over a barbecue.
‘Seared prawns. My specialty,’ he calls when he notices me. ‘Champagne?’
I can’t believe he bothered to cook for me when he has staff falling over themselves to hold his hankie when he sneezes. It’s such a massive compliment! So very thoughtful! What can I tell you? It’s a night of undiluted romance. We chat non-stop and we laugh a lot too; it appears that I’m genuinely hilarious when I’m with him. Scott sings to me and lets me read over some lyrics he’s working on. We slow dance to a Frank Sinatra CD and I drink champagne – all night, although Scott has to stick to apple juice. It’s like something out of a movie. Right up until the fade to black moment.
As the night air cools, we move into the living-room and settle in front of the fire. Someone must have been stoking it while we were outside because it’s still roaring. It’s like living with a bunch of ghosts. Helpful ghosts, I’ll give you that.
‘So, Fern, how do you feel about an October wedding?’ asks Scott as he crams a toasted marshmallow (that he’s thoughtfully dipped into melted hot chocolate) into my mouth.
I chew quickly, swallow and then splutter, ‘This October?’
‘Yeah.’
So soon. ‘But it’s already late August. Don’t weddings take forever to plan?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I’ve never planned one before,’ says Scott with a big relaxed smile. ‘But I imagine we can pull off anything we want, if we hurl enough cash at it.’
‘I always imagined a summer wedding,’ I say, carefully.
‘It will be sunny here in LA.’
‘Here in LA? I always imagined a wedding in London,’ I say, somewhat shocked.
‘Is LA OK? I mean, only if you want to. I want you to have exactly what you want, of course. I was just thinking the shorter the lead time the less hassle we’ll get from the press and if we get married here then we’ll be able to plan it ourselves – you know – so that we can make sure it’s personal. If we had a wedding in the UK and we were living here in LA then we’d have to hand over to someone else. I want this wedding to be about us,’ says Scott.
I think about what he’s suggesting. Less than two months away. It’s no time at all, not considering we only met a week ago. But then, why not? Didn’t I want just this? A proposal and marriage for my thirtieth. Initially, I wanted it with a different man, admittedly, but hey, let’s not get picky. Why would I want to wait a moment longer than I have to? People only ever have long engagements if they are saving up or have doubts; neither applies to me.
‘I just think we should get on with it, you know, start making babies and be a proper family as soon as we can,’ Scott adds. With those words my wavering vanishes. I fling my arms around his neck.
‘Brilliant! Let’s do it.’
‘Great! I’ll have a couple of wedding planners come round asap so you can see who you are most comfortable with and then we can get the ball rolling.’
‘But I thought you said you wanted us to plan it ourselves,’ I say, confused.
‘Yeah. With a planner. You’ll need one for an event of this scale.’
‘What sort of scale are we talking about?’
‘I don’t know. A thousand people, maybe.’
‘A thousand? I don’t know a thousand people.’ Not even if I include all the Ben’s B&B customers and the cabin crew who flew us over here. Nowhere near.
‘You’ll soon make friends. Trust me, you won’t have a problem filling up the guest list.’
That wasn’t what I’d meant. The hairs on my neck start to bristle and it’s not through lust, as is usually the case when I’m with Scott. It’s fear, or irritation, or something I can’t quite pinpoint; it’s tricky to do so after a bottle of champagne. I don’t think I want a thousand strangers coming to my wedding.
‘You see, there are certain people we have to invite. They’ll be kind of expecting it,’ explains Scott.
‘Like grannies and great-aunts and stuff?’
‘Well, yes, obviously. But also Elton John and David Furnish, David and Victoria, I’ve been to so many fabulous parties of theirs. Tom Cruise and –’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Deadly serious.’
Suddenly, the idea of a thousand strangers coming to my wedding doesn’t seem so awful; not considering they’ll all be A list. Call me shallow. Call me human.
‘Think of the gifts,’ I blurt. I blush