Love Lies

63. Scott

I’ve taken refuge in my den. There were a few blokes hanging around playing the table football, but I sent them packing. I need to be alone. I sit in a gloomy fog of fag smoke. I’m in the habit of keeping blinds and drapes drawn, because in the UK the paparazzi used to pap me through the smallest curtain chinks; they have endless photos of me scratching my belly while wandering around in my boxers. Fern strides in, looking vexed. She says she sympathizes with the issue of privacy intrusion I have to endure but she makes straight for the curtains, flings them and the patio doors open, and mutters about letting fresh breeze waft in. She stands in the doorway, desperately gulping air.

‘You should stop smoking,’ she says.

My smoking gets on her tits. I smoke a lot and all my mates smoke like chimneys too, so the smell of fags permanently lies in the folds of the curtains and the squish of a cushion, in the air, on our skins and in our eyes; it doesn’t bother me but Fern seems to need more air. Often, I sit in the den and she sits outside on the loungers. But cigarette smoke behaves like cats. Cats always search out the person they can freak out the most, the person with an allergy or a phobia, and then they rub against that person’s leg, curl up on that person’s lap. My fag smoke slinks after Fern and I watch as she tries to waft it away. It sits in the still, warm air surrounding her;

‘I can’t stop smoking, it will change my voice,’ I reason.

‘You’ll die a horrible death,’ she points out, frightening no one other than herself.

‘Yeah, well, some people live a horrible life,’ I say, as I throw her a devil-may-care grin.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

I could’ve asked her the same, except I didn’t because I’m not OK. Definitely not. I’m possibly more stressed and agitated than I’ve ever been before in her company.

‘Nervous,’ I confess. I stub out my smoke and bite my already ravaged, stubby fingernails.

She throws herself down by my side and flings her arms around me.

‘Are you nervous about the wedding?’ she asks gently. ‘There’s no need. Honestly I have – well, Colleen has – everything under control. It’s going to be amazing. We’ll have –’

‘No, it’s not the wedding.’ I stare at her, bewildered. I feel a bit like I imagine astronauts must feel when they step out of their shuttle; slightly wary and displaced but a little manic and excited too. The wedding? What the fu – ‘I’m nervous about the chart position,’ I explain.

‘The chart position?’

‘I’m thinking, is it unreasonable to be hoping for a top ten position? Or maybe at least a number thirteen or twelve? Have we rushed things? Do you think I’ll crack America this time? Do you think this is my big chance?

‘I’m sure they will,’ she says encouragingly, the moment I let her get a word in. Her response seems woefully passive. ‘But whatever happens in the charts this afternoon, it doesn’t matter. The thing to remember is that we are getting married tomorrow. It’s the biggest day of our lives. And then, after the wedding, you have the tour, you’ll keep selling through. We have so much to look forward to.’

I know she hasn’t got all the answers but she’s giving me the impression she doesn’t even understand the questions.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say. I pat her hand.

I wish I could believe that. It must be nice to be like Fern. She believes in all the good stuff. That must be great. I’m a pessimist and even so I find that being proven right isn’t as much fun as it should be. She moves to kiss me but I can’t be doing with that at the moment. Anything sexual with Fern is the last thing on my mind right now. I move first and give her an affectionate peck on the nose. I’m sure that instead of the sexless little kiss on the snout she’d prefer it if I was taking down her knickers with my teeth. But before she has a chance to voice her thoughts, Mark and a cast of thousands burst into the room.

‘Son, son, here you are! Hiding, I might have known.’ My body turns to slop. I’m unsure if my legs are holding me up. Maybe I’m a puddle on the floor. Someone might step on me. Come on Mark, spill. Shut the fuck up, Mark, I don’t want bad news. Both thoughts explode into my being simultaneously. I hardly dare breathe. ‘Well, step into the limelight, lad, I have the chart position.’ Mark is

I must stand up from the couch in a hurry because I’m vaguely aware that my haste topples Fern. She slides away from me and clumsily lands on the floor. I mean to hold a hand out to help her up but I can’t tear my eyes away from Mark. All eyes are on him, actually.

‘Fuck,’ I say, because I don’t want to hear it, yet I’m aching to hear it. I pull my hands through my hair with such force I might yank out a chunk.

‘Hey, calm down. Can you imagine the wedding photos if you’ve pulled out lumps of hair?’ says Fern. She doesn’t understand. Poor thing. Lucky thing. This is it. This is what it’s all about. This is what it’s all for. I’m twitching and jittering. I can’t stay still; I look like I’m auditioning for a part in River Dance.

‘Fuck mate, don’t mess. Just tell me. Top fifteen? That would be good on the first week’s sales, hey? That would be respectable? I mean we haven’t had that much air time yet. The Americans are always cautious.’

I’m justifying my failure before I even know the results. I look at Fern; she pours back an expression of pure sympathy but she can’t wrap me in cotton wool, no one can. I want this so much. I want this more than anything.

‘Number eight, son. Number fucking eight. In your first week. You’ve made it. You’ve bloody made it!’ yells Mark.

I don’t remember how I reacted, no one waited for my reaction. This is gold. I’m swallowed by a mass of screaming and jumping bodies.