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

Chapter Nine

Dylan and Harrison arrived at the venue and Dylan saw it all come together in a matter of hours, his eyes widening at the machinations of a professional team in action. He wandered around for a while and chatted to a few people, mostly feeling a bit like a spare part while Harrison went off doing Important Things.

Harrison eventually reappeared, eating a sausage roll out of a paper bag as he surveyed the action. He shoved another bag at Dylan. ‘Eat. This might be your last chance ’til it’s over.’

Dylan peered into the bag at his own sausage roll. The contrast between a humble Greggs sausage roll, and a man who could conjure up a gig out of nowhere and drive a flash Lambo, was not lost on him. He was happy to be the Greggs customer for the moment, but he’d have killed to be the Lamborghini guy, too.One day, he thought. One day.

‘Cheers. I could get used to such luxury,’ Dylan said as he bit into his sausage roll.

‘Impressed, huh?’ Harrison chuckled, throatily.

He nodded. A simple thing had never tasted so good.

They watched the shenanigans as they ate contentedly. Technicians unscrewed panels and set up the stages, tapped microphones and plugged in amps. Once again with Harrison by his side, Dylan’s nerves ramped up, the tickle of butterfly wings turning into full on flapping in his stomach. To distract himself he focused on what was happening around him. ‘I can’t believe how easy this looks, to go from an empty room to this.’ He indicated the lights that were now being tested, flashing on and off in various hues.

Harrison shrugged. ‘It’s easy when you know how. Pay enough people enough money and you can do anything you want.’

‘That’s about the sum of it,’ Dylan agreed

Harrison crumpled up his paper bag and Dylan, feeling shaky with nerves, followed suit, grateful when Harrison said, ‘There’s beer, too.’ He popped the ring-pulls off a couple of beers and passed one to Dylan. They chinked cans. ‘Cheers.’

‘If you’re as talented as I believe you are,’ Harrison continued, ‘you too will have someone do everything for you. And I mean everything.’ He lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

Arabella then appeared from nowhere and slipped her arm around Dylan’s waist. ‘What would your ultimate dream be, to prove you’d made it?’ She’d clearly been listening in to the conversation.

Dylan resisted the urge to remove her arm as he thought for a moment. ‘Someone blowing . . .’ Pausing, he grinned, before continuing, ‘. . . on my eyes to cool them down when I have hay fever.’

‘Hey, reach for the stars, man?’ Harrison’s lip curled, but his eyes twinkled.

‘Yep, that’s my utopian dream. But I’d have to pay them. I don’t want them to do it for love. That would defeat the whole point of being rich and successful.’ Dylan smiled, hoping his comment would be taken in the light-hearted vein it was meant, a little disconcerted that the young woman seemed to take an inordinate amount of interest in everything he said.

‘Do you want a quick run through and soundcheck in half an hour?’ One of the roadies called across to Dylan.

Saved from having to answer Arabella, who almost had her tongue in his ear, he pulled away. ‘Yes, brilliant.’Thank God.

‘You’re not on until about ten o’clock by which time they’ll all be nicely oiled, and you’ll go down a storm,’ the roadie added.

Dylan gave him the thumbs-up, despite being pretty sure he hadn’t paid him a compliment, but he took it in good humour. As soon as there was a lull in the frenetic activity, he took the opportunity to take a breather outside.

Arabella joined him within minutes. ‘Smoke?’

‘No thanks, it’s not good for the voice. Or anything else, come to that.’ Dylan knew he sounded like his mother, but it was true. He inched away from her and her threat of passive smoking.

She lit up a rolled cigarette, and as she blew out, a familiar aroma filled the air. Ahh, so it wasthat sortof cigarette.

‘Here, this’ll help your nerves.’ She passed him a bottle of something liquid but without a label.

He shook his head, but then thought, what the hell. If it got her off his back. He took a large swig. ‘Shit, that has a bit of a kick.’ He coughed, quickly realising he’d lasted about an hour in his role of stardom before taking some kind of stimulant.

He took another swig, it could only be good for him at this stage of the game, he decided. Arabella’s eyes widened as Dylan coughed once more and a vague feeling that he could take on the world and win widened the smile that started to transform his face. ‘Okay. Thank you, Arabella, I can take it from here.’ He returned inside to the relative safety of Harrison, before Arabella could try tempting him with more recreational vices. As they stood together, companionably quiet, people continued to buzz around them, like worker bees keeping their queen happy.

‘While we’re here, man, is there anything we need to know about your past? Best to get it out of the way now, so we’re prepared. No need to be shy. It won’t go against you, but forewarned is forearmed, you know?’

‘Oh, umm.’ Dylan frantically tried to dredge up something that might be noteworthy, but it seemed his life was blemish free. Damn it.

Harrison stared. ‘No? Let’s move on, then, while we have a few minutes to spare. I am assuming you’re straight, as you say you have a girlfriend. I think it’s fair to say you’re a decent kind of chap, and I think you’ll appeal to all age groups, which’ll be a good selling point.’

Dylan wasn’t sure that was how he wanted to be portrayed, but had to concede that Harrison was more or less right. His mother was a schoolteacher, and he loved her too much to let her down in the close environment where he grew up. His father was an upright citizen and had taught Dylan and his brother respect and honesty so what chance did he have to be a bad boy?

‘Our stylist only lives minutes away, luckily, so she’s popping over to take a look at you, to see what can be done.’

Dylan was puzzled. ‘What can be done? What do you mean?’ He looked down at his Timberlands, his almost-clean jeans, and his, admittedly ancient, t-shirt that bore a logo so cryptic even he couldn’t work out why he’d bought it all those years ago. All in all, he was good to go, as far as he could tell. Though, now he thought about it, how cool would it be to have a stylist of his very own?

He grinned again, re-thinking the idea. Scarlett would be the girlfriend of a designer-clad dude before she knew what’d hit her, and he’d be able to hold his own. He couldn’t wait to see what the stylist would come up with.

‘Stand by your beds, here she is.’ Harrison waved a hand in greeting.

Lost in his Scarlett dream, Dylan thought Harrison meant that Scarlett was heading his way, but soon realised the woman striding towards them and waving at Harrison was the stylist. She looked nothing like the glamourous stylist he’d expected, however — not that he’d ever seen one, as far as he knew.

‘Hi.’ She looked Dylan up and down as if he was an inanimate object she was thinking of buying, but was having second thoughts.

He returned the look, his disappointment palpable as he gazed back at theimmaculately-suited, thirty-something, pointy-nosed lady, as thin as a stick of rhubarb andjustassour, going by the sucking a lemonlook she gavehim.

She dug deep into a noisy, plastic bag and popped a few pumpkin seeds into her mouth with annoying repetition. ‘Yep, I can do something with him.’

She took a step closer to Dylan, peering at his face, and he peered back, thinking there was something of the Wicked Witch of the West about her. He’d have bet his last pound she’d melt in water. The thought made him smile.

‘Lovely smile,’ she said.

He instantly felt guilty at his less-than-kind thought and allowed her to take another step towards him, but was still on the lookout for a green tinge to her skin. Her mouth turned down as she peered at his hair, taking a strand of it between her fingers. She ruffled the top of it, tugging it from one side to the other while peering closely at it, until Dylan wondered if she was looking for nits.

‘He’ll do,’ she said and winked at Dylan, surprising him all over again. ‘Book us a date, and I’ll get on it.’

Harrison grinned, before kissing her full on the lips. ‘Atta girl,’ he said, slapping her bottom.

She kissed him back and threw Dylan a mischievous grin as if challenging him to comment. Dylan’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, but he didn’t say a word.

‘She’s my proper girlfriend, my one and only,’ Harrison said as she sauntered away. ‘Saved my life, metaphorically and literally, more times than I can remember, and I love her to bits.’ He stared after her retreating form. ‘But don’t tell anyone. It’d totally destroy my street cred.’ He sighed, almost sorrowfully, as she disappeared through a door.

Dylan watched her go, too, but rather than sharing Harrison’s affection towards her, a sense of dread and an urge to buy new underpants suddenly washed over him. He was already having nightmares that she’d turn up out of the blue, wielding a tape measure and expecting him to strip off and put on a pair of paper pants. Or was he confusing having a stylist with visiting a beauty parlour?

Just when he thought the focus on himself was almost over, the sound engineer decided he should sing a few preliminary lines.

‘Give it your best shot, eh?’ Harrison grinned, winking.

Dylan picked up his guitar and shrugged, happy to play for as long as they wanted. He felt like part of the gang already, and his nerves had all but disappeared. It was only Harrison who was important here, after all. They’d shared sausage rolls, straight out of a paper bag. You couldn’t get much closer than that.

He tuned his guitar and sang “Please Believe You’re Beautiful”, the song he’d been perfecting for months and had thought was faultless . . . until the comments from the sound engineer and some random bloke who seemed to be in charge of the stage started pouring in. Even the lighting guy had something to say about the lyrics and Dylan felt himself deflate under the weight of the criticism.

Harrison, though, nodded his approval, although he motioned for the song to be bigger, louder, better, his hands moving up and down like a conductor of an orchestra. Dylan sang it again, with feeling, and again with a slightly different intro. And once more with a different tempo, until he was sick to death of hearing his own voice and hoarse from trying to hit the high notes that he normally sang an octave lower without anyone noticing in their hurry to walk on by.

The time flew by until Dylan realised that the song he held so close, like a precious jewel, had become Harrison’s own project. It had been taken out of his hands, picked apart and polished to within an inch of its life, and repackaged. So much for a spontaneous gig, he thought, as more people became involved. The whole experience was exhausting. And they were all taking it so seriously.

It had also slowly dawned on him that his music was only a small part of the package, and that he had a lot to learn if he wanted to make it big time. Almost instantly, he had turned into an investment to promote and protect, and he wasn’t sure if it was comforting or terrifying.

Glancing at his watch, he saw he’d been singing for three hours and had yet to see an actual audience. Exhausted, he longed to creep home and return to the normality of the Dog and Duck for a beer or two.

In the end, he only sang three songs to an audience of mostly indifferent student types, who seemed more concerned about where their next drink was coming from than Dylan’s talented debut. At least his songs were well received by Harrison, he mused. At the end of the night he’d slapped him on the back before finally sending him on his way, scrawling his personal phone number on the back of his business card with the promise to catch up soon.

Dylan had grown a bit jaundiced with the whole bonhomie of Harrison and his unrelenting good humour and was glad to head home — until Arabella offered to join him, an image that scared him witless as she made no bones about her capabilities in bed.

He quickly shut down the inner demon in his head that suggested he could possibly find out if she was telling the truth, and brushed her off by telling her that he still lived with his parents. As soon as he was out of the building, he slid into a shop doorway to phone Scarlett, shielding the pink phone from view.

He knew it was indecently late to call her, but he needed reassurance that she hadn’t changed her mind about going on a date with him. He secretly hoped she’d invite him over to hers again, and wistfully dreamed of a rerun of the chaste kiss they shared — or more, if he was being honest with himself. He also wanted to share the surreal experience he’d just been a party to, in case he woke up and found it was all a dream.

Luckily for him, she answered the call immediately, and he launched into his spiel. ‘Hi, Scarlett, I wanted to invite you to my first-ever professional gig, but I didn’t get a chance, and now it’s too late.’ He hesitated, wondering how far he could push it. ‘I wondered if I could see you?’

‘Sure, that’d be great. Facetime me.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Either that, or catch the overnighter from Heathrow, then I can meet you for lunch tomorrow.’

‘What?’

She paused, then laughed. ‘I’m in Rome, Dylan.’

Not so lucky, then, he thought, as disappointment punctured his bubble of anticipation. ‘Oh, I thought the line sounded odd.’

He studied his pink phone as if a Facetime app might jump out and smack him in the eyes, even though it was one of the earliest Nokia’s ever made and barely had digits, let alone Apps. ‘Facetime is a distant dream for my phone, so it’ll have to be a personal visit, but it might take me some time to get to you. I don’t even have my passport on me.’

She laughed again. ‘Dylan, I’m joking. I don’t expect you to come and find me, lovely as that would be.’

‘Oh.’ It took a minute to take in her words, and he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved, or not. But she had said it would be good to see him — he definitely heard her say that. ‘I know this probably isn’t protocol, but I’ve missed you, you know.’

‘That’s nice to hear.’ He thought he could hear a smile in her voice. ‘I’ll see you when I get back. I won’t be gone long — maybe we could meet up on Wednesday?’

‘Sure. That’d be cool, man,’ he replied, trying to sound, well, cool.

The line went quiet, and he could hear her talking to someone: a man, judging by the deep voice. He tried to listen in to the conversation, jealousy spiking him in the gut.

‘I have to go, Dylan,’ she said, coming back on the line. ‘Oh, and don’t practise your rock-star talk on me. I’m far too jaded.’

‘It’s the way I’m gonna rock and roll from now on, babes.’ He smiled down the phone, wondering what she would make of the pet name.

‘Yeah? You just keep rolling . . . babes.I’ll see you soon.’

‘Cool. Night.’ The line went dead, and he looked at the phone, unsure whether he’d run out of credit, or if she’d cut him off. ‘Missing you already,’ he said regretfully, but he was happy. He’d spoken to his Scarlett, and knew he was some way towards piercing her hard exterior. Underneath it, he suspected she was as vulnerable as the next person. Maybe life had given her a few knocks, but he’d take his time and make her see that trusting another person — trusting him was a good thing.

She wanted to see him again and that at least was an excellent result. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. ‘Cool, man,’ he said, smiling to himself.

He returned to his dump of a house praying that his housemates were in bed and hoping even harder that they had at least washed the dishes and cleared the coffee table, although he was so wired he wasn’t sure he cared. He was going to see Scarlett soon, Harrison had given him his personal phone number and was going to call him about an interview with a top music magazine, and he had his very own scary stylist to magic him into a rock-star dude.

He lay on his bed, suddenly too exhausted to undress, but his mind raced as the turn of events played over. He finally drifted off to sleep as the night deepened, trying to think of a word that wasn’t harlot, to rhyme with Scarlett, so he could write the song he’d promised her. It would be the best song ever written and would guarantee that she would fall in love with him . . .

All was good.