Page 43 of Ex in the City
‘This is Dylan, he’s a friend of mine, and as you can see, he’s hurt,’ I tell her.
Dylan pouts, showing her his bloody lip. The girl smiles and giggles – my God, is he flirting right now?
‘We just need to know someone filmed it, in case the police need evidence,’ I tell her.
‘Oh, right, yeah, I filmed it,’ she says. ‘I thought you were going to tell me to delete it.’
‘No, no,’ I insist. ‘It’s evidence! But, if you want a top tip, you should call theDaily Scoop, ask for a guy called Jasper and say you have a video for him – he’ll pay decent money for something like that.’
‘Really?’ she squeaks.
‘Really,’ I reply.
‘Okay, cool, thanks,’ she says before getting back to her friends.
‘Nic, what the hell was that?’ Dylan asks me as we head towards the bar.
‘That was me,’ I tell him. ‘Working.’
‘I thought you were going to get her to delete it, not encourage her to sell it to a tabloid,’ he replies in disbelief. ‘At worst it looks like I’m having fights in bars. At best I got knocked on my arse because I didn’t even fight back.’
‘And that is best,’ I tell him. ‘Look, she’s going to take that footage to the press, and they’re going to see you, looking sober in a club, defending the honour of a woman – taking a punch for her. How could you look like anything but a hero?’
Dylan thinks for a moment. Eventually his mouth pulls itself into a smile.
‘You’re a genius,’ he tells me. ‘An evil genius. Have you always been so manipulative?’
I laugh it off.
‘Come on, let’s get a drink,’ I say. ‘I thought we were supposed to be having fun?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ Mikey says, pushing himself between us, wrapping an arm around us both. ‘Tonight we are letting our hair down, the calm before the storm, and now we’ve got the fight out of the way it’s sex, drugs and rock and roll from here on out.’
I laugh because he’s obviously joking.
I think about what Dylan just said. Have I always been this manipulative? I’ve always tried to do what I thought was best, if it helped people, but I haven’t always got the best results. But that’s a conversation I need to have with him on another day, because tonight we party, together, for the first time in almost a decade.
Wish me luck.
21
I grip the sheets below me with both hands, squeezing so hard I feel my nails dig into the mattress.
I have woken up to the feeling of the world spinning around me. Hangovers in your thirties are really something; a cruel reminder that your body isn’t as resilient as it used to be. I’ve had bad hangovers before, and the usual suspects are all there: the relentless headache, the desert-dry mouth, and the feeling that my stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. But this hangover has a few fresh tricks up its sleeve too. The bad back I’ve woken up with is just such a nice touch, honestly, I’m loving all of the little reminders that I’m getting older.
I wince as I dare to lift my head. My back actually feels like it’s on fire. Worse than that, though? I’m not even sure where I am. Panic creeps in, adding another layer of misery to my already pounding head. I sit up in what appears to be a large, unfamiliar bed. I look around with my bleary eyes, trying to find something that tells me where I am but there’s nothing. It’s a nice room – a hotel? No, not a hotel, I can’t see any of the usual things you would expect to find. This is definitely a bedroom.
‘Hello?’ I croak out.
I clear my throat and try again, my voice louder this time. Of course, then it hits me, that the last thing I should be doing in a random house is calling out, alerting people to the fact that I’m here. I should be grabbing my things and sneaking out. Better to sneak out quietly than find myself running for my life later.
I turn my head and spot my phone on the bedside table. It’s charging and within arm’s reach. There’s a glass of water next to me too. The chances I’ve been kidnapped are looking slimmer by the second, but I still don’t know where I am.
The door creaks open. I quickly look, to see who it is, pulling the covers up to my chest and only now noticing that I’m wearing an oversized black Burnouts T-shirt from their 2012 tour.
Dylan walks in, wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms, clutching what appears to be a bowl of cereal.
‘I thought I heard you,’ he mumbles between spoonfuls. ‘Good morning.’
