Love Lies

45. Fern

Surreptitiously I finger the cool, calm, creamy cardboard bag that is sitting at my feet. Inside it (beyond the yards of thick black velvet ribbon and the endless sheets of dainty, floaty tissue paper) lies a dress that cost two months’ salary. At least, two months of my salary, that is – if I still earned a salary, which I don’t of course. In the boot of the car (or the trunk as they say over here) there lie a further dozen or so similar stiff cardboard bags, inside which there are Moschino sunglasses, a Bally bag, a pair of Jean Paul Gaultier jeans, two Matthew Williamson maxi dresses (we couldn’t decide which colour suited me!), a Tommy Hilfiger day dress, a Gucci purse and a Prada jacket. Oh. My. God.

‘Happy?’ asks Scott.

‘Very, very, very,’ I confirm.

‘What are you thinking?’

This is why Scott is more of a deity than a man. He cares what I’m thinking! ‘I was just wondering when I’ll wear the Fendi dress.’ It’s a scarlet silk dress with cap sleeves and beautiful beaded detail around the collar. It’s elegant and stylish. I can’t float around the pool in it, even an infinity pool, even if my boyfriend is a rock star. ‘It’s a going out dress. A special occasion dress.’

‘We could go to a movie premiere or a charity gala or something,’ says Scott with a yawn.

‘We could?’ I splutter on my excitement and almost choke.

‘Yeah, we could.’

‘Have we been invited to any?’

‘We’re always being asked to them, we get two or three invites a night. But Mark usually says no.’

‘He does? Why?’ Why would anyone turn down an invite to a movie premiere?

‘Worried I’ll get pissed or… I don’t know, distracted,’ murmurs Scott; he is staring out of the window now and doesn’t seem to be totally focused on our conversation. He hates travelling at this time of day, traffic jams irritate him. As do queues (which, to be fair, he rarely encounters because he can always sweep to the front of any queue).

‘Distracted? From what?’ I ask, drawing him back to the conversation. ‘From me?’ I pursue, concerned. A tiny, tiny bit of me is still terrified it might all disappear; Scott might stop thinking I’m special, just as suddenly as he decided I was. Following a secret signal Barry might skid to a violent halt; they might fling open the car door and drag me from the plush leather seats and shiny coolness of the Bentley. I might be cast on to the street and have to fend for myself by burrowing through litterbins in a desperate effort to hunt out returnable bottles and cans. I’d explode with grief. I cast a quick panicked glance at Scott. He beams at me. It’s the slow, sexy smile that sends deep crinkles around his face. Crinkles that I’m beginning to be oh-so-familiar with; crinkles I can trust.

‘No, Sweets. Of course not. From my work.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I feel a bit foolish. I have to try harder at

‘Shall I see where we’ve been invited to tonight?’ asks Scott.

‘Tonight?’

‘Why not?’

I decide there is no reason why not. Scott is a man who likes to strike while the iron is hot. Tonight he thinks it might be fun to go out and give my dress an airing; there is a possibility that by tomorrow this idea will have lost its allure. I’d be wise to grab the opportunity with both hands.

He calls Saadi. I try to follow the series of grunts, in an effort to decipher whether there is anything noteworthy on offer this evening. Scott looks nonplussed, teetering on the bored rigid, so I assume it’s not a happening night.

‘There’s a movie premiere at Mann’s,’ he says with a careless shrug.

‘A movie premiere! With a red carpet?’

‘Yes.’

I let out an involuntary yelp of excitement. It’s quite an embarrassing sound, not unlike a sound you might make in bed just before you totally give in to the big O. Still, he won’t recognize it – more is the pity. ‘And stars?’

‘Yes.’

Another ridiculous squeak escapes from my lips. I barely waste time being embarrassed as I rush to ask my question, ‘What movie?’

Scott stares at me with his huge, green unfair advantages. ‘A political thriller with George Clooney and James McAvoy –’

I start to screech and scream; a full-throttle orgasm now. Scott grins at my excitement. His vaguely jaded expression dissolves into something much more expectant. ‘Think that will be good?’

‘Immense!’ I yell, sounding not unlike my young nephew. ‘Utterly, totally and properly immense!’