even past the prestigious First Class lounge, to finally lead me into the haven that is the secret waiting-room reserved for royalty (both pop and the more traditional variety). There, among plush suede couches, the aroma of scented candles and the relaxing chill-out tunes, I was offered champagne and elaborate nibbles, most of which I couldn’t identify (but they tasted like little mouthfuls of heaven).
Scott, Mark, Saadi and I didn’t even have to walk the ten metres from the gate to the aeroplane steps; a limo was waiting for us. At the steps we were met by a softly spoken guy with an Irish accent, gentle grey eyes and a calm smile. He introduced himself as the First Class Cabin Service Director and discreetly whispered that he and his staff would serve our every need. As professional as the crew were trying to be, they could not resist craning their necks for an extra peek at Scott. One cheeky, friendly crew member, Gary, informed me they weren’t allowed to ask for autographs but he would never wash his hand again as Scott had touched his fingers when he accepted an orange juice. I giggled and promised Gary I’d secure him an autograph before we reached LA. Gary melted in front of me and had to be scooped back into the galley. He showed his gratitude throughout the flight by playing hangman with me when I was too excited to sleep but the others (more accustomed to the splendour) slept the full eleven hours.
I’ve read my share of Heat and Grazia and a whole bunch of other glossy, gossipy magazines and I thought I had developed a reasonably good idea of how the other half lives, but it turns out I had none. I had no comprehension about how it feels to no longer need to carry a bag or a brolly or even money; someone else deals with that stuff. I had no understanding that everyone, absolutely everyone is overwhelmed by Scott’s presence and simply cannot act normally in front of him; many are overly solicitous or gushing, some are brash and hostile. It appears no one can just be normal in the presence of such wealth and success. From the glossy mags I could not grasp how scary it is when crowds of fans clamber on the car bonnet or lunge at Scott with a pair of scissors in an attempt to cut off a piece of his hair or clothes, to keep.
But then, I had no idea how much fun it could be to sit with Gary, in First Class, playing hangman while drinking champagne at two in the afternoon (or six in the morning – if you go by US time). It’s all surreal.
Gary has now dropped all pretence of being aloof and professional. Away from the eye of the Cabin Service Director his effervescent personality bubbles uncontrollably.
‘You are a lucky, lucky lady,’ he says affectionately, not quite hiding his jealousy however much he wants to; it ekes out of the corner of his mouth as he tries to force a smile – I’ve seen that expression a lot recently. I guess being Scott Taylor’s fiancée is going to attract envy with the same ease as a magnet attracts filings. I’m prepared to live with it. Gary’s form of address might seem a little presumptuous, as we’ve only known each other for six hours, but I find his camp, hush-hush, off the record, you’re my new celebrity best friend attitude refreshing. After days of people staying a respectful distance away from me I welcome the closeness, even if it is somewhat sudden.
‘I know!’ I admit indiscreetly. ‘I never thought I’d be this in love.’
‘Or this rich,’ adds Gary.
I bristle slightly. I can’t, hand on heart, say that I’m oblivious to the joys of Scott’s wealth; this morning when I slipped on a pair of Paul Smith trousers, a Matthew Williamson shirt and a pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy green sandals I practically had an orgasm. But I can, hand on heart, say I’d have taken the man without his millions. I’m sure I would. His mind is like an enormous labyrinth of wonder. I’m continually surprised, delighted and amused by him. Plus he has the body of a Greek god and can hold a tune. What’s not to love?
‘What’s he like then?’ asks Gary, leaning closer, conspiratorially.
‘He’s really clever. Always thinking about stuff. And he has this lovely way of singing to himself all the time; he