make a polite comment on the film. I know I wasn’t concentrating on the plot quite as closely as I should have been (the ring, the ring!) but I’ve seen Amanda in other movies, she’s a good actor, brilliant in fact. My tongue stays clamped firmly to the roof of my mouth. I’m aware anything I say right now might sound patronizing or gloating. This woman, this vision of loveliness, was rejected by my fiancé. I’m aware of the crowd around us; whatever I say will be quoted and misquoted and Saadi told me not to be drawn into comment. I stay resolutely silent.
Amanda carefully dries her hands on one of the individual linen cloths provided and then massages moisturizer into her palms. I’ve always wondered what sort of girl actually remembers to re-apply cream every time they wash their mitts; now I know – beautiful ones with soft hands. This ritual takes a Jurassic age. Then she turns to me.
‘May I see the ring?’ Her voice still has a soft trace of her West Country origins. It’s a pleasant lilting that oozes sweetness. I can’t very well refuse, although now I wish I hadn’t ever come in here to touch up my lippy. I hold out my hand for her inspection. She clasps my finger ends and I notice that we are both trembling.
‘It’s a very beautiful ring,’ she pronounces. ‘You are very lucky. Very.’
‘I know.’ My reply comes out in a scratchy whisper. We don’t look at one another. We can’t. She suddenly drops my hand and then leaves the bathroom. Her hasty exit reaffirms the impression that she’s some sort of mythical creature; like a sprite, fairy or angel she simply vanishes.
I turn back to the mirror and with a trembling hand I re-apply my gloss; luckily it’s not a deep colour, as I might end up looking like Batman’s joker. The bathroom is silent. I can’t help thinking that every single woman is wondering why oh why Scott chose someone like me when he could have had Amanda Amberd as his lifelong companion. I could tell them that Scott appreciates my normality or that he’s stoked by the way I influence his song writing but I have the feeling they wouldn’t get it. I hardly do. Instead I say, ‘My pelvic floor muscles are like clamps,’ and I dash for the door.
I hope to God no one here knows about the chastity vow.
49. Scott
‘Fuck me, being someone’s fiancé is hard work.’ I throw myself on the sofa and wait for Mark to sympathize.
‘Fern can’t be as much work as the actresses and models and whatever who you’ve dated in the past,’ he reasons as he offers me a fag.
‘They came with their fair share of aggro, no doubt about it. But I’d sort of got the hang of that type of relationship.’
Providing you guarantee them enough column inches (by which I mean space in the newspapers – column inches is not a reference to my manhood), they were, often as not, more or less happy. And there are loads of ways to get the coverage. Get pissed, stay sober, go speeding, go horse riding, go to the Ivy for lunch, go to the Priory to dry out. My relationship with Fern is on a whole different level. She’s not bothered by press coverage. She wants my time.
‘Fern’s demanding in a totally different way. She always wants to be doing stuff together,’ I explain.
Mark nods. ‘That’s to be expected. Fern wanted extraordinary, you needed something a bit down to earth. The hope is you’ll meet in the middle.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, and mostly, it’s cool this couple stuff. She’s lovely. I like being with her. But she seems to want my exclusive time. And that, my friend, I no can do. I have commitments you know. People depend on me. People expect things from me.’
‘I know, lad, people all want a bit of you.’ I can hear the sympathy in Mark’s voice and I feel better because he gets it.
‘To be frank, I’m tiring of sight-seeing with Fern. Going out is OK but now I’m in a mood to stay in.’ I inhale deeply and scowl at Mark. I’m behaving like a kid but Mark doesn’t mind that. He knows I want him to make it better. The good news is, he can and he will. It’s Mark’s job to fight my battles. He fights the battles I don’t understand (with lawyers, accountants and the record company)