Ex in the City, page 20
‘I thought, seeing as though I’m running around after you, you might make a joke about me painting your toes,’ he explains. ‘It was just a cheap one, that they were selling off at the checkout, but I thought if you did mention it, it would be funny to have one.’
‘You thought of everything,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I’ll get us some drinks.’
I pop the bottle in my pocket so that I can pour myself a drink – a vodka and orange from the bar – and ask Dylan if I can get him anything.
‘A beer, please,’ he says. ‘The one with the blue label. I know you don’t know beer.’
I laugh.
‘I know I don’t like beer,’ I reply as I hand him his drink, but then something catches my eye. ‘Shit, the pan is smoking.’
Dylan grabs the pan from the hob, which only releases more smoke from under it.
‘Okay, this isn’t my fault,’ he says, coughing and laughing. ‘This must be a new pan – there’s a huge paper label underneath it.’
‘Geez, you can’t get service these days,’ I joke, but then I start coughing too.
‘Go out onto the balcony for a minute,’ he tells me. ‘Get some air, leave the door open to let the smell out. I’ll wave this towel around, before the smoke alarm starts.’
I do as I’m told, heading outside, taking a seat on one of the comfortable outdoor sofas. It’s a large, private terrace off the living space. I notice an outdoor heater above me so I click it on.
I don’t hear the smoke alarm, which is good for us, but kind of worrying generally.
Eventually, Dylan joins me with our drinks in his hands and a blanket tucked under his arm.
‘I didn’t burn the hotel down,’ he says proudly.
‘Yeah, you didn’t!’ I confirm with faux encouragement.
‘I did make it stink, though,’ he replies as he hands me my drink and takes a seat next to me. ‘Maybe we should give it a minute to air out, before we go back in.’
‘Sure,’ I reply, taking the blanket, covering myself with it. ‘I don’t mind that this isn’t my room now.’
Dylan laughs as he gets under the blanket on the sofa next to me.
‘How do we flag that the smoke alarm didn’t go off, without admitting that we almost started a fire?’ I ask. ‘It’s odd that it didn’t go off.’
‘You know what musicians are like, for tampering with smoke detectors,’ he reminds me. ‘Would you be surprised if a previous guest had messed with it?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you had stayed here in 2014 and done it yourself,’ I point out through a chuckle. ‘Of course, I would have been here, and I would have stopped you.’
‘Do you ever miss it?’ he asks. ‘The lifestyle, the touring, running around in a whirlwind of chaos with me?’
I laugh.
‘There are plenty of things that I miss,’ I tell him with a smile. ‘I miss the glamour of it all – all the nice places we would go, all the cool free stuff we would get. I miss eating Hawaiian pizza in your bunk while we watched that Tom Green movie everyone but us hated. I miss going out for dinner with you, and the way people would move heaven and earth to give us what we wanted, even if it was chicken nuggets in a five-star fish restaurant.’
Dylan laughs as he recalls the evening I’m referring to.
‘I miss being in your orbit,’ I continue, a little more seriously. ‘I miss the feeling of being around you. I miss the way you make me feel about myself, because, I don’t know, you make me feel like there is something there worth liking, even when I don’t think it myself. I miss having you to talk to. I miss having someone so on my wavelength that we always knew what the other person was going to say or do – before we knew it ourselves. Someone who knows me well enough to finish my…’
‘…Sandwiches?’ he jokes.
God, that’s exactly the same joke I would have made too.
Dylan looks into my eyes – not just into them, through them, peering into my soul.
‘I miss you too,’ he tells me. ‘I miss the way you can make anywhere feel like a home, whether it’s a hotel room or a tour bus. I miss your calming influence on me. I miss having someone who will tell me when I’m being a dickhead. I miss the smell of your perfume, the way it would always linger in a room after you’d gone, always leaving me wanting more. I miss having someone around who always likes me, even on my bad days. I miss watching you sleep, when you would drop off while we watched movies together, or when I would sing you to sleep if you’d had a bad day. I even miss painting your bloody toenails.’
My breathing is heavy and my heart is pounding, but even now I can laugh at that.
‘Did Rowan used to paint your toenails for you?’ he asks curiously.
I shake my head.
‘Did you ask him to?’ Dylan replies.
I shake my head again, only this time I reach into my pocket and take out the bottle of nail polish. Then I place it down on the table in front of Dylan, like a chess master making their final move, as if to say: Checkmate.
Dylan picks up the bottle and gets down on the floor in front of me. First he takes off my heels, then he gently takes one of my feet in his hands, lifting it into the air.
I can tell by the way he took off my shoes, and the way he’s touching me now, even though it’s only my foot, where he wants this to go. I show him that I want it too by using my free foot to run up and down his leg as he kneels in front of me.
Dylan’s expression doesn’t change at all. He lifts my foot to his face and begins to kiss my ankle. He slowly works his way up the inside of my leg, each kiss lasting longer, and being more passionate than the previous one. By the time he gets to the top of my thigh, he stops and looks up at me.
God, I want him – I need him, even. I don’t care if he shags me and then never speaks to me again (well, obviously I do, but you know what I mean), I just can’t spend another platonic second with him.
I lean forward and kiss him on the lips, slow and sensual for as long as I can take it, but this feeling inside me is too frantic not to give in to. As we kiss, he stands up, picking me up in his big, strong arms before he sits back down on the sofa and sits me down on top of him.
He’s got me now, I’m his, for whatever he wants. As I reach down and whip away his belt, I think about how, since the second he walked back into my life, doing this has been all I could think about – although, if I’m being honest (and I know it sounds bad), I can think of a few times, with Rowan, when I just closed my eyes and let my mind drift right back to LA.
It’s just like I remember it being, only better, that full-body fire from head to toe. Here, now, in the moment it’s hard to care about what this means for tomorrow. Tonight it’s all about the fire – it’s a good job the smoke detector is broken.
32
My eyes begin to open, ever so slowly, and then all at once when I suddenly remember where I am.
I’m in bed – in Dylan’s bed – with my head on his chest, and his big arm wrapped around me, holding me in place, and I’ve been here since we fell asleep (which, admittedly, probably wasn’t that long ago).
I notice his phone is ringing on the bedside table, which must have been what woke me up. A few seconds later it wakes him up and he finally releases me, leaning over to answer it.
‘Hello,’ he says, half asleep. ‘Oh, hi, Mitch… Yeah, I was asleep… Yeah, I know, but I bet they’re all in a worse state than me… What, really?… Okay, yeah, a signing sounds good… I’ll meet you in the breakfast room… Okay, bye.’
I feel like I work out everything I need to know from Dylan’s half of the conversation – well, everything except where I stand with Dylan, after last night. I’m terrified, waiting to find out.
‘Well, time to get up,’ Dylan says, his face serious and his tone abrupt, but his face dissolves into a mischievous smile. ‘But not just yet.’
Dylan springs into action, climbing on top of me, pressing his body down on mine as he gives me a big squeeze.
I let out an excited little squeak, not only because I love to feel his hands on me, or because I’m loving the one-on-one attention he’s showering me with, but because this feels real, he isn’t going anywhere, he’s here, in bed with me, the morning after. That’s got to mean something.
‘I don’t want to get up,’ he says with a pout. ‘I’d rather have breakfast in bed and spend the whole day here, with you, in this bed – although I could be convinced to move to the bathroom for a few rounds.’
I laugh. I can’t deny that I’m tempted to stay in bed with him too, but the reminder that the others are waiting for him – and that he has work to do – nudges me back to reality.
‘As much as I’d love that, it sounds like you’ve got fans to meet,’ I remind him.
Dylan leans in, planting a gentle kiss on my lips.
‘I thought you were my biggest fan,’ he jokes.
‘Well, after last night, you might just convince me,’ I reply.
‘I’ll have to try a bit harder, then,’ he says as he leans in for another one – this time he doesn’t stop.
I could definitely get used to starting my day like this.
33
I stand in the wings, my eyes glued to Dylan onstage. He’s giving it his all, and the crowd is loving it, drinking up every last drop of their encore. Dylan cradles his microphone stand, clutching it like it’s the most precious thing in the world. He leans into the mic, ready to unleash one of their classic hits.
Dylan looks ridiculously sexy under the blazing stage lights. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead and run down his neck, and it reminds me of last night. Our heated moments together still linger in my mind, and – not to sound like a psychopath –I can still remember what his skin smells like, and it gives me the raunchiest flashbacks.
I can’t help but let my mind wander, letting myself get lost in the music, watching him out there. I imagine lots of people in the audience are doing the same thing, I’m certainly not the only one who finds Dylan irresistible.
The sea of fans before the stage is filled with hundreds of women who would love nothing more than to get their hands on him. Exhibit A: the pairs of knickers that have found their way onto the stage during the performance.
My mind drifts to the earlier events of the day, when the boys did their signing. The hysteria around them was as intense as ever – worse, even. It was a madhouse, with hordes of eager fans lining up to meet the band and, as always, most of them had eyes only for Dylan.
I watched from the sidelines, my heart heavy with mixed emotions. One after another, women approached Dylan, their flirtatious smiles and batting eyelashes impossible to ignore. I lost count of the number of phone numbers they slipped him.
It was torture – especially after last night. It’s strange because I rarely felt jealous when I was with Luke, in fact, I don’t remember feeling it at all. Despite the relentless attention Luke received from female admirers, I never questioned his loyalty. He was mine, and I was his, and we trusted each other. But then of course, on the first tour he went on without me, he slept with anyone who was willing, so I suppose I’m not all that trusting in these situations any more.
It is also probably worth reminding myself that Dylan isn’t mine because, wow, listen to me – already. We had one (incredible) night together, but the last time we attempted something like this, it ended in disaster. I can’t let myself get carried away again.
The Burnouts’ performance leaves everyone buzzing as they finally leave the stage. The echoes of their music are still reverberating in the air as we’re ushered outside, towards the tour bus, so that we can get out of here before the venue lets the fans out too. There is nothing freakier than sitting on a bus that is being swarmed by fans, hoping they can’t get in, knowing you can’t get out, the bus being unable to move an inch.
As we approach the waiting tour bus, we notice something – a crowd of women, largely in their twenties, who are dressed more for a night out on the town than for a rock concert. It’s not just that their revealing dresses and glamorous make-up make them look less like most of the other fans, who all seem to be opting for band merch or nostalgic fashion – the kind of thing they were wearing last time around – it’s also the fact that real fans will still be in the building, if they were at the show.
I hang back, observing from a distance as the boys are immediately swarmed.
A confident blonde in a short red dress presents Mikey with her cleavage.
‘Mikey, will you sign my left boob?’ she asks him.
‘Of course, darling, I’d be delighted,’ Mikey replies playfully as he obliges.
‘Dylan?’ the blonde says.
‘Go on, bro, do the other one,’ Mikey says, nudging him.
‘Sure,’ Dylan says with a laugh, taking the pen, giving her his autograph.
I never understood the autographing of body parts. Surely it just washes off – unless of course you’re Cherry, the superfan, and you get it tattooed over. I always used to prefer getting CDs signed, but I appreciate that makes me sound old and outdated.
‘So, what are you doing now?’ the blonde asks them. ‘Are you going out-out?’
‘Nah, we’re throwing a huge party at the hotel, in Dylan’s suite,’ Mikey tells her. ‘He’s known for throwing legendary parties.’
‘Can we come?’ the blonde asks, trying her luck.
‘Of course you can,’ Mikey replies. He turns to Dylan. ‘Right, mate? The more the merrier.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Dylan says.
‘Okay then, but we need to move so, everyone on the bus,’ Mitch calls out.
Excitement fills the night air as the crowd of women excitedly piles on to the bus as Mitch herds them inside.
As I walk behind the boys, still a few paces away, I notice Mikey gives Dylan a knowing look.
‘I’m doing this for you, bro,’ I overhear Mikey encouraging Dylan with a wink.
I pile on with everyone else and find a spot on the sofa.
‘Do some of us need to go in the bunks?’ one girl suggests cheekily. ‘So that we all fit.’
‘There’s plenty of room, and the party is only a five-minute drive away,’ Mitch tells them with a laugh. ‘Let’s go.’
I slump back in my seat, like a moody teenager.
I can safely say that this aspect of tour life is one that I don’t miss, not one bit.
34
I thought people were supposed to calm down as they got older?
I know I have. In fact, Rowan used to tell me I had BGE – big grandma energy – but I think lots of women, as they arrive in their thirties, realise that there is a lot of value in embracing their inner granny.
Don’t get me wrong, I know I’d let things get a bit stale, and that my life before Dylan turned up was positively dull, but I’m not talking about that. What I’m on about are the little things, things that you wouldn’t necessarily dream of embracing in your twenties.
I mean, I would go out, multiple times a week, in absolutely minimal clothing – no matter what the weather. I would wear heels that made my feet ache, and talk to men who made my brain hurt, and I would ride out my hangover like it was a badge of honour.
These days, however, I have thoughts like: there’s a lot to be said for a good cardigan. I love a cardy, a big pair of fluffy socks, a huge cup of tea and a book. Imagine doing that on a cold November night, instead of traipsing out in the cold, in uncomfortable clothes, to get drinks spilt down you, and random men dry-humping you – unsolicited – on the dance floor.
Don’t get me wrong, I have been loving reliving my youth, and hanging out with the boys, going on nights out – but I’m starting to think that the reason I have been enjoying it is because it has felt special, a break from reality, something different for a change.
Thinking back, to the so-called good old days, I remember that nothing was special. Crazy nights, every night, getting drunk and staying that way for the whole tour – it’s like anything where, if you overdo it, it sort of ruins it. It’s sort of like when you have a gigantic bar of chocolate, and it’s amazing, but the second you eat too much it’s hard not to look at it, angrily, like it’s trying to ruin your life. Too much of anything is almost always a bad thing.
Of course I’m the only person here, at the party, who thinks this way. I never thought I would be the one sitting in the corner, watching everyone, feeling exhausted, willing time to go faster so that it can be over and we can go to bed.
Last night, Dylan’s suite was the sleek, boujee pad – this stunning love nest, where we had sex in every room, and we woke up to sheer luxury. Tonight it has been transformed into a den of hedonism – and a total shithole of one at that.
An array of multicoloured strobe lights darts around the room. The air is heavy with the thumping bass of music, laughter and the kind of conversation that makes you want to ram cocktail sticks into your ears.
People from all walks of life have gathered here. The guests are as diverse as the music because, for the last hour, Dylan and Mikey have been taking requests, Mikey playing the guitar while Dylan sings, and honestly they’ve covered a bit of everything.
Over at the bar area there is a self-designated mixologist, who is concocting the strongest drinks, and everyone is loving them, but the more they drink, the more boisterous the party gets.
The living room area, previously pristine, is now filled with dancing bodies, twisting and gyrating to the music.
The balcony door is wide open, allowing some fresh air to enter – it’s boiling in here – but only the smokers are stepping out there.
As Dylan sings ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, I notice the blonde – the one who invited herself and her friends to the party – invade the makeshift stage and hang off Dylan’s neck, as she joins him in screaming into the microphone. They’re just singing, just having a good time – I’m being ridiculous.
