Love Lies

14. Fern

A helicopter thunders overhead. The air whooshes across the ninety-thousand-strong crowd, banners declaring ‘We Love You’ are raised and the chanting crowd move their plea up a level. ‘Scot-tie, Scot-tie.’ The assumption is that Scottie Taylor (Scott to his friends) has just landed. But I know that he’s been here since before ten this morning. The secret inside knowledge bubbles in my stomach and fizzes a little bit lower, too.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ says Jess; she’s breathless with excitement and therefore looks even more amazing than she usually does – who’d have thought such a thing was possible? ‘Adam has got us fantastic seats.’

It’s true we are only metres from the stage. There are seats all around the stadium, but we are in ones closest to the action. We’re sat with other VIPs, such as press and friends of the band. It’s thrilling; on the few occasions I do attend music events I’m normally one of the squashed and jostled individuals, stood in the mosh pit. There’s always a fantastic atmosphere down in the mosh pit but there’s also the danger of being stamped to death by hysterical women or at the very least sustaining a serious injury from a bony elbow or someone who is body surfing. I have to admit, Adam’s job has its advantages after all. Right now, decent seats to a Scott Taylor gig trumps private health plans and

‘You’ve really gone the extra mile tonight, Jess. Have you made all this effort because it’s my birthday?’ I ask.

Lisa interrupts, ‘You’re kidding, right? She’s done up to the nines because after your brief encounter with Scottie Taylor this morning she’s now harbouring a secret fantasy of her own.’

‘I’m not adverse to sloppy seconds in this instance,’ laughs Jess.

Jess looks like Snow White (and the magic mirror did say that Snow White was the most beautiful woman in the land). She is tiny, only about five two, and her similarities to a doll don’t stop there. She has creamy, flawless skin, bright, deep cobalt blue eyes and jet black shoulder-length hair. She always wears ruby red lipstick – it’s her trade mark. Despite (or perhaps because of) her exceptional beauty Jess is often single. I don’t think I want Scott bumping into her because even the pink, glittering cowboy hat – that she insisted on buying off a tout – can’t detract from her beauty.

Mentally, I punch myself. What am I thinking? It’s none of my business who Scott Taylor talks to. I have a boyfriend. What do I care if Jess gets her chance to play strip poker with Scott too?

I’d tear her hair out.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

Suddenly, red lights start to pulse across the stage and the crowd’s chant reaches almost hysterical levels; everyone is up out of their seats. The band members run on and

He’s wearing a dark suit which is lined with a red fabric – the devil’s colours – an acknowledgement that everyone wants to get naughty with him. Everyone would sell their soul in an instant if he asked them to. And he’s wearing sunglasses, which hint at a mafia connection that is somehow thrilling and the right side of dangerous. He takes off his shades and women start to literally swoon; paramedics slip between the crowds to rescue fainting damsels before they are carelessly trodden underfoot.

Then, in a flat northern voice, he says, ‘Hello, glad you could all make it. I am Scottie Taylor. And I’m here to give you a good time. Are you ready for me?’

They are. They scream, and yell, and jump and weep. And I’m part of it. I’m not in the least bit cool. I’m screaming louder than anyone. Up out of my chair, I’m shrieking, leaping, swaying. The air is so charged with hope, excitement and lust that I can almost feel my body being thrown about. His first track, ‘Funk Me’, is a catchy number with a strong beat and a risqué lyric; the entire audience are bouncing up and down on their feet, clapping hands and enjoying the party. I’m surrounded by teeth and tits, they’re all enormous. There is no sign of

After just one song no one cares that it will take them six hours to get out of the car park later on, or that the loos are awash with crap and the beers cost a fortune and are warm and flat. Everybody is happy. Every man wants to be him, every woman simply wants him. He weaves a special sort of spell across the entire stadium. Every single person there feels unique, despite the obvious – which is that they are thinking and feeling exactly the same as the eighty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine others who are singing along. They all believe he is singing to them and just them; more, that he knows them in a way that they’ve never been known or understood before. Despite the enormous crowd he creates a feeling of intimacy. I’m sold.

His lyrics are amazing; truly clever and thought-provoking. They talk to the innocents, the celebrity whores, the lovestruck and the cynical alike. Everybody thinks they can solve him and save him. He doesn’t let up for a moment. It’s pure gold entertainment. He works the crowd into a near frenzy, demanding, ‘Show me you love me,’ which gets the response of signs and banners being re-hoisted into the air. They read, ‘Marry me’, ‘Love me’, ‘Pick me’ and list telephone numbers. It’s weird. What do these women think he’s going to do? Look at

Yes, that’s exactly what they are hoping for. It’s desperate but it’s almost an understandable desperation. I can hardly comment; I played strip poker with the man a couple of hours after meeting him.

Scott challenges one half of the stadium to sing and then the other side; he says one was louder than the other and creates a healthy competition. He singles out a girl at the front of the audience to sing to; she bursts into tears, he blows another a kiss and she lifts her top up to show him her bra. The girl next to her, determined not to be outdone, whips up her top and takes off her bra. Her huge double DD babies are caught on camera as Scott laughs and thanks her. Seemingly impromptu, he jumps off the stage and runs around the barrier touching the hands of the girls who scramble to reach him there. He pulls one girl on to the stage, sings to her and kisses her. Lucky, lucky woman. Everyone loves him.

The sun sets during the concert and we’re all bathed in a wonderful orange light as he takes the tempo down and sings the dreamy song ‘Hurtful Regrets’, which would make women leave their husbands on the spot if he gave them the nod.

Scottie works through his most famous tracks: ‘Fall Apart’, ‘Come Back to Me’ and my favourite, ‘Bit of Rough’. The audience are like long blades of grass bending in the wind and he can breeze or storm.

‘I can feel your love,’ he yells. ‘You are the best crowd I’ve ever had. You’ve made me so happy.’

The roar is deafening.

It’s pitch black by the time he sings ‘Feeling Fine, That’s a Lie’, his first solo number one and the song that is still synonymous with his enormous success, even after fourteen more number one tracks. The stadium is aglow with camera flashes, strobe lights and smiling faces. He changes the words to ‘Feeling Fine, That’s No Lie’, and tells the audience, ‘And that’s because of you, and you, and you, and you.’ He points randomly at gasping girls. With the last ‘and you’, he catches my eye and pours a massive grin my way. My knees buckle. It might have been a random act or he might have been truly delighted to have caught my eye. The moment was too fleeting to be sure.

And then that’s the end of the show. He leaps into the air and we all cheer and yell, cheer and yell some more. He doesn’t ask us to stop; he stares wide-eyed with amazement and cries, ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.’ He seems genuinely humbled.

Although he’s left the stage the audience wait with bated breath knowing there will be an encore. He hasn’t sung ‘Stamp on Your Demons’ yet and everyone is expecting it.

He bounces back on the stage and the confident, focused and devoted musicians start playing the chords we all recognize as ‘Stamp on Your Demons’.

‘Stop, stop. No, no, no,’ says Scott as he shakes his head and waves his arms. ‘I’m not singing that tonight.’

The crowd assume this is part of Scottie’s show; he’s chatted between songs, flirted and had a laugh all night but I can see the band look genuinely perplexed. Maybe

Scott turns to the audience. ‘Today is a special day for me. This is my first gig for two years and you lot have just been amazing. Mad. I love you.’ More cheering. ‘So, I hope you don’t mind if I just make tonight a bit special for someone else, too. You don’t mind, do you?’ Ninety thousand give him their cheer of approval. ‘A really lovely someone else, actually.’

He nods at the pianist, who is at least in on the act, and then the familiar chords of ‘Happy Birthday’ start to ooze out into the night. Scott turns to me. His eyes bang the breath out of me. The intensity of the moment carves deep into my existence. I’m trembling. The noisy surrounding crowds blur into one irrelevant, indistinct mass. We are alone in an exquisite clarity. I’m aware of my pounding heart and knickers and nothing else matters. He blows me a kiss. In a confident, slow, sexy voice, with emerald eyes glistening, he sings the entire song.

‘Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Fern, Happy birthday to you.’

To me!