Somehow we wiggle about and I find that he’s no longer holding me, I am holding him now. His head is resting on my lap and, as I stroke his hair, it’s easy to forget that he was unfaithful to me, on this very bed, just hours ago. It’s possible to overlook the fact that he’s a mega pop star who needs me to launch his career here in the States. It’s almost feasible to submerge all recollection of the fact that I too have been unfaithful tonight; I begged Adam to take me back. To take me.
I remember being out-of-this-world giddy and irreparably starstruck by Scottie Taylor when we first met, but now I see him for what he is. When he’s lying with his head on my thighs, all I see is a man. A man who is actually a bit boy-like. I try to remember everything we have talked about in the last six weeks. I remember how he described his ambitions and his addictions. He warned me. And I remember that he’s given me the ride of my life, although not quite the ride I was expecting – but at least he wanted me to hitch along. I remember moments when he trusted me, defended me and, right at the beginning, spent lots of time with me. True, we don’t play cards much now, but then I think I know all there is to know about hearts versus diamonds and clubs versus spades. On Santa Monica beach and at the premiere we had a blast.
I think maybe we might manage. There’s enough affection to see us through and although this isn’t exactly the fairytale ending I was hoping for, I could do worse than marry Scott. He could do worse than marry me. It could be worse.
‘It’s not exactly like I’ve been unfaithful,’ he points out carefully. ‘You and I haven’t actually had sex yet and tomorrow, after the wedding, we will and it’ll be like starting again.’
‘Ben thinks you are only marrying me as a PR stunt. Is that true?’
‘This is why I like you, Fern. Other women wouldn’t care. They’d take me any old way,’ he replies, neatly sidestepping the issue.
I force the point by remaining silent; after what seems like a millennium he admits, ‘It’s part of the reason I wanted to marry you but I could have married anyone. You are a gorgeous girl from a flower shop, but I’m always going to be meeting gorgeous girls from flower shops or clothes shops or some sort of bloody shop – I chose you.’
It is some reassurance, yet we are not in the clear. ‘Ben thinks you’re gay.’
Scott sits up, puts his hand up and cups my chin. ‘Honestly, I don’t know whether I’m gay or straight.’
And I see it there with absolute certainty – he’s telling me the truth. We might not be one another’s first choice but, miles away from where we both started, we certainly seem like we’re all we’ve got. He wants a home, he wants a family, he says that hasn’t changed. Weeks ago, I gave up on Adam. I threw him away. I can’t risk making the same mistake twice.
An orange glow is squelching into my bedroom, the sun is getting up. It’s my wedding day. Or is it? I’m too fractured to think clearly. Too shattered to stand alone. I can’t reason, and with every sunbeam that sneaks through the blinds I’m conscious I’m running out of time. I feel a lot like I did when I was presented with the pre-nup and again when I heard about the tour. I can’t stop the bulldozer. Do I really have a choice?
‘I don’t really care. I just want you to be faithful. Mine. Just mine,’ I admit.
‘Really?’ He looks surprised.
‘Forget the labels. Gay, or straight, or bi, or experimental.’ I offer a minute smile. ‘Or, if you must wear a label, wear one saying “Happy”.’
He smiles. It’s his slow, irresistibly sexy smile. ‘What’s yours say?’ he asks. ‘Doc?’
I sigh and tell myself I’m doing the right thing. ‘I don’t mind as long as it doesn’t say Dopey.’
71. Fern
Scott falls asleep on my lap. Before I know it my entire room is bathed in bright light and birds are singing outside my window. As I haven’t managed a wink of sleep, my eyes sting and my head is pounding, the birds’ gleeful twittering sounds like nails scraping down a blackboard. At six Scott slips