Page 58 of Ex in the City
‘It’s not real, it’s part of my costume,’ he reassures her.
She scowls at him, for giving her such a fright, before getting back to what she was doing.
‘Is this going to happen all night?’ Dylan turns to ask me.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘Cool,’ he says simply.
As I scan the room, I look at all the other parents and staff members, who have all embraced the celebrity theme with gusto.I honestly never thought I’d see the day. This lot always take themselves so seriously, and yet here they are, all dressed up and having the time of their lives.
There’s ‘Elvis Presley’, wearing a bedazzled white jumpsuit that he definitely didn’t have hanging in the back of his wardrobe. Not to be outdone, ‘Elton John’ is propping up the bar, in a huge pair of sunglasses and a suit covered with feathers. Oh, a special shout out to Martin, Rebecca’s husband, for his fantastic white trousers and white vest Freddie Mercury get-up.
Dylan hands me a drink – some kind of cocktail – and as I taste it my eyes roll into the back of my head. My God, that’s good – why can’t these events always be this fun?
Dylan and I begin making our way around the room full of people. We chat, drink and nibble on the delicious canapés. Dylan is undeniably the star of the show tonight, everyone wants a piece of him, and it reminds me of what it used to be like, being around him, knowing he commanded the attention of every single person (and the taken ones too) in the room. Sometimes it would make me feel like a spare part, like I might get lost in his shadow, but tonight it’s different, it’s like we’re a team – every bit the duo we appear to be.
‘We’ve got a very special guest in the house tonight,’ the lead singer’s voice booms through the room, commanding everyone’s attention. ‘Well, we’ve got a lot of special guests in tonight, but one, in particular… Meat Loaf! And I heard a rumour Cher is with him, so, without further ado, this is “Dead Ringer for Love”.’
Dylan’s eyes light up with mischief as he takes both my hands and pulls me towards the dance floor. The rhythmic beat of Meat Loaf’s iconic hit fills the room, and Dylan – ever the showman – instantly transforms into his character, lip-syncing to the lyrics, giving it all the intensity and confidence the man himself wouldhave. His commitment to the performance is nothing short of brilliant.
By the time Cher’s part rolls around, I can’t help but join in the fun. I strut, spin and lip-sync alongside him. Together, we’re the ultimate duo – for one night only weareMeat Loaf and Cher – lost in the infectious energy of the music. The rest of the room practically fades away as we enjoy the moment. As the song finally comes to an end, I fall about laughing, and Dylan sweeps me into his arms. This is the kind of pure, carefree fun we used to have all the time, I’ve really missed it. Tonight, he’s like the old Dylan again – well, theoldold Dylan – the one who knew how to enjoy life without going too far.
Rebecca, suddenly standing on the stage with a microphone in hand, taps it a few times, sending a screechy feedback noise through the speakers. You could be mistaken for thinking it was her first time holding a microphone, given how terribly she handles it, but unluckily for me I can tell you that it isn’t. Rebecca almost always finds her way to an amp.
Everyone in the room stops what they are doing, listening to hear what she has to say.
The evening is an undeniable success. I’m interested to see how Rebecca acknowledges that without giving some kind of praise to me and Dylan, because that is the last thing she will want to do, believe me.
‘I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank you all for coming,’ she begins. ‘Each and every one of you looks like a genuine celebrity – I hope you’ve had an A-list night.’
The room ripples with applause.
‘Love you, Rebecca,’ a man dressed as Gene Simmons shouts out.
She smiles and curtsies, very much channelling Lady Diana this evening.
‘With the theme being celebrity, we thought perhaps we should honour our own celebrities, right here,’ she says, gesturing to the screen next to her. ‘Many of the residents of Little Harehill have been featured in the press many times, for all sorts of reasons.’
The screen shows a newspaper page featuring James Burns, Thom Burns’ dad, who famously leapt into a canal to rescue a stranded dog. The crowd applauds his heroics.
‘The amazing and heroic James Burns,’ Rebecca says as she claps him. ‘Let’s see who is next.’
The next slide showcases Deanna and her choir, and the headline from the time they performed for members of the royal family. The audience claps again.
‘Didn’t they do us proud,’ Rebecca announces. ‘Next slide, please.’
My heart stops when I see the familiar front page up there on the screen. I haven’t seen it since the day it was printed, back in 2014, but I remember every single detail.
Underneath the headline, ‘Dylan goes Wilde’, there is a photo, of me and Dylan, lying on the pavement, him on top of me, the two of us looking into one another’s eyes.
See, this is what I was worried about, without the explanation, this looks bad – really bad. The reality is that the two of us went on a night out and, both a little worse for wear on the walk back to the hotel, Dylan fell down, dragging me down with him. When it happened we were on the floor for less than a minute, and we spent most of it laughing, but the picture is from only a split second of that time, and of course, the way the tabloids spun it, it made it seem like (a recently married) Dylan and I were having an affair, rolling around on the floor together, on our way to a hotel to spend a night together.
The room comes alive with chatter and everyone stares at us, some laughing, some judging. Neither feels great.
I seethe. This is classic Rebecca, I expect no less but, still, what a horrible thing to do.
‘And here is the man himself,’ Rebecca announces, her voice echoing through the hall.
