‘Oh my God!’ I give Mikey a playful shove. ‘That was so funny!’
‘Maybe you could tell Crystal that,’ he suggests, grabbing me for a hug. ‘Apparently she didn’t like it.’
‘Everyone’s a critic,’ Charles jokes, offering Mikey a hand to shake.
‘Ah, but not all critics go to the toilet to cry. Dylan has just had to run after her,’ Mikey informs us, ‘which was difficult because he can hardly walk.’
‘Maybe it’s her hormones, mate. She is pregnant, after all,’ Charles suggests.
‘Or maybe she’s just a bitch,’ I chime in without really thinking about what I’m saying. Charles looks at me, shocked.
Mikey throws down another glass of champagne. ‘Don’t say anything to Dill, but I’m with you on this, Nic.’
It’s good to know I’m not the only one who doesn’t like her, for a while I was worried I might have been possessed by the green-eyed monster. Speaking of monsters, as Charles and I make our way back to our table, we are stopped by Daisy the cow.
‘Where were you last night?’ she asks bluntly. I had planned on thinking up an excuse, however I was distracted with other things this morning. Thankfully I had time to tell Charles all about her during dinner, so he’s well prepared.
‘And who is your friend?’ she asks, looking him up and down and licking her lips like she genuinely wants to eat him.
‘Charles. Nice to meet you,’ he says, shaking her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Nicole stayed with me last night. She will be tonight as well, I hope that’s OK? At least you’ll have the bed all to yourself.’
‘Oh, so this is your boyfriend?’ she asks me. I stare at Charles blankly.
‘I am,’ he replies confidently.
‘That’s OK then. I thought she was gay,’ she tells him before losing interest and walking away.
‘I hope you will accept my offer,’ Charles says.
‘Really?’
‘Of course. I can’t have you going back to...that. Anyway, it’s all for her benefit – I think she’s worried you’re going to make a pass at her.’
I laugh.
‘Do feel free to make a pass at me though,’ he says with a cheeky wink.
What a tempting idea.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Pyjama Party
I like to think that, deep down, I am a nice person. However, I felt a weird sense of satisfaction watching Dylan and Crystal go off to the honeymoon suite, knowing I’ve already spent a night in their bed. Can you imagine what Crystal would say if she knew? She’d probably insist on changing sheets or rooms or hotels.
I tried to talk to Crystal earlier. I went up to her and told her she looked lovely. She replied with, ‘Thank you, and thank you for not making much of an effort to try and upstage me.’ End of conversation.
I was really hoping that we’d be able to get along. Dylan is such a huge part of my life and I don’t want that to change. I suppose it will though. She’ll be there on all the tours – on the bus, backstage, at the hotel and with two screaming babies. Fucking wonderful. So, in the past week I’ve lost my two favourite bands to tour with.
I swing by my/Daisy’s room to collect my things on the way up to Charles’ room. I plan on leaving fairly early tomorrow, and I don’t want to have to face Daisy or anyone else for that matter. Another quick getaway. To be honest, I just want to get the hell out of London. As silly as it sounds, I’m scared I’ll bump into Luke. I know London is huge, and it’s very unlikely, but that’s how awkward I’m feeling.
Now in Charles’ room, I can’t help but feel a little scandalous – sharing a bed with a man I hardly know. On tour it’s one of the most standard, day-to-day things you can do, but Charles isn’t someone on tour, Charles is from the ‘real world’. The ‘real world’, where you only go to bed with someone if you want to... oh God! You think you’re so streetwise and socially blessed when you spend a lot of time with musicians. Instead it’s making me forget how to behave like a regular human being. What am I supposed to do? If I leave now it will seem strange, and I’m sure I’ll have to work with Charles in the future – is that a reason to stay or to go? This is so messed up. Yes, Charles is gorgeous, but I don’t want to have sex with him. Regardless of what my brain is telling me, my body is kicking off my shoes and sitting on the bed. It clearly has an agenda that I am not aware of.
This room is nice – it’s not as big as Dylan’s, but it’s a hell of a lot bigger and nicer than Daisy’s.
‘Can I get you a drink? It’s pretty late, I think I’m going to get in bed if you don’t mind,’ Charles says, and now it definitely feels real.
‘Sure, I think I’ll do the same. I’m kind of tired and I’ve got a long trip ahead of me tomorrow.’ Plus, if I’m asleep then I don’t have to have sex with you – hopefully.
‘It’s only a couple of hours on the train, isn’t it?’
‘Yep,’ I reply awkwardly, killing the conversation.
‘So, drink, what can I get you?’ he asks after a few awkward seconds.
‘Surprise me. Am I OK to get changed in the bathroom?’
‘Go ahead,’ he says with a smile.
I disappear into the bathroom with my case. This is going to be fine, I’ll get through this. Searching through my case I find my pyjamas, and the startling reality of what I have done hits me. To sleep in, I packed a black vest...and my SpongeBob SquarePants short-shorts. Smooth move, Nicole Wilde.
Brushing my teeth and taking off my make-up (and if I’m totally honest, putting quite a bit of make-up back on), I venture out of the bathroom.
‘Oh God! Sorry!’ I squeal, throwing my hands over my eyes. Standing at the end of the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of black socks and a tight-fitting pair of black boxer shorts, is Charles. ‘I didn’t realise you were still getting changed.’
‘No, it’s OK. I’m changed.’
I slowly move my hands away from my eyes and try to focus my gaze on his eyes and absolutely nothing lower down. There’s a little voice in my head (although I believe it originates somewhere further down my body) begging me to look down but I’m stronger than that.
‘This is how I sleep,’ Charles tells me. ‘I didn’t bring pyjamas.’
He nods towards my super-sexy night-time attire and appears to be stifling a giggle. ‘Anyway, it’s all you saw me in this morning.’
Charles hops on the bed, settling right in the middle with his hands behind his head.
‘You getting in?’ he asks with a cheeky smile.
I nod nervously, pull back the covers and climb into bed, staying as close to the edge as possible. As I lie back, in one swift movement Charles places an arm behind me and scoops me towards him, resulting in my head resting on his chest.
‘So tell me a bit about yourself,’ Charles says, squeezing me tightly.
‘Erm...’ I always blank when people ask me these kinds of questions. It’s hard when you’re put on the spot, especially being a writer. People think words come easily to us, but that’s usually after a few sleepless nights at the keyboard and a scary amount of coffee. ‘Well I live in Leeds, on my own. My parents and my little brother are living in France at the moment – some work thing of my dad’s.’
‘Are they coming back?’ he asks, actually sounding interested.
‘Oh yeah, definitely. Soon, I hope. We have a house in the country but I didn’t want to stay there on my own so I rent a flat in the centre. It’s OK, but I haven’t ever really adjusted from family life to being on my own.’
‘I live alone too, although I’ve always been a loner. Only child, busy parents. Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘Nope,’ I reply – I’m never sure how to answer this question. No, I haven’t had a boyfriend for years, but that’s not to say I don’t have boyfriend-type characters in my life. The problem has always been that the kind of guys I am attracted to don’t have much willpower when it comes to girls throwing themselves at them, so they don’t have girlfriends, which in turn means th
at I don’t have boyfriends. It’s gone on for so long that I wouldn’t know what to do with one now. To try and put this point across to a practical stranger is impossible without sounding like a total slut, so hopefully he won’t ask any questions.
‘Do you have a girlfriend/wife/boyfriend?’
‘None of the above, but I’m still looking. Tell me about your last boyfriend.’
‘Gosh, I wasn’t expecting to have this conversation tonight. I haven’t had a boyfriend in years.’ I instantly regret this confession because now he’s going to wonder what is wrong with me.
‘That surprises me.’
I told you.
‘It’s a long story,’ I say in self-defence.
He smiles. ‘You’re beautiful, any man would be lucky to have you.’
‘You’re only saying that because you’re in bed with me,’ I joke.
‘No, I’m not,’ he says rather bluntly, and as I turn to look at him he kisses me. It’s only for a few seconds, but it takes my breath away.
‘Well, good night then,’ he says, reaching over and turning the light out.
So there I am, in the dark – and in more ways than one. I’m a little confused because I just kissed a normal boy, and I think I liked it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Gentleman
I woke up in the exact position I fell asleep in – cuddled up to Charles. This must mean I really love him, or at least that’s the soppy line that Emily fed me during our five-minute phone call. When I woke up, Charles was already awake. He kissed my forehead and then went for a shower – that’s when I called Em.
It took me a little while to fall asleep last night. I felt such a buzz from that kiss and I’m still feeling it now.
Stepping out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and a smile on his face, Charles stares at me and I feel a bit awkward.
‘Good morning, you,’ I say to break the silence.
‘Good morning, Miss Wilde. How are you today?’
‘I’m OK – not looking forward to getting the train home.’
‘Well I’m free all day. I could walk you to the station?’
I smile. ‘That would be great, thank you. Oh, and thank you for letting me sleep here, I don’t think I could have survived another second with Daisy.’
‘It was no problem – and I really enjoyed your company.’ Charles runs a hand through his wet hair and I battle to maintain eye contact again.
‘Do you mind if I use your shower?’ I ask.
‘Sure. Cup of tea after?’
‘Oh, that would be great.’ I haven’t had any caffeine in twenty-four hours and I’m really starting to feel it.
I climb out of bed as ladylike and as sexily as possible – something my SpongeBob jim-jams are making very difficult. As I pass Charles, he plants a kiss on my cheek before watching me make my way to the bathroom, giving me a little wave as I close the door behind me.
Unlike in Daisy’s room, there is a nice fluffy robe and towels galore waiting for me. The bath is much bigger too.
I hear Charles click the TV on, so as soon as I get in my warm, bubbly bath I get straight back on the phone to Emily.
‘Can you talk now?’ she asks excitedly when she answers.
‘Yes. How are you?’
‘How am I? Are you joking? Tell me what happened, what is he like?’
‘Like a younger Daniel Craig with the charm of Michael Bublé.’ I’m teasing her, although that’s actually a fairly accurate description.
‘If that’s true then you marry him! I don’t care if he isn’t in a band,’ she teases me in return, although she probably means that as well. ‘Imagine if we both had boyfriends, things are going really well with —’
‘Shit, Em, I’d better go,’ I interrupt her. Charles must have turned the TV off and I’m worried he might hear me on the phone.
I place my phone down carefully on the bathroom floor (the last thing it needs is a bath) and grab the bottle of complimentary body wash – this is the life. It’s flashy hotels like this one that remind me of touring with Dylan. Now that Two For The Road are pretty famous they’re staying in much nicer hotels, but that wasn’t always the case. When I hit the road with them in the early days – when they were supporting any band that would have them – they couldn’t even afford to stay in hotels, not even the odd night in a Travelodge. Instead we slept in the old banger of a van we drove around in, everyone in their sleeping bag on the floor surrounded by all their gear. I know I complain about the bathroom facilities on the big tour buses but they beat the ones in the van – there weren’t any. It’s easy enough for the boys to hop off the bus and pee up a tree – or do it out the window as you’re flying along the motorway if you’re Eddie – but for girls it’s difficult and that’s why to me that tour will always be known as the Hold It In Tour.
I used to be terrified sleeping in that damn thing – the back door didn’t even lock. What we would do is, on a night (or let’s face it, early morning), we’d all pile in and then the last person would reverse the van against a wall so that no one from outside could get in. It also meant that no one inside could get out in a hurry so if there was a fire you’d be screwed – luckily the fires only happened while the van was moving. Thankfully they signed a record deal before the van had chance to kill them.
I stop daydreaming and examine my hands. My fingers are sufficiently wrinkled and I wonder how long I’ve been in here.
I wrap the fluffy robe around my body and start putting on my make-up. To be honest with you, I’d rather he saw me without the robe than without the make-up and that might actually happen because it didn’t occur to me to bring any clothes in here with me.
Emily seems to think I should make a move on him and while I’m not that great at the emotional stuff, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s make a move. Wearing nothing but a towel will certainly help me in my quest.
Charles is sitting on the bed playing with his phone, so I sit down next to him.
‘Sorry, do you want to get dressed?’ he mutters, jumping to his feet, keeping his eyes on his phone. ‘I’ll take a walk to Mikey’s room.’
Rejected. A quick flash of his smile and he’s gone. I guess I will be getting dressed after all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Dark Side
I waited with Charles as he checked out, deciding not to pop up and say goodbye to Daisy the cow, or Dylan and Crystal who I’m certain would not want me popping my head around the door to say goodbye.
We’re currently making our way to the train station, Charles dragging my pink suitcase along behind him.
‘So how did you get into music journalism?’ he asks me.
‘Well, I was a total Bander when I was a teenager and—’
‘What?’ he interrupts me.
‘What?’ I ask, confused.
‘You were a what?’
‘Oh, a Bander. Sorry, it’s easy to forget you’re not a teenage girl.’ I give him a wink. ‘A Bander is just a fan I guess – an extreme fan – but not in a weird way. Banders follow bands around, turn up at hotels, queue outside venues for hours on end...just to meet the band and hang out.’
‘So you were a groupie?’ he asks.
‘No! No sex!’ I laugh. ‘I was probably about fourteen when I started following bands around.’
‘A stalker, then?’
‘I suppose you could liken the actions of a Bander to stalking, but it was always a friendly act. Well, most often a friendly act,’ I correct myself.
‘Most often?’ he asks with a confused laugh.
‘Oh, you don’t mess with Banders.’ I laugh to myself, a million memories bouncing around in my head. ‘Banders can be brutal, and sometimes you have to do extreme things to meet bands – lots of lying to lots of people...’ As well as flirting with security guards and breaking and entering, but we won’t tell Charles that. He looks shocked (but slightly amused) as it is. ‘All you need is one boybander and tw
enty or thirty Banders trying to get a photo and you’ve got a Royal Rumble right in front of your eyes.’ A sports reference, nice one, Nicole.
‘Well who knew that sort of thing happened,’ he chuckles. ‘So when you hear stories about fans going crazy at gigs...’
‘Banders.’
‘And you were one of them?’
‘I was. If I weren’t a Bander, I wouldn’t have made as many friends as I have, I probably wouldn’t be doing journalism – I wouldn’t have met Dylan! I was a fan of The Burnouts for a while before meeting them and that’s when we hit it off.’
‘Did you and Dylan ever get together?’ he asks rather bluntly, and with a very serious look on his face.
‘Oh God, no!’ I insist, without a moment’s hesitation. I don’t think anyone would be surprised if I had slept with Dylan – who hasn’t these days? – but I honestly haven’t.
‘You didn’t ever, you know, get it on?’
I laugh loudly. ‘Get it on? Who says that?’
‘Don’t dodge my questions,’ he replies sternly, instantly wiping the smile from my face.
‘No, of course not, we’re friends – best friends – we’ve never even come close to...’ I stifle a smile. ‘...getting it on.’
‘Like When Harry Met Sally?’ he asks, sounding a little sarcastic.
‘Not really, they get together in the end of that film.’
‘Exactly.’
We carry on walking in silence. So Mr Perfect does have a bit of a dark side.
‘So,’ I eventually break the silence. ‘You’ve seen When Harry Met Sally? Men like you are hard to find.’
‘We’re a dying breed,’ he says, back to his usual charming self.
Finally at the train station, the familiar whiff of Starbucks fills my nostrils and I can’t resist it.
‘Well, thank you for walking me here – and carrying that suitcase, that takes a real man. I’m going to pop in Starbucks to kill a little time.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ he suggests, ushering me in the right direction. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Caramel macchiato, please.’
How Not to Be Starstruck Page 12