Maria takes a mirror from her bag and hands it to Angel.
‘Wow, I look so cool,’ Angel chirps.
‘You do. And normal,’ I add, breathing a huge sigh of relief. ‘Maria, thank you so much.’
‘What’s family for?’ she asks.
Right on time, there’s a knock at the door.
‘That will be Hannah,’ Leo says, hurrying for the door.
Hannah is only through the door thirty seconds when she notices Maria.
‘You have to call in the cavalry?’ she laughs. ‘Oh, wow, Angel, look at you… Why does my daughter have a Zooey Deschanel fringe?’
‘OK, don’t freak out,’ I start, ushering Hannah to one side. ‘But Angel sort of found some scissors and cut her fringe quite short…’
‘Oh sh… ugar,’ Hannah replies. ‘You know, one of my mum’s friends made her this beautiful ragdoll, and she cut its hair. She’s obsessed with making everyone and everything look like a princess, but for some reason, in her head, princesses look like they’ve got their head stuck in a blender.’
I laugh.
‘So you’re not mad at me?’ I ask.
‘It was gonna happen sooner or later,’ Hannah says with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘I think she looks cute.’
‘Ah, thank God. I thought you were going to kill me – or your mum was, at least.’
‘We don’t have to mention it to her,’ Hannah says. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
I grab my cousin for a hug.
‘You’re my favourite.’
‘You too,’ she laughs. ‘Don’t tell Belle.’
It’s late now, and everyone has gone home. Leo and I are sitting at the edge of our bed, admiring Angel’s handy work.
‘Who knew eyeliner was so hard to get off?’ Leo says.
‘Me. Every night,’ I joke. ‘I’m guessing we’re going to have to repaint in here?’
‘Let’s not worry about it tonight, let’s just go to sleep,’ he says, squeezing me hand.
‘You want that conversation about having kids now?’ I laugh.
‘Maybe in a few years, when I’ve forgotten about this,’ he replies. ‘You too tired for a dress rehearsal?’
Leo wiggles his eyebrows.
‘Never too tired for that,’ I reply.
Chapter Sixteen
Have you ever been so cold that your teeth started chattering? That’s me right now, hanging around outside the London Studios, waiting for one of Dylan’s people to come out and let me in.
It’s November, so of course it’s cold, but the audience members queuing up to get into the studio all came tooled up with coats, hats and scarves. I, on the other hand, thought it more important I turn up looking as glamorous as possible, which I think I’ve achieved with my meticulously curled, newly lengthened locks and my Three Floor black lace and velvet dress. I’d look great, had my skin not turned purple.
Dylan is here to record a TV appearance, performing his new single at the end of a chat show. At the moment he’s chilling in his dressing room, so we’re going to have our first meeting there. It’s just a quick chat to get to know each other. Apparently his schedule is so hectic that the person working with him has to just shadow him and get as much information as they can in between his commitments. I spoke to Lindsey about where the other writers had struggled and apparently it was down to Dylan being a combination of unaccommodating and unforthcoming.
‘Mia,’ Mitch calls out, gesturing the direction he wants me to walk in with his head. ‘Christ, girl, don’t you have a proper coat?’
‘The jacket looked better than a coat,’ I tell him honestly.
‘Someone tell you Dylan has a soft spot for pretty blondes?’ he asks. ‘That why you got the job?’
I raise my eyebrows as I follow him.
‘Erm, no, I got it because I can string sentences together,’ I reply. ‘Were my predecessors male or female?’
‘We had a fella first of all, then a woman – older than you, though. Dylan didn’t like her. She didn’t like him either, or me for that matter. She complained I “mansplained” things to her – some BS invented by feminists. It’s where men supposedly explain things to women that don’t need explaining.’
I laugh, until I realise he isn’t joking. He’s mansplaining mansplaining to me.
‘Anyway, through here,’ he says, before knocking on the dressing-room door. ‘Courtesy knock.’
Oh God, what am I about to walk in on?
‘Come in,’ a voice calls back.
‘In you pop,’ Mitch tells me. ‘I’ve got to go and see about some business.’
Mitch darts off, leaving me alone. I take one final deep breath before walking into Dylan’s dressing room, mentally preparing myself for what I might be about to clap eyes on…
The dressing room is exactly as I imagined it. There’s a large dressing table, with lights around the mirror. There are fresh flowers on every surface. There’s a platter of food out that looks so good I just wanna plough my face into it. The walls are white and everything is spotless. The room might be what I expected, but Dylan isn’t. He’s sitting at the dressing table – in here all alone – all dressed up and ready for his performance.
‘Hello,’ he says, standing up. ‘Mia, is it?’
‘Mia Valentina,’ I reply, offering him my hand cautiously.
Dylan shakes my hand before pulling me close, embracing me as he kisses both my cheeks in that showbiz way all industry people do. I’d forgotten about that.
‘Dylan King,’ he says, as though he needed an introduction. ‘Wow, your hands are freezing. Can I get you a tea or a coffee?’
I blink several times.
‘Erm… a tea would be wonderful, thank you.’
‘Milk and sugar?’ he asks, heading for the door.
‘Just milk, please.’
‘Sweet enough?’ he laughs. ‘Be right back.’
Alone in Dylan’s dressing room, I wonder if I just imagined that. I was expecting a diva – the Dylan you read about in the news, the kind who would blow off a work meeting for a threesome.
Soon enough he’s back, placing the mug down in front of me before sitting on the sofa next to me.
‘Hi,’ he says with a big smile.
‘Hi,’ I reply.
Dylan King in undeniably sexy. He isn’t buff, or classically handsome… but there’s just something about him. He’s got that rough and ready bad-boy look about him. His relaxed demeanour and his dad bod just make him look like he doesn’t give a shit. and something about that is seriously sexy. Like, this is him, take it or leave it.
He’s taller than me, but not that tall, 5’11” maybe. He’s got dark-brown hair, very short on the sides but long and tousled on top, and he’s rocking the designer stubble – although maybe that’s just because he’s neglected to shave. He’s wearing black, skinny-fit trousers, a black waistcoat and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, showcasing all the tattoos on his arms. I noticed a flat cap on the dressing table but I’m not sure if he’ll be wearing it onstage. His look is sort of styled, but in an unstyled way. Everything about him just seems effortless, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. That must be nice.
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘I’m good… you?’
‘I’m doing great,’ he replies.
I frown.
‘What’s up?’ he asks. ‘Oh, sorry about last night, something came up.’
‘Yeah, I think I heard,’ I reply.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I was at your house and I could literally hear what “came up”,’ I tell him.
He laughs.
‘Sorry, yeah. Letting off steam. But I’m here now, and I’m ready to work.’
I raise an eyebrow in disbelief.
‘What?’ he laughs. ‘I am. Look, I’ve been the perfect gentleman since you got here. I got you a cup of tea – I don’t get anyone anything, not even myself.’
I glance at the mug in his hands.
‘Mitch just gave me this, it’s a vodka on the rocks,’ he laughs. ‘Look, I’m sorry about yesterday. Let’s just start fresh today, yeah?’
‘OK, sure,’ I reply. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt because I’m a reasonable person, but also because it’s kind of difficult to resist his charm.
‘You look like your pictures,’ he tells me.
‘Erm, thank you, I think.’
‘You’re welcome. Not too many girls look like their pictures these days, with airbrushing and angles – and even just filters, you know? You can work wonders with a filter. Kittenfishing, I think they call it.’
‘Looks matter to you?’ I ask.
‘Looks matter to everyone, right? You put all that make-up on, you bought that dress. And before you get mad at me and say you’re not doing it for anyone but yourself, OK, sure, but that still means looks matter to you.’
He’s got an excellent point.
‘So—’
‘You got a boyfriend?’ he interrupts me.
‘A fiancé,’ I tell him, holding up my left hand.
Dylan immediately takes my hand and examines my ring.
‘Hmm,’ he says.
‘What?’ I ask curiously.
‘Well, either you’ve bought yourself this ring to play hard to get – which is working, by the way – or you’ve got a fiancé who doesn’t value you. This can’t be worth much.’
Dylan caresses my hand as he speaks. I quickly snatch it from him.
‘You know not everyone is a millionaire, right?’
‘I like you,’ he tells me confidently. ‘You’re not taking my shit. Most people just take it. Since I made it, there’s only been two people willing to call me out, my brother and my best friend.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ I reply.
‘Yeah, except I don’t see either of them any more,’ he replies, chewing his lip thoughtfully. ‘But I’ve got you now. What do you think of this hat?’
Dylan jumps up and grabs his flat cap, tossing it to me to examine.
‘I don’t like it,’ I tell him honestly.
‘Then I won’t wear it,’ he tells me, all smiles. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about you. What does your fiancé do?’
‘For work?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s a fireman,’ I reply.
Dylan pulls a face to show his indifference.
‘Anyway…’ he continues. ‘The other two didn’t really get very far, so we’re starting from scratch with the book. You’re OK to follow me around for a bit?’
‘I am,’ I tell him. ‘I just need to get enough information from you and then you can leave me to it.’
‘Sweet,’ he replies. ‘Well, I think I’m on in ten, so maybe we’ll start another day? But stay here, watch the show on the TV, eat something.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply.
‘I can’t believe you’re engaged,’ Dylan says with a laugh. ‘You know that’s probably just going to make me try harder, right?’
I shrug.
‘It’s not going to make a difference,’ I say with a confident smile.
‘Game on,’ he tells me. ‘Game on.’
Mitch comes back in and takes Dylan off, leaving me here to drink my tea and pick at his food.
I’ve got a good feeling about this job. I think it’s going to be fun and just the right amount of challenging. I’m not sure how I feel about Dylan yet, though… why do I get the feeling he’s going to be trouble?
Chapter Seventeen
I slip off my dress and climb into bed as quietly as possible. It’s not enough, though. Leo wakes up.
‘Hey, go back to sleep,’ I tell him, kissing his cheek. ‘You’re up early tomorrow.’
‘It’s OK, how was it?’
‘It was… OK,’ I reply. ‘Good.’
‘You sure?’ he laughs.
Leo rolls over onto his back, lifting his arm so I can cuddle into his chest.
‘Yeah, just… I don’t know what to make of Dylan. He wasn’t what I expected, but he was… but he wasn’t, y’know?’
‘Not really,’ he laughs. ‘You seeing him again tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ I yawn dramatically. London might not be far, but all this back and forth is exhausting for someone who is used to working from the comfort of her own sofa.
I lift my head to give Leo a kiss.
‘Ergh, you stink of beer,’ I tell him. ‘Have you been out tonight?’
‘Just a couple of drinks with a few of the guys from work. I got some serious work done on the secret room this evening before I left,’ Leo tells me sleepily. I look up at him to see that his eyes are closed, but he’s smiling.
‘I can’t wait to see,’ I tell him. ‘Good night.’
No reply. When he falls asleep, he falls asleep all at once, not like me, who just lies in bed thinking about all the things – what I’ve done that day, what I’ll be doing the next day, what I need to worry about, that stupid thing I said back in 2008, etc.
There’s one room in our house that I’m not allowed to set foot in. Leo calls it the secret room, and it’s a surprise for me, apparently. He’s so excited about it and working so hard on it that I’m not even tempted to peep. The fact he’s doing something like this for me is just so amazing, and just one of the reasons I love him so much.
Leo may be asleep, but I just feel so much better when I’m in his arms. It’s my happy place, just locked away in his bicep where no one can get me. He’s surprisingly comfortable for someone with such a hard body.
I’m cold, so I snuggle closer. There’s no way I’m going to want to get up in the morning, but I’ve got to travel to London – again – to see Dylan. Tomorrow we’re having our first proper session and I’m nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before. My plan is to try and get him talking and record our conversations. That way, when I listen back, I can get a feel for his tone of voice and try to retell his stories in a book-worthy way.
I reach out to hold Leo’s hand, like I often do while he’s sleeping, but something doesn’t feel right. I sit up, careful not to wake him, to look at his hand. He’s got a white plaster covering the back of his hand – he must have hurt himself at work. I love that Leo has a job he enjoys, that he’s good at, that makes a difference to the world, but it’s just so dangerous. I’m sure there’s nothing seriously wrong with his hand but that’s just this time. He’s got years of work ahead of him and it’s a dangerous job every day.
I cuddle back up to him, holding him that little bit tighter this time. I love him so much. If anything were to happen to him, I don’t know what I’d do.
Chapter Eighteen
When I met Dylan yesterday the only thing I knew for sure was that he wasn’t what I expected. The Dylan I’m dealing with today, however, is exactly the Dylan I expected – an arsehole.
‘Because he’s shit, Mitch,’ Dylan yells at his manager.
Maybe it’s since I saw his semi-chauvinistic side, but I can’t help but notice how weasely Mitch’s features are today. He might look like a weasel but his mannerisms are those of a snake, slinking around Dylan all the time, doing whatever he asks, even if he disagrees with it.
‘OK,’ Mitch replies. ‘I’ll tell the label.’
I have no idea what they’re talking about. Sitting here, in Dylan’s living room, I tuned out during their entire conversation. Instead of listening in, I took a moment to truly examine the room. It’s kind of stylish, in a bachelor-pad kind of way, which makes me think he probably had a designer in to deck the place out for him – that’s what we need for our house, a team of experts to come in and just make it look like a house that can be lived in, and not the plain-walled box museum it currently appears to be.
‘I can’t be fucked today,’ he whines, sighing loudly in an entirely put-on way.
How charming. I don’t know if he’s knows he’s being rude or if he just doesn’t care.
‘What’s that face for?’ he asks me.
<
br /> I didn’t realise I was making a face.
‘Fucking hell, your fella must have his hands full with you,’ he laughs, his cockney accent the strongest I’ve heard it yet.
‘How so?’ I ask, a little bit offended.
‘Do you pull a face like that at him every time he displeases you?’ he asks.
‘He doesn’t drink in the AM,’ I say to myself under my breath.
‘What was that?’ Dylan asks, sitting up, shuffling to the edge of his seat.
For a moment we hold eye contact, until Dylan picks up his drink – a vodka on the rocks – and knocks it back.
Then it hits me. The Dylan I met last night was sober because he was about to go on TV. The Dylan I’m sitting here with now has obviously had a few.
‘How long have you been with your fella?’
‘Four years,’ I reply.
‘You said you’re engaged? When are you getting married?’
‘Next year.’
‘When next year?’
‘Summer maybe,’ I reply. ‘I thought I was supposed to be asking you questions?’
Dylan laughs.
‘He better-looking than me?’
‘Probably,’ I say with a smile.
‘I like you,’ Dylan cackles. ‘Man, I like you. You’re not kissing my arse.’
I shrug. Part of me thinks I should probably be sucking up to him and pandering to him like everyone else does, but he seems to respond well to the honesty.
‘Go on, ask me some questions,’ he says, lying back on the sofa.
‘Tell me about your childhood,’ I prompt him, pressing record on my Dictaphone.
‘Well… fucking hell, look at me lying here, you there taking notes. It’s like therapy. This ain’t an intervention is it?’
I laugh.
‘Nope.’
‘I’ve had a bit of therapy. Did a stint in rehab a couple of years ago,’ he confesses.
I already knew this. It was all over the news at the time.
‘How was that?’ I ask. ‘By the way, anything you don’t want in the book, just say.’
‘Off the record then,’ he starts, drumming on his stomach with his hands as he chats. ‘Just between us girls. Had a bit of shit in my personal life so they checked me in to clear my head. I’d been hitting the old cocaína a little hard, if we’re being honest. I cleaned up, but it was a load of old bollocks. They had us sitting outside in a circle, listening to some prat in a dress telling us to imagine the wind blowing around us, chimes jingling in our ears and shit. I told him he was making a mug of me, that hearing bells in my ears is what was happening when I was on drugs, not off them.’
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