Ex in the City, page 9
Lisa comes running toward us, her face bright red as she bounds over like a hyperactive spaniel – confirming for me that when I met her earlier in the week and she thought she knew me, it probably was because she was a Dylan King fan.
I accept that I am affiliated with Dylan again, for lack of a better term, but I still desperately don’t want anyone to recall why Lisa might remember me. My brief run-in with the tabloid press – with personal photos of me gracing the pages – was nothing but a big misunderstanding. Of course, if you only look at the first story they printed, and not the one where I proved my innocence, it looks bad. The last thing I need is for that scandal to rear its ugly head. No one in this village will care that I cleared my name, only that it got muddied in the first place.
‘You’re Dylan King,’ Lisa informs him, rather pointlessly.
It’s amazing how many people remind Dylan who he is – then again, back in the day, he often forgot.
‘I am,’ he says with a smile.
‘I was in love with you,’ she informs him, before leaning in closer, lowering her voice. ‘I still am.’
‘That’s very nice of you to say,’ he replies politely – a phrase he always used to use to reply to fans declaring this, and probably women he’s dated too.
‘Dylan,’ another voice calls out. ‘Dylan, hello.’
It’s Jo Morgan, the boys’ head teacher, who cannot hide her delight to be seeing Dylan again.
‘We were hoping we might see you again,’ she says, confirming my thoughts. ‘I was going to ask Nicole if you might be in the area for any length of time.’
Dylan looks at me before answering the question.
‘Yeah, sticking around for a little while,’ he replies.
Jo’s enthusiasm is palpable.
‘The reason I ask… The children – the older children, that is, this is an all-through school – were so excited for their musical this year,’ she explains. ‘However, their music and drama teacher, Ms Telford, is off sick – we don’t know for how long. What the kids need is some musical direction, even if it’s just a talk, to help get the show back on the road.’
Dylan looks at me for guidance, and I nod with an encouraging smile. Helping the kids with their musical could only generate positive publicity – and it would genuinely help them out too.
‘Okay, sure,’ Dylan says.
‘Okay, sure?’ Jo repeats in astonishment. ‘What shall I put you down for? A pep talk? A one-off lesson?’
‘Happy to help in any way I can,’ he says generously, but oh-so casually. ‘I could meet the kids, see where they’re at, maybe do a few rehearsals with them? That way, they can get everything together, and it’s just a case of practising it until it’s time to perform.’
Jo claps her hands so loudly that one of the older women at the other side of the playground ducks.
‘The show will go on,’ she declares. ‘We were going to have a Parents and Teachers Society meeting in the morning – do you think you can attend?’
‘I’ll be there,’ Dylan agrees. ‘Can Nic come too?’
‘Of course, she would be more than welcome,’ Jo replies. ‘I’ve been trying to get Ms Wilde to join PATS for some time now.’
I force a smile. Even the fact they call it ‘pats’ annoys me – I’ve avoided it like the plague.
‘Marvellous, just marvellous,’ Jo continues. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to collect your children, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Can I charge you extra for this?’ I jokily ask Dylan once we’re alone.
‘Sure,’ he says through a laugh. ‘I actually think it might be fun.’
‘The mums aren’t all as friendly as Lisa,’ I warn him.
Eventually, Archie and Ned come charging over to us.
‘Dylan,’ Archie exclaims excitedly.
‘Hey, dude,’ Dylan greets him. ‘Good day?’
‘It was okay,’ Archie replies.
‘Make any more music?’ Dylan asks him.
‘No, our music teacher has bluemonia,’ Archie replies.
‘Do you mean pneumonia?’ I correct him.
Archie shrugs in indifference.
‘That’s what Bolt’s mum says,’ he informs us.
‘Bolt,’ Dylan says to himself, obviously having never heard of a child with that name before. Honestly, after a few years here, I don’t think there is a single name that could surprise me any more.
‘Yeah, well, Bolt’s mum diagnosed me as “melancholic” when I had a bit of a limp from twisting my ankle,’ I say. ‘So I’d take what she says with a pinch of salt.’
‘Or sugar,’ Dylan adds, referring to the sugar incident at dinner last night.
‘Or sugar,’ I confirm with a smile.
‘Maybe I can give you some music lessons,’ Dylan suggests to Archie.
‘Really?’ Archie squeaks, excitement surging inside him. ‘I want to be a drummer.’
‘Really,’ Dylan replies, then he turns his attention to Ned. ‘What about you, little dude?’
‘Yeah,’ Ned says, agreeable as ever, joining in the excitement.
As we reach the car, I stop suddenly in my tracks.
‘No car seats!’ I exclaim. ‘They have to be in car seats.’
‘Then we’ll walk,’ Dylan says simply.
He takes Ned and lifts him onto his shoulders.
‘Which way, little dude?’ he asks him.
‘That way.’ Ned points confidently.
I smile.
‘Come on then, Archie.’ I offer my hand. ‘I guess we’re walking.’
‘Okay,’ Archie says. ‘Can Dylan come for dinner again?’
‘We’ll see,’ I reply. I’m not sure how into the idea Rowan would be.
‘I really like having him around,’ Archie confides in me.
‘So do I,’ I confess, knowing my revelation won’t go any further.
I do, though. I really do. In fact, I love it.
14
I sigh heavily. I used to love coming here, to The Old Heifer, an upmarket pub and restaurant on the outskirts of Little Harehill, back when things were good between me and Rowan. The boys love it too, and they usually find restaurants boring, but it could have something to do with the huge play area outside.
The casual, friendly atmosphere wraps around us as we all sit around our usual table. Archie and Ned fidget in their seats, polishing off the last of their chicken nuggets and chips, eager to go out and play as they often do before dessert.
Is it odd, that I’m going to miss the routine? I know, routine is boring, but there’s something sort of nice about doing something that works. I’ve always loved bringing the boys here, seeing them enjoy their food, and the play area, and the ice cream station they have where kids can concoct their own creations. I don’t suppose I’ll ever enjoy it again, not in the way I used to. I mean, look at this evening, we’re only here so that Rowan can take some pictures for his socials.
Rowan is on top form, armed with his phone, taking photos of every dish, of me, of the boys, of me and the boys – he even has a particular waiter, who he keeps getting to take candid photos of us. I’m no stranger to snapping a photo of my food, before I tuck in, but having someone take my photo while I’m eating makes it hard to relax.
‘Smile, everyone!’ Rowan insists as the waiter snaps another group shot.
I force myself to smile. I can’t have many of these left to do now.
‘Okay, boys, why don’t you go hit up the play area while Nicole and I finish our food,’ Rowan tells them. ‘I’ll come and get you, when it’s time for ice cream.’
‘Okay,’ Archie says, speaking on behalf of them both.
‘Let’s let them burn off some energy,’ he says to me with a smile, now that it’s just the two of us.
I smile back dutifully as Rowan extends an arm, to take a selfie of us. But once the photo is captured, and his phone is back on the table, he looks at me with a sincerity that catches me off guard.
‘Nicole, I’m sorry,’ he tells me. ‘I overreacted about Dylan showing up. It’s just… it was a big shock, that’s all. Yes, I still find it strange, that you never told me the two of you were friends, and it’s bloody odd that he’s just moved in across the road but, yeah, I get that this is your job, and it’s important to you, and you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.’
I appreciate him saying that, even if he is still banging on a little.
‘Thank you,’ I say simply, willing to be a grown-up about it. ‘It is work – like how this is work for you, so I’m here, supporting you.’
Rowan’s smile returns, a genuine one this time, as he looks past me. Suddenly, a waiter appears, carrying a chilled bottle of champagne which he places down in front of us.
‘For the happy couple,’ the waiter says.
Before I can say a word, a guitarist appears alongside our table, playing a medley of love songs on his acoustic as he sings the words – directing his set point-blank at me and Rowan.
Rowan reaches out across the table, taking my hand in his.
Oh, boy, is this awkward. Not only because, obviously, Rowan and I are no longer romantically involved, but also because it’s uncomfortable, having someone play music just for us, up close, while everyone else in the room stares at us. I don’t know where to look. Glancing around reminds me of all the eyes on us, I don’t want to look at Rowan, and looking at the young man playing guitar while he sings is just cringe in a way I can’t explain.
Just when I think it can’t get any more surreal, I notice the waiter – the one who has been taking photos for Rowan all evening – discreetly recording the entire performance. My cringe intensifies, but I’ve got to keep my game face on, I just need to stick this out, it will be over soon.
Rowan tightens his grip on my hand.
‘Nicole, I love you,’ he tells me, and I’m not sure if he means it, or if it is for the cameras, but I can’t bring myself to say it back. ‘You’re my world, and I’d do anything for you. You know that, right?’
I smile and nod.
‘I mean it,’ he insists. ‘I am going to give you the best life, if you’ll let me.’
A spark of panic ignites inside me as Rowan reaches into his pocket. My mind races, my God, tell me he isn’t about to pull out a ring, because, let’s face it, that’s exactly the kind of thing Rowan would do.
Panicking at the prospect of Rowan giving me a ring, my mind races faster than my heartbeat.
‘I’m just nipping to the loo,’ I say, jumping to my feet, ready to dash off before he can even get his hand out of his pocket.
However – and this is just classic me – I’m in such a hurry that I’m not looking where I am going, so I collide with a waiter who was carrying two bowls of ice cream. The key word there being ‘was’ – they’re on the floor now. The guitarist stops abruptly and, if Rowan was going to pull something from his pocket, he’s clearly changed his mind now.
‘Oh, my goodness, I am so sorry,’ I tell the waiter.
‘Not to worry,’ the waiter kindly reassures me. ‘I can take care of it.’
‘One for the out-takes, hmm?’ I say to Rowan, laughing awkwardly as I try in vain to lighten the situation. ‘I’ll be back in a sec – and I’ll bring the boys for their dessert.’
I dash off, before he can say anything, retreating to the sanctuary of the ladies’.
I don’t know for sure that Rowan was going to propose and, even if he was, I wouldn’t know if he was doing it for show, or because he really wanted to. I guess, with someone like Rowan, you can never really know what they’re doing for show, and what is genuine.
Either way, though, best not to risk it. And it’s not like I’m going to be coming back here, is it? Not now that my days in Little Harehill are numbered.
15
There’s a reason I didn’t want to join PATS. Actually, there are several, but Rebecca bloody Rollins and her gaggle of mum minions – mumnions? – are right up there at the top.
Rebecca lives on our street, just a couple of doors away, and everything is a competition to her. Like, I never knew I was signed up for some sort of front door contest, or when she got their side hedges trimmed, and she spent two weeks berating our hedges – as though I gave a shit?
Honestly, I hate that I am forced to compete in such stupid things, whether I want to or not. It’s easier to care less these days, knowing that my days here are numbered, but when I thought that this was it, for the rest of my life, wow. Sometimes I would literally count down the days until the boys would finish school, so that we could move away.
Today I am at the boys’ school, surrounded by a mix of parents and teachers for the Parents and Teachers Society meeting, all gathered to discuss the musical that was teetering on the brink of cancellation until Dylan stepped in.
Around the table, we have the ever-present Rebecca, her loyal sidekicks, Jo, the head teacher, John, another teacher, and a couple of other parents I recognise but don’t really know. They all sip tea from cups with saucers and nibble on minuscule cakes – the kind where you need to eat about five to feel like you’ve had one. I can’t believe I’m at a PATS meeting, after all this time.
Dylan is in the next room, the drama studio, with the kids, having a chat with them about their progress so far, and what they think they can do moving forward. He’s actually way into this, I’m really surprised.
‘So, you and Dylan are old friends?’ Jo asks curiously.
‘Yes, since we were kids, really,’ I reply.
Well, not really really. I was technically a teenager when I met Dylan, but bending the truth like this sounds so much more wholesome, doesn’t it?
Rebecca, ever the sceptic, raises an eyebrow.
‘So, he just, what, visits and helps you with the school run now and then?’ she probes further.
‘He isn’t here to help with the school run,’ I insist, laughing her comment off.
‘And yet I’ve seen him here at the school with you three times in three days,’ Rebecca points out. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you and Rowan together three times this year.’
Well, yes, that’s true, I suppose, but that’s obviously because Rowan and I are like strangers now, and it’s intentional on my part. I do everything I can to avoid being around him. Thankfully, showing my face in his photos is enough to convince people that we’re still together. It’s amazing, really, what people will believe, just because they see it on the internet.
‘That’s probably because I murdered him,’ I say deadpan, but with a flicker of mischief in my eyes. ‘That’s why Dylan is here, to help me bury him under the patio.’
For a brief moment, everyone just stares at me.
‘Or he’s an old friend, and he’s visiting, with no mysterious reason, no ulterior motive, and nothing that warrants any kind of conversation,’ I add.
Jo holds her silence for a few more seconds before laughing wildly, encouraging most of the others to join in.
Sassiness isn’t rewarded in this village, in fact it’s usually punished. But, come on, Rebecca is being a bit much today.
‘While we’re waiting for Dylan, why don’t we talk about the fundfair for the production?’ Jo suggests.
It’s baffling that this school, which costs a small fortune per term, still heavily relies on fundraisers and donations. They call it a ‘fundfair’, but it’s just another tactic to bleed more money from the parents. Extracurricular activities are quite clearly extra on top of the big bill for attending the school.
‘We’re doing a three-course dinner dance, black-tie attire, of course,’ Rebecca informs the group.
Rebecca always plans these things and they are always the same – and they’re always boring.
I sign heavily, maybe a bit too heavily, because Rebecca notices.
‘What’s wrong, Nicole?’ she asks, her irritation clear.
‘No, nothing, sorry,’ I babble, desperately trying to deflect attention from my wandering mind.
‘Were you thinking of something else?’ Jo asks me curiously.
‘No, not at all,’ I insist, reminding myself to keep my head down moving on.
Jo thinks for a moment.
‘I suppose we do have quite a lot of black-tie dinners,’ Jo says. ‘But what’s the alternative? And could we make the changes in time?’
I contemplate whether or not it’s worth speaking up, reminding myself that I won’t be around for any more of these fundraisers. I don’t need to get involved; I just need to endure it. But my better instincts take over, and…
‘I guess we could do something more fun,’ I suggest. ‘But add it on to what we’ve already got planned, of course. Like… perhaps we could give the event a theme? Whatever it is, I know Dylan would love to be there.’
‘A theme?’ Rebecca replies with a look on her face that makes it seem like even the words taste bad in her mouth.
‘The theme could be “celebrity”,’ I suggest, my courage and enthusiasm building with every word. ‘Everyone could come dressed up as someone famous, we could lay out a red carpet, have fake paparazzi shooting photos as everyone arrives.’
‘I hate it,’ Rebecca says. ‘I hate it so much.’
Jo, on the other hand, is smiling from ear to ear.
‘Well, I love it,’ she says.
‘Me too,’ John chimes in. ‘It would be good to do something actually fun for a change. I’m sure more people would get involved too.’
Several other parents voice their support for the idea, and I can’t help but smile, even though Rebecca’s expression could spoil milk. The chances that there won’t be consequences for this are slim.
‘Hello,’ Dylan says as he saunters in to join us.
Jo practically trips over herself as she rushes to him, guiding him to a seat, her arm wrapped around him.
‘Hello, Dylan, come sit down,’ she says. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’
