Page 60 of Ex in the City
We’re sitting on Dylan’s bed, surrounded by Mr Campbell’s notebooks, the ones bursting with his meticulous notes on all of my neighbours. While it is odd, and slightly unsettling, that these things exist, they are exactly what I need to feel better right now. I wasn’t going to do it, flipping through these is a real invasion of privacy, but here we are. Look what they’ve driven me to.
‘She thinks she can just broadcast my secrets to the entire school,’ I mutter, sorting through the notebooks, assembling a pile of notes on Rebecca and Martin. ‘And she thinks she’s so untouchable. Let’s see what secrets she has, huh?’
Dylan chuckles, picking up one of the notebooks and flipping through it.
‘Yeah, imagine if she knew you had Mr Campbell’s very own take on the tabloid right here,’ he replies. ‘I’m looking at some of them, and sometimes it’s nothing but speculation.’
‘Well, that’s exactly like a tabloid,’ I reply. ‘That newspaper clipping they showed about us was a complete work of fiction anyway, it’s win-win, it levels the playing field.’
That night, back in 2014, was a time when Dylan was really struggling. I was living in Leeds, he was in London, and while we saw each other as much as we could, and talked on the phone all the time, it was around this time that his drinking was getting worse, and he found himself in a bit of a mess.
Everything is clear to see, when you’re looking back at it, but when it’s all going on right there in front of your face it can be harder to make out.
Things took a turn when Crystal Slater came on to the scene, telling Dylan that she was pregnant with his twins, and his record label hired that absolute moral crusader of a moron to handle his publicity – Charles, the guy who managed to talk Dylan into marrying Crystal, even though he didn’t love her, because it was the ‘right thing to do’. Of course, in a twist of events that surprised absolutely no one, it all turned out to be a grift, the kids weren’t his, and his marriage ended almost immediately.
The picture of us that wound up on the front page of theDaily Scoopwas taken after he got married, but before the babies came. He turned up at my office one evening, in a panic, saying he couldn’t handle it. So, I took him on a night out, and I gave him a pep talk, and I told him to go give family life a go. I got through to him, he was willing to go back and try, but that picture hit the front page before he got the chance. It makes me so cross because he was really struggling that night, he was in a really bad place, mentally, but that doesn’t matter to a tabloid like theScoop.
There were a few stories about me after that – me, a nobody – it was almost as though theScoopwere trying to break me. They tried to break Dylan, many times – in fact, it was stories intheScoopthat brought about our falling-out. I really, truly hate them, and I hate Rebecca, for putting that photo up for everyone to see, and I’m going to find something out about her right now.
I take another swig from the bottle of champagne. Okay, let’s do this.
‘Right, let’s start with this one,’ I say, clearing my throat, ready to read aloud. ‘“Rebecca and Martin Rollins are up to something. Guests to the house are frequent, in groups, and not their usual crowd.”’
‘Well, that’s interesting,’ Dylan says.
‘Indeed,’ I reply, skimming the page for the next juicy bit. ‘“It all makes sense. It’s the pineapple, the pineapple is the key – and it’s where they hide their key too. That ornamental stone pineapple on their doorstep, so unassuming, and yet a clear signal to those who know.Rebecca and Martin Rollins are swingers.”’
I practically scream the last sentence.
‘No!’ Dylan says.
‘That’s what it says,’ I tell him, smiling the widest smile I have ever smiled. ‘Hang on, let’s see.’
I skim the pages, a little more than tipsy, but not at all mistaken. Mr Campbell’s notes are crystal clear, and his mind was totally made up on the pair.
‘So, da da da,’ I say, skipping over a page or so. ‘Okay, so: “Can a swinger cheat? I’m sure that’s the very point, in groups, and all is forgiven. But there is one man, the one with the beard, who is visiting more frequently – visiting alone, and while Martin is at work. I have never trusted that woman.”’
I take another swig, jigging my body with joy, delighted to learn that Mrs Perfect might not be so perfect after all. I mean, if you want to swing, do it, be you, have at it – and congratulations on finding more than one person who wants to sleep with you because, historically, I’ve always found getting one good one tobe a challenge – but don’t come over all moral and smug and judge other people. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw big stone pineapples.
The champagne swishes around in the bottle a little too violently and fizzes up. Well, that serves me right, for taking so much joy in someone else’s chaos. Unsurprisingly, placing my mouth over the bottle doesn’t help to contain it, and I spill it all down my jumpsuit.
‘Shit,’ I say, jumping up. ‘Is this karma?’
Dylan laughs.
‘I mean, were you planning on sharing this information with anyone?’ he asks.
‘Nah,’ I admit. ‘I just thought it might make me feel better, to know their dirt too. They don’t need to know that I know.’
‘There you go then,’ he replies with a smile. ‘Somehow I didn’t think you would.’
‘What can I say? I’m a softie,’ I tell him. ‘I’m also soaking wet.’
Dylan whips off his T-shirt and throws it at me. I use it to try to soak up some of the champers but it’s no good. I’m soaking and I’m sticky.
‘I’ll nip to the bathroom,’ I tell him, wobbling on my feet a little. ‘Feel free to put all the books back – it turns out I’m not as spiteful or as vengeful as I’d hoped.’
‘Okay,’ Dylan says with a chuckle. ‘Can you bring me the face wipes, from the bathroom, please? The girl who did my make-up gave me them to remove my scar. I’m probably safe to take it off now, right?’
