Love Lies

40. Fern

It’s just four minutes past eight when I drift into the big room that I’d call a living-room or a sitting-room although that doesn’t do it justice – not glam enough; an estate agent would describe the room as the reception. I found it after fruitlessly opening door after door in order to track down Scott. Each room is utterly tasteful, peaceful and immaculate, and after a while they blur into one. I thought he might be in his ‘boys-own’ room but there was no sign. I was starting to panic, imagining he’d done a runner. My throat tingles with a peculiar and hideously scary mix of pleasure and panic. Trying to accurately assess that mix, I’d say that ninety-eight per cent of me is utterly, utterly out of this world, stunningly, stunningly beyond happy. The remaining two per cent is pure white terror. I wish I could shake the feeling that this is all too good to be true but I can’t quite. The issue is things like this don’t happen to me. I’m the sort of girl who is a close runner-up – at best. The sort of girl who often hears shop assistants say, ‘Sorry, we don’t have that left in your size, I just sold the last one.’ The sort of girl who has never ever had a single number show up on her lottery card, despite buying them religiously for nearly a decade. What are the odds of that? But my panic subsides as soon as I enter the reception room; I know I’m in the right place.

There are about a hundred tealights scattered around

‘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

‘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 at my own crassness but Scott just laughs. ‘I can’t believe I said that.’ I put my hand over my mouth but it’s as much use as chocolate hair straighteners. I try to recover ground. ‘Maybe we should say no gifts, it’s not as though we need anything. Maybe we should say charity donations only. We did that at my Uncle Terry’s funeral. The announcement in the paper said no wreaths or floral tributes but donations to the lung cancer unit at St Hilda’s Infirmary welcome. The hospital rang afterwards to say they’d benefited nicely. Auntie Donna got a genuine sense of satisfaction from that. It was a great comfort,’ I garble. I’m working on the theory that if I talk for long enough the ground might swallow me up.

‘Well, let’s take advice on the etiquette, shall we?’ says Scott with a good-natured smirk.

‘Fair enough. Can we invite Brangelina?’

‘Anyone you like.’

I’m quiet for about twenty minutes as I draw up my fantasy wedding guest list. The fantasy wedding guest list that is going to come true! Jess, Adam and I used to play a game a bit like this. As we sat eating baked beans on toast we’d often quiz one another on who would attend our perfect dinner party. Jess and I would plump for Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Matt Damon; pretty much the cast of Oceans 11 to 13, while Adam would swear that he’d prefer to have Christopher Wren, Dostoevsky and

I’m glad I didn’t call Jess earlier. Now, I have even more to tell her. I check my watch. Midnight here, that makes it 8 a.m. tomorrow back home. She’ll be on the tube. I don’t want to get her voicemail; this is too good to leave another message. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow.

‘You’re happy, right?’ asks Scott, somewhat superfluously since I keep giggling to myself and I have stood up to dance a short but expressive jovial jig around the room.

‘Never more so.’

‘I have another reason for wanting to rush the wedding through,’ he adds.

‘Oh yeah?’

Scott holds out his hand and finds mine. He gently pulls me back on to the sofa and puts his arm around me. ‘I was thinking, you know, we’ve both had our fair share of partners in the past.’

‘I had a fair share. You’ve had a veritable feast, gorged yourself silly from all accounts,’ I point out.

‘Yep, I know and that’s what got me thinking. We need to be special.’

‘We are special.’

‘Different.’

‘We are different, we’re getting married, neither of us has ever done that before.’

‘I know and so I want to mark that in some way.’ What, a party for a thousand isn’t enough for him? I beam at

‘What?’ That stops me smiling.

‘I don’t mean we shouldn’t ever. I mean we shouldn’t have sex until we are married,’ says Scott.

‘But that’s two months.’ The same two months that just minutes ago had seemed oh-so-brief (too brief to plan a spectacular wedding!) now seem an eternity. Two months with no sex. It’s a terrible idea. Somehow no sex with Scott Taylor is a hundred times worse than all the no sex I’ve had in the past.

‘Yes. That way we’d be like vir-er-er-er-gins.’ He sings the word ‘virgins’ like in the Madonna song. ‘I just thought it was a way of making what we have truly special. Do you see?’

I do, sort of. The sentiment is darling but the actuality is going to be dreadful, truly hell on earth. I thought that tonight – what with the candles, the champagne and the log fire that were as good as screaming sex – that tonight would be the night.

‘I don’t know, Scott. It’s been tricky resisting thus far. Tricky and frustrating and –’

‘Hot,’ he adds.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I concede.

‘I’m loving this delayed gratification thing. The novelty alone is mind-blowing. It’s all about anticipation and control and –’

‘Shouldn’t it all be about love?’

‘Of course it’s that.’ Scott’s grin vanishes in a poof. He looks mortally offended.

‘Oh OK, go on,’ I agree, even though I really don’t want to. I can’t bear to see him unhappy. He looks so fragile. Like a child. I want to see his face brighten once more. ‘Let’s get married early October, though.’

Scott nods. ‘Agreed. I think we’d better have separate beds until the wedding, otherwise this no sex thing is going to be really hard.’

I nod, even though hard is just what I’m after.