get through to either Jess or Lisa.
‘It was a fundraiser. I modelled the clothes I’d made in home economics. An elasticized top and a pair of pedal pushers. All the girls in my home economics class did the same, that’s hardly modelling.’
‘I’m just saying the press might have made that your thing.’ Mark shrugs carelessly. We three sit in a loud silence until Mark gets the hint. ‘Oh, got it, right. I’ll let you get back to it.’
‘Yeah, let’s catch up tomorrow, hey?’ shouts Scott as Mark closes the door. We lie back and stare at the ceiling. We’re finally alone but the needy lust of earlier seems to have been dampened. Mark is a heavy cologne user, I can still smell his aftershave lingering in the room – it’s almost as though he’s still here with us, which is quite some passion killer.
‘We’ll have tonight though. I’ll make it special for you,’ Scott says, reading my mind and kissing my nose.
And the anticipation alone creates a feeling of creamy yumminess, much like wading into warm sea for a swim.
39. Fern
I must have fallen asleep in Scott’s arms; when I wake up it is dark outside. I reach for him but his side of the bed is cool. I feel dreamy and I don’t think it’s jetlag. I glance at the bedside clock; six thirty LA time. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep because my watch says it is early morning tomorrow in the UK. I adjust the dials. It’s 6.30 p.m. in my life now. As I stretch I notice a scarlet gerbera and a note on the pillow. Gorgeous! Aesthetically, I do like a red rose but it’s suffered through over-use and I think I’d have squirmed to find one on my pillow. A gerbera is much more original and startling.
Scott’s note instructs me to have a deep, relaxing bath and says dinner will be served at 8 p.m. He’s drawn a pic of a winking face so I know he’s being a little tongue in cheek; I shouldn’t expect a butler and the best silver – thank goodness. There’s enough new stuff to get to grips with without having to worry about formal table manners.
After stumbling into a wardrobe and a dressing-room I finally find the en-suite. The bathroom is as fabulous as I could have imagined. Oddly, this time I don’t squeal Oh. My. God. I’d have been surprised if it was anything less than stunning. It’s amazing how quickly you can get used to luxury. There’s a round sunken bath in the middle of the room. It’s big enough for an entire football team. There are two sinks, more mirrors than ideal and state-of-the-art taps that confound me for about ten minutes. I finally discover that you turn them on by clapping (or in my case shouting frustrated abuse).
When I emerge from the bath I find that someone or many someones have been into our bedroom and freshened it up. It’s like living in a hotel; the bed has been made and turned down, candles lit, curtains drawn and mellow, slow-tempo music (which I don’t recognize but do like) is playing out of the stereo at a gentle volume. There are no chocolates on the pillow but I can’t grumble as, instead, there’s the most beautiful lilac silk, tasselled mini dress. I check the label: Bottega Veneta, I haven’t even heard of the brand but its fabric sings dollar signs. I put it on. Like everything else that’s been bought for me it’s a perfect fit. I check my reflection. I might have benefited from bigger boobs, but hey, I look great – not much like me, but great, so who’s complaining? Next, I sit at the dressing-table so I can do my makeup.
It’s like walking into Harvey Nics at Christmas. I ought to be clear, Christmas is actually the only time I ever go into Harvey Nics. But when I do, I go with Jess and we spend about five hours in there, culminating in a glass of champagne at the bar after I’ve purchased a tin of biscuits from the fifth floor. Believe me, while I only actually emerge with one gift (and that’s for my aunt, who has no appreciation of what it means to own a box of biscuits from Harvey Nics), this is time well spent. I firmly believe the spirit of Christmas is hiding somewhere in that store. I adore my five hours of wafting around