Anyone But You: A BRAND NEW feel-good celebrity, second chance romance (Love is in the Air Book 2)

Chapter Two

The driving rain soaked Dylan in seconds, buthe didn’t care. Hejust started walking and eventually wound up at the park, one of his favourite places and where he often went to write songsin peace.

Finding a seat on a bench, he watched the mallard ducks by the lake waddling in the mud, fighting their corner against the Canadian geese. Lost in thought, he kicked at the stones in annoyance, knowing he should have handled his one chance to win the Vision over so much better. Hadn’t he been singing about love and its associated problems since he was a teenager, for God’s sake?

But it wasn’t the time to be dejected, it was time to be positive, to move his game plan forward. And he would do exactly that.

As soon as he discovered what his game plan was.

Biting at his thumbnail, he tried to think of a solution.

It was cool, he decided. He’d win her round once she saw how talented he was. His only problem was that he’d never played a gig on his own before. He was used to messing around in his home town with his old band, but rather than being a brilliant performer to the masses at the Dog and Duck on a Sunday, he actually served the beer and washed the glasses — so Mac the landlord would feed and pay him. But hey, that could be changed . . . no worries.

He stood up and slung his guitar over his back, determined to hold on to the positives. Mac would be bowled over by his talent and the Dog and Duck would be forever grateful that Dylan put them on the map when he became a household name. He just needed to sort a gig out with Mac on a hangover-free day, when he wasn’t being an evil son-of-a-bitch.

So, no time like the present. A drink might cheer him up, and he could handle Mac — mostly. He meandered back to his house, sidestepped the dirty trainers, bikes, and piles of junk mail that tripped him up at every turn, and, after changing into dry clothes, headed over to the Dog and Duck.

The babble of drinkers, cheap music, and the chink of glasses soothed him as he sat down on a barstool in the snug and shuffled it closer to the bar. He skimmed sticky, half-dried liquid from the countertop with a beer mat before depositing his elbows on it. The snug was the only part of the establishment in which the old regulars could feel comfortable, since the Dog and Duck had slowly morphed into a gastro pub, done out in pseudo Art Deco and unwelcoming glass and steel. The menu had become unrecognisable, too: chips only ever came stacked on top of each other as if the chef was once a tidy log cutter, and noisettes of unidentifiable and mostly unappetising food were the order of the day.

Stanley, wearing grimy trainers and an incongruous cream suit, sidled up to him.

‘Hey, Stan.’ Dylan nodded towards him. ‘I like the bib and tucker.’

Anya, the new Hungarian waitress, sniffed in Stanley’s direction from behind the bar as if he’d brought a bad smell in with him. ‘It can’t be worse than that dreadful coat that looks like a dog blanket,’ she commented. ‘Even the dog discarded that.’

Stanley fingered the huge lapel of his jacket, which looked as if it belonged on the set of Grease. ‘You like it?’ His gravelly voice conjured up images of smoky nightclubs and whisky chasers. ‘I found it in one of the charity bags outside the hospice shop. Fits a treat, and what a bargain when you cut out the middle man.’ He flashed teeth that looked as if he’d sucked on coal for the last twenty years.

Dylan looked away quickly.

‘Wondered if you were eating in here later?’ Stanley’s bloodshot eyes pleaded an unspoken question. His brown, chewed-up-toffee-looking face crinkled with gratitude as Dylan patted his pockets as if checking for money.

‘My turn again, is it?’ Dylan joked.

‘Jesus, you’re a saint . . .’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ Dylan cut Stanley off before the thanks became too ingratiating. ‘What shall we have — treacle-baked gammon and julienne frites?’ He studied the upmarket menu and wondered when he’d turned into his mother, feeding the homeless. It must be a genetic thing. He’d be doing a charity bake sale next, if he wasn’t careful.

‘Ham and chips, is that?’ Stanley asked, screwing his eyes up in confusion.

Dylan nodded as he replaced the menu in its fancy silver-plated holder.

Stanley never strayed far from Dylan, who’d mostly fed and watered him on a full-time basis since he’d found him shaking in a doorway one night. Whether from a lack of, or too much substance abuse, Dylan had never discovered, but Stanley’s fate had been sealed — he was bonded to Dylan now.

He gave his attention to Mac as Stanley contentedly spun around on his swivel chair. ‘I’ll bet you’d let me set up a stage and play a gig in here, wouldn’t you, Mac?’

Mac’s permanent scowl deepened. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Because I’m brilliant.’ Dylan was terrified that Mac would see through him and say no, but equally terrified he might say yes. The desperation in his own voice annoyed him, especially as his words earned him a curled lip from Anya, who mostly prowled around the place squirting air freshener while declaring My noseis not used to the stench of anEnglish pub, to anyone who wouldlisten.

Dylan emptied his pockets of loot onto the counter and Mac sifted through the detritus, throwing out the occasional Romanian Leu or metal button with a smirk, as if it was proof of Dylan’s lack of talent. He piled all the ten pence pieces up, until there was enough money to buy two pints, tossing the Euros back at him, along with the rogue coins and sticky sweet wrappers.

Dylan shoved them back in his pocket with a resigned air, aware that some people just saw him as a singing dustbin. ‘I’ve got all my own amps and stuff, and I’ll tidy up afterwards, I promise.’

Mac dragged his gaze away from Anya’s bottom to look back at Dylan, eyes wide as if he hadn’t been expecting Dylan to be that organised. He poured out two pints ponderously, and unceremoniously slopped them down on the counter in front of Dylan and Stanley, then studiously ignoring Dylan’s pleading face as he picked up and polished another glass.

Dylan knew that look. It said, I’m listening, but I’m going to tell you to piss off,either way.It wasanormal response from Mac and wasn’t necessarily a bad sign.

Dragging out the standoff, Mac took a swig of his tomato juice and grimaced — it was no doubt drowning in vodka again. He threw a handful of peanuts into his mouth and chewed.

He didn’t reply for so long that Dylan thought that Mac had decided to ignore their conversation, when suddenly Mac spoke — with feeling, ‘This is my little empire, and I don’t want you tarnishing its reputation, okay?’ He thumped the bar worktop to emphasise the point as tiny bullets of chewed peanut shot out from his mouth. Dylan dodged out of their way the best he could, wondering why on earth higher management hadn’t replaced Mac, along with the ancient Axminster carpet and dirty leather chairs, when they’d upgraded the pub. Although, since Anya had started, he had at least ditched the beige corduroy jacket that he always wore and had generally tidied himself up a bit.

Mac stared hard at Dylan, as if evaluating his worth, before sighing loudly and eventually saying, ‘You write your own songs, do you? I don’t want two hours of bloody “Ticket to Ride”and Sam Smith covers puttingeveryoneoff their Tiramisu.’

‘Of course, I’ve written some sublime songs.’ Dylan didn’t add that no one had actually heard them yet, which made his claim to sublimity purely self-conjecture.

Mac stopped rubbing at a twenty-pence piece that looked as if someone had taken an axe to it. ‘Sublime songs, eh. That’ll be interesting. You won’t want paying, will you?’

‘Err . . .’

‘No, I didn’t think so,’ Mac said firmly. ‘You weren’t thinking of paying me, were you?’

‘Mac, you know I’m always broke.’

Mac chewed thoughtfully. ‘Oh, go on then, but if you’re crap, you’re out on your ear.’ He sprayed more peanut bullets at Dylan out of his mouth just to reinforce the point.

‘I’ve told you, Mac, I’m brilliant.’ Dylan was tempted to cross his fingers behind his back at such a claim, but then again, in hisopinion,hewas pretty good — for a street busker.

‘We’ll see about that on Sunday.’

‘Cool.’ And Dylan knew how to be cool even if his insides were fizzing with excitement. He would enchant Scarlett with his music and tempt a million talent spotters to take a punt on him. Practicalities immediately poked their heads above the parapet and he gave Mac his best big eyed I’m begging you look. ‘Can I borrow your phone? I just want to call a mate of mine who does graphic design. If I’m going to do this thing, I might as well do it right and put out some flyers.’

Mac grunted. ‘Why haven’t you got a phone? Even ten-year-olds have a mobile these days.’

‘I left it in my cap when I was busking, and it got nicked.’

Mac shook his head and puffed out his cheeks. ‘I don’t know. Whatever happened to honour among thieves, eh? Go on, then. It’s around the back.’