in Photography, desperate to break into the world of music journalism. Emily met her at a gig she was reviewing and I guess Vicky just latched on to her. She didn’t have a job, and we didn’t have a proper photographer, so after a lot of persuasion from Em I agreed to take Vicky on. Oh, how I have come to regret that decision now; the girl is impossible to get along with. She’s bossy, she’s rude and she is so argumentative.
Emily gets on with her and Jake gets on with anyone, but Vicky and I just clash in every way imaginable.
She’s an averagely talented photographer – much better now that I’m constantly splashing out on new kit for her to use. Personally, I think she would be much more at home trying to trick drunk celebrities into flashing their underwear outside nightclubs so that she can snap some photos and sell them to the tabloids for a big chunk of cash.
I have lovingly dubbed her Succubus (a name I only use behind her back, obviously) because the first time she went to a gig with me and Emily, we ended up back at the hotel with the band and Vicky got in bed with the bassist while he was sleeping.
I tell them the story about my encounter with Tom, hoping they might think my fall had more to do with me being late than my hangover.
‘He gave you his business card?’ Jake chuckles. ‘Did you say his name was Patrick Bateman? You know, he liked blondes.’
‘Very funny,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Now hadn’t you better get back to playing The Sims or updating your MySpace profile or whatever it is you do on there when you’re pretending to work.’
I have a great friendship with Jake. He teases me about being a groupie, I tease him about a nerd. We are about as opposite as two people can be, but we get on like a house on fire.
‘Nic, can I see you in your office, please?’ Emily asks. She sounds serious, but her face isn’t giving anything away.
My first reaction is to panic – on the inside though, I’m not going to let Vicky enjoy my potential misery. I grab my caramel macchiato – I can’t hear bad news without caffeine in me – and make my way into my little office. I close the door behind us, just as Jake starts singing the chorus of Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’ in an attempt to tease me. He’s spending way too much time around me if he’s learning the lyrics to songs like that, I almost feel sorry for him.
‘Right, hit me with it, get it over with,’ I babble. I’ve never been great at receiving bad news.
A smile spreads across my friend’s face.
‘It’s good news. I was going through the emails...’ Emily pauses for dramatic effect.
‘Spit it out, woman!’ I demand, unable to wait a second longer.
‘We’ve had an email from Plastic Rap’s manager, you’re interviewing them tonight!’ she tells me with an extra-loud squeal.
‘No way! We managed to blag an interview? How? I thought they were all booked up.’
‘They had some journo drop out at the last minute, there’s a slot going free. It’s after the show though, so late. Do I confirm?’
‘Erm, yeah! You’re coming with me, right?’
‘Can’t. It’s my mum’s birthday party tonight,’ she reminds me and I can see how disappointed she is. ‘He said in the email that he could supply us with photos, so you don’t even have to take Vicky if you don’t want to.’
‘I don’t want to,’ I whisper with a cheeky smile on my face.
‘I am so jealous. You never know, one of the Plastic Rap boys might fall madly in love with you. You could get married and your groupie days would be over. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about getting up for work on a morning – I told you that you’d be late today,’ she teases.
‘Oi, who are you calling a groupie? And when did you tell me that I’d be late today?’
‘Last night...’ she prompts, and I cast my mind back. Em and I went to a gig last night and then partied with the bands until the early hours – let’s just say things got messy. She’s right though, I remember the taxi dropping me off, drunkenly fidgeting with my door key, thinking it was the funniest thing ever, and Emily yelling something out of the taxi window about how I’d be late for work as she was driven off. A guilty smile spreads across my face.
‘And don’t think I didn’t see you snogging the face off Troy Reeves, Miss Wilde,’ she adds.
Troy was on one of those terrible reality TV talent show things. He didn’t win, but when I interviewed him he told me that he was glad because he could make music without a super-strict recording contract holding him back – he also told me he wanted to sleep with me and we’ve been getting together whenever he’s in town ever since.
‘So how come you didn’t go back with him last night?’ Emily asks.
‘I’m a lady!’ I protest, trying to give off Kate Middleton vibes but actually sounding more like David Walliams in Little Britain.
Emily gives me a look.
‘He had to go,’ I admit. ‘They were travelling through the night.’
‘You’re so bad, Nicole.’
‘The devil made me do it, now get out of my office, bitch.’ I laugh, totally defeated.
‘Gosh, Troy Reeves last night, Prince Charming today – it’s true what they say about men being like buses, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, they’re dirty, anyone can ride them and they’re never there when you want one.’
Emily, a dyed-in-the-wool romantic, rolls her eyes at this.
Plastic Rap are one of the biggest bands around at the moment. They’re mainly aimed at the teen market, but loved by young girls and mums alike. Even a few boys admit to liking them these days. At the moment they are touring the UK, and when tickets went on sale all venues sold out within a couple of hours. I managed to score a place on the guest list months ago, but all their publicity time was booked up. As far as their music goes, they’re not really my cup of tea, but this interview will be good for hits.
‘Get some work done,’ Emily says, leaving me alone in my office and closing the door behind her. There are only a handful of reasons why my office door is ever closed. 1. When Vicky is driving me especially crazy. 2. When I am in on my own, and therefore scared something might ‘get me’. 3. When I actually need to do some work. Despite today being a three, I have Googled Plastic Rap and now I’m casually clicking my way through their photos and mentally placing them in order of hotness. This takes up about ten minutes that I don’t have and I manage to burn another five flicking through the photos from last night on my phone. It certainly was a wild one.
Now officially in the p.m., I click open my emails. The first one I open is from Dylan King. Subject: Escort girl.
I quickly scan through the email which informs me Dylan is ‘sixty-seven percent certain’ he didn’t pay some girl for sex, although he is ‘eighty-five percent certain’ he did ‘bang her’. The percentages make me laugh but somehow I don’t think they were meant to.
Dylan is a mega-star, so stories
