limo crawls along the gravelled drive and grinds to a halt just outside the massive wooden door. We wander into the airy hall. The floor is covered with enormous white porcelain tiles, which shine like wet ice on a rink. It’s a double-height room with a glass ceiling. Sunlight streams in from above and it looks as though Scott (who is ahead of me by a step or two) is standing in a spotlight. It seems a very natural place for him to be, and I wonder whether an über-clever architect thought that through and designed the house as another place for him to be centre stage.
‘Do you want a tour?’ Scott asks.
I nod. Too overwhelmed to speak.
We wander through the rooms and corridors. The entire place is state of the art and rippling with the latest trends. There are acres of glossy wooden and marble floors and a rich scattering of plush rugs. There are lights hidden in the floor and recesses, throwing out interesting shadows and highlights. Some walls move. Others are made of glass and change colour depending on the mood Scott wants to achieve. Some rooms are minimalist, with white walls, white settees, white shelves and white books with round fires in the middle of a room rather than a traditional fireplace. Other rooms are decorated in deep, dark colours and opulent, lavish fabrics. There are curtains with double and triple linings and cushions that pile like mountains on the sofas. Occasionally Scott stops to point out something that means a lot to him.
‘That robe was worn by Muhammad Ali, October 30th, 1974, the night he fought champion George Foreman at “The Rumble in the Jungle”.’
‘That is a genuine Jackson Pollock, I bought it because I thought the colours would really work well in here.’
‘That caricature of Sinatra was done in 1947 by a guy called Sam Berman, it’s signed by the artist and old Frankie himself. I picked it up in Christie’s.’
I wonder how many rooms there are in Scott’s home. Our home. I’d guess at forty or fifty in total but I don’t bother asking. He’ll think I care more than I do. It’s not like I can be any more impressed. Besides, he’s unlikely to have the answer. When I asked how many gardeners he has (his gardens are massive and as manicured as Paris Hilton, he must need an army) he wasn’t sure of the answer. He tells me the running of his home is largely Saadi’s first assistant’s domain. He does inform me that he owns one hundred and thirty-eight pairs of trainers. Which seems a teeny, tiny bit excessive, since he only has one pair of feet, but hey, what do I know? I already own seven pairs of designer shoes and four pairs of designer trainers and I’ve only been wealthy for a week. At this rate I’ll out-shoe him by Christmas.
Eventually we arrive at a room in the back of the house. I can tell by Scott’s body language that he’s especially excited to reveal what’s behind the fourteen-foot-high oak double doors. What should I expect? I’ve seen the cinema room, the gym, and the indoor swimming-pool.
‘I could live in this one room. What am I talking about, I more or less do,’ says Scott, as he flings open the doors and reveals a room that is bigger than the entire flat Adam and I have shared with Jess for four years. The walls are painted a deep aubergine purple and the floor is a rich dark oak wood. One wall is made entirely of glass but I have no clue as to what the view is because blinds are pulled down, meaning the only source of light is from the various dim lamps scattered around the place. The lamps throw off dramatic hues that are reflected off the ceiling, as it is covered in mosaic mirror tiles.
This room is, without doubt, the ultimate man’s playroom. So much so, I feel the need to buy a strap-on willy just to visit.
‘Let me show you around. Here are a few of my favourite things.’ He sings that line in a mock Julie Andrews soprano voice. I grin at him.
One corner of the room houses a mini gym, in case Scott can’t be bothered to walk to the main gym.
‘My dumbbells,’ he says proudly. ‘They’re solid granite.’
I have no idea as to the prestige or usefulness of granite dumbbells over any other kind of dumbbells; I guess it’s a luxury