Love Lies

7. Fern

I am thirty. It’s official. It’s here. The big day. The enormous so-this-is-what-you-amount-to day. I wonder how long I can keep my eyes shut and pray that the whole messy business will just vanish. What the hell made me issue an ultimatum to Adam? Sweet, sometimes sexy, seriously funny, if not a bit hapless, Adam. What was I thinking? Everyone knows a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, etc. etc. He’s not always a perfect boyfriend but he is my boyfriend. I start to hyperventilate. The problem with ultimatums is you have to follow through with them. Everyone knows that. Otherwise you’re a joke. Will he have got me the big, glittering rock, or not?

Bugger.

I can sense that Adam is awake. He’s lying on his side and watching me, waiting for me to open my eyes. Over the past four years I’ve been exposed to Adam physically in every way possible. He knows me. He’s seen me blubber, howl and erupt into judders during sex. Two years ago he watched me haul my aching body through the 26.2 miles of modern torture that is known as the London Marathon. He was waiting for me at the end and he flung his arms around me even though I was sweaty, bloody and weepy; he didn’t even seem to notice. He’s heard me snore, burp, gargle, hiccup and worse – intimacy isn’t

‘I know you are awake. Open your eyes. I have something for you.’

Slowly, carefully, I prise my eyes open. I feel sick. With nerves? Excitement? Fear? I’m not sure. This might be it. This might be the first moment of my grown-up life. The happily ever after I’m hankering for. I might just be about to receive the allatrope of carbon that makes every girl a princess.

Or I might be about to get the biggest kicking I’ve ever experienced.

Adam leans close and kisses me on my lips. He smells of morning but in a good way; a little bit salty, with a vague hint of last night’s booze. A little jolt of lust flickers up through my body. Down, Shep. Let’s see if he’s come up with the glistening goods first.

There is a breakfast tray on the bed. He’s tried: tea, toast and Coco Pops. There are no croissants, no freshly squeezed orange juice and no miniature jars of jam. I’m not in a bloody film. Some way from it.

I struggle to sit up and stretch out my arm to grapple to find my dressing-gown. It’s on the floor next to the bed where I left it just before I nosedived between the sheets in the dark last night. I sleep naked and I don’t want crumbs to stick to my breasts. Honestly? I don’t want my breasts on show at all. They are not bad breasts. Away ye false modesty. They are really rather nice; pert, a bit on the small side but even. Most people who have been introduced to them have greeted them quite favourably

‘Happy birthday, Fern-girl,’ says Adam as he leans in for another kiss.

This one is longer and more lingering than the last. I don’t bat him away but I don’t get what you’d call actively involved, not even when he does that really special thing of gently tugging at my lower lip. There was a time when I thought there was a cord attached to my lower lip that trailed through my body and fastened tightly around my G-spot. One decent smacker and I was putty. Today I need to see what he’s going to pull out of the hat first.

‘OK, Fern-girl.’ I glare at him. He shifts uncomfortably and corrects himself. ‘Fern, gorgeous, I’ve been thinking about everything you said last week.’

Is this the moment to describe what he looks like? I think so because at this fleeting point in time I’m suddenly very aware of him, all over again, as though we’d just met and I’m drinking in the details. Maybe it’s something to do with a rare shaft of sunlight flooding (past the grime) through the window. Probably. Oddly, the heaps of dirty and discarded clothes that litter our bedroom recede. All at once I’m less bothered about the trail of half-empty coffee cups that decorate our place (a unique twist as an

Adam has dark, longish hair. Not ponytail length – heaven forbid! – he’s more scruffy surfer. It’s great hair. I love losing my fingers in it. He has heavy eyebrows and dark brown eyes, thick, long eyelashes that even Bambi might envy. He used to have standy-out cheekbones and a strong chin – truth be known, he’s all a bit fleshier nowadays. But still attractive. Worn in. Familiar but cute.

He’s got great shoulders. He’s not the sort of guy you’d ever hope to see down the gym (sadly) but his job is physical enough to ensure broad shoulders, upon which I love to rest my head when we are lying in bed, chatting, late at night (not as regular an occurrence as I’d like). He has enough hairs on his chest to make it clear that he’s man, rather than boy, but not so many as to create the urge for you to reach for the Shake ’n’ Vac. His stomach is rounder than a Calvin Klein model’s but not as lardy as Chris Moyles’. Sort of average for a thirty-two-year-old guy. He’s wearing black Diesel boxers – he fills them. His legs are long and thin and stick out of the end of our bed. Right now, he seems pretty damn perfect.

I’ve never loved him more.

‘So I’ve given a lot of thought to all you said and I think you’re –’

‘What?’ I nervously jump in.

‘You’re right,’ he says simply.

‘You do?’ I want to kiss him, but I hold off for the moment. I want to hear everything he has to say.

‘Yeah. I need to move on. Grow up. Offer you more than my share of the monthly rent in terms of commitment. In fact, I want you to know I’ve been thinking about this for some time. Before you, er, brought your frustrations to my attention.’

‘Really?’ Kiss me, kiss me. I silently will him to pull me tightly to him. But at the same time I don’t want him to stop talking. I’m fizzing with excitement. This is it! This is the moment I’ve been waiting for!

‘I’ve got something for you,’ says Adam. He reaches behind him.

The ring! The ring! What will it be like? A diamond solitaire? Maybe not, that would be pricey. I’d settle for something semi-precious yet stylish and meaningful. My birthstone perhaps.

Adam hands me an envelope.

‘What’s this?’ I battle to keep the fear and disappointment out of my voice. It’s too flat to be a ring. But then a thought strikes me – house details? Possibly. Maybe he’s done something über-romantic, like got details from an estate agent of a place we might buy together and he’s going to take me there this afternoon. He was very insistent that I take the day off and why else would we be starting the day so early? It’s only 7 a.m. Thinking about it, a couple of months back he did start to scan the property pages of the local freebie rag but he always made comments about how ludicrously expensive everything was – way out of our league – so I never paid much attention. My fingers seem to be incapable of following even the basic motor-skill instructions that my brain is sending to them. But eventually I rip the envelope open.

‘Tickets?’

‘To the Scottie Taylor gig.’ Adam is grinning at me.

‘But, but, I don’t understand,’ I stutter.

‘Had you good, didn’t I, Fern-girl? That whole thing I made up last April pretending I couldn’t get any tickets for the concert, not even on eBay.’

Yup, I remember. Scottie Taylor is doing this major gig tonight in Wembley Stadium. The like of which has never been seen before. He’s performing in front of a massive crowd of ninety thousand. It’s the first time he’s played a gig in over two years. He’s playing for three nights in a row. All the tickets were completely sold out in forty minutes. From the moment the lines opened for sales, I repeatedly pressed redial to the ticket office. I was gutted when I didn’t get lucky. I was furious when none of Adam’s industry contacts could help us find tickets. I wanted to go to the gig more than anything.

But that was four months ago.

The gig seems insignificant now, in light of my ultimatum, in light of my clearly communicated desire to move things on. How could Adam imagine that tickets to a pop gig are a reasonable response to everything I said last Friday?

‘There are three tickets for tonight’s gig; one for you and one each for Lisa and Jess. They are in on this. They don’t really have anything else planned, like I said they had. It was all me. This is all my idea.’

‘All you,’ I parrot, unable to trust my tongue with any sort of independence. Now I understand why my friends were exchanging wary glances. They knew this wasn’t what I was hoping for.

‘And that’s not all,’ adds Adam.

Glimmer of hope!

He reaches behind him and hands me another envelope; it’s identical.

Another crash landing. I feel the shock shudder through my body just as though I have endured a physical impact.

Carefully, slowly, I start to open the envelope. I can’t fake enthusiasm; it’s all I can do to hide my face; bastard, telltale tears of hurt and disappointment are springing into my eyes. I won’t let him see that. I open the second envelope and there are three more tickets, this time to Saturday’s gig. I don’t understand.

‘Tadaa.’ Adam pushes a third envelope into my hand.

‘What?’

‘Open it and see,’ he says. He’s grinning like the Cheshire cat. Why? What makes him think buying two sets of tickets to the same artist’s gig is a good idea? Is he mad? Two sets, these things cost almost fifty quid each.

‘Three sets,’ I say as I open the third envelope.

‘Sunday’s gig,’ says Adam with hideous zeal. ‘Of course you don’t need to take Jess and Lisa every night. Maybe Eliza might fancy it, or Ben.’

I stare at Adam in pure bewilderment. ‘You’ve blown four hundred and fifty quid on this?’ I demand. I’m so shocked I can’t summon the necessary torrent of abuse. I’m not worried; I know it will come, just as soon as I start to breathe again.

‘That’s the beauty of it. I didn’t have to pay for any of them,’ he replies.

‘What, they are knock-off?’ The words are strangled by outrage.

‘No,’ laughs Adam. ‘I’m working at the gig. These are freebies. I’ve got a job with Scottie Taylor. It’s silly money. You couldn’t guess. Like six times the amount I’d normally get for a similar event. Apparently Scottie has this thing about sharing his wealth. I’ve known about the job for a while but I kept quiet about it so as to surprise you today.’

Adam pauses, no doubt waiting for me to leap on top of him and tell him how marvellous he is. I want to pummel him to death with the soggy toast.

‘Fern, you are looking at Scottie Taylor’s assistant stage manager. I have a team, Fern. It’s a promotion. A big one. We are moving forward, like you wanted.’

I shake my head. ‘You didn’t pay for these?’

‘No. I said so, didn’t I? They were free. How cool is that?’

No ring, no ring. Bloody gig tickets but no ring. Free bloody gig tickets but no ring.

I hate him.