me closely as she delivers this news. I’m grateful for my oversized shades and I continue to stare resolutely at the kids flinging themselves off the inflated walls. It’s vital I don’t react. Any reaction is open to misinterpretation; I learnt that on the media training Saadi so thoughtfully organized. They’re sharing a room. Right. Fine. Right. Of course they are. That’s normal for boyfriend and girlfriend.
‘I can’t wait to meet the man himself,’ says Charlie. For a smidge of a second I think Charlie is talking about Adam; that doesn’t make sense at all – they’ve met hundreds of times. Then I understand he means Scott. Of course. Charlie is trying and failing to hide his excitement at this treat that is within his grasp. I’m not surprised that even the usually calm and collected Charlie is a little giddy; I’ve seen people shake and weep as they’ve clasped Scott’s hand. He’s a sensation.
‘I’ll go and hunt him down and bring him over,’ I say. Frankly, I’m glad of the excuse to break free of Lisa’s penetrating stare. I’ll find Scott and he’ll join the party, entertain my friends and by doing so reassure and comfort me. The reasons for needing to be reassured and comforted are a bit blurry right now. I think it’s something to do with the knowledge that imminently, I’ll be coming face to face with my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, a.k.a. my ex-best friend.
I can’t find Scott. He’s not in the pool; there’s a noisy, splashy game of handball happening there. He’s not overseeing the barbecue; the sizzling and swirling smoke is managing to happen quite independently of his skills. Nor is he on the dance floor; although there are lots of lithe, writhing bodies – his isn’t one of them. I imagine he’ll be in his den, playing on the football table with the bass guy. He loves it in there and prefers it to sunning himself on the outside deck. Yet, while I’m usually happy to indulge him, I do think that today he should be outside with our guests. I suspect he’s gone into hiding until the chart position is announced. He’s bound to be nervous, although everyone I’ve spoken to seems to assume it’s a foregone conclusion the album will have sold by the bucket and will be rocketing up the charts.
As I enter the house the cool marble floors and pale walls soothe me. I shouldn’t care that Adam and Jess are sharing a room. It shouldn’t matter to me. But it does. I try to be rational about the situation. I am the one getting married tomorrow. I’m sharing a life with Scott, although notably not a room – not a bed. I can hear the party buzz somewhere distant. It sounds like an annoying fly that I want to swipe away. What’s wrong with me? The party is the most luxurious, spoiling event of my life so far, how can I possibly be comparing it with a hideous, filthy, buzzing insect? I’m not thinking straight. I shake my head in an effort to clear it. I thought I was being steady with the cocktails but I must have drunk too much already. I have to find Scott.
63. Scott
I’ve taken refuge in my den. There were a few blokes hanging around playing the table football, but I sent them packing. I need to be alone. I sit in a gloomy fog of fag smoke. I’m in the habit of keeping blinds and drapes drawn, because in the UK the paparazzi used to pap me through the smallest curtain chinks; they have endless photos of me scratching my belly while wandering around in my boxers. Fern strides in, looking vexed. She says she sympathizes with the issue of privacy intrusion I have to endure but she makes straight for the curtains, flings them and the patio doors open, and mutters about letting fresh breeze waft in. She stands in the doorway, desperately gulping air.
‘You should stop smoking,’ she says.
My smoking gets on her tits. I smoke a lot and all my mates smoke like chimneys too, so the smell of fags permanently lies in the folds of the curtains and the squish of a cushion, in the air, on our skins and in our eyes; it doesn’t bother me but Fern seems to need more air. Often, I sit in the den and she sits outside on the loungers. But cigarette smoke behaves like cats. Cats always search