Ex in the City, page 17
I stop in my tracks and turn around, so that I can look in his eyes when I say this.
‘Rowan, I am nothing but myself right now,’ I tell him. ‘This is me, the real me, the one I’ve been keeping locked away for years. She’s been screaming for me to let her out and, guess what, here she fucking is.’
‘You buy a slutty outfit and you think you’re suddenly this strong, sassy girlboss?’ he replies.
Oof, if I wasn’t angry before, I would definitely be now.
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, fella, because I already owned this slutty outfit,’ I reply with a laugh. ‘This is me. The genie is well and truly out of the bottle now. So, enjoy.’
I know, it’s not very mature of me, but I use my free hand to give Rowan the finger before I storm out. I’m relieved when I realise he isn’t following me.
I pop the cork on the champagne before I hop in Dylan’s car, slumping down in the passenger seat, before taking a big swig from the bottle.
‘I didn’t realise suburbia was so fun,’ he says sarcastically. ‘Where to, miss?’
‘Let’s go back to yours,’ I tell him. ‘And let’s burn this entire village to the ground.’
27
‘Okay, here we go,’ I say, swigging from my champagne bottle before returning it to the bedside table. ‘Let’s do this.’
We’re sitting on Dylan’s bed, surrounded by Mr Campbell’s notebooks, the ones bursting with his meticulous notes on all of my neighbours. While it is odd, and slightly unsettling, that these things exist, they are exactly what I need to feel better right now. I wasn’t going to do it, flipping through these is a real invasion of privacy, but here we are. Look what they’ve driven me to.
‘She thinks she can just broadcast my secrets to the entire school,’ I mutter, sorting through the notebooks, assembling a pile of notes on Rebecca and Martin. ‘And she thinks she’s so untouchable. Let’s see what secrets she has, huh?’
Dylan chuckles, picking up one of the notebooks and flipping through it.
‘Yeah, imagine if she knew you had Mr Campbell’s very own take on the tabloid right here,’ he replies. ‘I’m looking at some of them, and sometimes it’s nothing but speculation.’
‘Well, that’s exactly like a tabloid,’ I reply. ‘That newspaper clipping they showed about us was a complete work of fiction anyway, it’s win-win, it levels the playing field.’
That night, back in 2014, was a time when Dylan was really struggling. I was living in Leeds, he was in London, and while we saw each other as much as we could, and talked on the phone all the time, it was around this time that his drinking was getting worse, and he found himself in a bit of a mess.
Everything is clear to see, when you’re looking back at it, but when it’s all going on right there in front of your face it can be harder to make out.
Things took a turn when Crystal Slater came on to the scene, telling Dylan that she was pregnant with his twins, and his record label hired that absolute moral crusader of a moron to handle his publicity – Charles, the guy who managed to talk Dylan into marrying Crystal, even though he didn’t love her, because it was the ‘right thing to do’. Of course, in a twist of events that surprised absolutely no one, it all turned out to be a grift, the kids weren’t his, and his marriage ended almost immediately.
The picture of us that wound up on the front page of the Daily Scoop was taken after he got married, but before the babies came. He turned up at my office one evening, in a panic, saying he couldn’t handle it. So, I took him on a night out, and I gave him a pep talk, and I told him to go give family life a go. I got through to him, he was willing to go back and try, but that picture hit the front page before he got the chance. It makes me so cross because he was really struggling that night, he was in a really bad place, mentally, but that doesn’t matter to a tabloid like the Scoop.
There were a few stories about me after that – me, a nobody – it was almost as though the Scoop were trying to break me. They tried to break Dylan, many times – in fact, it was stories in the Scoop that brought about our falling-out. I really, truly hate them, and I hate Rebecca, for putting that photo up for everyone to see, and I’m going to find something out about her right now.
I take another swig from the bottle of champagne. Okay, let’s do this.
‘Right, let’s start with this one,’ I say, clearing my throat, ready to read aloud. ‘“Rebecca and Martin Rollins are up to something. Guests to the house are frequent, in groups, and not their usual crowd.”’
‘Well, that’s interesting,’ Dylan says.
‘Indeed,’ I reply, skimming the page for the next juicy bit. ‘“It all makes sense. It’s the pineapple, the pineapple is the key – and it’s where they hide their key too. That ornamental stone pineapple on their doorstep, so unassuming, and yet a clear signal to those who know. Rebecca and Martin Rollins are swingers.”’
I practically scream the last sentence.
‘No!’ Dylan says.
‘That’s what it says,’ I tell him, smiling the widest smile I have ever smiled. ‘Hang on, let’s see.’
I skim the pages, a little more than tipsy, but not at all mistaken. Mr Campbell’s notes are crystal clear, and his mind was totally made up on the pair.
‘So, da da da,’ I say, skipping over a page or so. ‘Okay, so: “Can a swinger cheat? I’m sure that’s the very point, in groups, and all is forgiven. But there is one man, the one with the beard, who is visiting more frequently – visiting alone, and while Martin is at work. I have never trusted that woman.”’
I take another swig, jigging my body with joy, delighted to learn that Mrs Perfect might not be so perfect after all. I mean, if you want to swing, do it, be you, have at it – and congratulations on finding more than one person who wants to sleep with you because, historically, I’ve always found getting one good one to be a challenge – but don’t come over all moral and smug and judge other people. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw big stone pineapples.
The champagne swishes around in the bottle a little too violently and fizzes up. Well, that serves me right, for taking so much joy in someone else’s chaos. Unsurprisingly, placing my mouth over the bottle doesn’t help to contain it, and I spill it all down my jumpsuit.
‘Shit,’ I say, jumping up. ‘Is this karma?’
Dylan laughs.
‘I mean, were you planning on sharing this information with anyone?’ he asks.
‘Nah,’ I admit. ‘I just thought it might make me feel better, to know their dirt too. They don’t need to know that I know.’
‘There you go then,’ he replies with a smile. ‘Somehow I didn’t think you would.’
‘What can I say? I’m a softie,’ I tell him. ‘I’m also soaking wet.’
Dylan whips off his T-shirt and throws it at me. I use it to try to soak up some of the champers but it’s no good. I’m soaking and I’m sticky.
‘I’ll nip to the bathroom,’ I tell him, wobbling on my feet a little. ‘Feel free to put all the books back – it turns out I’m not as spiteful or as vengeful as I’d hoped.’
‘Okay,’ Dylan says with a chuckle. ‘Can you bring me the face wipes, from the bathroom, please? The girl who did my make-up gave me them to remove my scar. I’m probably safe to take it off now, right?’
I laugh.
‘Yeah, it’s still creeping me out,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of it.’
I head into the avocado-green bathroom where I quickly strip down to my underwear. My jumpsuit – what little there was of it, anyway – is soaking wet, there is no salvaging it without leaving it to dry. So I run some toilet roll under the tap and do my best to wipe down my sticky body, and then I dry it, and then I just stare at myself in the mirror for a second and laugh. This really isn’t how I saw tonight ending. I guess I’d better ask Dylan for a T-shirt or a hoodie, and maybe some trackies if he has some, so that I can put some actual clothes on. But, to ask him, I need to head back out there in my underwear, but it’s not a big deal, it’s Dylan, we were best friends, he’s seen me in my underwear before – it’s just par for the course, for everyone, on tour. Hmm, why do I feel nervous then? I zhuzh my hair a little – it looks a bit flat, from being inside my wig all evening – and check to make sure my make-up still looks okay. Then I grab Dylan his face wipes and head back to the bedroom, as confidently as I can, because if I don’t make it weird, then it isn’t weird.
As I walk back into the room, I notice the look on Dylan’s face immediately. I tip my head, curiously, but then I realise this is about more than me spooking him with my bra. Something is really wrong.
‘What?’ I prompt him. ‘What is it?’
‘Come here,’ he says, patting the space on the bed next to him.
I do as he says in an instant, handing him the face wipes, which he promptly uses. Oh, God, what does he have to tell me that is so bad he doesn’t think he should do it with face paint on?
‘What’s up?’ I ask him again. ‘You’re freaking me out.’
‘I don’t know how to tell you this,’ he begins softly. ‘I was moving the journals when a photo fell out of one. It’s of Rowan.’
‘Right, okay,’ I say. ‘So, what, Mr Campbell knew about the scam? Do you think he told anyone?’
Dylan takes an open journal from the bedside table.
‘Do you want me to read it to you?’ he asks. ‘Or…’
‘It’s okay, I’ll read it,’ I say anxiously. He’s really scaring me now.
I take the book from him – the log on me and Rowan – and read. Looking at the dates, it’s obvious this is about the scam, it’s dated not too long before I found out for myself. It says:
Nicole, kind Nicole, one of the only good ones on the street. These logs are for me, to keep a watch over the neighbourhood, and for future generations long after us to learn from. They were never meant for sharing and yet I must share my findings with Nicole, because Rowan is deceiving her. She needs to know. Of course, I can’t tell her, so, next time she brings me some shopping I will invite her in, and I will place the photograph in her bag, and she will have all the proof she needs. Rowan is betraying her. He is having an affair.
My heart sinks as those last five words blindside me. This isn’t about the scam at all. Rowan was cheating on me.
‘There’s a photo?’ I prompt Dylan, my voice cracking.
‘Yeah,’ he says softly.
‘Can I see it?’ I ask.
‘Are you sure?’ he replies. ‘You two are already over, right? You don’t need to see, you know he’s a bastard.’
‘Yeah, I just… I think I need to see how much of a bastard he is,’ I reply.
Dylan takes the photo out from under his pillow and there he is, Rowan, standing on our doorstep, locking lips with none other than Carrie. So my intuition was right, he was having an affair with her, they just also happened to be running a scam too. Incredible. Just when I think he can’t hurt me any more.
‘How could I be so stupid?’ I say.
‘You weren’t stupid,’ Dylan insists, taking my hand in his. ‘You trusted someone, there’s nothing wrong with that – he’s the stupid one.’
‘I mean, yeah, he’s a fucking idiot,’ I agree. ‘But I knew he wasn’t right for me. I knew he wasn’t the one. He was nice, he had a job, he had kids, he was a pillar of the community. He seemed like a catch, the kind of guy you were supposed to settle down with, and yeah, things were pretty flat between us, but that’s realistic, isn’t it? He didn’t set my skin on fire when he touched me, but I thought that was normal, I thought that only happened with…’
I pause for a second. I can’t say that.
‘I didn’t think you could have fire, with the kind of guy you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with,’ I say instead.
‘Sometimes the wrong ones look like the right ones,’ he tells me simply. ‘It’s easy for me to look at him and see a terrible person. The kind of guy who would rip you off, cheat on you – turn up to a party dressed as an addict for a laugh.’
I hold my breath for a second. I’ve never heard him use the A word before.
‘I’m so, so sorry for that,’ I tell him. ‘I had no idea he was going to do that – I didn’t ask him what he was wearing. I don’t even talk to him any more. But that was so, so unforgivably cruel of him and I will never, ever forgive him. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ he tells me, squeezing my hand. ‘There will always be people who write you off, based on your past mistakes, even when you’re trying to change. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be better. What does bother me is that, in the face of all of this, you’re worrying about me.’
I sigh, lying back on the bed, exhaling deeply as I try to push all of the stress out of my body.
‘I suppose, because I knew I wasn’t in love with him, I shouldn’t care,’ I say. ‘But, going off Mr C’s dates, Rowan did it when we were still together, when – okay, I wasn’t the happiest – but I thought we were happy. We were settled and committed, and while that picture was being taken I was probably looking after his kids.’
I close my eyes to try to stop the tears from escaping but it’s no good. I feel them run from my eyes, down to my ears.
My eyes still tightly closed, I feel Dylan lie down next to me. Then I feel his hand on my bare stomach. As he gently strokes my skin, he sings to me quietly. It’s his soft, paced-down take on ‘The Power of Love’ by Huey Lewis and the News – one of my favourite songs.
It’s been years since he did this, since he sang me to sleep when I was having a bad day, and not only does it work just as well as it used to do, instantly calming me down, but there it is, that feeling, that fire when he touches me, like he’s holding a naked flame against my skin.
And I’ve never felt it with anyone but him.
28
I’m awake, and not just because it’s morning, but because I am well and truly awake – my eyes have been opened.
After giving myself the time to feel sad last night, I’ve woken up with a clarity that’s surging through me like a triple shot of caffeine. It practically fuels my steps as I march across the road to Rowan’s house.
The funny thing is that, before, when I broke up with Rowan over his ridiculous scam, I often wondered if I’d made the right call. Back then, part of me questioned whether I was too harsh or if I was just looking for an excuse to call things off because the butterflies and the fireworks weren’t there. But now, after knowing he cheated on me, there’s no going back. What Rowan did, the whole package of arseholery, has killed any lingering feelings I had left for him. I’ve been cheated on before, I didn’t care for it, and I vowed I’d never put up with it again. So I have whizzed through the stages of grief, and now my mourning is complete (I highly recommend the fast-track service), and all that is left to do now is to tell him to go fuck himself. One final time.
This morning, waking up in bed with Dylan, it didn’t feel strange at all. It felt oddly comforting, like he’s my protector, one who isn’t going to let anything bad happen to me on his watch.
I’m grateful that today is the big day, the day the band hits the road for their mini-tour to support their big announcement, and I’m going with them. Escaping this place, getting away from Rowan for a few days while I figure out my next move, is exactly what I need right now. Time and space to devise a plan. But for now, it’s time to end this once and for all.
I stride into the house, making my way straight upstairs. Rowan must hear me from the kitchen because he is hot on my heels, I’m only in the bedroom for a few seconds before he appears.
‘Decided to come home, did you?’ Rowan says, sarcasm oozing from his words. ‘I take it you stayed with him, and those are his clothes you’re wearing.’
‘You’re not as stupid as you look,’ I reply. ‘Where are the kids?’
‘They’re still asleep,’ he replies.
‘Okay, I’ll make this quick,’ I say as I grab a suitcase and start stuffing it with my things.
‘Whoa, okay, what are you doing?’ he asks, genuinely puzzled, and clearly alarmed by the sight of my suitcase. ‘You’re the one who was keeping secrets from me – I should be throwing you out.’
‘You think?’ I reply, pulling out the photo from my pocket and lightly slapping it onto his chest, right over his heart. He takes it, his expression darkening as he looks at it, as he realises what it is.
‘It’s not… it’s not what it looks like,’ he stammers.
‘As incredible as it would be to hear you come up with a remotely plausible explanation for this photo, I’m really not interested,’ I say, my tone ice-cold.
‘Okay, look, maybe I overreacted about the newspaper thing,’ he tries to explain. ‘I was helping Rebecca and Lisa with the slideshow for the fundraiser, and it came out that Lisa remembered you from the news, because she was such a huge fan of Dylan’s. I was hurt that you didn’t tell me, and I went along with the plan, but, okay, I appreciate what you’re saying, a photo can look bad, even when it isn’t.’
I return from the en suite with the bathroom essentials I need, giving him a filthy look that quickly transforms into a burst of laughter.
‘Okay, but here’s the thing,’ I begin, my tone somewhere between amused and exasperated. ‘In the picture of me and Dylan, we were on the floor, okay? We were on the floor together, fair enough, but I can think of a whole bunch of reasons why that might happen that aren’t remotely sexual – including the truth, which is that we fell. But in your photo, the one of you and Carrie, you are kissing. Kissing. Your lips are touching. There’s no excuse, and even if there was, guess what? I don’t care. You could have been sucking venom from a sting on her lips to save her life, and I would not care. It wouldn’t make me want you again. You have behaved so terribly, and so disrespectfully, at pretty much every opportunity. So, I’ve cleaned up your mess – you’re welcome – and now I’m going to go. I’m going away for a few nights, with Dylan, and then I’m coming back to get the rest of my things, and then I’m gone for good. It’s time we ended this.’
