‘You are a hustler,’ I say. ‘You were shelling out match-sticks left, right and centre but since we’ve been playing for clothes you haven’t lost a hand.’

He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and smiles at my charge; proud rather than chastised. ‘I win, again,’ he mutters, laying down his superior cards.

Bugger, now I’m in real trouble. Skirt or vest top? Shedding either is going to leave me very exposed. I offer thanks to the cellulite god for not having sent that plague my way just yet (it’s due on tomorrow’s bus no doubt, now I’m thirty) but in the meantime I could probably risk taking my skirt off and not scaring him. But, my knickers! They are cheap, faded, big and blue. Not

‘You are biting your lip,’ says Scott.

‘I do that when I’m nervous,’ I admit. I hope the lip-nibbling is provocative rather than creating the impression that I’m entering a gurning competition.

‘Shit, you’ve drawn blood.’ His face instantly floods with genuine concern. ‘Fern, Christ, it’s not that serious, keep your top on. It’s a game.’ He leans close and carefully but firmly smudges his thumb across my lips; he shows me the smallest drop of blood on his thumb and then sucks the blood clean away. It is the most erotic gesture I have ever been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of.

Good God, I’ve died and gone to heaven.

I quickly glance towards the security guy but he’s seemingly oblivious to our floor show. He’s reading a tabloid and has his back towards us. In a flash I put my hand up my skirt and drag off my baggy blue knickers. Triumphant at solving the immediate dilemma of which garment to

I’m not a vain girl but I’m not stupid either. He has the most enormous boner straining at his jeans. Result. I win the next two hands in quick succession. Scott Taylor can’t concentrate on anything other than me because I’m knickerless!

‘I think we should call it a day now,’ I say as he starts to unbutton his jeans.

‘Really?’ He pauses, fingers on his fly buttons, ready to snap and tug if I give the word.

‘Really,’ I say with quite some reluctance. On the one hand there’s nothing I’d like more than to be buck naked with Scott Taylor. It’s the stuff fantasies are made of but I can’t go any further. I shouldn’t. I mustn’t. The room is hot and red and the plumes of smoke hang in the air, creating a vibe similar to that of the nightclubs of old. I can taste sin. It’s delicious. But can I stomach it? I don’t think I can.

But then.

He moves a fraction closer and our lips are just centimetres apart. If I kissed him now, he’d kiss me back. I know he would. It wouldn’t mean anything, I realize that it’s just the sort of thing rock stars do, but he would kiss me. Which would be fantastic, wouldn’t it? What a story. What a way to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. That single kiss would snatch me from the jaws of normality. For just a moment I’d spit back at the ordinariness that suffocates my days. If I kissed this rock legend I would at least have something to tell my grandkids when I’m a wizened and ugly old woman. I lean a smidgen closer too.

Grandchildren.

Adam.

Fuck.

Adam!

I pull away from Scott a moment before our lips mesh. Bloody hell, what am I thinking of? I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend of four years who I’ve always been absolutely faithful to. I can’t snog a man just because I’ve been playing cards with him for two hours and I have no knickers on. What in the world am I doing with no knickers on? Hot flushes of shame rush through my body, overwhelming the feelings of lust that have dwelt there all morning. How have I allowed this to happen? Why haven’t I had any control? A fantasy figure is my birthright. A flirtation is understandable. An affair is downright nasty. I’m not nasty – although I am a disgrace! Being with Scott has made me forget Adam even exists. That’s terrible. OK, this morning Adam disappointed me horribly, we clearly have a lot to talk about and sort out, but I can’t just rush off and kiss another man. Even if the man is Scott Taylor. Even if it is my birthday. Even if…

His lips are rose pink, plump cushions. Slightly fuller lower lip. Cheeky. Up-turned. Tempting. I feel myself edging towards him again.

No! There are no even ifs. It’s clear cut. I have a boyfriend. Adam. I have Adam. I have to pull away. ‘It’s my birthday today,’ I blurt suddenly, jarring my head away from his. I don’t know why I say this, a desperate attempt to break the tension I suppose.

‘Happy birthday,’ says Scott, jumping up and moving quickly away from me.

I fight a fleeting feeling of disappointment. What did I expect? That he’d demand I kiss him? That he’d be in the slightest bit regretful that we didn’t play tongue tennis? How stupid. The man probably never had any intention of kissing me; it was probably all in my imagination in the first place. Or if he was going to kiss me it obviously meant nothing to him. No more than sipping on his water bottle – an impulse to quench.

‘Your birthday, cool. How are you celebrating?’ he asks as he lights another cigarette.

‘Erm, well, I’m coming to see your gig,’ I reply lamely.

‘That’s sweet.’ He smiles and then he looks away. ‘I’m hungry.’ He turns towards the security guy. ‘Bob, can you get me a club sandwich? But no tomatoes. I hate tomatoes.’




12. Fern

About eight members of Scott’s entourage arrive with the sandwich and sadly, it’s clear my moment is over. I hastily grab my zip-up top, jewellery and shoes but I can’t find my ugly knickers. Sod it. I’ll leave them. I feel truly miserable when I consider that there’s probably a pile of other girls’ knickers stashed in this room, under beanbags and the like. The intimacy I felt between us, real or otherwise, has now totally vanished. I make my excuses and back out of the door as quickly as I can.

Scott calls, ‘Have a great birthday, enjoy the gig,’ but he doesn’t get up from his chair. A woman in black leggings with a tidy blonde bob is giving him a shoulder massage. Her fingers are thin and strong. She kneads his muscles as though she’s baking bread and it’s obvious that she’s done the same thing for him on numerous other occasions. The familiarity between them causes a spike of irrational jealousy to poke my innards. I leave quickly.

I scuttle back to the canteen, where the riggers, sound engineers and other crew members are eating their club sandwiches. The hall, which I’d previously thought impressive, looks lack-lustre now in comparison to the cosy room where Scott is holed up.

I spot Adam. He’s sat with some of his team. I wait for my heart to leap. Nothing. Yet all morning I’ve felt

‘All right, Fern-girl?’ he asks, but he doesn’t wait for me to reply. Instead he turns back to his friends and they argue whether Status Quo or the Rolling Stones are the greatest grey entertainers of all time. Scott has listened to me all morning, he’s valued every word I’ve uttered; Adam can’t even be bothered to wait for my response to his most perfunctory of questions. It’s so disappointing. Adam is disappointing. I stare at him and feel nothing other than bleak, steely resentment. I resent his very existence. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t have had to pull away from Scott’s kiss. I wouldn’t have to be so eternally, boringly, bloody ordinary. And why did I pull away? Does Adam deserve my loyalty? What if I’ve just thrown away the most exciting opportunity of my life and Adam is indifferent towards me? He certainly didn’t take my ultimatum seriously. I glower at Adam but he’s oblivious. I might as well be invisible because I don’t have cable trailing from my butt attaching me to a bank of speakers or lights.

Thinking about Adam makes me feel irritable and agitated so instead I choose to fall back into thoughts of Scott, which are comforting and exhilarating. I think about Scott’s smile, Scott’s laugh and the way Scott’s brows sort of take a bow when his head creases up with concentration and I’m crazed with excitement. That was the heaviest bout of flirtation I have ever indulged in. I’m hot and sticky all over just thinking about it. Where the hell can

The unexpected but deeply intense encounter is probably work-a-day for Scott, all part of the rock and roll handbook, but I’ve never played strip poker and I’ve never dreamt of playing it with Scottie Taylor. For the first time since I issued the ultimatum to Adam I feel joyful. As long as I can deliberately shove all thoughts of Adam out of my head, then I am profoundly happy; there’s a chance that this will, after all, be the best birthday ever.

Although it’s actually not easy to shove all thoughts of Adam out of my head, especially when he’s sat right next to me, braying with his friends and doing ridiculous impressions of Russell Brand. I stare at him with frustration; annoyingly the frustration is peppered with something hideously close to guilt. I don’t want to feel guilty on my birthday so I quickly start a little reassuring self-justification. I tell myself that I haven’t got anything to feel guilty about. I pulled back, didn’t I? I may have walked right to the edge but I pulled back when it mattered; not every woman would have done the same. I almost believe me.

‘What have you been up to this morning?’ asks Adam, finally turning his attention to me.

‘Nothing much; just looking around,’ I mutter.

All I want to do is talk about Scott but obviously Adam isn’t the right audience. It’s tricky enough having to convince myself that playing strip poker with Scott is

I suppose I could tell Adam about this morning and just leave out the bit about me whipping off my knickers but something stops me doing even that much. Scott is a delicious secret to have. Sharing those moments with him has lifted me above the horrible deadening feelings of normality that have stained my life recently. My morning was fun and special at the same time and suddenly, I feel amazing, alive and very, very sexy. I have a sense that I’ll spoil that feeling if I talk about it with Adam. I’m not sure if he’d be angry or incredulous or even dismissive. I want to hang on to the feeling that I’m special, even if it’s just for the shortest time.