Ex in the City, page 21
As the song ends, it’s Mikey who spots me. He comes over and sits down next to me, wrapping his arm around me, pulling me close. He holds my head on his chest, a little heavy-handedly, but he’s very drunk, he’s not exactly in control of his motor skills.
‘I never thought I would see Nicole Wilde looking grumpy at a party,’ he says.
‘Then you never looked hard enough, back in the day,’ I reply. ‘You guys have always been a pain in the arse.’
‘You love us really,’ he says, peppering my head with kisses.
I look over, to where I last saw Dylan, only to see him looking back at us. The blonde girl is telling him a story, and she couldn’t be more animated, but he’s looking over here, watching – almost as though he’s keeping an eye on us.
The blonde girl, unhappy that he isn’t watching her tell her tale, takes his face in her hand and turns him toward her.
‘Back in a bit,’ I tell Mikey.
I grab my drink and take it outside, to get a break from the music, and the smell of sweat, and the floor show.
As I pass the outdoor sofa, the spot where Dylan and I started heating things up last night, I can’t help but stare at it. There is a man sitting there though, and I accidentally make eye contact with him, so I quickly avert my gaze and head over to the glass balustrade, resting my forearms on it as I look out over the city.
Hang on a minute, that guy, the one on the sofa. He looks familiar, in fact, he looks like…
I feel a tap on my shoulder.
‘Jake!’ I squeak, grabbing my old friend, pulling him in for a hug, but then I push him away just as quickly, to look him up and down.
‘Nicole Wilde,’ he says with a laugh. ‘Some things never change.’
‘You change,’ I tell him, not quite making sense, but he knows what I mean.
I’m stunned. I used to work with Jake, when I first started out. He was the tech guy and he was so shy, and quiet, and nerdy. He didn’t care about the music industry, or celebrities, and he used to love making fun of me for how into it all I was. We were good friends, back in the day, but back then he was very much the kind of guy you would expect to work in a techy role – from the plaid shirt to the neat haircut – but not any more. Bloody hell, has everyone had a glow-up but me over the last ten years?
Jake’s look has totally evolved. His hair is dark, long on top, and blown back. He’s rocking the designer stubble, honestly, is there any man on this planet who doesn’t look ten times hotter with facial hair? He’s wearing black jeans, a T-shirt and a black leather jacket.
We never fell out or anything like that but, when I moved to London, and we no longer worked together or even lived in the same city, we just naturally drifted apart.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him.
‘Taz invited me,’ he replies. ‘We stayed in touch – he did the ink on my leg.’
Jake places his foot on a nearby plant pot and rolls up his trouser leg to show me his tattoos. Every inch of his leg – from his ankle to his knee – is covered in the most intricate design. I can’t resist dropping to my knees, to take a good look.
‘Wow,’ I say, taking it all in.
‘Erm, hi,’ Dylan says with a laugh as he joins us.
‘Oh, hello,’ I say, still on my knees. ‘You remember Jake, right?’
‘Of course,’ Dylan says as he reaches out to shake his hand. ‘All right, mate?’
I should probably get up from the floor, shouldn’t I?
I return to eye level, standing between them.
‘We were just catching up,’ I tell him. ‘It’s been a minute.’
‘Yeah, no worries, I was just coming to say we’re going to play beer pong in the bedroom, on that long desk – in case you’re looking for me,’ he explains. ‘I didn’t think you’d fancy it, seeing as though it’s beer, and technically sport…’
He laughs.
Dylan and I haven’t spent a second together at this party – in fact, this is the longest we’ve interacted since we got here. Everyone wants a piece of him. They want him to sing them a song, to talk to him, dance with him. Oh, and of course most of them are women.
‘Dylan, come on, strip beer pong,’ the blonde bellows out of the balcony doors.
I turn to look at him.
‘It’s not strip beer pong,’ he insists with a laugh. ‘But, even if it were, I’m too good at it to lose.’
‘Yeah, no worries, that’s fine,’ I say – not exactly sounding like it’s fine. ‘I was actually just going to ask Jake if he wanted to get out of here?’
The boys both look at me for a second. I turn to Jake, pretty much ignoring that Dylan is even standing there.
‘Do you want to get out of here?’ I say again. ‘We could go somewhere quieter, where we can actually hear one another without having to stand in the cold – it would be good to have a proper catch-up.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ he says. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Go enjoy your strip beer pong,’ I tell Dylan. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
Jake and I make a move, heading for the door, but Dylan takes my hand, holding me back for a moment.
‘Hey, you know you can trust me, right?’ he says with a smile. ‘This isn’t going to be like it used to be.’
‘Dylan,’ I hear the blonde screaming from inside.
‘Yeah, okay, sure,’ I reply. ‘I guess I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘You’re not coming back later?’ he replies.
‘Nah, I think I’ll just go to bed,’ I reply. ‘After I hang out with Jake for a bit.’
‘Okay, cool,’ Dylan says. He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. ‘See you later.’
I head inside, catching up with Jake, happy to have found an escape from the party that doesn’t simply involve going and sitting in my room, on my own, worrying about what is happening at the stupid party.
I want to trust Dylan, really, I do, but I’ve been here before and, so far, everything looks just like it used to, to me.
I guess I’ll just have to hope for the best and see what things are like in the morning.
Great.
35
Rubbing my temples to ward off the headache, I wake up in bed, in my own hotel room, with the slightest hangover – well, I didn’t drink too much last night, but it turns out it doesn’t actually take much these days.
The room is silent, the only light seeping in through the blackout curtains, where I didn’t quite close them properly, but I can tell it’s at least morning.
The ‘slight hangover’ intensifies a little, as I lift my head, reaching out to grab my phone. I need a bucket of water, a cup of tea and a big hug.
I felt a bit better last night, after bidding goodbye to the chaotic party, in favour of going for a catch-up with Jake. We ate pizza, had drinks, and we lost track of time as we chatted for ages, bringing each other up to date on our lives, and reminiscing about old times. But then, as I left him behind to return to the hotel, that niggling sense of unease lingered as I wondered how things were playing out at the party. Still, I tried my best to push it from my mind. I made myself a cup of tea, I got in bed and I watched TV until I fell asleep. I just kept telling myself not to worry about it, that he might not be doing anything all that bad.
The last thing I did, before I fell asleep, was to have a word with myself. ‘Don’t be so mental,’ I’d muttered under my breath, trying to calm my ridiculous imagination. It’s not the end of the world. Relax. Let Dylan do his own thing. He’s said you can trust him, so trust him.
It’s going to be strange, getting up, going down to breakfast, and then cracking on with the tour because the reality is that I am never going to know what went on last night. I’m sure everything will feel fine, and everyone will reassure me that it was fine and I’m supposed to, what? Believe them? Yep, I’m just going to have to believe them. Which, ladies and gentlemen, is the very definition of trust. I just need to trust him.
I squint at my phone, rub my eyes, and then try again.
What the hell?
The notifications seem endless, to the point where I wonder if something might be wrong with my phone. I haven’t seen it like this since… oh God.
I begin scrolling through the notifications. Multiple missed calls from Dylan and Rowan scream at me from the call log. The various messages and pings from different social media apps are relentless – more and more coming through as I’m staring at the screen.
But, amid it all, on thing stands out more than the others, a news alert for Dylan King. The headline reads:
Dylan King goes Wilde on tour.
My heart sinks, and a wave of sickness washes over me. Why is this happening again? Why do people have to drag my name into it? I’m not taking any blame for what the idiot does on tour. Okay, I’m the person who is supposed to be keeping his image on track, but I will murder him if this has repercussions for my business because I am not the ringmaster of this shitty circus.
With trembling fingers, I open the article, and for a moment, I’m suspended in a bittersweet haze. The blonde in the photo isn’t me – a small relief, but one that is most definitely short-lived.
My heart shatters when I read the subheading:
Dylan King in drug-fuelled romp with old flame… and it’s only day two of the tour.
The photo shows a blonde woman, from behind, sitting on top of a dark-haired man. You can’t see their faces, or any real distinguishing features, but you can tell that they’re both naked, on a bed, having sex. If I didn’t recognise the hotel room, I would definitely spot Dylan’s leather jacket on the chair next to the bed – and the article has gone to the trouble of pointing it out, showing that it is the same one he wore on stage last night, so that’s super helpful. Empty booze bottles and various illegal substances are clearly visible on the bedside table. The photo has sex, drugs and rock and roll – that’s bingo.
It isn’t me in the photo, I know that much – obviously. But my eyes squint at the man in the background, blurred and distant. Is there a chance it’s not him? My heart races. Please don’t let it be him for, I don’t know, about fifty different reasons.
I skim-read the article which – you’ve got to hand it to the Daily Scoop – they’ve got online lightning-fast. I miss the days when you could only be exposed in sync with the news cycle because this is online already and… oh my God. They’ve got a quote from Dylan.
I close my eyes for a second, scared to look, because for all of my worrying about what happened last night, and the question marks I was going to have to accept if I wanted to trust him, I can’t be sure if reading what he has to say is going to make it better or worse.
I read it, and it makes it worse, so much worse.
In response to the question, asking him if it is him in the photo and how he feels, Dylan said: ‘What I do on tour is my own business. Photos like this are unacceptable. No one should have their privacy breached like this.’
Well, that’s that then. If it wasn’t him, he would deny it. He’s not wrong, that the photo is a huge breach of privacy but – honestly? – I’m glad it exists, and that it was printed. It was so, so stupid of me to think that a man like Dylan could change. I love him, so much – too much, probably – but he’s never going to be the kind of man I can be with.
As devastated as I am, I should be grateful for the clarity. I’m too old for this shit. I’ve outgrown this lifestyle, the silly boys, the crazy nights. I shouldn’t be here, participating in this crap, I should go home. Well, the closest thing I have to one right now.
36
Rowan greets me at the front door. It’s late – the boys will most definitely be asleep – but from the look on his face I can tell that he wants to talk, so it’s probably for the best.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing springs to mind. Before I have a chance to figure it out, Rowan grabs me and pulls me close. He hugs me, and it is warm, and comforting, and everything I need right now.
I relax in his arms, his familiar embrace soothing me.
‘Come on,’ he says as he releases me. ‘Let’s sit down, in the lounge. Let’s talk.’
I abandon my bags in the hall. I’m knackered, after one hell of a draining day.
The first thing I did, after I saw the messages, was call the hotel and see if I could book my room for another night – which thankfully I could. It wasn’t that I wanted to stay another night, far from it, but I was too scared to leave the room. I worried that there might be paparazzi lingering around, and that I might bump into one or, worse, that I might bump into Dylan or anyone else on the tour.
So the plan was to hole up there, to wait it out for a few hours, wait for it to get dark and then head home with minimal attention. I guess it worked, no one spoke to me, although I was paranoid the whole time, wondering if people were staring at me, if they recognised me from the online article. Anyway, I’m here now.
‘Let me start by saying this,’ Rowan begins, taking a deep breath. ‘I have, well and truly, monumentally fucked up. I’ve been stupid. I got caught up in some stupid scheme, I put myself, you and our entire family at risk. And I let myself get manipulated by Carrie – she didn’t want me, it was all part of the plan, to get me involved. But still, there are no excuses, and no apologies that will ever come close to making this right, and I am certain that you will never forgive me. But I’m willing to try, to spend every day, for the rest of my life, making it up to you. I love you, the boys love you – we will love you forever. But, if you decide that we are not what you want, that’s okay too. There will always be a place for you here, even if it’s just to visit. You can see the boys anytime you want, no matter what. But I hope you come back to me, I hope you stay, I hope you give me another chance.’
I give him a slight smile. It’s a huge relief, to hear that I can see the kids no matter what happens, because the thought of suddenly up and leaving them, of never seeing them again, it’s one of the reasons I stuck it out as long as I did.
Wouldn’t it be nice to believe him, to forgive him, to try to get our family back on track? If being with Dylan again – even briefly – has taught me anything it’s that the fireworks just aren’t worth it, they’re not realistic – or, at the very least, they come at a huge cost. I want to believe that the people we ultimately settle down with are the big, amazing loves of our lives, the ones who give us fireworks, who set our skin on fire with their touch, the people who the butterflies just never wear off with… but the kind of people who give us the above are never the ones who actually settle down.
If you want the explosions then you need to accept the noise, the mess, the casualties. Maybe I was silly, to dismiss Rowan so quickly, to feel so apathetic when we were together – even before the mess. It doesn’t change what he did, and I don’t think I can ever forgive him, or get that trust back. It’s almost funny, in a world where it seems like no one can be trusted, who do you give your heart to? Perhaps it’s best I don’t give it to anyone.
‘Rowan, even if I could forget about all of that, I still can’t get over what you did at the fundraiser,’ I tell him. ‘You’re telling me you made a mistake, that you got caught up in a moment. But what happened at the fundraiser was different, it was cold and calculated and cruel.’
‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ he says. ‘I was ambushed, by the mums, when they presented me with all this information about you and Dylan. I was hurt that you didn’t tell me, and watching the two of you getting closer again terrified me – not just because I thought I was going to lose you, to him, but because I was scared he was going to hurt you. And I suppose he has.’
‘Hmm,’ I say simply. ‘You saw the article then.’
‘I did,’ he replies. ‘And, look, I’m not exactly happy about that article being out there, but I know you, so well, and I know you would never touch a drug.’
‘Thanks,’ I say softly.
It is nice, that he knows me like that, that he can just look at it and know that it’s not me.
‘I know you won’t have touched them, and, as far as Dylan goes, look, I hurt you, I cheated on you – I don’t like it, but if we can say we’ve levelled the playing field—’
‘Wait, what do you mean?’ I interrupt him.
‘I mean, you sleeping with Dylan, I don’t like it, but it seems to me like he set his sights on you from the day he arrived here, and I don’t blame you, for going for it,’ he explains.
‘You can tell that’s me in the photo?’ I check.
‘Well, I can, Nicole, I know your body like the back of my hand,’ he tells me with a smile, like it’s some kind of compliment. ‘But I don’t think anyone else is going to know for sure and, even if they thought they did, I don’t care. It’s our business, not theirs. I can find a way past this, if you can.’
I sigh. Obviously I plan on clearing my name but, I don’t know, part of me hoped that Rowan really would know, deep down, that I would never be involved in a ‘drug-fuelled romp’ at a party.
‘I think I need to get some sleep,’ I tell him. ‘Clear my head.’
‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘But think about what I said. Whatever you want to do, I respect it.’
Rowan takes my face in his hands and places a light peck on my lips.
I head back to the hall, grab my case and head upstairs.
It makes me sad that he couldn’t just tell from looking at that photo that it wasn’t me. It was so clearly the blonde girl, the one who invited herself and her friends to the party – although I spent most of the night, while I was there, looking at the back of her head, so perhaps that’s why it is so obvious to me.
Could I track her down? I’m sure I could channel my inner journalist, if I wanted to, although I didn’t get her name, so I wouldn’t know where to begin – and do I even care? It would be good (to say the least) to clear my name, but what’s the point? I cleared my name before, and people still dragged it up years later, and as far as Dylan goes, well, if it’s another decade before I see him again, I can’t say I’ll be disappointed.
