Love Lies

25. Fern

By the time the croissants and strawberries have been eaten and the coffee has gone cold, neither of us is wearing much. Quelle surprise. He’s in jeans, but once again he’s revealing his tip-top chest, and I’m in just bra and knickers (revealing my best-if-I-breathe-in-and-lie-at-a-funny-angle bod). Our clothes didn’t come off in a mad passionate frenzy but – a little like when we were playing poker – we indulged in a slow, tantalizing striptease.

I barely noticed him undo the buttons on my shirt and I hardly registered the soft slither of fabric as my skirt fell down my legs. It was almost as if when his fingers fluttered across my shoulders and neck the buttons sprang open of their own accord. And, as he gently stroked my back, my shirt pretty much spontaneously combusted. As he touched my waist and dwelt on my thighs my skirt ran for the hills. It’s odd; while I know he’s practised in the art of disrobing women, the experience still feels completely individual and mine.

While it’s very lovely that he doesn’t rush the disrobing, truthfully my knickers are doing a full all-singing-and-dancing routine of their own and I am more than willing to fling caution to the wind if he’d fling me to the wall (or the floor or behind a big bunch of peonies – I’m happy to be flung anywhere really). I’m keen to seal the deal, he’s the one who wants to loiter and withhold gratDallas series. I was knee-high to a grasshopper when all of this occurred (or more accurately didn’t occur) but I remember the effect it had on my mum (still in shock, she burnt the toast at breakfast the next morning). You can’t just invalidate an entire season of the country’s most popular show and not expect some long-term scarring. Imagine, if we found out Carrie never really met Mr Big, Aidan Shaw just dreamt him up.

Even if this is for real, there’s still the very serious possibility that it might end hideously abruptly. Saadi might storm the building. The press might track us down with sniffer dogs. He might get bored. Asleep or awake, I have no control.

Besides, despite the cashmere rug and cushions I’m beginning to find the shop floor an uncomfortable place to lie. The cement floor is cold and unrelenting and I only endure it by concentrating on his soft warm flesh instead. I trace my fingers over his tattoos. The decorated skin slightly less yielding than the rest of his body. I gently trail the tip of my tongue over his nipples; the gentleness becomes hard. At this point he still hasn’t gone anywhere near my tits but I feel my own nipples spring to a respon

He’s so attentive. He seems to be just as mesmerized by me. He dances around my breasts and the parts where my legs join. He kisses my stomach, waist, ribs, neck, shoulders and arms. He kisses inside the crook of my elbow and tells me the skin there reminds him of holding a baby bird. His endless strokes, his confident caress and gentle, sweet touch create an almost unbearable and aggressive longing inside me. I have to bite my tongue to stop myself yelling that I need him to get a move on. I need him to take me. I am soaked with my excitement. I long to feel his cool fingers inside me on my red hot flesh. I’m sure I’d come immediately, spurting out on to his hands. The exquisite release would send shocks somersaulting through my spine. I’d grab hold of his cock, move it up and down, swiftly and expertly, until he came on my stomach. That wouldn’t be breaking my promise to Saadi, would it? Not by the letter of the law.

I’ve never longed for anyone quite so much. For God’s sake this is Scott Taylor and he’s lying semi-clad on top of me, next to me, sometimes underneath me. He manoeuvres me like I’m featherweight. It’s inhuman to expect me to resist. Actually cruel. There are probably international laws against such torture.

But I did promise Saadi. What if we do go for it and he’s knackered at the gig tonight? Ninety thousand people are expecting to be entertained. My needs suddenly shrink

‘We can’t,’ I moan. ‘I promised Saadi.’

‘You what?’ Scott looks stunned.

‘She says it puts you off your stride,’ I admit with voluble sadness. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like to be doing more than –’ I search around for the best word. It wouldn’t be a shag. Not considering the immense sexual attraction that clearly zings between us. But it wouldn’t be a fuck, not after the hours of conversation; it would be more passionate than that.

Scott helps me out. ‘There’s nothing you’d like to do more than me.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Me too, so what’s stopping us?’ He kisses my shoulder again and my resistance shivers like a leaf hanging by a thread from a tree. He kisses the back of my neck and a great big breeze threatens to blow that leaf right off. God, I want him.

‘I’m scared of Saadi,’ I confess with a whine.

Scott laughs but pulls back and tosses my top back at me. ‘We’ve got more chance of behaving ourselves if you put those fantastic tits away. I’ll get the cards.’

He looks momentarily reluctant but stands up and starts to hunt for the cards. I’m grateful he’s moved away from me. The smell of him sends me weak with want. He smells of pheromone, not of a chemical aftershave. It’s delicious. While he roots around for his clothes and the cards I hunt around for the will to pull my top on.

He deals. ‘Well, it’s not so bad. We only have to wait until after the gig tonight, right? That’s what you promised

‘Right.’ I smile.

‘OK, great. We get more time to get to know each other and that’s a good thing,’ says Scott.

‘What shall we talk about?’ I ask. ‘We covered all the basics yesterday. I know that you used to shoplift for dares, you know that I padded my bra with tissue –’

‘Until you were sixteen!’ howls Scott.

‘Yeah.’ I’m beginning to regret telling him that bit. ‘You prefer milk chocolate to dark.’ I pull on my skirt.

‘You like that hideous white stuff designed for kids.’ He picks up his T-shirt and turns it the right way out but doesn’t put it on immediately.

‘Correct. You’ve never eaten an oyster.’

‘Snot in a shell.’

‘Agreed. You like football and I like flowers.’ I run my fingers through my hair and try to appear less rumpled than I am.

‘Why are peonies your favourite?’

Good question. A bit left of centre. I’ve never been asked that before, yet I do have an answer.

‘I think they’re a great mix of sturdy and exotic, which has to be something every girl aspires to. They smell so clean. The flower was named after Pæon, a physician to the gods, who got the plant on Mount Olympus, from the mother of Apollo. Once planted the peony likes to be left alone and punishes those who try to move it by not flowering again for several years. I like the idea that a plant has a sense of revenge,’ I giggle.

‘No uprooting. I’ll remember that,’ says Scott.

‘Ah, but remember, once established, it produces splendid blooms each year for decades,’ I mutter, just in case we’re talking about more than the plant. I continue with my search for fresh topics. ‘I know all about your family. You know about mine. Where do we go from here?’

‘You could tell me a little more about your boyfriend.’

The word boyfriend hits me like a train. Hell, does he still exist? The thought that Adam is somewhere – anywhere – doing something – anything – floors me. I’d completely forgotten that he existed. It’s easy to do when I’m cocooned up with Scott, away from anything remotely normal or expected; protected from any inconvenient truths and intrusions.

‘Adam.’ Even his name sounds alien. Yet he’s been in this shop a hundred times. He’s popped by to while away slow hours and help me lug round potted trees. He’s dropped off sandwich lunches, he came to my rescue when we had a power cut and I struggled with the burglar alarm and the electric till. These things happened a millennium ago.

‘Yes. This Adam, is it serious?’ asks Scott.

‘We broke up.’

‘When?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘I see.’ And he probably does. It’s clear-cut, isn’t it?

‘What about you? Seeing anyone special at the moment?’ I turn the spotlight.

‘Dangerous question, Miss,’ says Scott, deftly sidestepping; another skill I realize he must be practised at. At this exact second, yes. Generally, no? In my dreams.

‘Dangerous questions are part of getting to know someone,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t imagine you usually go in for this, do you?’

I’m nervous, partly because I don’t want him to affirm that he’s a heartless, relentless slapper and I’m heading for disaster and, partly, I’m shy because if he does confirm that normally he’s a heartless, relentless slapper but I’ve made him different, then I’ve definitely dug for that compliment, which puts me right back in the position I used to be in with Adam when I asked if he liked my new top.

‘No, this is fresh stuff. In the past I’ve been a bit of a careless fucker. Literally. You know, I’m a rock star, I’m young, gorgeous. What can I do?’ He stares at me and as our eyes collide, I forgive him. He’s right, he’d have to be insane not to be sticking it up every girl available. What’s the point of being who he is otherwise?

Scott lights a fag. He smokes way too much and Ben wouldn’t like it in the shop but I can’t bring myself to reprimand him. He takes a long drag and then eyes me nervously.

‘Fern, anything you’ve ever read about me is probably true. In fact, however bad it was, double it. The really bad stuff doesn’t even get into the press. When I am doing a lot of drugs and drinking far, far too much – I’m an animal.’

For the first time since we met he seems to be having difficulty in holding eye contact.

‘I shag indiscriminately. I’m careless. Heartless. Yes to whisky, yes to cocaine, yes to that hole. I’m an aggressive, rude slag. I don’t have a sense of humour. Or even a sense of where the bog is. I once pissed in my wardrobe. Ruined thousands of pounds’ worth of suits. Big shame. I don’t like the person I am when I’m drunk or high and I don’t suppose you would. Christ, my own mum doesn’t.’ He pauses and looks really pained. ‘But I don’t know who else I can be.’ He draws breath. The impact of his raw and gravelly honest words hits.

‘Well, there’s bound to be someone,’ I say carefully.

‘You think?’ He turns to me quickly, hopefully.

‘Yeah.’ I want to cheer him up. He hasn’t told me anything I haven’t already read about him (except maybe the peeing in the wardrobe bit), but just because this stuff is often splashed all over the newspapers doesn’t mean it’s not deeply personal and difficult to talk about.

‘Have you ever been around an addict?’ he asks.

‘No, not really. My auntie Linda is a bit too fond of a tipple but she hasn’t started to sell the family heirlooms to pay for her habit yet. Well, she can’t, we don’t have any family heirlooms, but you catch my drift. I don’t know anyone who does drugs. I’ve had the recreational swig of Calpol when I’ve been babysitting for my nieces and nephews, but that’s it.’

‘You’re shitting me?’

‘I’m not. My mates did that Just Say No thing that John Craven and the Grange Hill Kids peddled for years.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I thought it was because we were all fine upstanding members of the community but the truth is

‘Very understanding of you.’

‘I’m only this nice until you sleep with me then I turn into a bitch,’ I joke.

Scott pulls me close to him. My goose bumps bang into his.

‘Addicts are fucking terrible people to care about. They break your heart without even meaning to. And they don’t even notice, let alone worry. Addicts don’t give you a moment’s peace, any respect and their apologies might as well be written on bog roll,’ says Scott.

‘Why are you telling me this? Are you trying to scare me off?’

‘Yeah, I think I am.’

It won’t work. Surely Scott has encountered enough women by now to know that every woman loves a cause. Every woman wants to save and fix. It doesn’t matter if it’s a broken toy that needs glue or broken skin that needs a kiss and a band-aid; we like to be needed. Pathetic or noble, I’m undecided, but it’s where we are after eight million years of evolution. I think that’s why some grannies and great-grannies look back on the Second World War with a certain amount of fondness. The bright side to the carnage and terrible bloodshed, they were at least allowed to fulfil their true vocations; make do and mend is a woman’s battle cry. And there’s nothing we like to mend more than a battered, vulnerable heart. Especially if it comes as a box set with a pair of emerald green eyes.

I trail a finger over his stomach. I think I might have

‘Because it might be easier if you go.’

‘In what way?’

‘Because I’m beginning to realize that if you stay, everything will be different for ever more.’

Yeeeeesssssssssssssssss.

Is there anything a woman prefers to hear? I’m different. I’ll make things different for ever more. I want to punch the air and hang out bunting but I tread carefully.

‘Different isn’t bad, necessarily,’ I say gently.

‘I know that. But I’m not sure I’m ready for it, what it all means, you know? I want to be. But I’m not sure I am.’ He stares at me, practically begging me with his eyes to understand.

I think I know what he’s on about. He’s on about the really rude C word, Commitment; much more pugnacious to most men than the C word that rhymes with hunt. In the past I’ve had many a rough encounter with the male gene that makes blokes commitment-resistant (think Adam – he’s a fine example) and I haven’t always been that sympathetic. But I can see why Scott might think a change to his free and single status would be something to worry about; he’s got a really fabulous life as is. Why would he look for anything different? I’m not up against the same problem. Personally, I hanker for something different and long for change; my life is humdrum. Or at least it was until Friday. Scott has more choice than practically any other man in the world. Fascinating that choice isn’t the gift one would imagine.

As though following my thought process, Scott says, ‘I’ve never been that great with commitment. I’ve never really had what other people would call a girlfriend.’

‘Oh, come on. What about…’ Without pausing for breath I name at least five starlets and pop stars that he’s dated in the recent past.

‘Yeah, all nice girls,’ he says, explaining nothing at all. He finishes his cigarette and then elucidates a bit more. ‘But they all wanted something from me, other than me. You know. They had a record or movie to promote and it was convenient to date me for a few months, so we could be papped outside the Ivy and Nobu. That’s what happens.’

‘You are not being fair to yourself. I’m certain they enjoyed every minute they were with you,’ I say hotly, perhaps showing my hand a little.

I feel distinctly uncomfortable that I’m banged up this close to his lack of self-confidence and his vulnerability. It’s so close I can smell it. I preferred the pheromones. Scott’s inner turmoil and on/off search for true love has also been reported in the press and unofficial biographies, in exactly the same way his laddish antics have. I’ve never really bought into it. Surely it’s not hard for a man like Scott Taylor to find true love. If he can’t, then what chance do the rest of us have?

‘Maybe, but it’s hard to tell with actresses. They’d reach the same climax whether they saw their face in Heat magazine, I bought them a pair of Manolos or I shagged them raw.’

‘Right,’ I mumble, gripped with jealousy at the very suggestion that he’s shagged someone raw.

‘Anyway, I always treat them like crap in the end. Whether they turn out to be sincere or not, I usually find them stupid. I have what my psychologist calls intimacy issues.’

‘You’re warning me again.’

‘I am.’

‘OK, I consider myself warned. I’m not worried.’

‘You should be. You have no idea,’ says Scott, shaking his head with some sadness.

‘How bad can it be?’ I force a laugh because this conversation is uncomfortable and I preferred it when we talked about our favourite TV shows or even how we felt when our pet dogs died.

‘It can be very bad.’ Scott searches my face. I stare back. He must find whatever it is that he’s looking for, because then he adds, ‘And sometimes it can be very, very good.’