Love Lies

9. Fern

I want to be forthcoming but my throat tightens and chokes my words; he’s got these eyes, you see, green, sparkling, soul-slicing eyes. He flashes them at me and with one single glance he strips me naked. I honestly feel my clothes come away at the seams and land in a heap at my feet. The sensation is so real that I look down just to check.

It’s the man himself. Scottie Taylor. It takes a fraction of a second for me to understand this and I acknowledge the fact between my ears and between my legs simultaneously; I feel dizzy in both places. Close up he looks much bigger than I imagined. When I saw him in concert, eight years ago, he was a tiny dot on the stage. OK, so I was at the back in the crap seats but his size is still a surprise. I mean, most stars I’ve ever seen in real life are much tinier than you expect. Although, thinking about this theory, I ought to confess now that the sum total of stars I’ve seen in real life includes Beppe off EastEnders (I saw him in Covent Garden once, he was just coming out of a shop selling jacket potatoes) and Patrick Duffy (you know, Bobby from Dallas; I took my nephews to a panto last Christmas and he played Cinderella’s dad) – so my theory is not based on what you’d call a robust study.

Scottie has huge muscled arms and he’s about six foot one. He became famous when he was practically in short

‘What are you doing in here?’ He repeats the question; his tone is suspicious and cool.

Finally, I find my voice. ‘Being nosey. Look, I’m sorry, I’ll leave,’ I squeak as I begin to edge out of the door. While my reply is absolutely accurate I don’t think it got to the heart of what Scottie was trying to establish.

‘Who are you?’ He doesn’t sound rude but he doesn’t sound charmed either. He sounds wary.

I am at a total loss as to how to answer even this, the simplest of questions. I don’t know what to say or do. I am utterly without common sense or even a simple grasp at good manners. For a moment I can’t remember my name. My mind is a spongy black hole. Oh my God, my nipples are becoming solid. Can he tell? I’m practically dribbling.

‘I’m Fern,’ I reply. ‘I’m not a journalist, or a nutcase fan, or anything like that.’ I try to smile and reassure us both. I want to summon my most megawatt smile, the one I use to attract barmen when I’m waiting to get served, but I don’t manage more than a lopsided, self-conscious grin. ‘Well, I am a fan, a big fan; I’m not saying I don’t like you because I do. Loads. You’re great,’ I garble. ‘In fact my boyfriend is always taking the piss out of me for how much I like you. He buys me your official calendar for Christmas every year, not as the main pressie, just a stocking filler, he’s not that tight. But it’s not like I have a crush on you and I’m some sort of mad stalker. I don’t

Maybe I was in a better place when my mouth was clamped shut and I had a search party out looking for my tongue.

‘I’m here with my boyfriend actually. He’s your assistant stage manager,’ I add in an effort to make myself sound normal. Then I realize I might have just landed Adam in a whole load of do-do. Who knows if this Scottie Taylor is some sort of megalomaniac control freak? ‘He’s not going to get into trouble because I’m wandering about, is he? He doesn’t know I’m in your dressing-room. I was bored watching him do his thing on stage and I was just killing time. It’s not his fault, so don’t sack him because he’d be devastated. I didn’t think you’d be here. I just wanted to see if you keep M&Ms in your bath or anything.’

I finally stop twittering. For which Scottie Taylor is probably offering up prayers of thanks to all the heathen and traditional gods. Have I ever behaved like such a total imbecile in my entire life? Was it absolutely essential to blab all that? I steel myself to look at Scottie.

He’s grinning. My pathetic verbal incontinence amused him, at least.

‘So the lucky guy is that dark, tall bloke. Adam Cooper, right?’

‘Right.’ I’m stunned Scottie Taylor knows the name of his assistant stage manager.

‘Yeah, I know him. He’s good. I won’t sack him.’ I risk a small smile as I am an itsy bit proud that Scottie has noticed Adam and rates him; maybe what Adam does is part of a great symphony after all. ‘I’ll expect you to have sex with me by way of recompense, though,’ adds Scottie.

‘Really?’ I ask, part horrified, part delighted. Certainly more delighted than is respectable.

‘No not really, you silly sod, what sort of place do you think this is?’

This time Scottie’s face breaks into a really wide, genuine smile and I feel as though I’ve just nose-dived into a warm lagoon of beauty and possibility.

‘Scott Taylor,’ he says, holding out his hand for me to shake.

His gesture is sweet. There was never any doubt as to who he was. It’s pleasantly self-effacing that he’s pretending we’re just a couple of normal people saying hi for the first time. I place my hand in his firm grip and bolts of sexual lightning fire through my body, scalding every single nerve ending. We lock eyes and I wonder if he felt anything too.

‘Can you play cards?’ he asks.