Love Lies

30. Fern

The room, or rather rooms, are more beautiful than any hotel rooms I have ever seen – let alone stayed in. I’ve clearly stumbled into a movie set. The place is decorated in dramatic contrasts. White walls meet black wooden floors, there’s a snow white, inches thick, shaggy rug waiting for me to sink my toes into and a huge squashy white corner sofa (leather) waiting for me to throw myself upon. I only just resist doing this right away because I’m distracted by a circular, transparent plastic chair hanging from the ceiling like a swing. That, I have to sit on. For a moment or two I dangle my legs and try to make myself go backwards and forwards but it doesn’t really swing, more just hangs there, so I hop off and wander through to the bathroom where there is a free-standing bath and, as promised, shelves of beautiful-smelling products. Then I wander up to the mezzanine, where there is an enormous bed.

That I’m supposed to sleep in all alone. I recall his fingers skittering across my groin and his deep, passionate kisses, his tongue touching mine. Aaghh, I can’t believe we’re expected to sleep separately.

What a waste.

I flop on to the bed but I’m not in the slightest bit sleepy. In fact I am more awake and alive than I have ever been in my life. Scott Taylor has just asked me to

Who to call?

Not Adam. Usually I turn to him before anyone but that clearly wouldn’t be right under the circumstances. I can hardly ring Adam and say, ‘Hey, honey, am I really engaged to another man, a man other than you that is?’ Undoubtedly he could confirm or deny but it might be a tricky conversation. I shove Adam out of my head and determine not to think of him for as long as humanly possible. As soon as he comes to mind a lick of something disturbingly like shame engulfs my body. I guess there are kinder ways to show you’ve moved on from a relationship than getting engaged to your new beau, within twenty-four hours of splitting up and in front of an audience of ninety thousand. Still, at least there’s no room for confusion and no one likes mixed messages.

I could call Jess. Where the hell is Jess? The last I saw of her was before I fainted in the stands at the concert. Why didn’t she come backstage with me? Why didn’t Rick or Ben? I can’t believe they just buggered off and left me to all this insanity without so much as a by your leave. I’d have expected Ben to come along for the ride at least.

Lisa? My mum and dad?

These are the people I do generally turn to in moments of extreme happiness or pressure. Normally, between them, these people congratulate, support, guide or yell at me and I feel somehow validated once they have done

But somehow tonight is different. I’m not sure who to call. I switch my phone on while I consider and it immediately starts ringing and beeping at me as though it’s R2-D2 on speed. Apparently I have ten voicemail and twelve text messages. Congratulations pouring in already, I’ll bet. I dial in for my voicemail. It’s Jess.

‘Er. Hi Fern, I hope you are OK. Sorry I couldn’t stay with you. Give me a bell, huh. As soon as you can.’

And that’s it. No congratulations. No shrieks of excitement. Actually, she sounded quite subdued. What’s that about? I thought that now it’s clear-cut that Scott is as crazily in love with me as I am with him Jess’d stop

‘What the heck is going on? This is wild. Call me the second you get a chance,’ insists Lisa. That’s a bit more like it. This is wild. Wildly exciting, wildly wonderful, wildly different. Again there are no actual congratulations, which is a bit weird. I whooped and hollered when she told me that Charlie had finally popped the question. Mostly out of relief; we’d been waiting for him to do so for months and I figured once he finally had, she would at least have a different topic of conversation from second-guessing where and when he’d do the popping (she did – she talked about where and when he’d take her on honeymoon). I’d have thought Lisa would be a bit more openly ecstatic though, not least because Scott is a zillionaire; that’s her currency. Although I don’t suppose she’s heard that I finished with Adam last night; I suppose, even if she has, it’s still bizarrely sudden. I can’t blame her for not understanding our speedy certainty as it wasn’t like this for her and Charlie.

‘Fern, darling, call me this instant,’ insists Ben excitedly.

‘Fern fella. What a mind blower. How long have you been secretly shagging Scottie Taylor for? Call your bro and give me the lowdown,’ says Rick. Well, at least he sounds impressed, even if he has got the wrong end of the stick. This is whirlwind and romantic, there haven’t been any deceitful long-term shenanigans.

The fifth message is from Adam, ‘You bitch.’

I stop listening to my voicemail right there. The text messages are along a similar line. There’s one each from Ben, Lisa, Jess and Rick, all insisting I get in touch. There are eight from Adam.

You bitch.

You bitch.

You bitch.

You get the idea.

I switch off my phone. I don’t want to read or hear any more. The lack of congrats is disappointing; I’m not in the mood to call any of them.

I know! I need Scott. Of course I do. He’s the one I should be turning to now. I’ll call him and tell him that I’m feeling exhilarated, nervous, and confused all at once. He’s my fiancé. He’ll hold my hand through this. He knows about jealousies. I bet he went through this with his friends when he got his mega record deal. People aren’t very gracious in the face of good fortune – at least not other people’s good fortune. I pick up my mobile, but as I’m about to press the buttons it occurs to me that I don’t know his number. We haven’t exchanged mobile numbers. Damn.

I pick up the phone by the bed and press 5 for reception.

‘Can you put me through to Scott Taylor, please,’ I say in my most confident voice.

‘I’m sorry, Madame, who?’

It’s Miss actually but I don’t bother to correct him. ‘Scott Taylor.’

‘We don’t have a guest of that name staying with us I’m afraid, Madame.’

‘Yes, you do, we’ve just checked in together. Oh – I get it. Sorry, Scottie Taylor, you’ll probably know him by that name but in fact his friends and his fiancée call him Scott,’ I say with just a smidgen of self-satisfaction.

‘I’m sorry, Madame. We do not have a Mr Taylor staying with us. You are mistaken, goodnight.’ The line goes dead.

Bloody cheek, why won’t they connect me? I know he’s in the hotel. Then it occurs to me that the receptionist is probably under strict instructions not to connect anyone for security reasons. But I’m not anyone. I’m his fiancée. I wonder if I should call back and spell that out to the pimply, pompous moron who is standing between me and my man.

I could go and look for him or for Saadi at least; I know they are in the main house. There can only be a dozen rooms at most. Didn’t Saadi say that we’ve rented them all? I could knock on every door and insist on being told his whereabouts. I’d only be disturbing Scott’s entourage and as his fiancée I must be entitled to do that, mustn’t I?

Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with shyness. I’m not sure I want to knock on the doors of the band and crew and explain that I don’t have the mobile number or even room number of my fiancé; it looks weirdly desperate. It isn’t the way things should be.

I sigh and slip my feet out of my shoes. I rub the arch of one foot against the under part of the other. It’s comforting, and oddly, I need comfort. How mad is that? I should be dancing a jig, cracking open the champagne, feeling those liquid gold bubbles on my tongue then shagging my fiancé until I drop with exhaustion. I’m newly engaged!

Instead, fully clothed, I slip between the sheets. All at once I’m very tired. Maybe it’s the after-effects of the

I’m Scott Taylor’s fiancée.

Oh. My. God.