Page 15 of Ex in the City
‘Yeah, okay,’ I reply. ‘I don’t want to let the kids down.’
Jo can hardly contain her excitement.
‘This is fantastic! Come on, let’s get you both set up in Archie’s classroom. The kids are going to love this!’ she continues. ‘Actually, you know the way, walk ahead, I’m going to see if anyone else wants to sit in. A genuine celebrity, I can’t believe it.’
Walking into the classroom with Dylan by my side feels like stepping out onto a stage. The room is filled with parents, teachers and curious kids, and the moment we walk through the door, all eyes are on us. For the kids, it’s not that they recognise Dylan because how could they, The Burnouts disbanded before any of them were born, but in a village like Little Harehill there aren’t that many heavily tattooed rock stars strolling around.
Whispers and hushed conversations ripple through the crowd of adults at the back of the room – a crowd that is growing by the second. You can tell almost everyone recognises him and anyone who doesn’t, well, I guess they’re the people with their phones in their hands, frantically googling ‘Dylan King’.
I sense the shift in the atmosphere as we head for the front of the classroom. All eyes are on us, and you could hear a pin drop right now. I feel like I’m in the epicentre of an unexpected storm – I just hope, whatever happens, it isn’t as destructive.
I lean down to Archie as I pass him. He’s looking up at me with a mix of surprise and disappointment.
‘Sorry, kid, your dad got held up with work, but I’ve brought a friend of mine to help out instead,’ I reassure him.
He nods, understanding, but it’s a shame that he has to.
As we stand at the front of the classroom, even though we feel a little bit like lambs to the slaughter, I can’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu too. It’s me and Dylan against the world, just like it used to be – although, admittedly, it was usually me helping him clean up his messes. Still, the fact that he’s here, now, returning the favour – it’s as though our friendship never faded, like we never had a single day off from it, like we haven’t spent a moment without one another over the last almost decade.
Jo eventually returns, an undeniable spring in her step, and she takes her place alongside us.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, parents, and students,’ she calls out, her voice carrying across the room and then some. ‘Please give a warm welcome to our special guests today: Nicole Wilde and Dylan King!’
She introduces us like we’re about to take to the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury and, hilariously, a few of the mums ‘whoop’ and cheer like we are too.
I can’t help but notice how some of the women’s eyes follow Dylan’s every move. It’s like they’re teenagers watching their favourite pop star. Dylan has always been a heart-throb, and time only seems to have enhanced his appeal. Then again, look at him, he’s matured like a fine wine, whereas I’m maturing more like a cheese.
‘Nicole is a businesswoman,’ Jo tells the kids, giving them a pretty vague and totally boring description of my job – not that my job will be that interesting to kids, I suppose. ‘ButDylan is a musician.’
But! Okay, cool, she thinks I’m boring in comparison too.
‘A famous musician,’ Jo continues. ‘One who has toured the world, been on TV, sold thousands and thousands of albums.’
Dylan clears his throat.
‘Millions,’ he corrects her, quite casually, given what a brag it is.
‘Wow, millions,’ Jo says. ‘Very impressive.’
‘You’re not Archie’s dad,’ Rafe, one of Archie’s friends, calls out.
‘No, I’m not,’ Dylan confirms. ‘I’m Archie’s mummy’s special friend.’
He purses his lips for a second, trying not to laugh at his choice of words.
‘Very special,’ Jo continues. ‘Ask your mummies and daddies and they will tell you that Dylan is a very talented singer.’
‘What’s the most people you have sang in front of?’ Maggie, another kid in Archie’s class, asks.
‘Hmm, was it 100… maybe 120,’ Dylan ponders out loud.
‘That’s not many,’ Maggie tells him.
‘Yeah, sorry, that’s 120,000,’ he says – again, quite plainly, given how impressive that is. ‘It was at a festival.’
‘You’re famous?’ Amelia calls out, her eyebrow raised sceptically. I’m trying to remember if I questioned a single thing when I was a child. ‘I’ve never heard of you. Are you really famous, like Taylor Swift famous?’
‘Is anyone, other than Taylor Swift, Taylor Swift famous?’ he replies with a smile.
