Page 75 of Ex in the City
‘Okay, cool,’ Dylan says. He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. ‘See you later.’
I head inside, catching up with Jake, happy to have found an escape from the party that doesn’t simply involve going and sitting in my room, on my own, worrying about what is happening at the stupid party.
I want to trust Dylan, really, I do, but I’ve been here before and, so far, everything looks just like it used to, to me.
I guess I’ll just have to hope for the best and see what things are like in the morning.
Great.
35
Rubbing my temples to ward off the headache, I wake up in bed, in my own hotel room, with the slightest hangover – well, I didn’t drink too much last night, but it turns out it doesn’t actually take much these days.
The room is silent, the only light seeping in through the blackout curtains, where I didn’t quite close them properly, but I can tell it’s at least morning.
The ‘slight hangover’ intensifies a little, as I lift my head, reaching out to grab my phone. I need a bucket of water, a cup of tea and a big hug.
I felt a bit better last night, after bidding goodbye to the chaotic party, in favour of going for a catch-up with Jake. We ate pizza, had drinks, and we lost track of time as we chatted for ages, bringing each other up to date on our lives, and reminiscing about old times. But then, as I left him behind to return to the hotel, that niggling sense of unease lingered as I wondered how things were playing out at the party. Still, I tried my best to push it from my mind. I made myself a cup of tea, I got in bed and I watched TV until I fell asleep. I just kept tellingmyself not to worry about it, that he might not be doing anything all that bad.
The last thing I did, before I fell asleep, was to have a word with myself. ‘Don’t be so mental,’ I’d muttered under my breath, trying to calm my ridiculous imagination. It’s not the end of the world. Relax. Let Dylan do his own thing. He’s said you can trust him, so trust him.
It’s going to be strange, getting up, going down to breakfast, and then cracking on with the tour because the reality is that I am never going to know what went on last night. I’m sure everything will feel fine, and everyone will reassure me that it was fine and I’m supposed to, what? Believe them? Yep, I’m just going to have to believe them. Which, ladies and gentlemen, is the very definition of trust. I just need to trust him.
I squint at my phone, rub my eyes, and then try again.
What the hell?
The notifications seem endless, to the point where I wonder if something might be wrong with my phone. I haven’t seen it like this since… oh God.
I begin scrolling through the notifications. Multiple missed calls from Dylan and Rowan scream at me from the call log. The various messages and pings from different social media apps are relentless – more and more coming through as I’m staring at the screen.
But, amid it all, on thing stands out more than the others, a news alert for Dylan King. The headline reads:
Dylan King goes Wilde on tour.
My heart sinks, and a wave of sickness washes over me. Why is this happening again? Why do people have to drag my name into it? I’m not taking any blame for what the idiot does on tour. Okay, I’m the person who is supposed to be keeping his imageon track, but I will murder him if this has repercussions for my business because I am not the ringmaster of this shitty circus.
With trembling fingers, I open the article, and for a moment, I’m suspended in a bittersweet haze. The blonde in the photo isn’t me – a small relief, but one that is most definitely short-lived.
My heart shatters when I read the subheading:
Dylan King in drug-fuelled romp with old flame… and it’s only day two of the tour.
The photo shows a blonde woman, from behind, sitting on top of a dark-haired man. You can’t see their faces, or any real distinguishing features, but you can tell that they’re both naked, on a bed, having sex. If I didn’t recognise the hotel room, I would definitely spot Dylan’s leather jacket on the chair next to the bed – and the article has gone to the trouble of pointing it out, showing that it is the same one he wore on stage last night, so that’s super helpful. Empty booze bottles and various illegal substances are clearly visible on the bedside table. The photo has sex, drugs and rock and roll – that’s bingo.
It isn’t me in the photo, I know that much – obviously. But my eyes squint at the man in the background, blurred and distant. Is there a chance it’s not him? My heart races. Please don’t let it be him for, I don’t know, about fifty different reasons.
I skim-read the article which – you’ve got to hand it to theDaily Scoop– they’ve got online lightning-fast. I miss the days when you could only be exposed in sync with the news cycle because this is online already and… oh my God. They’ve got a quote from Dylan.
I close my eyes for a second, scared to look, because for all of my worrying about what happened last night, and the question marks I was going to have to accept if I wanted to trust him, Ican’t be sure if reading what he has to say is going to make it better or worse.
I read it, and it makes it worse, so much worse.
In response to the question, asking him if it is him in the photo and how he feels, Dylan said: ‘What I do on tour is my own business. Photos like this are unacceptable. No one should have their privacy breached like this.’
Well, that’s that then. If it wasn’t him, he would deny it. He’s not wrong, that the photo is a huge breach of privacy but – honestly? – I’m glad it exists, and that it was printed. It was so, so stupid of me to think that a man like Dylan could change. I love him, so much – too much, probably – but he’s never going to be the kind of man I can be with.
As devastated as I am, I should be grateful for the clarity. I’m too old for this shit. I’ve outgrown this lifestyle, the silly boys, the crazy nights. I shouldn’t be here, participating in this crap, I should go home. Well, the closest thing I have to one right now.
