Starstruck (15 page)

‘Ok,
see you in a sec.’ I click off the call and return my phone to my bag.

Taking
out my lipstick, I try and make myself look a little more presentable. I
definitely can’t stroll around the swanky lobby looking like this. I apply a
thick layer of red lipstick, by way of a distraction, and dab a little onto my
eyelids. It seemed like a good idea but in hindsight, maybe not. My eyes look
sore now; in fact I’m looking a little cokey, à la Luke Fox. Crystal may have
stolen my Pretty Woman crown yesterday, but I’m about to win it back. I not
only look like a bit of a prostitute in this dress (last night it looked hot,
at this time in the morning it looks tarty) but I also look like I’m just
coming off my shift. As I approach the front desk, the look on the face of the
woman sitting behind it confirms everything I just thought. As she escorts me
to a room with “Security” stuck in big letters on the door, I can’t help but
think how bad this must look.

Inside,
Charles is sitting in front of a bunch of monitors with a big, burly security
guard. It’s kind of scary, all these monitors – you don’t realise just how many
cameras there are on you in the hotel. Apart from the rooms, obviously, I don’t
think there is an inch of space in this hotel without a camera pointing at it.

‘So,
where was he last?’ the security guard asks me, looking me up and down, taking
in my trashy get-up.

Things
are a little hazy, but I do my best to give him a rough time and a place so
that he can check.

‘I
think we’ve got him, one moment.’

I
hear Dylan singing very quietly and realise it’s coming through the speakers.

‘Do
these cameras have sound?’ I ask, trying not to sound worried, and Charles
gives me a funny look. I’m just hoping I didn’t say anything to embarrass
myself.

‘There
is a small microphone inside each camera, but it will only pick up extremely
loud sound,’ security guy tells me.

Looking
at the big monitor, I can see Dylan laid on the stairs and me walking towards
him.

As
I walk up to Dylan our conversation silently plays out before my eyes. I
remember the events of last night a second before I see them on the screen. I
grab Dylan’s face, he grabs mine, and there’s that kiss. Without audio, this is
looking pretty bad. We stand up, Dylan hands me his key card, and then we go
our separate ways.

‘That
looked pretty cosy,’ Charles observes. Of course, I don’t respond – mainly
because I don’t know how to.

‘Ok,
so now we can follow him and see where he ends up,’ says the security man,
pushing buttons to change the camera as Dylan climbs the stairs.

Suddenly,
“I love you, Nicole” bellows around the room from the speakers. I’d forgotten
about that part.

‘Whoops,
sorry about that,’ apologises security guy. ‘He’s right next to the camera you
see, that’s why it’s so loud.’

I
feel my cheeks flushing again. I know how it looks, but that’s not how it was,
so I’m not saying anything. Instead, I just stare at the big monitor, waiting
to see where he stops.

‘There
you go, tenth floor reception room.’

‘Cheers
mate,’ Charles thanks the security guard, before turning to me.

I
don’t give him chance to say anything, instead I suggest that I go and look for
Dilll, and Charles agrees that would be best.

In
the sober light of day I remember my room being on the eighth floor, so I can
grab Dylan, send him on his way and then go get myself ready. The only way this
weekend can go from here is up.

When
I eventually find my way to the reception room and walk through the door, the
first thing to catch my eye is Dylan, lying face down on the floor in between
the tables, an empty bottle of champagne still in his hand.

‘Dylan,
it’s Nicole. Wake up, love,’ I say in a hushed voice, shaking him gently. It
only takes a few attempts and I hear him groan and move slightly. He’s alive,
so far so good.

‘What
time is it?’ he asks.

‘It’s
time you got your suit on. What the hell are you doing in here?’

‘Who
knows?’ He rolls over and sits upright.

‘We
need to get you to your room and – oh my God!’

‘What?’
he asks, and I’m scared to tell him. Dylan has one hell of a black eye and a
cut on his lip – injuries he definitely didn’t have when I saw him last.

‘Where
did you get the champagne?’ I ask, avoiding his question.

‘I
think I found it. Why did you say what you just said?’

‘Don’t
worry about it, because we can fix it, but you have a black eye and a burst
lip.’

‘What?’
he shouts. I hand him the little mirror I keep in my handbag so he can see the
damage.

‘Oh,
fuck, fuck, fuck! Crystal is going to slaughter me.’

‘Crystal
Slaughter – isn’t that her name?’ I snigger, but it’s clearly not the time.

He
touches his lip and winces.

‘Look,
calm down. I’ve got loads of make-up in my room, we can cover it and no one
will know,’ I assure him.

‘I
had sex last night,’ he tells me frankly.

‘Who
with?’ I ask, surprised but not
that
surprised.

‘I
don’t know, but I know that I did.’

‘Are
you sure? You were alone when we met up.’

‘We
met up? It wasn’t you, was it?’ he asks seriously.

‘No!’
I laugh.

‘Ok,
but it happened. I never forget a fuck.’

‘Dylan,
you’ve forgotten more sex than I’ve had in my lifetime, just calm down. Let’s
go cake you in make-up.’

‘Ok,’
he says, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. ‘Looking at the state of
you, if this is what you normally look like then your make-up must be the stuff
of miracles.’

‘Watch
it, or I won’t let you use it and then you’ll be in Bacci magazine looking like
a twat - and that’s if Crystal will still marry you with a face like this.’

He
laughs and winces with pain at the same time. ‘You know, I thought the headache
was because of the hangover, but my face kills.’

‘I’ll
bet it does,’ I sympathise. His face is a mess; I’m hoping my make-up bag is up
to the challenge.

‘Am
I doing the right thing?’ he asks me.

‘I’m
sure a lot of men wear make-up. Some make it obvious, some don’t.’

‘Oi,
you know what I’m talking about. Getting married. Am I doing the right thing?’

This
is my moment, the last chance I’ll get to talk him out of going through with
this. When I first found out, I thought it was a bad idea. I mean, who marries
some girl they don’t know, but knocked up one drunken night? It’s Jeremy Kyle
shit. And now I’ve met Crystal, and she’s just horrible, how can I let him go
ahead and marry her? He’s my best friend, I love him to bits and I know he’ll
be miserable married, but married to a girl like her – who has just been
waiting for a rich and famous mug to marry – it’ll ruin his life.

Looking
into his eyes, for the first time ever I see a softer, entirely genuine side to
Dylan. He’s not worrying about what anyone thinks, there’s no act. This is the
first time I have ever seen him look worried - scared even. Then I remember how
excited he was in the lobby yesterday. Maybe I’m just scared to lose him? If
he’s just nervous, it wouldn’t be right to talk him out of it.

‘Do
you
think you’re doing the right thing?’ I ask.

‘I
thought I was, but something just doesn’t feel right, you know?’

It’s
now or never Nicole, speak now or forever hold your peace.

‘I
think you’re just nervous,’ I say. I can’t ruin his day and it’s not my place
to tell him whether or not I think he should get married.

‘Do
you think so?’

‘Dylan,
I don’t think I’ve ever seen you surer about anything for as long as I’ve known
you. You seemed so happy yesterday. If you think you’re doing the right thing,
then you do it.’

‘I
thought I was sure,’ he says, and we sit in silence for a few seconds, neither
of us knowing what the hell to say.

‘Well
there’s always divorce,’ I joke.

‘There
is. And she did sign a prenup,’ he adds with a laugh.

‘Come
on, we’ll stop by my room and grab my make-up bag. I met Charles, by the way.’

‘Oh
really?’

‘Yep.
I’ll tell you all about it on the way.’

I
don’t think it matters how gorgeous my dress is, I had to get ready in such a
hurry and my hair could have done with at least twenty minutes more attention.

I
helped Dylan to get ready first, straightening his tie, covering him in make-up
– typical groom stuff. He looks absolutely gorgeous and the make-up has really
done the trick, you’d never know his face was such a mess underneath it all.
I’ve got extra make-up in my bag in case he needs a touch up later. That won’t
seem weird at all.

Looking
at him standing up there waiting to get married in front of his family, friends
and random A-listers who will look good in the photos, I feel a pang of
jealousy – I’m not sure why though. Did I feel jealous that night on the tour
bus when he was having alarmingly loud sex in the bunk below me? No – I just
wanted them to stop so that I could go to sleep. It was 4am and none of us had
slept in over twenty-four hours and the gentle rock of the bus made me feel
seasick. That’s pretty standard procedure on tour though - if you can’t stand
the sex, get off the tour bus.

So
why is this different? I certainly don’t want to get married, not to Dylan or
anyone else for that matter.

‘So,
what do you really look like?’ Charles asks, sitting down next to me. He’s
another man that scrubs up pretty nicely.

‘What
do you mean?’ I ask.

‘Well
looking at Dylan, you’d never know his face was black and blue under all that
make-up. It makes me wonder what you actually look like.’

‘Oh,
cheers!’ I smile.

‘Dylan
looks a bit more relaxed.’ He gestures towards the alter.

‘I’m
not surprised, he’s still drunk.’

Charles
looks surprised. ‘He’s still drunk and about to get married?’

‘That’s
Dylan. Shouldn’t this show be on the road?’ I ask.

‘It
should, Crystal just sent a message saying she will be slightly late.’

‘Late?
She’s only upstairs! It’s not like she has to race across town, is it?’

Charles
laughs. ‘You don’t like her, do you?’

‘She
doesn’t like me either,’ I reply, a little too defensively.

‘I
can’t think why not, you’re lovely,’ Charles whispers to me, and before I have
chance to work out if he’s being sarcastic again, the music starts. Her
ladyship must be here.

Considering
the groom was drunk and the bride was the Bride of Chucky, the wedding went
without a hitch. Well, apart from when Dylan said, “I, Kylan, Ding” by mistake.
Charles and I very much enjoyed his slip up, laughing together and nudging each
other like a couple of naughty school kids. He’s good fun, is Charles - we’re
getting on really well.

After
the ceremony we posed for photos together and I can think of far worse people
to have on my arm in a huge magazine like Bacci.

The
photographer took a lovely photo of Dylan and me, I really hope they print it
although I doubt they’ll publish a snap of the groom and his female best
friend. They might print the photo of Charles and me though, which also has
massive dress showing off potential.

After
sitting next to Charles during dinner, my mini crush on his voice has turned
into a full-blown crush on his everything. It’s only now that we’re listening
to the speeches that we’ve finally stopped chatting.

Mikey’s
speech is up next – I’m really looking forward to this one. I spoke to him
earlier and he warned me not to miss it so I’m expecting great things. Of
course, this is his brother’s wedding so I’m sure he’ll take the honour
seriously and not use it as a platform for his cheeky lyrics.

‘If
I can have your attention please?’ a voice bellows over the PA system. ‘It’s
time for the final speech. Give it up for the best man.’

Applause
and cheers fill the room as Mikey takes the microphone, a mischievous grin
plastered across his face.

‘Hello
ladies and gentlemen, I’m...,’ Mikey pauses, and the entire room falls silent.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says sincerely, ‘I’m just so nervous. This morning Dylan
told me that if I did a good job at being his best man today, that I could be
best man at his next wedding too.’

The
room erupts with laughter - well everyone apart from Crystal is laughing, she doesn’t
look too impressed. Mikey carries on regardless.

‘For
those of you who don’t know me, I am Mikey, Dylan’s little brother. I’d just
like to point out to the bridesmaids that the term “little brother” refers to
our difference in age, and not our physical characteristics.’