‘Good morning,’ Joanna whispers to me.
‘Hey. How’s he doing?’
‘He’s doing OK, I’ll be bringing him his breakfast through in a minute. Can I get you anything?’
I ask her if the gift shop is open because I plan to head down there before Luke wakes up. I can grab a toothbrush and something for my breakfast because I’m not sure when the last time I ate was, and I’ll pick up a copy of that horrible newspaper which will most likely have a photo of me outside Dylan’s house on the front along with some horrible, yet terribly funny, headline.
Creeping out of the room so that I don’t wake Luke, I make my way to the gift shop. It doesn’t matter what time of day it is, hospitals are creepy places. I pass one of the hospital porters on my way down the corridor. Luckily there is nothing on bed that he is pushing and we exchange good mornings. As he passes me, my eyes are drawn to the bottom of the sheet which appears to be covering a big silver box and I shiver. Don’t even think about what is in that box, Nicole.
There is a lovely little old lady working in the gift shop and we chat as I pile the things I want on top of the counter. I tell her that I am here with my friend who had a fall – I spare her the details.
‘I hope that’s not what you’re planning on eating for breakfast,’ she gasps, in the same way a loving grandma would.
I look down at my can of Coke and packet of peanut M&Ms.
‘Erm...peanuts are good for you, they’re full of protein,’ I reply. Something I’m fairly sure is true, although them being covered in chocolate probably isn’t that great for you.
She gives me a look, a ‘come on, young lady, you know I’m right’ look, so I swap the Coke for a carton of orange juice, laughing at my submission.
‘Wait there,’ she says, tottering off into the back room. While she is in there, I blindly grab tabloids off the shelf and dump them on the counter. I don’t even glance at them, I’m going to wait until I’m with Luke because I reckon I’ll need the moral support.
‘We don’t usually put these out for another couple of hours,’ the little old lady tells me, placing a sandwich on the counter, ‘but you have to take care of yourself, or you’ll end up in the bed next to your friend.’
I open my mouth to protest, but she stops me.
‘And it’s on me, so no excuses.’
‘Thank you. I’m Nicole,’ I tell her, offering a hand for her to shake.
‘Nice to meet you, Nicole. I’m Doris.’
‘Thank you for looking after me, Doris.’
‘You’re very welcome, darling.’
As I bag up my shopping, I promise Doris that I will be back at lunchtime.
Luke is awake when I get back, being propped up in his bed by two nurses so that he can eat his breakfast, which looks absolutely disgusting. I’m guessing it’s porridge, if it isn’t then it’s cement for sure.
‘Good morning.’ He smiles. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look more pleased to see me.
‘Hello.’ I take the newspapers and the orange juice from my bag and sit myself on the plastic chair next to Luke’s bed.
‘You shouldn’t bother reading those,’ he tells me as soon as the nurses have left the room.
‘But I want to see if my picture looks good.’ I try to sound like I’m joking when I say this, but to be honest this is the first photo I was ready for so I’m hoping it looks OK.
I grab the Daily Scoop first because not only is it the highest-selling tabloid in the UK, but they just love writing about Dylan King.
‘Sit up here, we’ll look together,’ Luke says, carefully patting the spot next to him on the bed. After sitting down as lightly as I possible – because at the moment even breathing is causing him pain – I mentally psych myself up to start reading. With everything that has gone on over the past few weeks, I have had to re-evaluate all aspects of my life. I’ve learned that I can’t trust people, how even innocent situations can be made to look bad and, most importantly, I’ve learned to expect anything, because anything could be around the corner. Even so, nothing could have prepared me for the latest chapter in the messed-up story that is my life.
Neither of us speaks, we just read in silence. The headline reads: ‘Nicole Wilde – house parties, heroin and hospital’ and underneath is a photo of me and Luke, one of Carla’s from the end of tour party, the one of me sitting on Luke’s knee, wearing nothing but that hoodie. We both look totally wasted – if the article were about anyone else, I’d probably believe it looking at that photo.
I glance at the name underneath the headline. Vicky Mason. In my attempt to avoid the world at all costs, it didn’t occur to me to unfriend her on Facebook.
Reading the article, it explains how – in one of many ‘heroin-fuelled house parties’ – I got up to ‘all sorts’ with ‘Luke Fox, drummer of hot new band Two For The Road’.
‘You know,’ I say quietly, breaking the silence, ‘I know that I’m no angel, but if I went outside and it was raining heroin, I wouldn’t know what it was.’
‘You would if you inhaled.’
‘Luke, this is not the time for jokes.’
He snatches the paper from me as assertively as he can, dropping it on the floor and wincing in pain at the sudden movement.
‘Don’t read that shit. We’ll get Frank here and he’ll tell us what to do. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘On the bright side, it’s promotion for the band that money just can’t buy,’ Frank says before back-tracking, having seen the angry look that is no doubt on my face. ‘I mean, it’s an awful story, but a pretty blonde lass wearing nowt but a band hoodie in a paper like this...’
I can practically see the pound signs in his eyes.
‘Are they allowed to use a photo from a private Facebook account and make up a story to go with it?’ I ask.
‘Nicole, you’re in the business, you must know this happens all the time?’ Frank says unhelpfully.
‘I don’t care,’ I reply. ‘None of this is true at all. First of all, I didn’t tell anyone that Luke was in here, and no one knows I’m here.’
‘Well that could have been anyone. Famous face takes drugs, found unconscious, rushed to hospital. It could have been the paramedic or one of these nurses.’ He picks up the paper and reads through the story again. ‘Right,’ Frank claps his hands. ‘From what you’ve told me, Nicole, it sounds like they knew you were in town from the photo of you at Dylan’s house, and they know you are friends with Luke if your mate is writing for them.’
‘She’s not my mate,’ I snap.
‘Whoever she is. When they got wind of what happened to Luke, it would be more valuable to them to put you with Luke instead of Dylan, especially after the statement—’
‘The statement!’ I interrupt. ‘What did he say?’
‘That he shouldn’t have cheated on his wife, that he panicked about settling down and had one last fling. He begged for forgiveness.’
I nod. So he did what he said he was going to do and now he looks like a reformed character, and I look like an even bigger slapper with a drug problem.
‘I’ll release a statement on behalf of both of you, telling them what nonsense this all is.’ Frank grabs his notebook and starts scribbling things down.
‘Tell them the truth, I don’t give a shit,’ Luke insists.
‘That’s very noble of you, Luke, but it will ruin your career before it’s even properly started. You boys might be doing well, but you’re not famous enough to get away with a drug problem.’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ Luke repeats, over-pronouncing each word.
‘You don’t need to, lad. Look, enough of this is made up for us to rubbish it, after that no one will believe a word of it. Nicole, you say those photographs were uploaded the day after the party?’
I nod.
‘Well then, anyone who goes on Facebook will see the date they were uploaded and that will prove your version of events.’
‘Right,’ I say, but I
’m not so sure about this.
‘Leave it with me, OK?’
I guess for now that is all I can do.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The Worst
With Eddie, Ben and Mark showing up to keep Luke company this afternoon, I decided to get out of the hospital for a while. Desperately in need of a proper wash, I headed back to the flat. Either the paparazzi have given up on us or I managed to exit the massive hospital through a door without a snapper waiting behind it.
Whatever buzz I was getting from all the press attention before has fast worn off, and at this stage I couldn’t give a fuck who is or isn’t waiting for me outside.
No one was waiting for me outside the flat when I arrived there, which made life much easier, and as I travelled up in the lift the thought of a nice, long, relaxing bath was enough to make me feel a little less stressed. Of course my stress levels went through the roof when I walked into the bathroom and saw all that dried blood all over the floor. When I went in the ambulance with Luke on the day of his accident, I simply closed the door behind me. Well, it was an emergency. I completely forgot about the bloody mess that would be waiting for me when I did eventually return, but cleaning isn’t something that crosses my mind on a normal day, so it’s even less likely to occur to me during an emergency.
I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the tiles until there wasn’t a trace of blood left. It was harder to clean up than I had imagined and the smell was just the worst. I did it though, and I did a good job. I have surprised even myself.
I have been in the bath for ten minutes now, and while I wouldn’t go as far as to say my stress was melting away, it’s certainly being chipped away at.
Luke’s bathroom isn’t exactly well stocked for female guests, and as I look through what few products he has to try and find something I can wash my hair with, I hear my phone vibrating against the hard floor. I dry my hands and answer it carefully, because the last thing we need is another accident involving this bathroom/my phone.
‘Hello,’ I say cheerfully after seeing that it’s ET calling – my boss from ByteBanter.
‘Hello, Nicole,’ he replies without the same enthusiasm. ‘You sound cheerful, all things considered – is that the drugs?’
ET has always had a very dry sense of humour, but I’m not entirely sure if he was joking there or not.
‘Just trying to keep positive,’ I tell him.
‘Great. That’s great. Hopefully you’ll be able to see the positive side of what I’m about to say.’
Oh crap, why do I get the feeling this is going to be bad news.
‘Go on,’ I prompt him, hoping we can get this over with quickly and painlessly.
‘After everything that has gone on, we think it might be best to disassociate ByteBanter from Starstruck.’
‘Look, ET, I know I’m not there at the moment, but the magazine isn’t involved in any of this.’
I can hear my own voice sounding more panicked as I force out each word. Starstuck is my world, without it I’m just some unemployed groupie who lives off her parents. No one in the industry will trust me enough to employ me, and there’s no way I’d be able to do any other kind of job, I’m useless at everything else.
‘Nicole, I like you, so I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t care who you slept with, who you didn’t sleep with – I haven’t even heard of half of the people you go around with – but it’s you we feel we should disassociate from. The magazine is your baby and you’re free to pursue things alone if that’s what you want, we hold no claim over the format or the name, we just can’t back you any more, not now it’s affecting our business.’
So they get a few phone calls from reporters or a few shitty emails, big deal. Am I really getting fired over a silly rumour?
‘What about Jake? This isn’t his fault.’
‘We’ve given Jake his old position back, and we’ve found something for Emily.’
‘Oh good, I’m so glad Emily is OK,’ I reply sarcastically.
‘Wilde, you sound upset.’
I am upset, but I’m not going to let it show. If he doesn’t appreciate me enough to stand by me in my time of need, then fuck him.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell him bluntly.
‘That’s the spirit,’ he cheers. ‘You’re a smart girl. Look at this as a new opportunity, we’re setting you free. Spread your wings, the sky is the limit.’
‘Yes, OK, I’ll do that. Thank you.’
I rush ET off the phone before my emotions – or my temper – get the better of me.
If there’s one thing that I have learned throughout all of this so far, it’s that you should never make the mistake of thinking that things can’t get worse. Things can get worse, and they have gotten worse for me… Much worse.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The Promise
It’s been little over a week since Luke’s accident and I am like a regular Florence Nightingale. OK, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but I have officially moved into Luke’s spare room and I am looking after him. With no income or savings, I don’t even have any money in my pocket these days. I’m so lucky to have my parents still paying the rent on my flat, but when my mum asked me if I needed money, I said no. If I told her I’d blown what little money I had saved on an outfit for Dylan’s wedding, she wouldn’t be too impressed. So I am staying here, nursing Luke back to health and living off his money which, to be honest, is making me feel like a bit of a tramp.
Life is weird now. I hardly leave the house, unless I’m going to the shop or the coffee bar just outside the flat, and we’re pretty much living off takeaway food. Right now this suits us just fine because neither of us are getting very good press. No one seems to care about the little details that prove the things in the press aren’t quite what they seem, people would much rather hate me for being a home-wrecker. The nasty headlines still upset me, but I guess that’s what you get when you sleep with one of the country’s biggest stars. I say sleep with, because that’s all we did. Sleep.
‘So what culinary delight are you preparing for us tonight?’ Luke asks me with a cheeky grin.
‘If by preparing you mean opening the container and putting the contents on a plate, then we are having Chinese, and any more sarcastic comments and you can get your own,’ I reply, sticking my tongue out at him to make sure he knows I’m only joking.
‘Touchy. Is it nearly time for my bath?’
‘You wish. Surely you must be getting better by now? I’m sure you’re milking this.’
‘What kind of nurse says that?’
‘The kind who really doesn’t want to bathe you,’ I tease.
‘Why not? I’m clean!’ Luke insists, sounding mildly offended.
‘If you’re clean, then you don’t need a bath, do you?’
‘We could take a picture for the Scoop. Just you, me and my rubber ducky.’
I shoot him another dirty look.
‘Seriously though, I think they’re starting to lose interest,’ I tell him. ‘I’m just going to keep my head down, let this blow over and then-’
‘And then what?’ he interrupts. ‘Nic, they’ve ruined your life. You’ve lost friends, they’ve damaged your reputation, trashed your website. Let me talk to the press, I can at least clear up my accident.’
‘But Frank said—’
‘Fuck Frank!’ Luke winces with pain.
‘Calm down, love.’ I rest a hand on his shoulder so gently I’m not even sure if I’m touching him.
Everything he just said is right, but there isn’t anything I can do about it.
‘Forget about things for tonight, I’ll go and order our tea.’
‘OK, but you’re in London now so stop calling it tea. It’s dinner.’
I almost preferred him unconscious.
Luke and I are sitting in his bed, eating Chinese food and flicking through the channels on a TV that makes the one in my bedroom look like a toy. It’s so big that if I were to stand next t
o the damn thing, the people on it would be bigger than me. Normally I’d say that could only be a good thing, but it turns out that stress is the best diet going. I’ve shifted a few pounds over the past couple of weeks, but now things are getting back to normal and we’re living off takeaway food I expect I’ll quickly put the weight back on, times two.
‘Wait, go back.’ Something catches my eye and Luke clicks back a channel as instructed. I thought I saw Dylan, and I’m right. The show, rather creatively called We Four Kings, appears to be some sort of fly-on-the-wall documentary filmed at Dylan’s house.
‘Bloody sell-out,’ Luke mutters, but I’m too fixated on the screen to say anything.
‘This is Chardonnay,’ Crystal points at a baby in the arms of an older woman – I’m assuming she’s the nanny.
‘No, this is little Lambrini,’ the woman corrects her with an awkward smile.
‘How embarrassing is that?’ Luke laughs. ‘Your boy Dylan isn’t saying much, is he?’
‘OK, well this is Chardonnay,’ Crystal says, pointing to the tiny baby in Dylan’s arms. To the people watching, he probably looks like the proud parent, but I know better. He hasn’t uttered one word yet, which isn’t like him at all. He just looks so miserable. When he came to my office to see me, he told me that this wasn’t what he wanted and I talked him into it.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to think or feel when I see babies. I think there might be something wrong with me. I have no maternal instinct whatsoever. Most normal women look at babies and they think they’re adorable, it makes them want to have their own. I look at babies and I panic. I don’t even find them cute, they’re like little machines constantly firing out piss, crap, snot and sick. I remember when one of my cousins brought her new baby to meet us just before my parents moved away. ‘You’re doing that look, Nicole,’ my mother told me with a subtle nudge. ‘What look?’ I asked after they had gone. ‘That look you do when you see small children, it’s like you’ve caught whiff of a bad smell, it’s plastered across your face whenever a baby is in the room.’ I thought perhaps she was exaggerating until I saw the photos later on. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Dylan was fighting off a similar look.
How Not to Be Starstruck Page 25