out the person they can freak out the most, the person with an allergy or a phobia, and then they rub against that person’s leg, curl up on that person’s lap. My fag smoke slinks after Fern and I watch as she tries to waft it away. It sits in the still, warm air surrounding her; it lingers and clambers up her nose, no doubt, scratching her throat. I offer her a glass of champagne – that normally freshens her up – but she shakes her head; it’s not going to do the trick today.
‘I can’t stop smoking, it will change my voice,’ I reason.
‘You’ll die a horrible death,’ she points out, frightening no one other than herself.
‘Yeah, well, some people live a horrible life,’ I say, as I throw her a devil-may-care grin.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
I could’ve asked her the same, except I didn’t because I’m not OK. Definitely not. I’m possibly more stressed and agitated than I’ve ever been before in her company.
‘Nervous,’ I confess. I stub out my smoke and bite my already ravaged, stubby fingernails.
She throws herself down by my side and flings her arms around me.
‘Are you nervous about the wedding?’ she asks gently. ‘There’s no need. Honestly I have – well, Colleen has – everything under control. It’s going to be amazing. We’ll have –’
‘No, it’s not the wedding.’ I stare at her, bewildered. I feel a bit like I imagine astronauts must feel when they step out of their shuttle; slightly wary and displaced but a little manic and excited too. The wedding? What the fu – ‘I’m nervous about the chart position,’ I explain.
‘The chart position?’
‘I’m thinking, is it unreasonable to be hoping for a top ten position? Or maybe at least a number thirteen or twelve? Have we rushed things? Do you think I’ll crack America this time? Do you think this is my big chance? Or my last chance? Will the Americans love the album?’ I fire the questions at her with a rapidity she’s unable to field.
‘I’m sure they will,’ she says encouragingly, the moment I let her get a word in. Her response seems woefully passive. ‘But whatever happens in the charts this afternoon, it doesn’t matter. The thing to remember is that we are getting married tomorrow. It’s the biggest day of our lives. And then, after the wedding, you have the tour, you’ll keep selling through. We have so much to look forward to.’
I know she hasn’t got all the answers but she’s giving me the impression she doesn’t even understand the questions.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say. I pat her hand.
I wish I could believe that. It must be nice to be like Fern. She believes in all the good stuff. That must be great. I’m a pessimist and even so I find that being proven right isn’t as much fun as it should be. She moves to kiss me but I can’t be doing with that at the moment. Anything sexual with Fern is the last thing on my mind right now. I move first and give her an affectionate peck on the nose. I’m sure that instead of the sexless little kiss on the snout she’d prefer it if I was taking down her knickers with my teeth. But before she has a chance to voice her thoughts, Mark and a cast of thousands burst into the room.
‘Son, son, here you are! Hiding, I might have known.’ My body turns to slop. I’m unsure if my legs are holding me up. Maybe I’m a puddle on the floor. Someone might step on me. Come on Mark, spill. Shut the fuck up, Mark, I don’t want bad news. Both thoughts explode into my being simultaneously. I hardly dare breathe. ‘Well, step into the limelight, lad, I have the chart position.’ Mark is waving a piece of paper above his head as though he’s Moses just returning from Mount Sinai.
I must stand up from the couch in a hurry because I’m vaguely aware that my haste topples Fern. She slides away from me and clumsily lands on the floor. I mean to hold a hand out to help her up but I can’t tear my eyes away from Mark. All eyes are on him, actually.
‘Fuck,’ I say, because I don’t want to hear it, yet I’m aching to hear it. I pull my hands through my hair with such force I might yank out a chunk.
‘Hey, calm down. Can you imagine the wedding photos if you’ve