pauses, no doubt waiting for me to leap on top of him and tell him how marvellous he is. I want to pummel him to death with the soggy toast.
‘Fern, you are looking at Scottie Taylor’s assistant stage manager. I have a team, Fern. It’s a promotion. A big one. We are moving forward, like you wanted.’
I shake my head. ‘You didn’t pay for these?’
‘No. I said so, didn’t I? They were free. How cool is that?’
No ring, no ring. Bloody gig tickets but no ring. Free bloody gig tickets but no ring.
I hate him.
8. Fern
I don’t have much time to demonstrate the hate. There’s no opportunity to huffily push him away as he makes stealthy sexual advances because he doesn’t make any advances – stealthy or otherwise. Even though it’s my birthday!
Instead he says we have to get up quickly, or at least he does because he has to be at Wembley by nine. He suggests I should come along with him because he has backstage passes and he says it will be interesting for me to see what he does.
‘I know what you do,’ I mutter grumpily. ‘You climb up and down ladders, twiddle knobs and put bulbs in lamps.’
Adam looks hurt. ‘There’s more to it than that, Fern. I am part of a vital team. My contribution to this spectacular is valid. It’s like being part of an orchestra; even the guy with the triangle thing is crucial to the overall symphony,’ he says.
‘Get over yourself, Adam. Being in an orchestra is like being in an orchestra. You are a rigger. You put up scaffolding,’ I snap. He doesn’t bother to correct me and point out that he’s an assistant stage manager now. I think he knows it will be cold comfort.
‘Come anyway, we always need an extra pair of hands to run to the catering hall for coffee and you are on holiday so you’ve nothing better to do.’
The truth of his statement is horribly shocking. It’s my thirtieth birthday and I have nothing better to do than fetch coffee for a bunch of guys, most of whom aren’t even on nodding terms with soap. I wake Jess and give her an update. She’s as sympathetic as I could hope for, considering it’s this early in the day.
‘Can you skive off for the day and keep me company before the gig?’ I ask, not bothering to keep the self-pity out of my voice.
‘I’d love to, sweetie, but I can’t.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘My area manager knows that Adam got us these freebies and is letting me leave the shop an hour before the end of my shift as it is. He’d smell a rat if I failed to turn up at all today. Plus I’d feel a bit of a cow since he’s already agreed to give me the extra hour with pay. You understand, don’t you?’
‘Suppose,’ I mutter, without any grace. My mind is whirling. Seemingly, I veer off on a tangent but in fact it’s all related. ‘Do you realize I’ve never been on a club 18–30 holiday? I can’t now. That’s a missed opportunity.’
‘I’d hardly class that as a missed opportunity. Who wants to drink luminous cocktails with horny, desperate strangers until you puke or skinny dip?’ asks Jess.
‘I wonder how many other opportunities I’ve missed,’ I muse.
‘Very few, from what I remember of your misspent youth,’ says Jess matter-of-factly. ‘Do you want your pressie?’
Jess has bought me some fabulous Mac makeup brushes. They are really glam and grown up. I thank her and resist commenting that right now all I want to do is stick them up Adam’s backside.
‘I’ll call Lisa and we’ll see you at the gig. Once you’re there, do a bit of a recce and then text me to arrange exactly where to meet,’ says Jess, as she kisses her ticket.
I dress with little care and can barely summon the energy to wave a mascara wand or draw a slash of red lippy over my lips. I’d imagined that I would start the day with a long (post-loving) luxurious bubble bath. I thought I might sip champagne in muted candlelight and maybe even persuade Adam to rub a bit of body oil into my back and shoulders. Then,
‘Fern, you are looking at Scottie Taylor’s assistant stage manager. I have a team, Fern. It’s a promotion. A big one. We are moving forward, like you wanted.’
I shake my head. ‘You didn’t pay for these?’
‘No. I said so, didn’t I? They were free. How cool is that?’
No ring, no ring. Bloody gig tickets but no ring. Free bloody gig tickets but no ring.
I hate him.
8. Fern
I don’t have much time to demonstrate the hate. There’s no opportunity to huffily push him away as he makes stealthy sexual advances because he doesn’t make any advances – stealthy or otherwise. Even though it’s my birthday!
Instead he says we have to get up quickly, or at least he does because he has to be at Wembley by nine. He suggests I should come along with him because he has backstage passes and he says it will be interesting for me to see what he does.
‘I know what you do,’ I mutter grumpily. ‘You climb up and down ladders, twiddle knobs and put bulbs in lamps.’
Adam looks hurt. ‘There’s more to it than that, Fern. I am part of a vital team. My contribution to this spectacular is valid. It’s like being part of an orchestra; even the guy with the triangle thing is crucial to the overall symphony,’ he says.
‘Get over yourself, Adam. Being in an orchestra is like being in an orchestra. You are a rigger. You put up scaffolding,’ I snap. He doesn’t bother to correct me and point out that he’s an assistant stage manager now. I think he knows it will be cold comfort.
‘Come anyway, we always need an extra pair of hands to run to the catering hall for coffee and you are on holiday so you’ve nothing better to do.’
The truth of his statement is horribly shocking. It’s my thirtieth birthday and I have nothing better to do than fetch coffee for a bunch of guys, most of whom aren’t even on nodding terms with soap. I wake Jess and give her an update. She’s as sympathetic as I could hope for, considering it’s this early in the day.
‘Can you skive off for the day and keep me company before the gig?’ I ask, not bothering to keep the self-pity out of my voice.
‘I’d love to, sweetie, but I can’t.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘My area manager knows that Adam got us these freebies and is letting me leave the shop an hour before the end of my shift as it is. He’d smell a rat if I failed to turn up at all today. Plus I’d feel a bit of a cow since he’s already agreed to give me the extra hour with pay. You understand, don’t you?’
‘Suppose,’ I mutter, without any grace. My mind is whirling. Seemingly, I veer off on a tangent but in fact it’s all related. ‘Do you realize I’ve never been on a club 18–30 holiday? I can’t now. That’s a missed opportunity.’
‘I’d hardly class that as a missed opportunity. Who wants to drink luminous cocktails with horny, desperate strangers until you puke or skinny dip?’ asks Jess.
‘I wonder how many other opportunities I’ve missed,’ I muse.
‘Very few, from what I remember of your misspent youth,’ says Jess matter-of-factly. ‘Do you want your pressie?’
Jess has bought me some fabulous Mac makeup brushes. They are really glam and grown up. I thank her and resist commenting that right now all I want to do is stick them up Adam’s backside.
‘I’ll call Lisa and we’ll see you at the gig. Once you’re there, do a bit of a recce and then text me to arrange exactly where to meet,’ says Jess, as she kisses her ticket.
I dress with little care and can barely summon the energy to wave a mascara wand or draw a slash of red lippy over my lips. I’d imagined that I would start the day with a long (post-loving) luxurious bubble bath. I thought I might sip champagne in muted candlelight and maybe even persuade Adam to rub a bit of body oil into my back and shoulders. Then,
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