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

Chapter Six

One week later, as Dylan turned up for his evening shift at the pub, Mac, on spotting him, pushed the wooden cocktail stick he was chewing to one side of his mouth saying, ‘Here, some poncy bloke’s been looking for you.’

A new song Dylan had been composing coiled around and around in his head on a loop, its complexity and vibrancy occupying his thoughts, but he just about registered Mac’s words.

He placed his guitar carefully in the store cupboard, where it lived when he was at work, and gave it a little absent-minded pat before turning back to Mac. ‘What did you say? What sort of poncy bloke?’

‘The sort that has a flash Coutts card, sort. Fast sports car, sort. Stinks of aftershave and charm, sort.’

Dylan thought that last bit was a bit rich coming from Mac, who mostly smelled of eau de pub: a subtle blend of stale lager and cigarette smoke from his crafty fags behind the bins at every opportunity. Dylan gave a casual nod, despite the alarm running through him. ‘Really?’

Unsurprisingly, the song that was driving him mad took a back seat for a minute as he tried to think of someone — anyone, in fact — who might want to call on him, let alone a posh man in a flash car.

‘He left his card somewhere — said to call him.’

‘Really?’ Dylan’s vocabulary diminished as his interest increased.

Mac nodded and lifted up a crate of empties, staggering out of the back door like a drunk — which probably wasn’t far from the truth.

Dylan waited until he returned and hovered around, mopping down the bar-top, and clinking glasses for no discernible reason but Mac offered nothing more. Dylan knew Mac was smugly silent waiting for him to crack. In all fairness, it didn’t take long. ‘And this business card would be where?’ he asked impatiently.

‘You want the card?’

‘Of course I want the damn card.’

‘Well, you only had to ask. Now, where did I put it?’ He patted his pockets and winked at Anya, who stood listening to their conversation with her arms folded.

‘You are too cruel to the boy.’ She snatched the embossed card out of Mac’s top pocket and glanced at it. ‘Oh, you are going to love this,’ she said, passing it to Dylan.

‘Oh, my God.’ Dylan glanced at the front of the embossed card and ran his hand around his neck, as he read the scrawled message on the back. ‘Oh, my God, oh, my God.’

‘Is there a name for this new syndrome you’ve developed? Repetitive Repeating Yourself Syndrome, perhaps?’ Mac had clearly read the business card too and was suppressing a grin. ‘I hope he takes you on. I’ll be glad to see the back of you, that’s for sure. Come to think of it, I’d also like to see the back of most of the regulars. They’re all on benefits and nurse one pint all night. You’re the worst, though. Spend most of your time muttering to yourself and undercharging the regulars.’

‘I don’t mutter! I’m composing.’

‘Talk of the bloody devil,’ Mac added, as Stanley shuffled in wearing purple flares and a greasy-looking porkpie hat, his latest fashion accessory that he said he’d found on a wall.

‘Hey, Stan, what’s up?’ Dylan asked, not expecting a coherent answer.

‘I thought I’d barred you,’ Mac said cheerfully.

‘What for?’ Stanley asked, shrugging indifferently.

‘I need a reason, do I? How about for being smelly and broke?’

‘That’s about right, I suppose.’ Stanley pulled up a barstool and clamped his long bony legs around each side of it. ‘I’ll have a pint of my usual.’

Mac, in turn, shrugged and began pouring the beer.

‘Stan, I’ve made it. An agent wants to see me.’

‘Eh, what?’ Stanley asked, as he pulled a grubby five-pound note out of his pocket.

‘Look.’ Dylan flashed the small, embossed card at Stanley. ‘Mr . . .’ Dylan squinted at the card. ‘Mr Ridiculous Surname wants me to call him. Oh, wait, I haven’t got a phone.’ He bit his lip and looked hopefully at Mac.

‘Hang on a minute. I’m sick of this, using all my stuff. I’m not your mother, you know.’ Mac retreated through the door to the back, where most of the world’s detritus seemed to reside, and returned minutes later, blowing dust off a large mobile phone. ‘Take this, it was Tracey’s.’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, it’s not a bleeding Smith and Wesson, is it? Although, you’d wonder, the way you’re looking at it. I’ve written the number down. Here’s the charger, and knowing Tracey, it’ll still have money on the sim card.’

Dylan stared at it. ‘Mac, it’s pink.’

‘It is. Well spotted. My daughter went through a pink phase, like most teenagers.’

Dylan grimaced and put his hands behind his back, refusing to take it.

‘For God’s sake, what’s better, a pink phone, or no phone at all?’

‘Err, no phone at all?’ Dylan replied, but he took it gingerly from Mac, holding it between his finger and thumb as if it was a dead rat. He plugged the charger into the wall, watched as the phone lit up, squinted at it a bit and prodded it. ‘Yeah, it works all right. Thanks, Mac.’ He dusted down his hands. ‘Right, I’d better get on with my work.’ He turned back towards the bar and plunged a pint glass into boiling water in the sink.

‘You’re not calling him? Nancy Boy?’

‘It’ll keep.’

‘It won’t bloody keep!’ Mac roared. ‘You ring him right now, or else I will.’

Dylan ran his hand around his neck again, clammy palms meeting clammy neck. ‘What shall I say?’

‘Dylan, you’ve spent the last year here, showing me what a smart arse you are. I think you can work out how a phone call goes. Hello, this is Dylan Willis. I believe you wanted to speak to me might be a good starting point.’

Dylan ran his hand around his neck again. ‘Right, right. Right.’

‘He’s at it again.’ Mac rolled his eyes.

Dylan eyed the phone like it was kryptonite. ‘Okay, I will, then.’

‘Bloody good.’ Mac stared at Dylan, still rooted to the spot. ‘Oh, for crying out loud, use the phone out the back, then we won’t all have to listen to your painful conversation and forever remember what a complete dick you made of yourself.’

Dylan nodded. ‘Thanks, Mac.’ He returned minutes later looking deflated. ‘Answerphone.’

‘I hope you left your number.’

‘I’m not a total idiot.’

Mac rolled his eyes again, begging to differ.

Just then, the pink phone, plugged into the wall, started to sing a song about lollipops, and everyone turned to stare at it. Dylan inched over to it and peered at the number.

‘Answer it, then, before they ring off,’ Mac roared again. ‘Otherwise, this saga could run longer than The bloody Mousetrap.’

Dylan picked up the phone, nodded a few times in response to the voice on the other end, and croaked out a few words before switching off his phone.

‘Well?’ Mac demanded.

‘He wants me to send him a demo tape, and I’m meeting him for coffee and an informal chat next week at a hotel.’

‘Brilliant. Sign here.’ Mac thrust a piece of paper under Dylan’s nose.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s your contract for a six-month run at my pub every Sunday until further notice.’

‘I can’t sign this, Mac. I don’t know where I’ll be then.’

‘You’ll be right here, my boy, or else.’

‘You couldn’t wait to get rid of me a few minutes ago. You can’t do this!’

‘I can do what I want until you’re famous enough to tell me to shove it. And when you are famous, don’t forget, this is where it all started, sonny Jim. You never forget your roots.’ He slapped him on the back, beaming.

‘Mac, you didn’t even know me a year ago.’

‘Mere detail.’ He waved a pen under his nose. ‘Sign it.’

‘I think it’s good news, Dylan,’ Anya said, coming to the rescue. ‘But it’s early days yet. It will take some time to become famous. You are a good guitar player, no?’

‘I’m a brilliant guitar player, and a fabulous singer.’

‘Yes. Then, you will make it.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’ Dylan wished he shared Anya’s confidence in himself, for all his bluster.

‘You will celebrate with your new lady?’

Dylan’s stomach swooped in the familiar way whenever he thought about Scarlett: a mixture of shame and longing. ‘I messed up big time, Anya.’ He didn’t think he would ever like himself again until he’d apologised to her.

‘I know, but she likes you very much. She hated the man she came in with.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I am a woman.’ She waved a soggy cloth at him. ‘Silly boy. Go and make the mends.’

‘Amends?’

‘Yes, you should.’ She began to polish the tables, squirting her suffocating polish onto the surfaces and giving him a knowing look.

She was right, of course, and he did want to celebrate — and not on his own. He looked at his watch as an idea took hold. ‘Can I finish a bit early, Mac, seeing as it’s not busy?’

‘I suppose so, but, here, have a drink with me before you go, to celebrate your good news.’ Mac, like most bartenders, found many excuses to have a nip of something special. He was already unscrewing a bottle of aged Malt he kept for such occasions.

Dylan groaned inwardly. He’d fallen for Mac’s lines before. Just awee dram to see you on yourway,orHave yourself a quick shot to warm you up. Next thing he knew, he’d be weaving his way home, apologising to every lamppost on the way, while devouring a dodgy kebab more likely to make him throw up than the booze.

Dylan didn’t want to be churlish about Mac’s offer, so he downed a whisky large enough to floor an elephant and convinced himself that he wasn’t really going to phone Scarlett, even if her business card was practically phoning her number for him through wishful thinking.

He’d checked that her mobile number was on the card, the minute she’d given it to him. A number he couldn’t forget if he wanted to — it was etched into his brain.

He threw a glance at the pink thing plugged into the wall. It would be a lot harder to call her if he didn’t have a phone, and that would probably be for the best. He picked up his guitar and headed for the door.

‘Hey, don’t forget your new phone. You’ll need something to phone your new poncy friend with.’ Mac snatched the phone and charger out of the wall and handed it to Dylan. ‘What would you do without me, eh?’

‘Cheers, Mac. I have no idea how I coped before I met you.’

Mac cuffed him around the head. ‘See you tomorrow, superstar.’