Ex in the City, page 13
His smile falls for a second.
‘I couldn’t just watch him hurt her,’ he tells me. ‘And then I was worried he was going to hurt you.’
‘God, I need a drink,’ I say, snatching Dylan’s beer from the table, and taking a big swig even though I hate the taste of beer. ‘Ergh, but not this one – I swear, it tastes even worse than usual.’
‘Before you go, we might have a problem,’ he says seriously. ‘That girl over there, I noticed she was filming everything.’
‘I saw that too,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got this.’
We approach the girl who is already watching the footage back on her phone, showing her friend who must have missed the drama.
‘Hello, did you film what just happened?’ I ask her.
‘What’s it to you?’ she asks.
I gesture at Dylan to join us.
‘This is Dylan, he’s a friend of mine, and as you can see, he’s hurt,’ I tell her.
Dylan pouts, showing her his bloody lip. The girl smiles and giggles – my God, is he flirting right now?
‘We just need to know someone filmed it, in case the police need evidence,’ I tell her.
‘Oh, right, yeah, I filmed it,’ she says. ‘I thought you were going to tell me to delete it.’
‘No, no,’ I insist. ‘It’s evidence! But, if you want a top tip, you should call the Daily Scoop, ask for a guy called Jasper and say you have a video for him – he’ll pay decent money for something like that.’
‘Really?’ she squeaks.
‘Really,’ I reply.
‘Okay, cool, thanks,’ she says before getting back to her friends.
‘Nic, what the hell was that?’ Dylan asks me as we head towards the bar.
‘That was me,’ I tell him. ‘Working.’
‘I thought you were going to get her to delete it, not encourage her to sell it to a tabloid,’ he replies in disbelief. ‘At worst it looks like I’m having fights in bars. At best I got knocked on my arse because I didn’t even fight back.’
‘And that is best,’ I tell him. ‘Look, she’s going to take that footage to the press, and they’re going to see you, looking sober in a club, defending the honour of a woman – taking a punch for her. How could you look like anything but a hero?’
Dylan thinks for a moment. Eventually his mouth pulls itself into a smile.
‘You’re a genius,’ he tells me. ‘An evil genius. Have you always been so manipulative?’
I laugh it off.
‘Come on, let’s get a drink,’ I say. ‘I thought we were supposed to be having fun?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ Mikey says, pushing himself between us, wrapping an arm around us both. ‘Tonight we are letting our hair down, the calm before the storm, and now we’ve got the fight out of the way it’s sex, drugs and rock and roll from here on out.’
I laugh because he’s obviously joking.
I think about what Dylan just said. Have I always been this manipulative? I’ve always tried to do what I thought was best, if it helped people, but I haven’t always got the best results. But that’s a conversation I need to have with him on another day, because tonight we party, together, for the first time in almost a decade.
Wish me luck.
21
I grip the sheets below me with both hands, squeezing so hard I feel my nails dig into the mattress.
I have woken up to the feeling of the world spinning around me. Hangovers in your thirties are really something; a cruel reminder that your body isn’t as resilient as it used to be. I’ve had bad hangovers before, and the usual suspects are all there: the relentless headache, the desert-dry mouth, and the feeling that my stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. But this hangover has a few fresh tricks up its sleeve too. The bad back I’ve woken up with is just such a nice touch, honestly, I’m loving all of the little reminders that I’m getting older.
I wince as I dare to lift my head. My back actually feels like it’s on fire. Worse than that, though? I’m not even sure where I am. Panic creeps in, adding another layer of misery to my already pounding head. I sit up in what appears to be a large, unfamiliar bed. I look around with my bleary eyes, trying to find something that tells me where I am but there’s nothing. It’s a nice room – a hotel? No, not a hotel, I can’t see any of the usual things you would expect to find. This is definitely a bedroom.
‘Hello?’ I croak out.
I clear my throat and try again, my voice louder this time. Of course, then it hits me, that the last thing I should be doing in a random house is calling out, alerting people to the fact that I’m here. I should be grabbing my things and sneaking out. Better to sneak out quietly than find myself running for my life later.
I turn my head and spot my phone on the bedside table. It’s charging and within arm’s reach. There’s a glass of water next to me too. The chances I’ve been kidnapped are looking slimmer by the second, but I still don’t know where I am.
The door creaks open. I quickly look, to see who it is, pulling the covers up to my chest and only now noticing that I’m wearing an oversized black Burnouts T-shirt from their 2012 tour.
Dylan walks in, wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms, clutching what appears to be a bowl of cereal.
‘I thought I heard you,’ he mumbles between spoonfuls. ‘Good morning.’
‘Oh, it is not a good morning at all,’ I complain. ‘I have the hangover from hell, and I woke up with no idea where I was, I was in such a panic until you walked in.’
Dylan shrugs, seemingly unfazed by my suffering. He’s a picture of perfect health this morning, despite our wild night out last night. He plonks himself down on top of the bed next to me.
‘You don’t recognise your old room?’ he says with a laugh.
I rub my temples and squint around, only now realising that I’m at Dylan’s house.
‘I do now that you mention it,’ I admit. ‘You’ve redecorated.’
‘Yeah,’ he acknowledges. ‘I fancied a change last year, so I redid every room.’
Now that the place looks familiar, the warmth of nostalgia goes a little way to taking the edge off my hangover.
‘I don’t remember coming back to your house,’ I admit. ‘Or much else about last night. My God, what did we do? I feel awful, and my back… Every time I move, it’s like I’m lying on broken glass. Am I an old lady now? Will I complain about my back every day until I die? My auntie warned me not to wear a push-up bra in my teens, she said it would wreck my back and attract the wrong boys – she was right about the second part.’
Dylan smiles mischievously, making my heart pound even more.
‘Well,’ he grins, and I know it’s going to be bad news, so I grit my teeth and brace myself. ‘The good news is you don’t have a bad back. So, you’re younger and fitter than you think you are, and all that weird stuff your auntie told you is probably not true.’
‘And the bad news?’ I ask through a wince.
‘The other news – not the bad news – is that you got a tattoo,’ he says with a smile.
I recoil, my stomach churning.
‘Oh, God, no,’ I squeak. ‘What have I done?’
I kick off the bedcovers and roll around like a maniac, trying to get a look at my back.
‘Tell me I didn’t get a lower back tattoo,’ I moan as I keep trying. ‘Can you get me a mirror, so I can see it?’
‘You didn’t get a lower back tattoo,’ he tells me. I sigh with relief. ‘Technically, it’s closer to your bum, just above your right cheek.’
My jaw drops.
‘I don’t need to get you a mirror,’ he tells me, placing his empty bowl down on the side before slipping off his pyjama bottoms. ‘Here.’
And there it is. A tattoo of a tiger wearing a crown, on his thigh.
‘We got matching ones,’ he announces proudly. ‘I went for the thigh, instead of the butt.’
I flop face first into my pillow.
‘Why, why, why?’ I groan into it.
‘It was your idea,’ Dylan says. ‘Remember?’
My idea?
I only have to think about it for a second before a flash of last night pops into my head.
‘Wilde and King,’ I mutter, sitting up again.
‘Yep,’ he says with a nod. ‘The boys and I were getting matching band tattoos, to celebrate the new tour, and you’d had that one done while I was busy. So I couldn’t really say no when you told me I should get a matching one. I guess I’d forgotten what you were like when you’ve had a drink. You seemed pretty chill about it.’
‘You got a silly tattoo done, to make me feel less stupid?’ I say.
‘I mean, all tattoos are silly, when you think about it,’ he replies. ‘And I’m covered in them anyway and… I liked the sentiment. We’re bound together forever.’
I guess that’s kind of nice – if not completely ridiculous.
‘I couldn’t tell you the last time I got so pissed,’ I admit. ‘I guess I can’t handle it like I used to. Okay, okay, show me yours again.’
Dylan obliges, parting his thick legs to show me the tiger creeping out from his inner right thigh.
‘And mine is the same as that?’ I ask.
‘Exactly the same,’ he replies. ‘Same size and everything.’
‘It is cute,’ I grudgingly admit. ‘And I guess I have always been too scared to get one.’
‘And if you ever want it removed, hit me up for the laser bill, yeah?’ he replies. ‘I feel bad now, I shouldn’t have let you drink so much.’
‘Okay, have I woken up in a parallel universe?’ I ask in disbelief. ‘Because I’m the one who usually keeps an eye on what you’re drinking.’
‘And yet it was me who helped you to bed last night,’ he reminds. ‘I tell you what, you didn’t need singing to sleep last night.’
‘Wow, I forgot you used to do that,’ I reply, although it’s a blatant lie. I remember it like it was yesterday. Whenever I was feeling stressed, unwell, or just couldn’t drift off to sleep, Dylan would gently stroke me, or tickle my arm, while softly serenading me with lullaby versions of my favourite songs. In those moments I always felt at my absolute happiest and safest. It always worked like a treat.
I remember one time, when I was under a lot of pressure at work, I hesitantly asked Rowan if he could do it, to comfort me. However, instead of the tenderness I had anticipated, all he did was sing me a funny song as he touched me for a few seconds before promptly trying to shag me instead – it’s amazing how many men think that’s a cure for all problems. It was a stark reminder of the differences between the two of them – not that I should be comparing boyfriends to Dylan King – but it just made the times Dylan did it seem all the more special. It only worked with his touch.
‘I used to paint your toenails too,’ he reminds me with a laugh. ‘You always used to say that your legs were too long for you to reach.’
‘You had your uses,’ I say with a smile. ‘And you were surprisingly good at it.’
We naturally fall into silence. I don’t know what he’s thinking about, but I’m trying to push the past out of my head.
‘Anyway, the good news is I can drive you home,’ Dylan tells me. ‘I said I would go into the school tomorrow, to start helping out with musical rehearsals.’
‘Aww, that’s great,’ I reply, genuinely pleased on both counts. ‘I’m surprised you’re sober enough to drive yet. Then again, you’ve had a lot more practice than me.’
Dylan leans in close, our faces are just centimetres apart. It’s an unexpected closeness, and for a brief moment, I’m uncertain about his intentions. My heart quickens and I hold my breath. Then he starts sniffing.
‘Oh, man. Yeah, I would fail a breathalyser test just by being in a car with you,’ he jokes as he pulls away. ‘Maybe we’ll keep the windows down.’
I laugh but I can’t ignore that I felt something, having him so close to my face, but I’m scared to even think about what.
Why am I being such a weirdo? And why is the thought of going home – of returning to reality – causing a pang of sadness in me? Being here in Dylan’s house, after a night out, it feels like a journey back in time, just like the good old days – only somehow even better.
‘Come on then, let’s go,’ Dylan says, snapping me from my thoughts.
‘Okay,’ I reply, trying not to sound too disappointed.
I really wish I didn’t have to leave.
22
I got out of Dylan’s car outside Mr Campbell’s house, choosing to make the last minute of the journey home myself, just in case Rowan was around.
Walking up the driveway, seeing his car there, I’m glad that I did.
I walk into the house and I’m immediately bombarded with the sound of excited little voices and the smell of Rowan’s cooking.
Rowan and the kids appear from nowhere. The boys run up to me and give me a hug.
I can feel my new tattoo still, which doesn’t only serve as a reminder of last night, but it feels like I’m bringing a bit more of the old me into the house. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. It’s either something I can use to tell myself that I’m not so boring after all, or something that will remind me of a life I no longer really live.
‘Let me get one too,’ Rowan says.
‘You’re back,’ Archie says.
Ned just squeezes my leg. The two of them look so happy to see me.
Then I look up and see, hanging from the banister, a handmade banner that reads:
Welcome home, Mummy!
I hold my breath as I look at it.
‘Do you like it?’ Rowan asks me. ‘The boys missed you so much, they wanted to make you a banner and – boys, go get Nicole the presents you made her.’
‘Okay,’ they both say before charging up the stairs.
My heart swells at the sight of them.
‘They really did miss you,’ Rowan tells me when we’re alone. ‘I missed you too.’
Rowan ushers me into the kitchen and I can tell from his expression that he wants to talk.
‘Nicole, listen, I’m sorry for how I reacted,’ he starts, his voice earnest. ‘I just… I admit it, I felt threatened. Seeing you with Dylan, I couldn’t help but overreact, seeing him being close with the boys – come on, he’s Dylan King. But I shouldn’t have acted so insecure. I want to make things right, Nic. I want to play nice and help out with the fundraiser. I want to be better, for the boys, and I want to be better for you too.’
I appreciate Rowan’s honesty but, deep down, I know that things between us have changed irreparably. It’s not just about the way he’s acting because Dylan is here; our relationship has run its course. I don’t trust him, and you can’t truly love someone you don’t trust, no matter how hard you try.
‘Thank you for the apology,’ I say softly. ‘I appreciate where you’re coming from.’
Rowan smiles, relieved that the beef is squashed – well, the new beef, at least.
‘Okay, well, I’m going to check on dinner, and the boys have made you something,’ he tells me. ‘I just want you to see how much we appreciate you.’
As he walks away to check on dinner, I’m left with a bittersweet feeling, and more than a pang of guilt. The kids missed me and, you know what, I missed them just as much. I’ve been around them every day for almost three years, that’s a long time. I’m not only breaking up with Rowan, I’m breaking up with them too. And now I feel like one hell of a villain, but I can’t stay with Rowan for the kids, can I? Would he still let me see them, if we did break up? Thinking about it, with everyone pretty much reimbursed, and only a few ‘family’ social posts to go, the boys are the only reason I’m still here – well, that and not having sorted anywhere to go yet, but it’s so hard to pull the trigger, to shake up their world like that.
Everything is such a mess. I have no idea how I’m going to sort it.
23
The weather today is dreary and unforgiving, with relentless rain hammering down, and skies so dark I’m not convinced it isn’t night-time. It feels as though this winter has lasted a lifetime and, for some reason, spring is refusing to turn up. It’s one of those days when an umbrella is a futile accessory.
Of course, given how dark, cold, wet and windy it is, obviously today is the day I managed to absent-mindedly grab a coat without a hood, and it’s not the kind of weather an umbrella could survive.
I make a mad dash from my car to the school entrance, my coat held over my head, but I feel soaked through within seconds. The wind cuts through my thin coat as I sort myself out to head inside, before quickly stepping through the school reception doors.
The first thing I spot is Rebecca and Lisa, the two of them deep in conversation about something. I wonder if I can sneak past them but, oh, too late, they’ve seen me.
‘Good morning, Nicole,’ Rebecca greets me with a warm (but entirely forced) smile.
‘Morning,’ I reply, my teeth chattering slightly from the cold.
‘What are you doing here?’ Rebecca asks, narrowing her eyes. ‘Oh, you’re here to be under Dylan.’
‘Under him?’ I enquire, perplexed.
‘His understudy,’ she explains, grinning. ‘Will musical duties fall on you when his strange little holiday is over?’
‘I’m just here to help out,’ I reply matter-of-factly, ignoring whatever she’s getting at.
‘I absolutely love your theme for the fundfair!’ Lisa says, changing the subject. ‘I am celebrity obsessed so I had to get involved. Do you think Dylan might do a song?’
‘You can ask him,’ I answer with a smile. ‘I think he’s looking forward to it. Anyway, I’d better head in.’
Rebecca gives me a lingering look, and there’s a hint of suspicion in her gaze.
‘Yes, us too,’ she says to Lisa. ‘We have lots to do, don’t we?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ Lisa agrees. ‘See you soon, Nicole.’
‘Yeah, see you around,’ I tell them.
