‘Yeah, that sounds like an interesting technique,’ I laugh.
‘So, Dr Valentina, my childhood… Well, I was born, and I was fine, but then my little brother, Michael, was born. Special, precious little Mikey. You know how you hear of couples getting a dog, but then they have a baby and the dog is out? I was the King family dog. Everything was all about Mikey, the perfect son. We all had to fit our shit around all his lame extracurriculars. So my parents would always be off with him, spectating or cheering or whatever, and I’d be home alone, cooking my own dinner.’
Wow, this is sounding awfully familiar. Dylan is the Mia in his family, Mikey is the Belle.
‘So, I would act up at school, just to get a bit of attention probably – if we’re psychoanalysing it. I was always in detention, I got excluded a few times.’
‘It doesn’t sound like you and your brother spent much time together as kids,’ I say.
‘No, we weren’t buddies,’ he replies.
‘So, how did you wind up in a band together?’
‘So, Mikey started classical guitar lessons when he was, like, six or some shit. Only he gets more impressive as he gets older and our parents are super into it – just whatever it takes to nurture his talents. So, skip a few years, I’m sixteen years old, just about done with year 11 and ready to get the fuck out of school. We go out for my auntie’s birthday one night, just the family and her close friends gathered at her local. I’m bored out of my nut. There’s no fit birds there. People talk to my parents. They just wanna talk about Mikey but I’m used to it. So the DJ starts taking karaoke requests, right, so why not? It’ll kill a few minutes – maybe I can make the barmaid laugh, even though I’m way too young for her to look twice at. So I look over the songbook and there’s all these Elton John tracks – who doesn’t love Elton John? It’s the nineties, so Lion King is the shit, so I’ve gotta do ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’. So I get on the little stage thing – not even a real stage – and grab the mic. The intro plays and no one gives a shit, but then I start singing…’
Dylan stops his story for a few seconds and just stares at the ceiling. I don’t prompt him, I just leave him with his thoughts.
‘No one, er… no one knew I could sing,’ he confesses, little hints of emotion peppering his sentences. ‘I swear, I thought my old man was gonna burst into tears. I had the room, man, every single person, all eyes on me. I liked it – the way it felt, entertaining everyone, everyone watching me, mesmerised by my voice. I think my parents pushed us together,’ he recalls. ‘So we started a band, found the other members, and the rest is history.’
‘Wow,’ I reply.
Dylan laughs.
‘Yeah, woe is me, my parents love my brother more, etc.,’ he jokes.
‘Oh no, I totally get it,’ I tell him. ‘My little sister is definitely the favourite child in my family. I grew up in her shadow – even now, she’s front and centre and she had the dream wedding and now she’s pregnant and her older sister is just in her dust, struggling to find her arse with both hands – sorry.’
I realise I’m ranting. It’s just a sore spot for me.
‘Two things,’ Dylan says, sitting up. ‘First up, seems like we have more in common than we realised.’
‘I guess we do,’ I smile, happy to have found some common ground with him – it’s just a shame it’s this.
‘Second thing – I can help you find your arse.’
Dylan wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I laugh.
‘Come to my show tonight,’ he says. ‘See me in action. You should really, if you’re writing about me.’
‘I would, but the last train—’
‘Fuck the last train,’ Dylan says. ‘I’m staying in a hotel. I’ll have Mitch book you a room. Come on, Mia. You need to see me doing my job.’
I think for a second.
‘Yeah, you’re probably right. Just need to make a call.’
I stand up and head for the hallway.
‘Yeah, make sure your fiancé doesn’t mind me stealing you,’ he calls after me.
Chapter Nineteen
It’s been a long time since I attended a gig. It’s not that I don’t love music, I was just always too busy when I was in LA, and since I moved back home, I don’t know, it’s just never really been a priority. I didn’t really feel like live music was missing from my life… until tonight.
After Dylan and his brother fell out – and disbanded – Dylan went solo, and in a Robbie Williams/Justin Timberlake/Zayn Malik kind of way, he somehow managed to become an even bigger, even more successful star than he was before. Tonight he performed at a charity concern, to an audience of 5,000 people – at the Royal Albert Hall, no less. The event, set up to raise money for the Magical Star Foundation (a kids charity Dylan has always supported), was completely sold out, but Dylan told me I could watch his set from the wings and… I can’t think of a better way to put it… he took my breath away. Sure, I’ve heard his songs on the radio, and I’ve seen his music videos, and I’ve read all about him in the news… but we live in a time of auto tune, where the production can make or break a song. But Dylan’s voice speaks for itself. It’s just amazing and unmistakable and, whether he was thrusting his hips to his more lively songs or belting out his ballads, he left me with goose bumps.
After his set, Dylan went off to do a few interviews before heading back to his dressing room. He told me to enjoy the show and meet him there, so after I’d watched a couple more acts, I headed backstage, with the hope of getting back to business. The sooner I get everything I need, the sooner I can write this book, the sooner I can get paid and get on with planning my wedding.
I could hear Dylan in the shower so I made myself at home, relaxing in the comfortable chair, eating his strawberries and sipping his champagne – this is the life. After five minutes Dylan emerged from the bathroom in nothing but a towel. There’s just something about him, and it doesn’t matter that he isn’t buff or classically handsome – it’s just the Dylan King package that makes him so attractive to seemingly all women.
‘You want me to drop the towel so you can get a better look?’ he laughed.
‘I was looking at your tattoos,’ I told him. ‘How many do you have?’
‘Fuck knows,’ he said, examining his chest and arms. ‘I got some individual ones, got my sleeve, a few of them merged, had a few covered with better shit when I was sober. They all tell a story, I just don’t always remember them.’
He laughed, running a hand through his wet hair.
I climbed out of my chair to get a closer look. On the left side of his chest, creeping over his shoulder, his ink makes it look like his skin has been torn from his body, slashed open as though a lion has clawed him. Through the gaps of seemingly torn flesh, a page of fancy writing peeps through.
‘Song lyrics,’ he told me. ‘My own, obviously.’
I’m not really a fan of tattoos, but I have to admit this one is truly a work of art. As I admired his work, Dylan raised a hand to gently push a piece of my hair behind my ear.
‘Hey, what are all those numbers on the backs of your hands?’ I asked, suddenly noticing them.
Dylan held his hands out in front of him to reveal a series of three- and four-digit numbers inked on in a variety of styles and shades.
‘I, er, I stay in a lot of hotels, and I’d forget my room number a lot, so drunk Dylan would get them tattooed on – it’s a good system.’
‘But there’s so many now,’ I pointed out. ‘How would drunk Dylan know which one was the right one? And aren’t you always drunk?’
‘I said it was a good system, I didn’t say it was a great one,’ he laughed.
Dylan’s body is a canvas that tells a multitude of stories. There are his tattoos – painstakingly detailed, beautiful, expensive-looking ones that clearly took a lot of planning and skill, and then some that aren’t as detailed or as high-quality that he had done on random drunken nights. He also has a few scars, like the little p
atch that’s missing from the outside edge of his left eyebrow that I’d always thought was a fashion choice, but it turns out it’s from fighting when he was at school. And then there’s the one on his arm that he simply and casually explained came from the time he tried to climb out of a hotel window to get away from a girl he didn’t want to sleep with, which makes me wonder, what on earth could have been wrong with this girl to make Dylan not want to sleep with her, because so far I’ve seen him flirt with girls indiscriminately.
After Dylan got dressed we headed to the afterparty. I’ve been to some swanky parties in my time but – and maybe it’s just because I haven’t been to one in years – tonight is something else. We’re in an enormous function room in a hotel, the one I’m staying in tonight. I did have second thoughts about staying in London. It’s not that Leo minded – he’s working nights anyway and I think he’s just so happy I’m enjoying my job – but I realised I didn’t have any of my stuff with me. I told Dylan this and he simply told me he’d take care of it. When I checked into my room I found everything I could possibly need waiting there for me – a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a bag of make-up and toiletries, an iPhone charger and an oversized Burnouts T-shirt (that’s Dylan’s old band).
At the party I met all kinds of amazing people, from celebrities to people who work for the charity. I had a chat with a guy called Mark, who is head of PR for the Magical Star Foundation, who was there with his tiny pregnant wife – they seemed like such a happy couple and being around them made me miss Leo more than I had expected to, seeing as how I’m only away for one night. Mark told me that Dylan is such a huge part of the charity – a constant driving force, that’s what he called him. He told me not to let Dylan’s reputation precede him, and that those who knew him knew he was actually a good guy. Amid the drinking and the constant swearing and the stories of rehab and shagging multiple girls a night, I do see glimmers of normal human Dylan, rather than rockstar Dylan, and it’s nice. I’m sure he’ll want his autobiography to be page after page of sexual conquest and nights he doesn’t quite remember, but I really want to show his human side. Earlier, when he was talking about his family – that was real and relatable. To see something genuine in him endeared him to me, and to realise that even rockstars have to deal with family shit that is entirely out of their control made me feel better about my own family.
At the party tonight Dylan was unmistakably drunk, but a sort of weirdly manageable level that he seems to constantly maintain. He didn’t seem drunk, not really, he just seemed like the charismatic life of the party. He’s truly a joy to be around. Everyone within a twenty-foot radius of him at the party had the time of their lives, but I do wonder if it’s just a coping mechanism for him. Still, I’ve had an amazing time, and a fair bit to drink myself. Dylan introduced me to everyone, made sure I always had a drink in my hand and we even hit the dance floor together.
Now I’m back in my room – my big, luxurious hotel room, all alone in a bed that could comfortably sleep four of me. There’s a great big bath that I’m going to spend some serious time in when I wake up and a TV the size of my bedroom window. I’ve been living in an unfinished house for so long, I forgot just how amazing it is to be truly comfortable, surrounded by nice things – things that don’t smell like paint.
From the lovely, sweet-smelling, soft bed sheets to the room service I just polished off (a cup of tea and a chocolate brownie), I am in heaven. But as I swipe a hand over the large, empty space on the bed next to me, I think of Leo and wish he were here to enjoy the perks of the job with me.
My phone vibrates, snapping me from my thoughts.
‘Speak of the devil,’ I say, answering the phone to my amazing fiancé. ‘I was just thinking about you.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, I’m just at the hotel. I’m in bed…’
‘Oh really, you dirty girl,’ he laughs.
‘Not like that,’ I reply. ‘Although… where are you?’
‘I’m at work,’ he tells me. ‘Just on a break. Thought I’d check in, make sure you weren’t bored and alone in a hotel.’
Truth be told, I’ve only been here about 30 minutes. There’s no point bragging to Leo about what an awesome night I’ve had, though, especially when I’m sure he must be missing me as much as I’m missing him.
‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me,’ I assure him. ‘That reminds me, what’s wrong with your hand?’
‘What?’
‘Your hand,’ I repeat. ‘You had a plaster on it last night, I felt it while you were sleeping.’
Leo laughs.
‘Have you been holding my hand while I’m asleep again, Mia?’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ I laugh awkwardly.
‘I grazed it at work, it’s not big deal. And for the record, I think it’s cute when you hold my hand while I’m asleep. Anyway…’ Leo’s tone suddenly changes, which makes me think real manly fireman types have just entered the room, so he needs to keep a lid on the cuteness. ‘I’ll let you get some sleep in your no doubt big, comfortable bed.’
‘And I’ll let you get back to work,’ I tease. ‘Don’t hurt yourself again.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ he laughs before lowering his voice a little. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ I reply.
I hang up the phone and make myself comfortable in bed. I hate sleeping without Leo. I just love having him to cuddle up to and keep me warm at night. Still, this is only temporary and, you never know, if I can get more high-profile ghostwriting jobs and keep making money like this, he could retire sooner rather than later, which will mean less worrying for me and more nights in the same bed. Either way, I get to spend the rest of my life with him and I can’t wait.
Chapter Twenty
‘Oh God, I’m in brunch heaven,’ I squeak.
Dylan laughs at me.
‘I’ve never seen anyone look at a latte like that before,’ he laughs.
‘Well, I gave coffee up a little while ago,’ I confess. ‘But I’ve given up giving up now.’
Dylan stabs a sausage with his fork and takes a bite.
‘The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The second best time is right now,’ he says through a mouthful of food.
‘What?’
‘If you’re not recovering, you’re relapsing,’ he continues. ‘I don’t know, they used to say shit like this to us at rehab.’
‘It’s a cup of coffee, not a crack pipe,’ I laugh. ‘Are you going to take it off me?’
‘Oh, Mia, I wouldn’t dare,’ he replies, pretending to quiver with fear. ‘Plus, I can’t say anything, can I?’
I pick up the latte glass and take a big, meaningful sip. As the hot, sweet vanilla latte warms its way from my lips to my stomach, and that first buzz of caffeine hits my system, I feel alive.
‘Oh, such a bad girl,’ Dylan laughs.
‘Buddy, you don’t know the half of it,’ I reply.
‘So, tell me,’ he insists, suddenly very interested.
I take another bite of my pancakes with strawberries, banana and maple syrup before responding. My God, this is good. I’d forgotten how much I loved staying in hotels, having expensive meals – especially ones paid for by work.
‘All I’m saying is, you might think I’m this boring, engaged writer, but four years ago things were very different. I was living in LA, writing screenplays, hanging out with movie stars, refusing to settle down… So, there’s hope for you yet,’ I tell him.
‘Or there’s hope for you yet,’ he replies. ‘Maybe you are a bad girl.’
‘Was,’ I laugh. ‘Definitely was. If you’d told me four years ago that this would be my life now, I probably would’ve thrown myself in the sea. When you meet someone you love, you actually want to change. I mean, you were married once, right?’
‘Yeah, we’re not talking about that,’ he says curtly.
‘Dylan, we’re writing your autobiography – the story of your life. Your wife and kids are a hu
ge part of it.’
‘Leave it, Mia,’ he snaps.
Dylan is a womaniser and has been ever since he found fame. He’s one of those celebrities who is always romantically linked to someone, but never has a girlfriend. He has a reputation for sleeping with his fans, but they’re happy to sleep with him. He is every inch the rockstar cliché, so everyone was surprised to learn he was not only getting married, but that his fiancée had twins on the way. This was maybe five years ago, but I remember reading about it at the time because they decided to get divorced almost immediately, adding his name to the list of shortest celebrity marriages. He didn’t do as badly as Britney Spears’ 55 hours, and he even beat Kim Kardashian’s 72-day marriage, but they can’t have stayed together for more than a few months. Dylan has never publicly opened up about it and, weirdly, neither has his ex, which is just unheard of in these situations, because the media will pay big money for these secrets spilling.
We’re sitting in silence. Actual, complete silence now that I think about it. I glance around the dining room to see that we’re the only people here.
‘It’s dead in here,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Kind of strange, for such a big hotel.’
‘I hired this room for breakfast,’ he tells me casually. ‘I don’t like to be disturbed. Don’t look at me like that, like I’m some kind of arsehole, but I can’t get through a meal in public without having to take a photo with everyone in the room and sign a million autographs, and I love my fans, but I need to eat.’
‘I completely understand that,’ I tell him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. I can see the frustration building up inside him. Sometimes, when I look into his eyes, his head looks like a truly dark place to be. I know being famous has its perks, but it must be horrible sometimes.
How Not to be a Bride Page 10