maybe not, I think I’m going to be sick again.

‘No, not celebrating,’ I assure him.

Barry must catch something in my voice that explains more than I’m capable of understanding.

‘I’ve just driven some of your English friends to the Standard. I understand they are getting some chips. That’s what you guys call French fries, right? I’d suggest, Miss, that chips are just what you need.’

I don’t chat to Barry as he efficiently speeds off to Sunset Boulevard. I’m incapable of making small talk – usually my default setting. How could Scott have done that to me? How could Ben? I don’t know who I’m most angry or shocked with. I don’t know if I’m more furious or hurt. Let’s face it – I don’t know anything at all. A whole bundle of hideously painful thoughts are assaulting my mind and heart. I honestly thought Scott was going to try to make it work between us. I thought he wanted to be faithful. Is he gay? Am I just a beard? And Ben? How could he do this to me? Helplessly I run through

Aaghhh. They were in my bedroom. With candles. There’s no mistake; I haven’t misinterpreted anything. Ben got a wax today. His best Paul Smith boxers were discarded on the floor – his lucky pants. Oh God, this is all too vile to think about.

Barry drops me off outside the Standard and says he’ll wait for me until I instruct him otherwise. At this time of night I expect the restaurant to be quiet. Usually by now most of the action has moved downstairs to the Purple Lounge, the hotel’s chic but mellow cocktail bar; it has space for dancing and space for hanging around being hip. The restaurant is more of a coffee shop by design, the service is quick and efficient and the cuisine is renowned as comfort food. It’s the perfect hide-out. I imagine wandering into the restaurant and scanning the booths for Jess and Adam. I need a friendly face more than I’ve ever needed one in my life. The place will be deserted and I’ll spot Adam instantly, even though his back will be to me. I’ll fall into the booth and plonk myself down opposite him; without ceremony I’ll say, ‘Ben is sleeping with Scott.’

As I push open the door I am hit not by intense and meaningful silence but by exuberance and cheer. Far from the semi-deserted scene I imagined, I’m faced with a party, which in terms of energy and liveliness could rival the one at Scott’s place earlier on today. The difference being

‘No one said there was a party going on,’ I say petulantly as I squeeze into the ladies’ booth. Lisa budges