Scott looks perplexed and vaguely alarmed. Somehow he wears even that look in a way which is knicker-ticklingly sexy. Consumed with lust, I am unable to answer. I just nod. It’s true. It does appear that he can snap their dreams just as easily as if they were the matchsticks we used when playing cards the other day. Scott continues.
‘But who is responsible for my dreams and my happiness?’
I almost answer, Saadi, Mark, the enormous entourage that follows him around twenty-four-seven, but I bite my tongue. I don’t think that’s what he means.
‘It’s a big responsibility making all those people happy,’ he adds.
‘Huge,’ I agree.
‘And I thought you might be the best person to, you know, share it with me.’ I offer up an enormous unconditional grin. ‘I’ve known for a long time that the world is a big place, almost too big. I think that’s what the dependency on the drink and the drugs is about. Or at least that’s part of it. But I’ve been thinking it might not be so lonely if you were, you know, hanging around it with me.’
‘Why me?’ I ask. Because I have no idea. Really, absolutely none.
He smiles. ‘I don’t know why exactly but I’m sure it is you.’ We’re sat opposite each other. He rests his bare foot on my chair. I fight the urge to kiss his feet and suck his toes. I shiver with the effort of restraining. Hell, he’s magnificent.
‘I’m not cool,’ I warn.
‘I like that in you. You’re fun, and fun tops cool any day of the week. Besides, it’s not all going to be palatial living and parties for you.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I pretend to sound disappointed.
‘I’m a bad man. Remember. I told you.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Do you think you can make me good?’
‘I don’t even want to.’
Scott laughs so hard that he nearly chokes on his orange juice. He points at the enormous pile of papers now casually discarded and littering the shaggy rug. ‘Do you think you might be able to forget who I am?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really?’ I probe.
‘No, not really,’ he laughs again. ‘Cos I’m a god out there.’
We laugh once more. Delighted in each other.
32. Fern
Some of the hundred people who invaded my room this morning brought with them a whole new wardrobe for me. Scott dismisses the rail of clothes as a mere trifle.
‘Just something to tide you over until we –’
‘Pick up my old stuff.’
‘I was going to say until we get to the shops together.’ Scott shrugs as though he doesn’t mind either way.
As I start to look through the rail of stunning clothes I doubt that I will be bothering to pick up anything I own. More than likely it will all look shabby next to this lot. Carefully I trail my fingers along rows of chic skirts and shirts. There are at least a dozen pairs of jeans; boot cut, flare, straight, boy cut, high-waisted and spray on. There are piles of soft T-shirts in assorted colours and numerous floaty dresses in florals, stripes and block colours. It’s as though a whole department of Selfridges has been shipped to my door. It’s the first time since I’ve met Scott that I’ve stopped fantasizing about making love; now all I can think of is dressing up. I check out the labels surreptitiously. There are high-waisted pencil skirts and tailored jackets by Alexander McQueen, blazers by Viktor and Rolf, trousers by Chloe, tops by Miu Miu and Sportmax, dresses by Dior. I have never owned what you’d call a designer piece in my life – unless you count the copycat Hermès travel bag that Adam bought me last Christmas and tried to pass off as the genuine thing. I gasp as I finger the silky fabrics and admire the neat, precise tailoring. Scott grins and nods to a wall of shoeboxes stacked behind the rails of clothes.
‘Oh wow!’ I pounce on the boxes, flinging the lids aside like toffee wrappers, diving on the shoes, all carefully cosseted in tissue. Christian Louboutin, Kurt Geiger and Jimmy Choo heels, Escada pumps and Pied A Terre boots. Opium for shoe-holics.
I check the sizes. Everything is my size; top, bottoms, even shoes. I pounce on the frilly underwear; even the bra size is spot on.
‘How did you know my sizes?’ I gasp, amazed at the plethora of goodies at my feet.
‘Saadi knows how to find out about that sort of stuff. She probably asked your friends.’