Page 73 of Ex in the City
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I thought people were supposed to calm down as they got older?
I know I have. In fact, Rowan used to tell me I had BGE – big grandma energy – but I think lots of women, as they arrive in their thirties, realise that there is a lot of value in embracing their inner granny.
Don’t get me wrong, I know I’d let things get a bit stale, and that my life before Dylan turned up was positively dull, but I’m not talking about that. What I’m on about are the little things, things that you wouldn’t necessarily dream of embracing in your twenties.
I mean, I would go out, multiple times a week, in absolutely minimal clothing – no matter what the weather. I would wear heels that made my feet ache, and talk to men who made my brain hurt, and I would ride out my hangover like it was a badge of honour.
These days, however, I have thoughts like: there’s a lot to be said for a good cardigan. I love a cardy, a big pair of fluffy socks, a huge cup of tea and a book. Imagine doing that on a cold November night, instead of traipsing out in the cold, inuncomfortable clothes, to get drinks spilt down you, and random men dry-humping you – unsolicited – on the dance floor.
Don’t get me wrong, I have been loving reliving my youth, and hanging out with the boys, going on nights out – but I’m starting to think that the reason I have been enjoying it is because it has felt special, a break from reality, something different for a change.
Thinking back, to the so-called good old days, I remember that nothing was special. Crazy nights, every night, getting drunk and staying that way for the whole tour – it’s like anything where, if you overdo it, it sort of ruins it. It’s sort of like when you have a gigantic bar of chocolate, and it’s amazing, but the second you eat too much it’s hard not to look at it, angrily, like it’s trying to ruin your life. Too much of anything is almost always a bad thing.
Of course I’m the only person here, at the party, who thinks this way. I never thought I would be the one sitting in the corner, watching everyone, feeling exhausted, willing time to go faster so that it can be over and we can go to bed.
Last night, Dylan’s suite was the sleek, boujee pad – this stunning love nest, where we had sex in every room, and we woke up to sheer luxury. Tonight it has been transformed into a den of hedonism – and a total shithole of one at that.
An array of multicoloured strobe lights darts around the room. The air is heavy with the thumping bass of music, laughter and the kind of conversation that makes you want to ram cocktail sticks into your ears.
People from all walks of life have gathered here. The guests are as diverse as the music because, for the last hour, Dylan and Mikey have been taking requests, Mikey playing the guitar while Dylan sings, and honestly they’ve covered a bit of everything.
Over at the bar area there is a self-designated mixologist, who is concocting the strongest drinks, and everyone is lovingthem, but the more they drink, the more boisterous the party gets.
The living room area, previously pristine, is now filled with dancing bodies, twisting and gyrating to the music.
The balcony door is wide open, allowing some fresh air to enter – it’s boiling in here – but only the smokers are stepping out there.
As Dylan sings ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, I notice the blonde – the one who invited herself and her friends to the party – invade the makeshift stage and hang off Dylan’s neck, as she joins him in screaming into the microphone. They’re just singing, just having a good time – I’m being ridiculous.
As the song ends, it’s Mikey who spots me. He comes over and sits down next to me, wrapping his arm around me, pulling me close. He holds my head on his chest, a little heavy-handedly, but he’s very drunk, he’s not exactly in control of his motor skills.
‘I never thought I would see Nicole Wilde looking grumpy at a party,’ he says.
‘Then you never looked hard enough, back in the day,’ I reply. ‘You guys have always been a pain in the arse.’
‘You love us really,’ he says, peppering my head with kisses.
I look over, to where I last saw Dylan, only to see him looking back at us. The blonde girl is telling him a story, and she couldn’t be more animated, but he’s looking over here, watching – almost as though he’s keeping an eye on us.
The blonde girl, unhappy that he isn’t watching her tell her tale, takes his face in her hand and turns him toward her.
‘Back in a bit,’ I tell Mikey.
I grab my drink and take it outside, to get a break from the music, and the smell of sweat, and the floor show.
As I pass the outdoor sofa, the spot where Dylan and I started heating things up last night, I can’t help but stare at it. There is a man sitting there though, and I accidentally make eye contactwith him, so I quickly avert my gaze and head over to the glass balustrade, resting my forearms on it as I look out over the city.
Hang on a minute, that guy, the one on the sofa. He looks familiar, in fact, he looks like…
I feel a tap on my shoulder.
‘Jake!’ I squeak, grabbing my old friend, pulling him in for a hug, but then I push him away just as quickly, to look him up and down.
‘Nicole Wilde,’ he says with a laugh. ‘Some things never change.’
‘You change,’ I tell him, not quite making sense, but he knows what I mean.
