We watch for a little longer as Crystal shows the cameras around the house, Dylan’s house, the one I was in not long ago. I didn’t really appreciate it, which is understandable given the circumstances, but looking at it now it’s a gorgeous house, like something you’d see on Cribs.
‘You OK?’ Luke asks me.
‘I guess.’ I’m not sure what I’m feeling really.
‘You miss him?’
‘A bit,’ I lie. I miss him like crazy. I know it hasn’t really been that long, but it feels like he’s dead. I doubt Crystal will ever let him see me again.
‘You’ve still got me,’ he says with a smile.
‘Only just. No thanks to that crap you shove up your nose or wherever you put it,’ I snap.
‘I guess I deserved that,’ he says, looking embarrassed.
‘Luke, I’m so sorry. I was just so worried about you and what you were doing to yourself. Why did you do it?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Does it feel good?’ I don’t mean to question him about it, but I’ve never really understood what could possibly make someone want to take drugs.
‘At first, yeah. It’s like being in love. At first it’s amazing, you know? You’re on top of the world.’
‘And then?’
‘And then you end up alone, feeling like shit and wondering what the hell just happened. And skint,’ he adds with a laugh. ‘It was having to take more and more to hit the spot,’ he admits seriously.
‘That’s what you think of love?’ I tease in an attempt to change the subject. ‘Anyway, you’ve never been in love with anyone but yourself.’
‘I have been in love actually,’ he insists and an awkward silence follows.
Finally, I break it. ‘Well you’re far from being skint if you’re living in a place like this. And you’re not alone, you’ve got me. So no more drugs, OK?’
‘No more drugs, Nicole. I promise.’
I’m not sure whether or not I believe him, but that’s the best I can hope for right now.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The Job
As I queue with my basket of shopping, I wonder what inspired me to buy the coffees first. I like to think I’m pretty smart, but I can be so stupid sometimes. I sigh with relief as I dump my basket down at the till, sitting my drinks down at the end of the checkout so that I can pack my bags. It’s as I do this that I spot the latest copy of Bacci magazine, the front cover occupied by the King family. It pains me to do so because I know this is just Crystal cashing in, but I buy a copy. I can obsess over it as I drink my coffee.
As I pack my bags, I glare at the cover. ‘Our plans for a family Christmas’ the cover reads, and I am reminded that it is nearly December. I wonder what Luke does for Christmas? I imagine I’ll end up back in Leeds, all alone.
I pay for my shopping and head back to the flat. It’s starting to get pretty cold. I need to go to the proper shops and buy more clothes because I only have the few items I packed and it certainly didn’t occur to me that I might need my scarf and gloves. With the way money is (me not having a penny – Luke gave me money for this shopping), I guess I’ll have to ask Jake to send me some things from my flat.
As I approach the door, I see Frank, Luke’s manager, buzzing to be let in.
‘You’ll be lucky,’ I call out, ‘he was fast asleep when I left and nothing wakes him.’
‘Don’t I bloody know it,’ he chuckles, taking my bags from me.
‘Thank you,’ I say, once again comforted by his lovely northern voice. ‘He’ll wake up when he smells the coffee, don’t worry.’
‘Actually, I’m here to see you,’ he replies.
‘Me?’ I ask, totally shocked.
‘Yes, you. I’ll tell you all about it when we get inside.’
‘Let’s give him another half hour while we talk, eh?’ Frank suggests as soon as we’re inside, grabbing Luke’s coffee from the cup-holder.
‘Sure.’
‘I’ve got a job for you,’ he says proudly, sipping his stolen coffee.
‘I don’t think I’d make much of a musician, Frank,’ I laugh.
‘Neither do I, but I’m not just a band manager, you know. I’m a proper agent, I’ve got all sorts on my books. People know you’re living with Luke, so I suppose they thought they could approach you through me.’
‘So what does this mean?’ I ask, confused. Who would want to give me a job?
‘I want to be your agent, Nicole. We’ve gone about this all wrong. People clearly want to talk to you, why shouldn’t you speak up?’
‘Speak up about Dylan?’
‘Yes. The offer came from Chit-Chat, do you know the show?’
Oh, I know the show – not that I watch it. It’s a chat show involving two washed-up female hosts (plus special guests) sitting around and complaining about everything. It’s on every Thursday afternoon so I never get chance to watch it – not that I would if I had the time.
‘What do they want me for?’
‘They’re doing a special on adultery—’ he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before I cut him off.
‘No, no, no, no, no. No. Because I’m haven’t engaged in any adultery. I’m not going to be some kiss-and-tell girl that they can have a go at on TV,’ I rant.
‘It’s going to be a big show. Kathy Saunders, who hosts the show, cheated on her husband with some bloke, reckons it’s made her marriage better. Then there will be the other regular, Deborah Blake,’ he takes his BlackBerry from his pocket and pushes a few buttons before reading aloud, ‘and pop princess Kelly Parker, who recently found out her footballer fiancé had been playing away from home’.
‘So why do they need me?’
‘They want to talk to you because you have been caught up in an affair and, before you start, I know you haven’t. But Dylan told the nation that you did. This can be your chance to set the record straight. Don’t you want to have your say?’
‘Well yeah, but not like this. I don’t think I could go on TV and talk about anything, let alone this.’
‘They’ll pay you.’
‘They’ll pay me? To go on TV and talk about this?’
‘Yes, and they really want you on the show so I’ve got you a pretty good deal.’
‘How much?’ I ask. I cannot believe I am entertaining the idea, but I’m jobless and I have no money to even get back home so I’m in no position to turn this down.
Frank takes a pen and a pad of Post-It notes from his inside pocket, writes down a number and sticks it on the table in front of me. I’m not quite sure why he wrote it down, it’s not like anyone can hear. It must be a showbiz thing that I’m not aware of. As I pick it up off the table and read the number to myself, my jaw physically drops.
‘How much?’ I squeal.
‘And that’s with my commission deducted. That would all go to you.’
‘They want to pay me that much money to go on TV – for how long?’
‘It will probably be a fifteen-minute slot.’
‘Oh my God!’ I laugh in a slightly manic way. It may not be that much money, but I’d be stupid to turn it down now that I’m unemployed. Having no money or independence is really starting to wear me down. ‘OK, tell them I’ll do it,’ I say.
‘Great stuff, lass. I’ll get on the blower to them and sort it out. It’s next week so you’ll want to start thinking about something to wear. Let me know if you need anyone to help you with that.’
‘Erm, I can dress myself thanks, Frank.’
‘I can see that, Nicole. I mean an image consultant. You want to put the right message across.’
Never in a million years would I have expected Frank to mention anything style-related to me. I see him out and run in to see Luke. I stop myself jumping on his bed at the last minute, remembering his injuries, although he’s mending nicely now. I wake him and tell him all about the show.
‘I though Frank was just your band manager,’ I say, still unable to process what a big-shot h
e is.
‘He’s a big name, so are his clients. Google him,’ Luke suggests, carefully sitting up. ‘No coffee this morning?’
‘Frank drank it. Luke, should I go on this show?’
‘I don’t see why not. People already hate you, and don’t give me a dirty look like that, because you know they do.’
He has a point.
‘Just go for it.’
So this is my fifteen minutes of fame. I suppose I should make the most of it.
Chapter Sixty
The F-Bomb
Sitting in my dressing room – yes, my dressing room – at the TV studio, I try not to think about what I’m about to do. At this point, it still doesn’t feel real. Yes, I’m sitting here with my hair and make-up done, in my stylish yet demure dress, just waiting to be called, but I’m still not convinced someone won’t realise what a terrible mistake they have made and show me the door.
I practice my voice again. When the woman on reception asked me if I was Scottish, I thought it best to practice sounding...not northern. When I’m up north I get teased constantly for my weak accent, but when I visit London people treat me like I speak another bloody language.
There’s a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ I call, mentally kicking myself for sounding so northern. A man wearing a headset peers just inside the doorway.
‘Ready for you in ten minutes, Miss Wilde.’
‘Oh, right. Shit.’ I kick myself again for swearing, but he’s gone. No swearing. No northern terms. I absolutely cannot come across as the foul-mouthed, northern home-wrecker that I (kind of) am. No smart-arse comments, no silly puns – I just need to be myself, well, a version of myself that doesn’t swear, pun or have an accent.
Before I know it, I am being ushered towards the set.
‘This is your seat,’ he points to one of the empty chairs and then addresses the person I didn’t know was standing behind me. ‘Ah, Miss Parker, you will be seated to the left of Miss Wilde.’
‘Brilliant,’ she says unenthusiastically, walking straight past me. What a bitch. Then again, to her I’m probably just another girl like the one who ruined her relationship.
I take my seat as instructed and admire the set. Everything is red and gold – presumably because Christmas is coming, although I imagine their usual set is equally as garish.
‘One minute to go,’ Headset guy calls out.
I am taken aback by the studio audience, I didn’t realise so many people were going to be here. I watched an episode of the show last night (for research) and presumed the enthusiastic laughter and other audience noises were canned. We’re all sitting around a large table, shaped a bit like a banana, with one host on either end – guests go in the middle. I am sitting between Kelly and Deborah Blake. I don’t know what it is Deborah is famous for, but I’m guessing she was someone back in her day and she’s still very aware of that fact. I’d guess she was in her early sixties. I know that Kelly is twenty-nine, so I’m the youngest on the show. Then we have Kathy Saunders. She used to present a breakfast TV show, and I remember the scandal when she was caught shagging her co-host, who was also married. She’s probably fifty-ish, but trying oh-so hard to look more like thirty. If people can forgive her, maybe they’ll forgive me in time.
Headset man appears next to one of the cameras in front of us. ‘And we’re live in five, four, three...’ he gestures the other numbers with his fingers, and then a big red light appears on top of the camera. I guess this is it.
‘Hello, and welcome back to Chit-Chat. Today our topic of conversation is adultery.’
The audience make ‘oooh’ sounds.
‘You’ve never cheated on anyone, have you, Deborah?’ Kathy asks across the desk. I wonder if I’m in shot. I don’t know what to do with my face, smiling feels awkward, but I can’t just sit there glaring at them.
‘I haven’t, no. Never cheated on anyone, and I’ve never been cheated on,’ Deborah chirps.
‘That you know of,’ Kathy says with a chuckle and the audience roar with laughter. It’s not that funny, is it?
‘I’ve spoken about it many times on the show before, but for those of you who don’t know, I did cheat on my husband, but it saved my marriage. If I hadn’t cheated, we probably would have broken up eventually. So personally, I owe an awful lot to my affair. However, one of our guests today – Kelly Parker, everybody.’ She gives the audience a moment to cheer and clap. ‘Kelly, your footballer fiancé, Jed Ellis, cheated on you. How did that feel?’
‘It ruined my life, Kathy,’ Kelly tells her. ‘I thought we were happy, we’d set a date for the wedding, and then it came out in the papers that he had been cheating on me with several other girls. It broke my heart. I’m not sure there is ever an excuse for it.’
‘Oh, there is. In my case, it was a great thing, but when people get hurt...’ Kathy trails off, and then looks at me.
‘Our other guest, Nicole Wilde,’ – no pause for applause, not that I was expecting any – ‘you had an affair with Dylan King, one of the country’s biggest stars.’
‘I didn’t have an affair with Dylan, we’re just friends,’ I say weakly, feeling defeated already.
‘You’d been friends for so long, and yet you didn’t get together until after he was married.’
‘Nothing happened between us. I don’t think one suspicious-looking photograph in a tabloid is enough to prove otherwise.’
‘He was on top of you, on the floor, your hands were all over each other,’ Deborah interrupts, and then once again all three women stare at me, waiting for an explanation.
‘Well come on, if we were going to have an affair do you really think we’d get it on in the centre of Leeds, right outside a five-star hotel? There’s like 250 rooms, that’s a lot of people that could have seen.’
‘By all accounts, you were very drunk,’ Kathy says, smugly.
‘Yes, and by all accounts,’ I say, trying to copy Kathy’s voice, ‘at no point did Dylan’s penis leave his trousers. We were a bit drunk, fine. We fell over, he landed on top of me – if I was going to lie, don’t you think I’d come up with a better one?’
I look at Deborah, she’s not buying it and neither is Kathy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Kelly believed me, though.
‘But Dylan confessed and apologised. Isn’t it time you did the same thing?’
Ah, fuck it.
‘Dylan only confessed to keep his wife happy, so that he could see his kids.’ I hear the northern creeping back into my voice, big time. I didn’t pronounce one ‘h’ in that sentence.
‘Well, that’s my next point. When I had my affair…’ Oh, shut up about your affair, you old bag. It’s like she’s proud of it – ‘no one got hurt. You nearly broke up a marriage, and a marriage with two new babies.’
‘No one got hurt?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you think your husband was hurt that you cheated on him? And what about the other guy, it didn’t save his marriage, it ruined it.’
I’m so pleased I Googled that last night.
‘Well, just a second—’ Kathy’s voice is raised, but I’m on a roll now.
‘No, I won’t wait just a second. I don’t care if you believe me or not, I don’t care if any of you believe me.’ I wave my arms like a maniac at the cameras and the audience. ‘I know what’s true and I can sleep at night, no problem. But you!’ I point a finger accusingly at Kathy, there really is no turning back now. ‘You are so proud of the fact that you cheated on your husband, and you ruined another man’s marriage, and poor Kelly here, well her fiancé really hurt her and humiliated her, and you sit there going on about how wonderful affairs can be, it’s crap!’
The audience gasp at the word crap. No, really, they do.
‘My word!’ Kathy exclaims. ‘In all the years we have been doing this show, not once has a guest sworn on air. You should be ashamed of yourself – for two reasons now,’ she adds, giving me that last boost of confidence I need to really kick off. She turns to address the cameras.
‘I apologise to those of you watching at home. I did say that I didn’t want a common kiss-and-tell gold-digger on Chit-Chat, but no one listens to me.’
‘Oh, we wouldn’t want a common kiss-and-tell gold-digger on Shit-Chat,’ I repeat, mocking her accent. Well, when did being mature ever get you anywhere these days?
‘I came on here to set the record straight,’ I continue, because there’s no stopping me now, ‘not to have you pick on me and big up affairs in front of a woman who has had her heart broken because of one. This show is a joke. You have a platform to address real issues, and yet you spend the whole time complaining about men and justifying adultery. What a fucking joke.’
A matter of seconds after the words leave my mouth, the red light goes off and two large security men enter the studio.
‘You are a disgrace,’ Kathy tells me. ‘We invite you to be on our show, and you repay us by swearing four times.’
‘Four times?’ I ask, counting them in my head. ‘I’ll give you “shit” and “fucking” – I’ll even give you “crap” – but “penis” is the correct term. I can say penis as much as I like.’
‘Get her out of here,’ Kathy instructs the security guards.
‘Penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis,’ I chant as they drag me out of the studio, one guard at either side of me, which seems a little excessive.
My fifteen minutes of fame didn’t even last fifteen minutes, and as I walk down the corridor towards Reception (technically, I think they’re carrying me, which is a bit extreme considering all I did was drop an F-bomb, and I was going to leave anyway), I can’t help but laugh at my career suicide. I don’t think Frank will want me on his books now.
How Not to Be Starstruck Page 26