Ex in the City, page 16
There is the half when I’m here, at home, making dinners and doing the school runs. I’m surrounded by all the mums and the manicured lawns and the bullshit. Then there is the other half, the old me, who gets to hang out with musicians, and spend time in London, and have the most fabulous days – like I used to when I was younger and cooler.
Flip-flopping between the two is so bizarre, but there is one constant in my life, whichever version of myself I am, and that is Dylan. When we’re in the city, in recording studios and seeing stylists, it feels like old times. However, when we’re here in the village, doing the school runs and helping out with the musical, things feel so effortless too. Wherever we are, whatever we’re doing, if we’re doing it together then you can guarantee we’re having a good time.
As I suggested, much to Rebecca’s annoyance, the theme for the evening is ‘celebrity’. This fundfair is all about the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, making attendees feel like a celebrity, for one night only (unless you’re Dylan, of course). As guests approach the school hall, they’re greeted by ‘paparazzi’ who eagerly snap their photos on the red carpet. It feels like a star-studded event, even before you step inside, although beyond their main door is still a mystery, as I hover by the car, waiting to go in.
‘James Dean’ and ‘Marilyn Monroe’ walk past me, saying hello as they go, before making their way along the red carpet.
I smile to myself. I don’t usually look forward to these things – in fact, I actively dread them – so I can’t quite believe how up for tonight I am. I’ve gone all out with my Cher costume, channelling her iconic ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ look. I stopped shy of fully committing to the bit here and there – mostly with my hair which, even though I could achieve the big, bouncy curls required, I wasn’t willing to dye it from blonde to black, so I have a wig, but that’s all good because it’s keeping my head warm, and I still have my coat on while I’m waiting.
Rowan had a meeting, so he said he would be arriving late. Honestly, I’m finding it harder to care than ever. We couldn’t be more like strangers right now – in fact, I briefly forgot that he would be coming at all. I guess, when I was at the school in relation to the boys, it all felt very much tethered to Rowan. Now, though, with Dylan being here, and the musical, this feels more like a me and Dylan thing.
Dylan also had somewhere to be, so I got ready at home, and arranged to meet him here, outside, so we could walk the red carpet together.
I’m relieved to see his car pull up, because it’s quite chilly out here, but as he steps out of the car, I am nothing short of speechless. He practically struts over to me, clearly incredibly proud of himself.
‘So, what do you think?’ he asks me.
I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out other than a spluttery, indescribable sound – like a car that won’t start.
‘Come on, what do you think?’ he prompts me again.
‘I think you’ve lost your mind,’ I tell him with a cackle. ‘No pun intended.’
‘Well, with you being Cher, I thought it might be cute if I matched,’ he explains. ‘So I figured Meat Loaf would be a good shout. And I was thinking about my favourite Meat Loaf looks, and then I decided Eddie from Rocky Horror was my favourite. So, here I am.’
‘Here you are,’ I say, shaking my head in amusement. ‘In the sort of clothes that people have seen you wear a million times, but with the addition of a terrifyingly realistic head wound.’
‘Yeah, that’s where I was,’ he replies proudly. ‘I paid a special effects make-up artist to make it super realistic.’
Dylan is wearing a pair of blue jeans, a tight-fitting black T-shirt and a sleeveless black leather jacket with silver stud detailing. He almost certainly, without a doubt, owned all of these things already. And even though he is wearing Eddie’s exact outfit – which, on another man here, would be glaringly obvious – he just looks like Dylan King with a grossly fresh forehead wound.
‘Well, you didn’t waste your money,’ I tell him, still not quite believing my eyes. ‘You could definitely convince me that you’d just had a bit of slapdash brain surgery.’
‘Aww, thanks,’ he replies. ‘I’m loving the wig – the dark hair really suits you.’
‘Why, thank you,’ I reply.
I do kind of love the wig. My black hair is wild and curly, cascading over one shoulder – helping me to very much look the part.
I slip off my coat and throw it into the car, ready to head inside.
‘Oh my God, Nicole, look at you,’ Dylan says.
‘Do I look all right?’ I check.
‘You look stunning,’ he tells me. ‘I mean… wow, that outfit. Are you allowed in a school in an outfit like that?’
I laugh. So, obviously, Cher’s outfit in the video for ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ is very much something only the Cher could pull off, and I didn’t fancy walking into a school in a thong, so it’s sort of my own interpretation. I’m wearing big black boots over a pair of black stockings, which connect to the suspenders hanging from my black bodysuit. The bodysuit has a black mesh panel, that forms a V-shape down the front, but it sinks nowhere near as low as Cher’s does, and I’ve got a black bra on under mine, to keep everything where it is supposed to be. The whole look is finished off with a black leather jacket, so Dylan and I do indeed look like we have coordinated our costumes.
‘If you go in there, in that outfit, you will be covered in seamen in a matter of minutes,’ he tells me plainly.
‘I think you’ll find the men in the music video were sailors,’ I correct him with a laugh.
‘I think you’ll find we’re talking about different things,’ he jokes. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
As we approach the red carpet, ready to be papped (which is something of a sore spot for us), I notice Rebecca and her new sidekick Lisa stepping outside, to check on things. Rebecca is dressed as Princess Diana, because of course she is, while Lisa has opted for Britney Spears in her ‘…Baby One More Time’ school uniform.
Noticing us approaching the red carpet, they head over to greet us, and as they get closer, they both turn the same shade of white at the same time.
‘Oh my God, Dylan, what happened?’ Lisa says, running to him, taking his head in her hands to get a better look. ‘We need to get you to a hospital, right now, this is—’
Dylan takes her hands and holds them.
‘Relax, relax,’ he says with a laugh. ‘It’s just make-up. It’s part of my outfit. I’m Meat Loaf, in Rocky Horror.’
‘Wh-what?’ she says. ‘It’s not real?’
‘It’s not real,’ he reassures her. ‘Relax. Rebecca, I said it’s not real, don’t look so worried.’
‘I’m not worried about you,’ she says as she looks me up and down, scowling.
‘Me?’ I say with a laugh.
‘Nicole, you have come in your pants,’ she says simply.
‘Nah, I think that’s just the way I’m standing,’ I dare to joke.
Her blood boils. Dylan finds me funny, at least.
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit provocative?’ she replies.
‘I didn’t really think about it like that,’ I reply. ‘I just wanted to be Cher and this felt like her most iconic look, so…’
‘And you,’ she says, turning her attention to Dylan. ‘What are you doing? Why would you not come as yourself?’
‘I wanted to dress up too,’ he insists. ‘I’m me every other day of the year.’
Rebecca sighs heavily.
‘Go on, go in,’ she tells us. ‘Nicole will catch her death out here in that.’
Going off the look on her face, I can’t say that I feel like I’ll be all that safe inside, wearing this.
Dylan and I head down the red carpet, routinely stopping for photos, posing in different directions. The rest of us are just cosplaying at being a celebrity but, for Dylan, it’s all second nature. He walks the carpet like a pro, like he hasn’t been away from it for a minute.
Stepping into the party room genuinely takes me aback. I can’t believe this is the same school hall we were standing in the other day, it’s so glitzy, like a genuine award ceremony. The transformation is nothing short of extraordinary and, while I may not have had a hand in putting it together, I’m so happy that my idea has come to life so well. This is so, so much cooler than the usual, stuffy black-tie fundraisers I usually have to try to stay awake through.
The room is a vision of red velvet and sparkling gold. Long, flowing curtains of deep red velvet adorn the walls, hiding anything remotely school-looking, and the tables and chairs are obviously hired in because they’re not the kind of tables and chairs kids sit on – not even by private school standards.
The tables are adorned with white linen cloths with gold accents, laid out with silver cutlery and crystal glasses. Waitstaff weaves through the crowd, offering trays of champagne and delectable canapés fit for the Hollywood elite. I love it, I absolutely love it, and it’s not just me. The atmosphere is great, easily surpassing anything I’ve ever seen at a school event. Laughter and chatter blend with the funky music being played by the live band on the stage. The large projector screen is down alongside them, on the stage, with images of real celebrities being projected onto it – which only emphasises just how ropey their doppelgangers in this room look in comparison. And, yes, I do include myself in that. I might be rocking this outfit, but I’m not super slim or leggy like the real deal.
‘I’ll go get us some drinks,’ Dylan says.
He turns to head towards the bar, only to come face to face with a woman dressed up as Tina Turner, who screams when she notices the wound on his head.
‘It’s not real, it’s part of my costume,’ he reassures her.
She scowls at him, for giving her such a fright, before getting back to what she was doing.
‘Is this going to happen all night?’ Dylan turns to ask me.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘Cool,’ he says simply.
As I scan the room, I look at all the other parents and staff members, who have all embraced the celebrity theme with gusto. I honestly never thought I’d see the day. This lot always take themselves so seriously, and yet here they are, all dressed up and having the time of their lives.
There’s ‘Elvis Presley’, wearing a bedazzled white jumpsuit that he definitely didn’t have hanging in the back of his wardrobe. Not to be outdone, ‘Elton John’ is propping up the bar, in a huge pair of sunglasses and a suit covered with feathers. Oh, a special shout out to Martin, Rebecca’s husband, for his fantastic white trousers and white vest Freddie Mercury get-up.
Dylan hands me a drink – some kind of cocktail – and as I taste it my eyes roll into the back of my head. My God, that’s good – why can’t these events always be this fun?
Dylan and I begin making our way around the room full of people. We chat, drink and nibble on the delicious canapés. Dylan is undeniably the star of the show tonight, everyone wants a piece of him, and it reminds me of what it used to be like, being around him, knowing he commanded the attention of every single person (and the taken ones too) in the room. Sometimes it would make me feel like a spare part, like I might get lost in his shadow, but tonight it’s different, it’s like we’re a team – every bit the duo we appear to be.
‘We’ve got a very special guest in the house tonight,’ the lead singer’s voice booms through the room, commanding everyone’s attention. ‘Well, we’ve got a lot of special guests in tonight, but one, in particular… Meat Loaf! And I heard a rumour Cher is with him, so, without further ado, this is “Dead Ringer for Love”.’
Dylan’s eyes light up with mischief as he takes both my hands and pulls me towards the dance floor. The rhythmic beat of Meat Loaf’s iconic hit fills the room, and Dylan – ever the showman – instantly transforms into his character, lip-syncing to the lyrics, giving it all the intensity and confidence the man himself would have. His commitment to the performance is nothing short of brilliant.
By the time Cher’s part rolls around, I can’t help but join in the fun. I strut, spin and lip-sync alongside him. Together, we’re the ultimate duo – for one night only we are Meat Loaf and Cher – lost in the infectious energy of the music. The rest of the room practically fades away as we enjoy the moment. As the song finally comes to an end, I fall about laughing, and Dylan sweeps me into his arms. This is the kind of pure, carefree fun we used to have all the time, I’ve really missed it. Tonight, he’s like the old Dylan again – well, the old old Dylan – the one who knew how to enjoy life without going too far.
Rebecca, suddenly standing on the stage with a microphone in hand, taps it a few times, sending a screechy feedback noise through the speakers. You could be mistaken for thinking it was her first time holding a microphone, given how terribly she handles it, but unluckily for me I can tell you that it isn’t. Rebecca almost always finds her way to an amp.
Everyone in the room stops what they are doing, listening to hear what she has to say.
The evening is an undeniable success. I’m interested to see how Rebecca acknowledges that without giving some kind of praise to me and Dylan, because that is the last thing she will want to do, believe me.
‘I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank you all for coming,’ she begins. ‘Each and every one of you looks like a genuine celebrity – I hope you’ve had an A-list night.’
The room ripples with applause.
‘Love you, Rebecca,’ a man dressed as Gene Simmons shouts out.
She smiles and curtsies, very much channelling Lady Diana this evening.
‘With the theme being celebrity, we thought perhaps we should honour our own celebrities, right here,’ she says, gesturing to the screen next to her. ‘Many of the residents of Little Harehill have been featured in the press many times, for all sorts of reasons.’
The screen shows a newspaper page featuring James Burns, Thom Burns’ dad, who famously leapt into a canal to rescue a stranded dog. The crowd applauds his heroics.
‘The amazing and heroic James Burns,’ Rebecca says as she claps him. ‘Let’s see who is next.’
The next slide showcases Deanna and her choir, and the headline from the time they performed for members of the royal family. The audience claps again.
‘Didn’t they do us proud,’ Rebecca announces. ‘Next slide, please.’
My heart stops when I see the familiar front page up there on the screen. I haven’t seen it since the day it was printed, back in 2014, but I remember every single detail.
Underneath the headline, ‘Dylan goes Wilde’, there is a photo, of me and Dylan, lying on the pavement, him on top of me, the two of us looking into one another’s eyes.
See, this is what I was worried about, without the explanation, this looks bad – really bad. The reality is that the two of us went on a night out and, both a little worse for wear on the walk back to the hotel, Dylan fell down, dragging me down with him. When it happened we were on the floor for less than a minute, and we spent most of it laughing, but the picture is from only a split second of that time, and of course, the way the tabloids spun it, it made it seem like (a recently married) Dylan and I were having an affair, rolling around on the floor together, on our way to a hotel to spend a night together.
The room comes alive with chatter and everyone stares at us, some laughing, some judging. Neither feels great.
I seethe. This is classic Rebecca, I expect no less but, still, what a horrible thing to do.
‘And here is the man himself,’ Rebecca announces, her voice echoing through the hall.
All eyes turn to the back of the room, to where Rebecca is pointing, and both Dylan and I are taken by surprise to see that she isn’t pointing towards us. There, at the back of the hall, is Rowan, strutting in with an exaggerated sense of cool. He’s dressed in black skinny jeans, a white shirt and a loosely tied black tie – a look that used to be Dylan’s signature style. His hair is deliberately dishevelled, and dark circles have been strategically applied beneath his eyes. In his hands, he carries a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a cigarette, just to hammer the point home. He’s supposed to be Dylan.
Dylan maintains his composure, his gaze firmly fixed on Rowan, but I catch those subtle signs of tension in his body language – the faint flaring of his nostrils, the clenching of his jaw.
‘Go to the car,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll catch up with you. Let’s just get out of here.’
Dylan gives a silent nod. He walks past Rowan without exchanging a single word or even a glance. Rowan has such a smug expression on his face, a real shit-eating grin, because he’s clearly so proud of himself. His cocky exterior crumbles when I catch his eye and he notices my barely-there Cher outfit.
‘Nicole, what are you doing?’ Rowan demands. ‘You’re practically half-naked.’
I arch an eyebrow. Right, because that’s the conversation that’s needed right now.
‘What am I doing? What are you doing?’ I ask him. ‘Did you and Rebecca plan this together?’
‘Well, when were you going to tell me about you and Dylan?’ he replies angrily.
‘That photo was nothing but a set-up,’ I tell him honestly. ‘Why didn’t you just ask me about it?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me in the first place?’ he claps back.
I sigh, exasperated.
‘It’s none of your business, is it?’ I say. ‘Definitely not any more.’
‘I don’t understand how you can be so cold,’ he tells me and, yes, he genuinely feels like the wronged party right now.
I stare at him for a second. I can’t believe he’s serious – and I definitely can’t believe he would come here dressed up as a drunk Dylan.
‘And I can’t understand how you can be so cruel,’ I reply.
Without another word, I grab a bottle of champagne from the table next to me and make my exit from the room.
‘Wait, where are you going?’ he says, following me. ‘To him, huh?’
‘Yep, to him,’ I reply.
‘You’re making a fool of yourself,’ he warns me. ‘Look at you, look at your outfit, this isn’t you. You’re not yourself right now.’
