Love Lies

23. Fern

I don’t have to walk back to the station, after all. When the gig finishes Saadi, Scott’s PA, appears from nowhere and informs me there’s a car to take me and my friends home. Before I even get a chance to squeal with excitement she adds, ‘The same car will pick you up at ten a.m. tomorrow, OK?’

‘OK,’ I nod, not quite understanding what I’m agreeing to but happy to go along.

‘It was a sublime gig, don’t you think?’ Saadi asks.

‘Yes.’ I beam, and hope she understands the depth of my delight as I seem incapable of actually saying much, not something I’m often charged with.

‘You appear to be good for his music,’ she says, drily.

She stares at me for a moment, clearly questioning how this can possibly be the case. She obviously regards me as part of the great unwashed and must be intrigued to discover the source of the magic between Scott and me. Then she shrugs and grins, a busy woman – she doesn’t have too long to ponder. I think she’s decided that she doesn’t much care what the source of the magic is, as long as it keeps flowing.

‘Tell Scott goodnight from me,’ I garble.

She nods. ‘Get a good night’s sleep yourself.’

No chance.

My mind has never been so intoxicated. It’s not just me, telling me I gave him a perfect day. My sense is smashed and splintered as I think back over today’s conversations. I’m inebriated at the thought of his eyes that flash with the promise of something totally, irresistibly, irreversibly extraordinary. Nothing can affect my mood; not Ben’s insensible, animated, garbling nor Jess’s sulky silence. I’m separate from them. I’m cocooned.

When Adam gets home I’m sat in front of the TV, carelessly hopping from one channel to the next, not expecting to find anything that will hold my attention. How can anything on TV, or in my flat, or in my normal life hold my attention after a day like today? I’ve changed out of my stockings, pencil skirt and silky top, as I knew the sight of me in such a sexy get-up would certainly lead to a row. Sad really. Once upon a time the sight of me in such a sexy get-up was sure to lead to sex. But Adam is no fool; he’d know I didn’t wear that outfit this morning for his benefit. Jess drank the best part of a bottle of champagne (through a straw) on the journey home and so staggered to bed the moment we stepped through the door of the flat. I stayed up to face the music.

But not to dance.

All day my stomach has been full of delighted trembling butterflies, but when I set eyes on Adam, I feel their tiny

‘Where’ve you been all day?’ he asks. The moment he opens his mouth I’m hit by evidence of serious boozing. It must be very serious for me to notice, as I’ve had my ample share tonight. Adam’s breath smells of whisky – such a depressing drink – and his speech is slurred. ‘Where’ve you been all day?’ he asks again, unsure whether I understood him the first time.

He knows the answer and I know he knows. I wonder if he wants me to lie so that we can limp on, ignore this thing with Scott and hope it will go away. Or does he want me to tell him the truth so that he can scream abuse at me and give our relationship a decent funeral.

‘With Scott.’

‘What, talking?’ he sneers cruelly, jumping to the conclusion that the last thing anyone would do with Scottie Taylor is talk.

‘Yes, actually, just talking.’

‘And you expect me to believe that?’ A tiny dot of Adam’s spittle escapes because he’s in too much of a fury to control it. It lands on my cheek and I have to force myself not to rub it away. The gesture would be horribly inflammatory and Adam is itching for a fight. I’m not so keen. I’ve never seen him this nasty and furious. He’s normally a jolly drunk. He’s normally a jolly everything. It’s bizarre that the thought of his spittle on my cheek is distressing me. His bodily fluids repulse me. When did that happen? Overnight? Two days ago I wanted this man to ask me to marry him. I wanted his babies. That would

I’m bored with him. I’m bored by the fact that this display of anger is the first real emotion I’ve witnessed in Adam in months. He’s failed spectacularly to be charming, passionate, interested or interesting for quite some time now but, all at once, he’s found his fire. I’m not impressed by this macho display. I can’t help but think his fever is nothing to do with our relationship, it’s not about Adam and me – it’s about Adam and his ego. He didn’t want me until someone else showed an interest. He’s especially irritated that the ‘someone else’ happens to be his boss, happens to be a rock legend.

If Adam had truly wanted me he had plenty of opportunities to demonstrate it. He could have surprised me occasionally by running me a bath after a hard day in the shop or running the hoover over the carpets in the flat; it’s not like we live in a mansion, it wouldn’t take much. He might have noticed when I bought a new outfit or had my hair cut. Is there anything more depressing than spending ages trying to look pretty for someone, only to discover he hasn’t even noticed? It’s humiliating that I’m often forced to ask pathetically, ‘How do I look?’ especially as I only ever receive a disappointing. ‘Fine’ – delivered without him taking his eyes away from the TV. If he’d wanted me he could have shown me by taking me somewhere more interesting than the local pub – just once in a while. He could have helped paint the flat instead of leaving it to Jess and me. Hell, if he’d wanted me for real, we’d have our own flat.

He would have asked me to marry him.

The thought cuts through me, a blade of pure, un-diluted distress. I gasp for breath but it’s hard to breathe, I’m choking on the stagnant stench of a dying relationship. It smells like an overflowing cesspit.

‘And you expect me to believe that all you did was talk?’ Adam demands.

‘You can believe what you like, Adam.’ I hope my tone communicates that I no longer care what he believes.

‘Have you fucked him?’

The nasty word sounds as mean as it ever can. Adam’s face snarls with impotence and fury. I almost wish I could say yes. It’s what he expects. It’s what I want. And, by saying no, I’ll give Adam a glimmer of entirely false hope. But I haven’t fucked Scott.

‘No.’

‘Liar.’ More spittle. His face creases with disbelief; he’s purple and unrecognizable. Normally serene, Adam has transformed from unassuming Dr Jekyll to a sinister Mr Hyde. ‘You’ve been hanging around his room all day like some cheap groupie. He sent you home in his car. I understand he’s sending another car to pick you up tomorrow, of course you’re fucking him.’

Clearly the tom-tom drums have been beating among the crew. I suppose this gossip is too good to simply consume, it’s the sort of gossip that has to be chewed and regurgitated.

Adam’s unoriginal accusations are no doubt deserved. It’s an assumption most would make, plus I’ve treated him quite badly in the past day or so, but at the moment I am more sober than he is so I have the opportunity to

‘It’s over, Adam. We’re finished.’

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid, Fern. You don’t mean that,’ says Adam irritably. I stay silent, indicating that I do. After a pause Adam adds, ‘You can’t think you have a future with Scottie Taylor.’ Now he sounds incredulous.

‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. The point is, Adam, you made it clear that I don’t have a future with you.’ I’m battling to stay calm, so it’s distressing that a fat tear rolls down my cheek; I wipe it away impatiently. I’m doing the chucking, why am I crying? I shouldn’t be crying. ‘I told you what I wanted,’ I add.

‘Back to the fucking engagement ring!’ Adam slams his hand against the wall. Up until the last day or so he wasn’t one for swearing or violence, now he’s like a pot of spitting oil that’s going to boil over and scald everything it touches; I don’t want to be around when that happens. ‘You stupid, stupid woman, don’t you see he’ll let you down?’ yells Adam. With each word he slams his fist against the wall; again and again. It must hurt.

‘That’s none of your business any more, is it?’ I say coolly. ‘I’m going to bed. Tomorrow we can talk about who is going to move out.’

‘Oh, you don’t need to worry about me,’ he says in a sneering voice. He’s no longer hitting the wall but he won’t look at me. ‘I’m sorted. You’re not the only one who is full of surprises.’

I don’t quite

I grab the spare duvet from the top of the wardrobe and throw it at Adam, indicating that he’s on the couch. I close the door and undress in silence. Then I lie on the bed, which suddenly seems vast, and I breathe a deep sigh. It’s a sigh of relief. There, it’s done. It’s over. We’re finished. The relief is faintly tinged with panic. What next? Can Scott be my next? I think so but I seem to be the only one who does. But I breathe deeply, then I start to allow the wonderful happenings of the day swirl back into my head. I replay our conversations, I recall his grins and I remind myself that he sang ‘Perfect Day’ to me. Slowly, the butterflies gently flap their wings in my stomach once again.