Love Lies (45 page)
13. Scott‘Let’s make this interview snappy, hey.’ I stare at Saadi and she understands. She understands that I haven’t got my rocks off, that I’m not even able to for another few days and frankly it’s pissing me off. That Fern chick was cute. Very cute. ‘Who am I talking to anyway?’ ‘Dazed and Confused,’ Mark, my manager, informs me. He means that’s the name of the publication, rather than my state of mind. Although that would be accurate too. Dazed and Confused position themselves as anarchic, feisty, real, grungy, edgy. Easy. They’ll want to talk about sex. Most people want to talk about sex with me. I’ve never been so vain as to believe my sex life is all-absorbing; unfortunately the western world disagrees with me. ‘So how did Adam Cooper’s bird wash up in your room?’ asks Saadi.‘Fern,’ I say.‘Yeah, Fern. She doesn’t look like a headcase.’‘Why would you assume she’s a headcase?’‘She’s issued Adam with this effing insane ultimatum. He has to ask her to marry him on her thirtieth or she’s going to walk.’ Saadi, a confirmed bachelor girl, shakes her head in bewilderment as to why anyone would want this. ‘It’s her birthday today. Is he going to ask her?’Saadi shrugs. ‘Nobody knows. He’s been with her for four years but he can’t make his mind up. He keeps going on and on about her ultimatum. Should he propose? Shouldn’t he? His team are placing odds. He seems to think the whole thing is a bit of a laugh.’ ‘Fucking idiot,’ I mutter.‘Who?’ asks Mark, always on alert to my mood and nuances.‘Well, she seems interesting. And I mean, four years, you’d know, wouldn’t you?’ I say.‘Yeah, and you’re the expert, right? You’ve never managed a four-month relationship, let alone four years,’ says Mark with a weary sigh. He’s getting a bit fed up with cleaning up my messes. Wherever I go, I am known for leaving behind me a bloody trail of broken hearts belonging to starlets, groupies and songwriters. At first, when I was really young, I would have sex with any girl that would let me. Soon they all let me, so I only had sex with really pretty ones. Soon they were all really pretty, so I had to find a way to make some other sort of selection. I once slept with a girl because she wore a trilby at a cute angle, and then another because she had more body piercings than I’ve ever seen before, another because she had a tattoo that started on her vag (it was a vine) and curled under and up all the way to her arsehole. She must have been on some serious drugs when she let the artist go to work on her; I thought she’d earned the attention. I slept with another because she said absolutely nothing at all and then I slept with another because she was there. That soon became the only reason I slept with someone. Nearest to hand. I started to sleep with sisters, friends and random willing groups. My selection process broke down, I guess. But it’s exhausting; hedonism is harder work than it looks. ‘Our Scott is a true romantic under all that bravado. He believes in love at first sight. You’d want to know by four days, wouldn’t you, Scott?’ says Saadi with a grin. ‘Well, who the fuck has four years to waste?’ I mutter.Mark stares at me for a very long time and I think he’s going to say something important. He does, he says, ‘She’s got great tits, Cooper’s bird. Now enough chatter, we better get on with this interview. There’s a schedule to keep.’ To combine licentiousness with novelty takes genuine effort and a little bit of luck. I wonder is it possible that Fern is my little bit of luck? Could Fern be the antidote to all of that excess?
14. FernA 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 even a company car, the sort of perks Lisa’s Charlie enjoys. ‘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 take their places. As they pick up their instruments the screams of anticipation reach a near violent pitch. ‘Scottie Scot-tie.’ A sea of arms sway, claw and clap. The noise and the flesh become unrecognizable and indistinguishable; almost inhuman and yet utterly human in their basic longing for this one man. The lights go white and then green for go. And he’s here; striding on with a warmth and confidence that grabs every single member of the audience by the throat. 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 cynical boyfriends who have been dragged here by their lusty girlfriends. Nor any spotting of the ‘yet to be convinced he’s really special, I’m just here with my mate’ types; everyone is already converted, we’re all fans. The place is alive with a special sort of energy. Good will – uncommonly short on the ground nowadays – is suddenly everywhere; you can bathe in it. 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 one of them and think, ‘Oh yeah, you might make a great lifelong partner; I must make a note of your number and give you a bell to invite you to tea with my mum.’ 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 this is an unrehearsed, off-the-cuff moment. The papers always report that Scott can be a loose cannon. 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!
15. Fern‘What the hell was all that about?’ asks Adam, the moment the door slams behind him. Our entire flat shakes.‘I’m going to bed,’ says Jess. She scrambles off the sofa. ‘Night, happy birthday.’Adam stands in the door frame to our pokey sitting-room and glares at me.‘What?’ I ask, mock innocent. I know what he is talking about. Nothing else has been on my mind for the last four hours. It’s all Jess and I have discussed. Scott Taylor sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to me, in front of ninety thousand people tonight. He called me ‘really lovely’. He blew me a kiss. How exciting is that! For me at least; maybe not so great for Adam, I suppose.‘How did Scottie Taylor know it was your birthday?’ demands Adam. It’s nearly three in the morning. He had to stay and work on some light sequencing or something after the gig, so Jess, Lisa and I left without him. Lisa had to go straight home and get to bed, the kids will be up before six tomorrow, but Jess and I have been drinking ever since. We’ve sunk a bottle of champagne that Lisa gave me for my birthday and a bottle of white wine; this is on top of drinking a few beers each at the gig. It’s a good thing Adam came home when he did, otherwise we’d probably have started on the cooking sherry next. We’ve had a marvellous, giggly, excited night. We talked nonsense; lovely, lovely nonsense. Adam looks tired and drawn. He needs to take better care of himself. Maybe get a haircut or go to the gym. He looked so splendid this morning, but Scott’s perfection and the alcohol I’ve consumed have somehow left Adam looking a bit blurry; I can’t get him into focus. ‘I met him backstage before the gig. Didn’t I mention it?’ I ask as casually as I can.‘No, you bloody didn’t.’‘Didn’t I? Well, it was just a fleeting meet.’ Whoops. I’ve just slipped from being evasive to being a downright liar. The alcohol spins through my body and the fact that I told Adam a teeny tiny lie doesn’t seem like a big deal. I hope that it still doesn’t seem like a big deal in the morning; it’s so hard to judge it after so much to drink. Anyway, it’s my birthday, there’s probably a custom somewhere that states you don’t have to be a hundred per cent honest on your birthday. If not, there should be. ‘Fleeting?’ demands Adam sceptically. ‘You must have made quite an impression for him to sing to you in the middle of his biggest ever gig. Quite an impression.’ Oh I hope so! Is that a terrible thing to think? It doesn’t feel terrible but looking at Adam, all startled and anxious, I consider it might be. I swallow my excitement and try to appear calm as I comment, ‘Scottie Taylor is a showman. He probably sings “Happy Birthday” to some woman every night of the gig. It was probably part of the show.’ I say this to placate Adam but at the same time I cross my fingers and hope to hell this isn’t the case. ‘No, it isn’t part of the gig,’ insists Adam irritably. ‘I know the exact run of his show. The impromptu “Happy Birthday” was a surprise to everyone; the sound and light technicians were all having a fit.’ ‘Oh.’ I try to sound neutral – not bothered either way. Inside I’m dancing a jig.‘How long, exactly, did you spend with him?’ he snaps.My good humour begins to wane a fraction; I don’t want to row with Adam but I do resent his tone. If Adam cared so much how I spent my thirtieth birthday then he should have made more of an effort. ‘I don’t know, some minutes,’ I reply evasively. One hundred and ninety-eight minutes to be exact, although this probably isn’t the time to share that fact with Adam. ‘And that was enough time for you to mention it was your birthday?’ asks Adam doubtfully.‘It’s been the first thing I’ve told everyone all day.’I’m getting into this lying thing – one does seem to come quite fluently after another. I never knew that. I’ve never had to know it. Honesty has always been my policy. But I tell myself that my lies are only little lies. I don’t want to hurt Adam, not deliberately, and I suppose I know that what I’ve done today would hurt and anger him. I have to think this through. It’s all a bit of fun, isn’t it? No one should get hurt by a bit of fun. That’s daft. And if it’s more than a bit of fun?Well, it isn’t, is it? Least it can’t be to Scott; impossible. But he did sing to me. Oh God, my head is spinning, this isn’t the time to try to think about this. ‘He was flirting with you,’ says Adam in a tone that sounds rudely like disbelief.His tone causes me to be icier than I planned. ‘People occasionally do,’ I reply, defiantly folding my arms across my chest. I’ve spent this evening hugging myself with excitement but that’s not a casual pose; I’m likely to arouse Adam’s suspicions further. ‘Who does?’ demands Adam with a surprising slosh of jealousy. Hah! That’s got his attention. I revel in the novelty. He’s never jealous. Until today, I hadn’t realized just how neglectful Adam has always been. I’d thought his relaxed attitude was a tribute to our relationship, proof that we trusted and respected one another, but now I’m beginning to think that he’s simply indifferent towards me and that he’s only, finally, been stung to jealousy because he’s been publicly embarrassed at work. ‘Occasionally, men who come into the shop to buy flowers flirt with me.’‘Dirtbags! Men buying their girlfriends flowers have the cheek to hit on my girlfriend? What sort of blokes are they?’‘Sometimes they are buying flowers for their mums or sisters,’ I point out. ‘Anyway I’m just saying a bit of flirting – if that was what Scott was doing – means nothing. People do it. You should be flattered.’ ‘Flattered that my boss hits on my girl in front of ninety thousand people?’ Adam is spluttering with indignation. I’m not sure when he metamorphosed into a caveman but I’m already beginning to be irritated by this macho act. It strikes me as too little, too late. My tolerance is soused; pickled in 13.7 per cent proof wine. My irritation is being cranked up. How dare Adam be so moody about Scott singing to me? Why is he ruining my special moment? If it wasn’t for Scott my birthday would have been a big letdown. I mean, OK, Adam got me the tickets for the gig but I was expecting an engagement ring! The tickets were free, and as great as the gig was it would just have been a free show if Scott hadn’t singled me out and sung to me. Which he did because I played strip poker with him unbeknown to my boyfriend. Ouch! My conscience stings for several moments. Even the copious amounts I’ve had to drink can’t soften the blow. Huffily, I push Jiminy Cricket aside. Adam’s contribution to my birthday was minimal. He hardly spent any time with me. He didn’t buy me anything; he didn’t so much as send me a card. He should be grovelling not yelling. ‘It was just a bit of fun. It made my birthday special. Really special actually, but he meant nothing by it.’ I’m torn. Part of me wants to diffuse this situation. I want to calm Adam down so that we can put this incident away, perhaps in a beautifully carved wooden box somewhere deep in my mind; a box that, occasionally when I am alone, I will sneak open. I’ll revel in this wonderful, terrifically exciting memory but the flirtation will be compartmentalized. It won’t affect any other part of our lives. Adam won’t become angry and jealous, I won’t become deceitful and secretive, I won’t be consumed by longing for something other, something more. If this incident is immediately parcelled up and boxed off, then we will be able to sit down and talk about our futures – sensibly without ultimatums. ‘Can’t you be pleased for me?’ I ask, hoping that Adam will understand my need of and delight in this shiny, wondrous occasion. Adam glares at me and then turns and kicks the wall. Very mature. I watch the small flakes of plaster from around the socket scatter and I think, lucky them – I’d like to scatter. Because, truth is part of me wishes that Scott did mean something by the flirtation. Part of me longs to be given a swift exit from my increasingly overwhelming sense of disappointment. As Adam surreptitiously rubs his sore toe on the back of his calf I acknowledge that it’s quite a large part of me that wants the latter. I rub my eyes with the balls of my hands. I really am too tired and drunk to think clearly; I need to sleep now. I walk into our bedroom and start to get ready for bed. I undress and then put on pyjamas; something I only ever do if I’m in a mood with Adam. Normally we like to sleep naked with our bodies squashed into one another. Adam follows me into the bedroom; he’s carrying a glass of water. I wonder if he’s going to offer it to me as a sign of peace. He glugs it back. Sod him. I know I’m going to have a stonker of a hangover tomorrow but I don’t get out of bed to get my own water, it would give him too much satisfaction. Our bedroom is tiny; it was an unbelievable struggle to get the double bed in here when we moved in, so Adam has to sit on the bed to take his clothes off as there’s nowhere else for him to go. I find his nearness unwelcome. He starts to undress. He flings his leather jacket, jeans, T-shirt, socks and boxers in a heap in the corner of our bedroom; the corner is so close that I can smell his clothes. They smell of summer evening and faint sweat, mostly masked by deodorant. This is Adam’s usual (and not altogether unpleasant) smell. Tonight I don’t like it. I sigh and wonder does he really believe they walk to the washing machine all by themselves? I’m bored of being the laundry fairy and the shopping fairy and the cleaning fairy; there’s no magic in it for me. Adam gets into bed and lies staring at the ceiling. He mumbles, ‘The man’s a slut, Fern. A dangerous, ruthless slut.’‘It’s good to know you think so highly of the person who is at the very pinnacle of your industry,’ I mutter back sarcastically, and then I turn away from Adam, ensuring I take a huge share of the duvet with me. I don’t care if Adam is sulking, or wounded or angry. He’s being silly. He should be pleased for me. It’s my birthday, for goodness sake. And Scott singing to me was the most wonderful present. The most exciting thing that has ever happened to me, ever. It doesn’t mean a thing. Not to Scott. I was just part of his show. He’s impulsive. And the fact that I really, really, really wish it did mean something to Scott doesn’t mean anything either. Does it? Scott is just a fantasy figure, as he is to millions of women. I know couples who have jokes between them about which A-lister they would bed, given the chance, and those jokes often extend to a tongue-in-cheek free pass to do just that, if the occasion ever arises. Everyone knows those occasions don’t ever crop up.Do they?I lie staring at the wall and instead of counting sheep I wonder if I could have played things differently today. Perhaps I could have called Adam when I was in Scott’s dressing-room and asked him to join us in the card game. Not strip poker, obviously, that would have been a bit tricky, but the earlier games. Scott and Adam might have got on, they might have become good buddies and that would have been exciting – that would have lifted us out and above our normal humdrum existence. They might be interested in each other’s record collection, they both have guitars. And Adam only described Scott as ‘a dangerous, ruthless slut’ because he’s in a mood. We could get round that. In the moment I let the thought into my head I boot it out again. Who am I trying to kid? I don’t want Scott, Adam and me to be friends. My feelings for Scott haven’t dilly-dallied around the platonic, they fast-tracked straight to something bigger and more overwhelming. What I feel for Scott isn’t friendship. It’s more than that. And right now, what I feel for Adam is less.
16. FernThe next day I call Ben from my bed and beg him for another day off.‘It’s Saturday, darling, I can’t do without you,’ he sing-songs down the phone. I realize I’m asking a lot of him. Saturday is our busiest day and he’d have to manage basically on his own (as our dopey Saturday girl is often as much of a hindrance as she’s a help – we only keep her on because her mum is one of our best clients). ‘Oh please, please, please,’ I beg.‘I’m guessing you had loads of hot birthday sex yesterday and now you want a repeat performance. You’re just being a greedy girl.’ ‘Actually, things didn’t pan out as I expected yesterday,’ I admit glumly. ‘Adam didn’t produce a ring.’‘But he did have a surprise for you,’ Ben interrupts excitedly.‘Free tickets to a Scottie Taylor gig. Not what I was expecting.’ There’s a silence. Neither of us knows what to say next. No doubt Ben is trying to think of something to say to comfort me – but what can? Well, Scott singing to me did. Scott flirting with me did. Scott saying I was lovely really did!Briefly, I wonder how much detail I should give to Ben over the phone. I’m aware that Adam is sleeping right next to me and I decide to save all the fun bits until we can talk face to face.‘Really? That’s it? Just the tickets?’ asks Ben eventually. He sounds disappointed, almost as disappointed as I was. Not one to stay downcast for long, he quickly jumps to the assumption that Adam will have arranged a compensatory treat for today. ‘I see, so you’re planning to do something special today and that’s why you need another day off?’ he asks encouragingly. ‘Yes,’ I say cautiously. I am planning on doing something special but not with Adam. I feel bad that Ben is under a different impression but I’ll explain everything when I see him. ‘I have tickets for tonight’s gig too. We can meet there. I’ll get Jess to bring over one of the tickets for you. Freebies,’ I say by way of persuasion. ‘Oh well, in that case, I can hardly refuse, can I? It would be too ungracious. Take good care of your hangover, try fizzy elderflower and greasy chips. I’ll see you tonight and you can tell me all about your gorgeous gifts.’ ‘Thank you, you’re a superstar.’I don’t bother to tell Ben that, surprisingly, I am not hungover – despite the enormous amounts Jess and I drank last night. In fact I feel wonderful. You see, the first thing that hit me this morning when I woke up from my Scott Taylor dream-filled sleep was not the disappointment of Adam failing to propose but the excitement that Scott Taylor singled me out and sang to me! Me! That’s monumental. I jump out of bed, drag on a tracksuit and dash to the corner 7–11 store. We need milk and I need papers. When I get back to the flat clutching a bunch of tabloids Adam has emerged from the shower and is stood in the kitchen hurriedly eating a slice of dry toast (we’re out of butter and I forgot to pick up any). Our flat is so tiny I practically jump on his knee just by stepping through the door. He shrinks away from me, shooting me a cross look. ‘Morning,’ I smile breezily.He grunts but doesn’t go as far as returning my greeting. Really, he’s going to have to try harder than that to ruin my day. Not only did I spend yesterday playing cards with Scott Taylor but the truth is Scott Taylor sang to me! Have I mentioned that? It’s impossible to be anything other than thrilled with life. As Adam puts the kettle on to make mugs of tea, I start to read the tabloids. Scott’s comeback gig is emblazoned all over the front pages. The reviews are great, which is excellent news. Britain’s pop prince has a tempestuous relationship with the tabloids. Sometimes he’s golden boy and other times he’s public enemy number one. I imagine he’ll love this coverage. He’s described as ‘dizzyingly vibrant’, ‘class entertainer’, ‘the show of his life’. I work my way through the Mirror, the Daily Mail, the Express and then the Sun. They are uniform in their praise. ‘Look at this,’ I squeal. ‘The Mirror has mentioned Scott singing to me.’ ‘Fucking great,’ says Adam. He’s drinking from a carton of milk which he slams down with unnecessary violence; some splashes on the floor. I’m pretty certain it will stay there until it changes to cheese. ‘Not only do ninety thousand people witness Scottie Taylor hitting on my girl but now a further several million get to read about it.’ I start to read from the newspaper. ‘It says he sang to an “elegant, mystery girl and everyone wants to know who is this lovely ”.’ I don’t think Adam hears me because he reaches for his jacket and then charges out of the kitchen and the flat (this takes about four steps). The door slams behind him so I go to Jess’s room. I think it’s more reasonable to assume she’ll be pleased for me.
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