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

Chapter Nineteen

Dylan arrived at Liverpool Street train station three weeks later, never being less pleased to see London in his life. He normally relished the buzz that was his chosen city the minute he arrived, but this time it just looked dirty and unfriendly.

When he hauled himself back to the hovel he called home, he saw that too with fresh eyes. It was a disgrace that grown adults lived there, and he would stay true to his word and move out as soon as he could find somewhere else, even though Scarlett was no longer part of his life.

He was fed up with being miserable, and with missing Scarlett, and refused to believe that what they had together wasn’t worth saving. He’d decided to win her back, but he was stumped as to how to go about it. He was also due in the television studio, to be figuratively mauled by a scary television presenter at the weekend, but he’d been toying with calling it a day and getting a sensible teaching job as his father had advocated. Since he’d found out that Harrison had only taken him on as a favour, he’d lost the will to shine for anyone. Except, he couldn’t even be bothered to think about a different career option, couldn’t summon up enthusiasm for anything much, apart from pining for the loss of Scarlett and the rosy future he’d planned. He was becoming exceptionally good at pining and being miserable, he noted.

He heaved his rucksack up on his shoulder and hoisted his guitar across his back, steeling himself for the next part of his journey on the Underground. He wasn’t even sure where he was going, just knew that he had to get out of his rented home before his housemates started quizzing him on where’d he’d been and what he’d been up to. He glanced at his phone, wondering whether it was worth pretending to Scarlett that he hadn’t noticed she was ignoring his calls.

Hi Scarlett, guesswho’s back in town? he texted, ending the message with a smiley face. He stared at it for a moment, then deleted it with a sigh. No way would she fall for that. If he was going to win her back he would have to do it properly, but if she wouldn’t take his calls, what could he do? He toyed with the business card she’d given him for one wild moment considering booking an aircraft wondering what the shortest a.k.a the cheapest journey would be. Southend to London City, maybe? But even that would probably land him in debt for years to come. He mustn’t start with delusions of grandeur; he hadn’t earned a single cent yet from his music — well, not counting the coins people threw at his feet, anyway. Around and around his thoughts went as he tortured himself for letting his stupid pride get in the way of love.

Leaving the house, he reacquainted himself with the London he used to love, dazed by the teeming throngs of people jostling and talking loudly over the din of traffic. He really wasn’t sure what to do next, as getting Scarlett to speak to him was as likely as his fellow lodgers washing their own dishes. He had few choices, none of them particularly appealing, and he narrowed them down quickly: getting trashed in the pub, or hovering around his old patch to see if Beanie turned up with Scrappy-Doo. At least he’d make Beanie laugh by telling him about his new role as housewife’s favourite on the up-and-coming breakfast chat show, rather than pinup god to beautiful young women, and he would always have a friend in Scrappy-Doo. So long as he had biscuits in his pocket, anyway.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that his days had consisted of singing on the London streets and pulling pints. He stared at the empty space where he used to play, conjuring up an image of Beanie tinging his ridiculous triangle. He could also picture Scarlett, as she’d passed by on that fateful day, laughing with her friend and stopping to hear him sing, much to his amazement. That was the very moment he had fallen for her, and he would have to go some to top that emotion.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, as the knife edge of pain that was permanently lodged in his breastbone twisted savagely. ‘Decision made: pub, it is,’ he said to the empty air, before the hopelessness of his mission overtook him once more.

He pushed on the door to the Dog and Duck, painting on a smile even though his heart was heavy.

‘Hey, if it isn’t the superstar himself! How’s it hanging?’

‘Mac, no one says that in real life.’ He gazed around the almost empty bar. ‘Looks like you missed me.’

‘Sod off, did we. Where’ve you been?’

‘Ha, so you did miss me.’ Dylan leapfrogged onto one of the barstools, momentarily pleased that at least someone wanted his company.

‘Only because we ran out of people to bitch about. What’s new?’

‘I don’t have much to tell, sadly.’

‘But you are still on the way — you know, stardom, and all that?’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘Beats me what they see in you.’ Mac’s eyes glittered with the prospect of taking the piss out of Dylan.

‘Yeah, you’re rubbish,’ Stanley, in his usual place, joined in, poking Dylan in the ribs and grinning. He laughed into Dylan’s face, his mouth like a black cave with a few resident stalactites glinting dully in the darkness.

It really wasn’t what he wanted to hear right then. He knew they were having a laugh in good humour at his expense, presuming that all was good, and that one day they could flog his signature for obscene amounts of money. Only Dylan and Scarlett, and Harrison, knew he had been given the opportunity on fraudulent grounds: a favour, not talent.

‘A pint and a whisky chaser, please, Mac.’

Mac pulled a face as if his choice of drink had cemented their foreboding but he obliged, shaking his head when Dylan went to pay. ‘This one is on the house, as I’m getting these vibes that all is not as well as it should be in superstar land.’

‘You could say that. Cheers.’ It seemed ironic that his friends had decided on such a nickname for him: if only they knew. He took a slug of the whisky, hoping the fierce burn would eradicate his pain. It looked as if it might, and he drank steadily, watching the minute hand tick by on the clock over the bar. He became more morose as he drank, even though he finished off two packets of crisps and a bag of nuts in the vain hope that they’d stave off the after-effects of five whiskies and three pints of lager.

Stanley had given up studying the menu and wafting it in front of Dylan’s face; there was clearly no supper for him tonight, courtesy of Dylan.

By the time Dylan rose unsteadily from his stool, he was pretty drunk and glad of it. It certainly took the pain away. It occurred to him that whisky might just become his new best friend.

Deciding not to go home to the overflowing bin of rubbish and a television that spent most of its life hidden behind the sofa in case the TV licence man came to call, he took a left turn out of the pub, then a right, until the advert hoardings and double-decker buses fell away, and he was left with a warren of thin roads, lined with depressing-looking shops. He was completely lost, he realised, and bone-weary.

He passed a rough sleeper in the doorway of a dress agency shop, his shabby clothes mingling in with the faded browns of dead leaves and screwed up chip paper that gathered around him — a barely noticeable person, incongruously drab next to a window filled with bright, gaudy clothes for shiny, happy people.

Dylan was quite comfortable with down and outs — after all they used to make up half of the clientele in the snug at Mac’s pub — but he could imagine the shopkeeper’s horror if she knew her doorway was used as an impromptu bedroom, once they’d shut up shop.

A thatch of wild, white hair tumbled around the ruddy, wind-weathered cheeks of the man. His lips, dry and chapped, were just about visible under a wiry, grubby beard, but his eyes twinkled, as if he still had a story or two left in him. Dylan felt the pull of his gaze drawing him into the doorway, holding him with his glittering eye like the man in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a poem they’d studied at school.

The old man rattled his tin towards Dylan, who flopped down wearily onto the hard step. ‘I’ve got nothing for you, mate. Or me, either, come to that,’ Dylan muttered, deep in his own thoughts. ‘I could keep you company for a while, though.’

‘And you’d be more than welcome,’ he said, bundling his greasy-looking sleeping bag onto his knees to make way for Dylan. ‘Fergal is my name, and I’m very pleased to meet you.’ He thrust out a hoary hand, and Dylan wrapped it in his. A cushion and a blanket appeared out of the depths of a heap of rags. ‘Here.’ He leaned over and pushed the cushion behind Dylan’s head. ‘And put this over you and you’ll stay nice and warm,’ he added, passing him a blanket.

Dylan murmured his thanks as he looked at the blanket dubiously. Even so, he did as the man said, and it was surprisingly cosy once he was out of the wind. ‘I’m Dylan,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much for your hospitality.’

‘So, what made you choose this salubrious establishment?’ The man’s eyes positively shone with interest towards his new visitor.

‘Oh, Tripadvisor said it was one of the best doorways around.’ Dylan’s laugh was over loud, his drunkenness dulling his internal volume monitor.

Fergal’s face screwed up in confusion. ‘Eh?’

‘Sorry, life, the universe, and everything is ganging up on me.’ His eyes were growing heavy, his lids drooping, the weight of alcohol and sleep dragging him down. Nausea washed upwards from his stomach as the floor appeared to move from underneath him. ‘Woah . . . that’s not nice,’ He snapped his eyes open and swayed, disorientated and fell into the solid shoulder of Fergal. ‘Oops, might have to stay awhile longer.’ He righted himself and stuffed the cushion behind his head once more resting against the wall. ‘This is shit, man.’

‘Yeah. I wouldn’t recommend it, to be honest,’ Fergal said, patting Dylan’s knee. His nails were grimy and long like witch’s talons. They reminded Dylan of something. What was it? He tried to remember . . . It was something to do with his stylist. He snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it, the Wicked Witch of the West. ‘She is deffo green underneath that make-up. S’not fooling me.’

‘Me, neither,’ Fergal said, equably. He took a swig from a bottle that he slid from his voluminous trousers, before it disappeared again as fast as any magician’s conjuring trick. Evidently, he had little intention of sharing it anytime soon. He smacked his lips together, snorted, and rubbed his sleeve across his nose.

Dylan tried not to grimace as he leaned away from his friend. ‘Thing is, my girlfriend, who only just became my girlfriend, so I shouldn’t really be quite so sad, dumped me. Plus, I was on track to be a singing sensation, new hair-do, posh denim and everything — all lined up, but I found out it was all based on lies, and now I don’t want to be a singer, even if I could be, which I probably couldn’t, ’cos I’m crap, and everyone has been laughing at me because I’m an idiot.’ He directed his thoughts at Fergal who gave every indication of listening carefully. ‘But I don’t know what’s left, if I don’t have my music or Scarlett.’

Fergal nodded sagely, stroking his wiry beard. ‘The answer is not at the bottom of a glass, you know.’ Once again, his bottle appeared and disappeared just as quickly.

Dylan grinned in the darkness. ‘Do as I say, not as I do,’ he mumbled, quoting one of his mother’s favourite sayings. ‘I thought she wanted me because—’ He screwed up his face, trying to remember what, exactly, he’d thought in his moment of inspiration. It eluded him. Alcohol amnesia was the problem. He’d read about it in one of the Healthand New You type magazines that Anya bought to strew around the tables at the pub, to pretend it was hip and happening, instead of sad and soulless. He tried to clear his head by taking a deep breath, but it just made him dizzy. He continued regardless. ‘It seems she doesn’t want mebecauseI am a handsome, almost-famousdude.’ He lost his train of thought again. ‘Women are so contrary,’ he ended lamely.

‘Sounds to me like you should go and visit this contrary woman and see what she does want.’

‘I know, but she just upped and left . . . I suppose I was a bit cross with her.’ He wiped his eyes, which were weirdly prickly and wet. He was really tired. God, he wished he was in his bed. Maybe he’d stay a while longer, out of courtesy, then head off home, once he established where the hell home was.

‘I’ve been given the chance of a lifetime, but my stupid pride and my stubbornness over Scarlett might stop me from grabbing it.’

The old man nodded. ‘Don’t let pride get in the way of what you want in life.’

Dylan noticed the man was mostly just regurgitating what he’d said, by way of an answer, but he took his words on board, anyway. It was probably a sensible way to stay out of fights, so hats off to the man. He sighed deeply wondering why he’d let himself get drunk and lost sitting on a cold step and covered with a blanket that might give him scabies. He was too tired to understand anything meaningful, anyway: he just needed to sleep.

He fell into a fitful kind of dozing, letting the old man’s tales of missed opportunities, wrongs that had never been righted and talents that had never reached their full potential wash over him. He shifted position when his arms got too cold, or his bottom too numb; Fergal’s words mingling with snatches of strangely erotic Scarlett dreams.

A sudden jump in his nervous system woke him out of his sleep, and he struggled upright, blinking in confusion, wondering where on earth he was and why he was so cold. His watch said five fifteen. In the morning?Whatin God’snamehadhappened?

His panicked eyes did a double-take when he spotted his sleeping partner. Jeez.

He put his hand to his head, as foggy memories of the previous night crystallised.

He shifted his body, intending to leave the sleeping man to it, but Fergal awoke and instantly jumped up in a panic of activity. ‘Time to go, son. Street cleaners will be around soon, and if you linger too long, the school kids will spit on you as they pass by.’ Fergal bundled up his stuff, securing it all with a bungee clip before throwing it over his shoulder. ‘If you need a proper bed, or food, you can go under Whitefriars Bridge, you know. They’ll look after you there. Take care and God bless, son.’

Dylan quickly patted his pockets for change to give to Fergal before remembering he hadn’t been busking for a while and sadly had no money on him. ‘You take care, Fergal — and thank you for the bed and the advice.’

‘No problem, lad. Stay safe.’ He saluted Dylan before scurrying off. Dylan watched until he’d disappeared down a side street.

‘God bless you, too, Fergal,’ he said, hollowly. He flopped back down on the cold step and reflected on where he was at. Sleeping rough in a doorway was hardly the way forward: not exactly up there with his greatest achievements, was it? But getting Scarlett to like him again was what he would strive to do.

He gave himself a minute and then stumbled along the street giddily, his throat as dry as a kipper in a smokehouse. But he finally had a plan: to fight for the woman he loved and to make Mac genuinely proud of him. He was done with feeling sorry for himself.

As he found his bearings, he headed towards Scarlett’s apartment block, trying to remember as best he could which one it was. All the flats looked the same and he cursed that he’d written down her address on his wrist instead of somewhere more permanent. It hadn’t mattered at the time, but right then it was the single most important thing he’d ever written in his life.

In his befuddled stupor he checked both wrists just in case the address was still there, but even he wasn’t slobby enough not to have washed for that long.

He passed a few people presumably heading for work, given their suits and laptop bags and noticed that some of them actually veered away from him. it wasn’t surprising, he must look a mess and he probably didn’t smell too good, either.

And thinking about it, his head was pounding, as if a tiny workman inside his head was drilling a Kango hammer into his ears from the inside out.

He looked longingly at a bottle of milk on someone’s step but gave himself a talking to before the thought could go any further. His eyelids were carrying an elephant apiece on top of them and knackered wasn’t the word as each step he took was like wading in mud. It was no good, he would have to go back to his godforsaken hovel of a home for a shower and some rest. True love and grand gestures were all very well, but if he turned up looking and smelling like a sewer rat he definitely wouldn’t get through Scarlett’s front door.

Reluctantly, he headed home, cursing himself for the bloody fool he was. But, a new day a new beginning, never say never, and all that shit, he thought, as he tried to put a spring into his step. All the idioms he’d ever heard rushed through his mind. Faint heart never won fair lady stood out amongst the detritus of his youthful memories. He grew in stature as the thought took hold. He just needed a quick nap and some food. God, but what he wouldn’t give for a full English to be conjured up in front of him.