Chapter Eight
One week after his telephone conversation with Mr McLynstiver, Dylan found himself sitting on a royal blue velvet sofa, with gilt armrests shaped to look like lions paws, waiting in the reception of the Midhurst Hotel. It was the most uncomfortable seat ever. He perched on the edge, trying to look nonchalant, while his stomach churned with nerves. He worried that the delicate sofa was actually not for sitting on, just for show, in which case he had already committed a grave faux pas.
Gazing around the room, he took in the huge crystal chandelier, polished wood tables and marble floor feeling slightly out of his depth at the discreet grandeur of the place. Everyone spoke in hushed whispers, and his boots sounded louder than a pistol cracking when he’d marched decisively over to a coffee machine he’d spied. He hadn’t even wanted a coffee but needed a prop of some sort to steady his hands.
After busying himself with making coffee, he dithered over whether to announce himself at reception or wait for the man with the dodgy name to turn up. Deciding to lie low, he buried his head in a Financial Times, the only choice available on the side table. Maybe it would give him an air of intelligence and stop him from feeling such a fraud.
There was an interesting article, on the second-homers decimating the tourist industry in Cornwall, that caught his eye. Apparently they brought their own provisions with them and left the properties empty all winter. So engrossed was he, that he barely glanced up as a tall man with steel grey hair, wearing a smart blue suit, came to stand by the sofa.
The man coughed, as his shadow cast its light over the newspaper.
Dylan quickly drew his legs aside to let the man pass, then struggled to his feet, quickly realising the new arrival wasn’t going anywhere.
The man held out his hand. ‘Dylan Willis? I’m Morgan McLynstiver.’
‘Hello.’ Dylan’s voice wavered as he jumped to attention. He wiped his own hand down his jeans before shaking the man’s hand and breaking into a smile. ‘Oh, right. I didn’t recognise you. Not that I knew you. I just expected someone a bit more . . .’
‘Unconventional?’ He angled his head in query. ‘I mostly save the ripped jeans and Nirvana t-shirts for the weekends.’ He winked, and Dylan swallowed down his nerves as he warmed to Morgan McLynstiver, despite the man’s formidable exterior.
‘Really pleased to meet you, because now the receptionist giving me evils will know I’m here for more than the free coffee.’ Dylan waved a hand in the direction of the coffee machine in the corner.
‘Oh, I was hoping it was free vodka day.’ The man settled himself opposite Dylan, placing a conker-brown briefcase on the seat next to himself.
Dylan sprang to his feet again. ‘I’ll get you one. Double? With ice?’
‘I’m joking, calm down. And anyway, I only drink decaf coffee these days, and I’m sure one of these hovering young ladies will oblige.’ He waved in the direction of two immaculately-dressed young women wearing starched white aprons and stiff smiles.
‘Oh, okay,’ Dylan said, a tiny bit disappointed at the respectable, forbidding man. He’d been hoping for a beer-toting, wild-haired individual sucking on a spliff until his eyes crossed, sayingcool, man atevery opportunity.
‘Let’s go through some formalities while we wait for the main man to turn up. Assuming, of course, that you will be going forward with his offer.’ Pausing, he focused on one of the pretty waitresses, who obligingly came running, notepad at the ready. ‘A decaf espresso, please.’ He turned back to Dylan, dismissively, before the waitress had time to respond.
Dylan privately thought that a decaf espresso was a bit of an oxymoron, but he was hardly about to argue the toss with the man who might hold his future in his hands. Knowing what it was like to be invisible to others, he threw the waitress a smile, before turning back to the man in front of him. ‘Really, I’m in, am I?’ He tried to contain his excitement as he inched forward on his seat, leaving his milky coffee to cool in front of him.
Morgan nodded tightly. ‘I don’t think Harrison would drag me over here, if he didn’t think you had something, but don’t get too carried away, yet.’ He glanced at his expensive-looking watch and then over at the entrance to the hotel as the throaty throttle of an engine broke through the piped music. ‘Ah, talk of the devil.’
The noise generated by the new arrival interested a few guests enough for them to glance through the window as a yellow Lamborghini pulled up outside.
Dylan leapt up in excitement, before he contained himself and sat down again. He didn’t want to appear too enthusiastic, but . . . holy shit, a Lamborghini.
Mr McLynstiver sighed as the kerfuffle outside stretched out for many minutes. ‘He does like to make an entrance, does our Harrison.’
Outside the window, a man climbed from the vehicle and handed keys to a valet, waving instructions before patting him on the cheek like a toddler. He tapped the car bonnet, shook the valet’s hand, and, judging by the valet’s beaming face, slid him a large tip.
He strode through the revolving doors. Harrison Dominic had arrived.
‘Now we’re cooking,’ Dylan said, recognising the style of a real Icon of Rock in Harrison Dominic.
The man stood well over six-foot tall, with broad shoulders, messy hair that’d probably taken hours to style, sunglasses jammed on top of his head, and a sharp jacket to counteract the — no doubt phenomenally expensive — tatty, designer jeans. A stunning girl on his arm finished off the showy ensemble, as he stormed through the lounge area with an air of purpose that said he was loaded and important, and anyone who disagreed wasn’t worth a toss, anyway.
‘Harrison Dominic is the man you want on your side,’ Morgan said, as he rose from his seat.
Dylan didn’t doubt it. His mouth dried with nerves, and he immediately vowed allegiance to the approaching god who could be his route to stardom.
‘Hey, you guys.’ Harrison waved his hands for them to stay seated as he hunkered down on a pouffe adjacent to the sofa, the shifting of his ripped jeans showing a sun-tanned knee. ‘This is Arabella,’ he said, nodding to his companion, before casting her off with a, ‘Go get yourself a drink, babes.’ He turned to Dylan. ‘Dylan, man, it’s great to meet you. Are you cool with this? Because I gotta tell you, we think you’re gonna be really big news.’
‘Gosh, yes, I mean, yeah, man, I’m cool with it,’ Dylan found himself babbling.
‘I’m not wasting any time here. Your shit was so hot. We want to hear what you’ve got, okay?’
‘Yes, whatever you say. I mean, yeah, I’m cool with that, you know, my shit, an’ all?’ He frowned, knowing that hadn’t come out right and unsure whether it was better to be hot, or cool. But if Harrison wanted him, he would happily sit at either end of the temperature spectrum.
Harrison grinned, showing perfectly white, veneered teeth and Dylan had a flash of insight, imagining him when he was young and struggling, realising that he possibly wasn’t born a god, but had worked hard to be where he was. He, no doubt, deserved his gorgeous girl, his Lamborghini, and his outrageous swagger.
Dylan did wonder, though, whether he was taking the piss out of him, with his old hippie talk, but decided it was just Harrison’s way. ‘Cool,’ Dylan said. It seemed the easiest response.
‘Right, then, mate, I’m pulling a gig together tonight in Camden, but we’ve had a bit of a disaster. Lead singer fell off the bloody stage — probably pissed again — so, I’ve got to go over there and sort it out. We could try you out, if you’re up for it. Play a few low-key songs, while the hordes amass?’ Harrison raised his eyebrows at Dylan, who gaped at him like a floundering fish.
Hordes amassing? Could he do hordes amassing? Sounded a bit like he’d be playing to Zulu warriors. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry.
‘Stage is all set up. It’s just a bit of fun, so don’t get all nervous on me.’ He peered a bit closer to Dylan. ‘Yeah?’
Dylan’s palms and underarms immediately sprung a leak, but he quickly recovered and adjusted his face into what he hoped was a cool stare. He could do it. He would do anything for the opportunity, and a touch of intense sweating and amassing Zulu warriors wouldn’t faze him. ‘Sounds perfect.’ He wiped his palms down his jeans again, and, aware of the wobble in his voice, coughed. ‘Cool.’ It was the only word he felt he could utter with confidence.
Harrison nodded slowly, still scrutinising Dylan’s face, blue eyes on blue eyes. He must’ve liked what he saw, as he slapped his thigh with his palm. ‘Great stuff. That’s what I like to hear.’ His grin grew wide, and Dylan followed suit as Harrison’s confidence encouraged him.
Dylan knew a hurdle had been successfully jumped, and when Arabella returned he grinned at her like he was part of the family. He immediately regretted it though, as she appeared to take his grin as an invitation. Fluttering her eyelashes at him, Arabella gave him a not-so-subtle come on. She was stunning, no doubt about it, all long brown legs and flashing cleavage, her floaty dress swirling around her lithe body like a rainbow coloured will-o’-the-wisp. Her hair, a halo of auburn chic, framed her heart-shaped face, her eyes as large and doe-like as any Disney cartoon Bambi.
Unnerved, Dylan was almost embarrassed by her coquettish antics; she was the epitome of every man’s fantasy, but Dylan knew he only had eyes for Scarlett.
He inched further away, as she straddled the arm of the sofa, staring at him with a slightly spaced-out, fixed stare. He wondered if she was on something more toxic than the lurid coloured drink she sipped daintily through a straw.
As if catching Dylan’s nervous glances towards the woman, Harrison whispered, ‘She bothering you?’
He leaned in close and whispered back, ‘It’s just the big, doe-eyed thing. It’s a bit disconcerting.’
‘Don’t worry. She does that whenever she’s let out near fresh meat. It’s not personal.’
As Dylan, almost involuntarily, glanced at the woman again, she tucked her chin into her slender throat like a swan and smiled a secret smile.
Harrison’s eyes lit up. ‘Do you have a girlfriend? Only, I can assign one to you. Arabella here appears to have taken a shine.’ He hoicked his thumb at the girl as she leaned closer to Dylan, silent and terrifying.
‘Assign a girl to me?’ He was shocked at the suggestion. Frowning, he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You can’t assign a girl in this day and age, can you? Anyway, I have a girlfriend, thanks.’
‘Great. You are a bit of a pretty boy. We don’t want anyone thinking you’re gay. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Cheers for that,’ Dylan said, trying not to be irritated by Harrison’s comments.
But Harrison went on without even noticing. ‘We can tap the pink pound later, if need be, but we’ll discuss all of that shit when you’re sorted out with a stylist.’ He pursed his lips and looked Dylan up and down. ‘Hmm.’ He rubbed his chin.
Dylan was low-key outraged at Harrison’s candid remarks and was gearing up for a putdown, but then Harrison shrugged as if he was bored and glanced at his watch. ‘There’s plenty of time for all that shit, let’s go get some lunch, and we’ll talk through this evening’s gig,’ he said nonchalantly.
Best to choose your battles, thought Dylan, already anticipating telling everyone at the pub about his trip in a Lamborghini, where they’d almost taken to the skies as the rev counter hit the red. His mind went into overdrive as he imagined Harrison sliding into the passenger seat and asking him to take the wheel.
Sadly, Harrison simply led the way to the dining room in the hotel, which was, unfortunately, just a hotel dining room, with white tablecloths and plain wine glasses, rather than the Bacchanalian feast of his dreams, that was fitting for a soon-to-be rock god. He sat down, trying not to look disappointed at the normality of it all.
For lunch, Harrison ate a Caesar salad, shovelling it in, unselfconsciously, and swigging beer from the bottle, as Dylan picked at his salmon pasta, still the focus of Arabella, who continued to watch Dylan through her long eyelashes. He wondered vaguely if she was on something.
‘Were you at my gig, then, Dominic? I mean Harrison — or, hang on, is it Dominic?’ He screwed up his eyes trying to remember the order of the man’s name. ‘Only, I don’t recall seeing you there.’ He didn’t seem the sort of man to get lost in a crowd and Dylan was sure he’d have spotted him.
Harrison shifted in his seat slightly. ‘I believe you were spotted in the pub by one of our guys who was out for a drink, he assures us that you are the real thing.’
Dylan deflated slightly, somewhat indignant that all Harrison’s gushing came from second-hand information. ‘Oh, so, you haven’t actually seen me perform?’
Harrison looked at Morgan, who intervened neatly. ‘Our scout videoed your act on his iPhone.’
Morgan peered sideways at Harrison, who nodded furiously, but Dylan felt they were blagging it, although he couldn’t think why they would need to. He swallowed pasta mechanically, unsure why their interaction bothered him. It didn’t change anything, after all.
Harrison rubbed his hands together and scraped his chair back. ‘Right, then, let’s get off to Camden.’ He turned to Morgan. ‘Can we have a shuftie through our agency and see if there’s anyone who might suit Dylan as a backing vocalist, and a bass guitarist? A drummer, too, eventually.’ He turned laser-focused eyes to Dylan, who suddenly knew what it must be like to be on a speeding train with no brakes.
He pushed his plate away and fought down queasiness at the thought of playing to a potentially critical audience. The new boy in town, ready to be slaughtered. But there was something more immediate playing on his mind. ‘Do I get a say in who I gig with, eventually? Not now, of course, but in the future?’
Harrison quirked an eyebrow. ‘Do you have someone in mind?’
‘Maybe.’ Dylan thought of Beanie, his young friend who practically lived on the streets. What would happen to him, if Dylan wasn’t there to prop him up anymore? He was hardly a class act on his own, even if he did show a modicum of thinking outside of the box. Dylan didn’t think there was much call for triangle players in a modern-day band, and in reality, Beanie spent most of his time pulling on dubious roll-ups and feeding his dog leftover Big Macs.
At a push, Beanie could sing harmony, Dylan thought. His thin, reedy voice sounded quite soulful, when it didn’t sound like a distant police siren. Dylan toyed with his napkin, thinking fast. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s not a big deal.’ He didn’t want to jeopardise this chance to prove himself and Beanie had survived without Dylan for most of his life. But still, it was something to think about.
Harrison shrugged. ‘We never say never, but I think you’re jumping the gun a bit here. Let’s just concentrate on seeing what you do, shall we? Now, do you want to catch the tube, or ride with me?’
‘In the Lamborghini?’ Dylan impressed himself with how controlled his voice came out — not even a squeak of delight got through. Although, he did mentally punch a fist in the air. He was going to learn the art of cool through watching Harrison Dominic, and he was going to start right there and then. ‘Okay. Sure.’ The promise of a ride in a top-notch sports car was a wish come true he didn’t know he had, but he paused as disappointment washed over him. ‘Oh, I’ll need my own guitar, though. I can’t use anyone else’s.’ His guitar had accompanied him along the lonely road to stardom, and there was no way he would abandon it in his finest hour.
Harrison compressed his lips. ‘Calling the shots already?’
‘No, not at all!’ Dylan insisted. ‘I just worry that I’ll screw up if I have to use a different guitar. If it’s a problem, I’ll catch the tube.’
‘I’m just kidding. We’ll stop off at your place. Give me directions, and I’ll stick it in the sat nav.’
The roar of the Lamborghini could be heard once more as the valet pulled up outside the hotel with impeccable timing. Harrison strode towards the door and Dylan watched in awe as the doors of the car opened upwards, like bright angel’s wings, heading for heaven.
Jumping to his feet, leaving Morgan to sort out the bill, he followed Harrison. No way was Harrison leaving without him.
‘Baby, don’t forget me.’ Arabella’s voice held a petulant whine, as she clomped to her feet in gravity-defying heels. She finally loosened her hold on her glass, slamming it on the wooden table as she scrambled after Dylan.
Dylan took a swift look at Arabella, before zoning in on the bright yellow Lamborghini, not wanting to let it out of his sight. Oh, my God, he thought. I’m going to climb into aLamborghini in front of all of these people, and then I’m going to climb out again in one of the scuzziest areasof London.
‘There are only two seats.’ Arabella’s eyes levelled with Dylan’s.
Dylan sighed, shooting a last glance at the car through the window of the hotel. He’d known, deep down, that it wouldn’t happen. Just a wonderful dream that would always remain a dream. ‘Go ahead, Arabella. I need to get my guitar, anyway.’
‘I could sit on your lap?’ She twisted a hank of her hair and stroked her top lip with the ends, before popping it into her mouth and sucking gently.
‘I don’t think that’s legal, Arabella.’ Dylan looked wildly around for some help. He was way out of his depth. ‘Morgan. Great. Can you get me a cab, please?’
A doorman was summoned, but before he had a chance to dispatch Dylan, Harrison reappeared, striding decisively over to the small gathering. He counted off notes from a wad he pulled from his back pocket. ‘Arabella, go buy yourself a pretty dress and follow us over to Camden later. Reception will call you a cab to take you to Harvey Nicks. Okay?’
Arabella scowled at Harrison, but she snatched the notes from his fingers and teetered back into the foyer.
Harrison climbed in, showing a flash of builder’s bum. Not that his bottom was anything like a builder’s, Dylan noted reverently, trying not to gawp. Dylan grinned and followed suit. He was heading for the ride of his life. ‘We’ll likely get mugged when we get to my place, so keep the engine running and your windows closed,’ he said cheerfully, as he climbed into the car.
He ran a hand gently over the soft leather of the Lamborghini’s interior and reached into his jacket pocket for his shades.
He slid them onto his forehead. Him and Harrison: peas in a pod.
* * *
They pulled up outside his run-down house not long later. Never the most fastidious of people, Dylan took in the sight of the overflowing garbage from the kicked-over bin, the broken gate, and the tiny garden full of weeds and the twisted bike frame that had just been dumped outside one night. It made him realise how badly he wanted to be away from it all. Although he knew he could go home to open green fields and get high on ozone from the sea air, he only wanted to do that when it was by choice not a necessity.
Please, God, give me this chance to makeitwork,hebegged.
Opening the front door, he breathed in the foul smell of stale food and old trainers. He ran his gaze over the dirty dishes on the coffee table and numerous books, piled high, as if the owner was trying to win a book-style Jenga contest. He managed to resist kicking them, but then lashed out at the parade of empty beer cans lined up on the draining board instead, enjoying the clatter they made as they tumbled to the floor. Guiltily he picked them all up and shoved them into a bin bag, sighing with defeat.
It was time to move on, that was for sure, especially now he’d seen Scarlett’s beautiful flat. He’d have to up the ante if he wanted to be taken seriously.
Afraid that Harrison might come and find him if he took too long, he grabbed his best guitar and case from its stand, swapping it for his beat-up busking guitar and headed out of the front door, only reallydrawing breath asheleft.
As he fell into the seat of the car, he inhaled the smell of leather and wealth. This was the life he envisaged, driving a sports car with his girl beside him — and if he held on to his dreams and didn’t bugger it up, it would come true. He was finally getting the big chance he’d worked so hard for, and no way would he blow it now.
He thought of Scarlett, the beautiful girl he wanted by his side, and wondered if it was too late to invite her to Camden. After all, he intended for her to be there for the rest of his career, so she should be there for its inception.
He drummed his fingers on his leg wondering what to do for the best.
‘Problem?’
‘What? Oh, no. It’s just this girl — my girlfriend,’ he amended, for Harrison’s benefit. ‘I’d really like her to be here tonight, but she’s probably busy.’
‘You’ll have so many girls, you won’t know which way to turn, or which way to turn them.’ Harrison laughed,but it soundedhollow. His teeth flashed as he grinned at Dylan.
‘I don’t want anyone else,’ Dylan said quickly, and realised it was true, no matter what was on offer.
Harrison gave him a sidelong glance. ‘I do like that touch of innocence you have about you. It would be good to keep that. So, what does this girl have that’s so special?’
‘She has this fragility about her that makes me want to look after her, but she tries so hard to pretend she’s tough. She’s funny in a dry — hmm, cold sort of way.’ His lip twisted as he tried to convey why he liked Scarlett. ‘But she’s definitely warming towards me. And she’s very beautiful.’
‘Hey, beauty I can get you by the shedload.’
Dylan smiled. ‘I’m sure you can, but you’re in a position to order it up. I have to earn my girlfriends, and this one isn’t making it easy. She’s a keeper, though, whatever happens.’ And I’m blagging it more than usual,he thought.
His fingers itched to take out his phone and text her to make sure she was still up for a date, but Scarlett was most likely 35,000 feet in the air. She could be flying over any one of the seven continents, as far as he knew. He was starting to realise why she didn’t do relationships easily.
Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he made a note to buy a new phone as soon as he had a few quid in his pocket.
Harrison turned up the music and sang along to a tune Dylan had never heard, so he sat back and enjoyed the ride.