pleased for me.
‘Oh,’ is her response.
‘Oh?’
‘Well, he’s not the kind of guy you really want to be with is he, Nic? Can you imagine being married to someone like that?’
‘Bloody hell, Em! I’m not planning on marrying the guy!’
‘Well what about those rumours that he is always off his face on drugs since the band hit the big time?’ she quizzes me.
‘Who knows if there’s any truth in that? And like it matters. Like I said, we’re hardly planning our wedding.’
I’m slightly annoyed that I’m having to justify myself to her, her love life is just as chaotic as mine, if not more so. I may go for the band boys, but Em goes for the bad eggs out there in the ‘real world’. Anyway, I’ve never seen any of the boys touch anything other than a bit of weed now and then on the bus (not that I approve) – certainly not the hard stuff like you read in the gossip columns. The press are just trying to trash the hottest new band on the scene, simply because they can.
‘In that case I’m very happy for you,’ Emily says with a smile that I’m not entirely convinced is genuine.
‘Yeah, well don’t go hat shopping just yet, will you?’ I joke, but things are suddenly a bit awkward.
I’m touched by her concern but, like I said, I’m not planning on marrying him, and she doesn’t usually care about the moral character of the band boys I ‘get involved’ with. He’s my big crush, can’t I just enjoy this moment?
‘I’ve got Vicky living with me, as of last night,’ Emily blurts out.
Now I’m shocked. ‘Why?’
‘She had a huge fall-out with her mum and she turned up at my mum’s party with her bags – what was I supposed to do?’
I don’t know what expression is currently occupying my face, but it must be bad because Emily reacts to it straight away.
‘I know you’re not keen on her, but she’s a nice girl and it’s only temporary.’
‘You’re too nice, Emily Adams. Don’t let her take advantage.’
Our conversation is cut short by my mobile ringing. It’s Dylan King so I take it in my office.
‘Hello, rockstar, how are you?’
‘Fucked,’ he replies.
‘What’s the matter?’ I do worry about him, he’s such a good friend to me and he gets such a hard time from the press for getting drunk and hooking up with girls. In a weird way I’m quite proud to be female and his friend, rather than just another one of his conquests. He has a hard time trusting girls, so it’s nice to be so special to him.
‘To summarise,’ he starts, sounding more serious than I have ever heard him sound in his life, ‘I’ve knocked up some girl, about seven months ago apparently. She’s having twins – fucking twins, Nicole. It’s going to come out sooner or later, she’s saying she’ll go to the press. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘First of all, calm down. I don’t want to be rude, but are you certain it was you who...knocked her up?’ I ask, using his words. ‘You’ve been, erm, seeing a few girls this past year and not the most committed kind...’ I trail off, hoping he’ll catch my drift. My point is that he’s shagged a lot of random girls. Random girls who have probably shagged a lot of random guys too.
‘The timing is right,’ he says before a long pause. ‘And there’s a video.’
‘A video? Bloody hell, Dylan, when those kids ask you where they came from, you’re going to be able to give them one hell of an answer.’
He laughs, but he sound worried sick. I guess this was bound to happen sooner or later. I love Dylan to bits, but he really puts it about and he drinks a lot, which we all know is a recipe for disaster. I think he’s been really lucky to not have this happen on a weekly basis. Even so, I feel sorry for him.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.
‘I’ve got a meeting with a guy this afternoon, some publicity crisis specialist who’s going to work it all out for me, I’ve just got to keep quiet about it until then.’
‘Good luck, babe. Try not to worry, OK?’ I know it’s easier said than done, but what do you say to a friend who has accidentally knocked up a girl he hardly knows? And with a video souvenir too. Hallmark certainly don’t make a card for it.
All around me glamorous, rich and famous folks’ lives are going down the pan and at the same time mine is getting better and better. It’s true what they say, money and fame don’t make you happy. When I think about the scandal with Plastic Rap and their young fans, and now Dylan and his pregnant one-night stand, it makes me really glad that I’m not famous. I do stupid things all the time, but luckily no one cares enough for a newspaper to want to write about it.
I try to put myself in Dylan’s shoes, but I just cannot imagine how it would feel to have everyone knowing every little detail about you, for your parents to see the details of your sex life on the front page of a newspaper along with the rest of the world – your dentist, the people you went to school with, the guy who serves you in Starbucks. Some of the things I’ve read about Dylan, true or otherwise, have been so embarrassing, I just can’t imagine the entire country knowing the dirty little details of my life and me feeling comfortable carrying on as if nothing were any different. That’s why I’m glad I became a journalist – no one cares what we do.
The Name’s Wilde, Nicole Wilde
I was about fourteen when I went to see my first proper concert and it was mesmerising. I think that’s when my love of the music biz started – I was just so fascinated by all of it.
I remember not long after that, I was hanging around outside the arena in Sheffield with my friends. We would turn up at 10 a.m. and wait for the bands to arrive, just hoping to catch a glimpse. That time in particular we were standing at the temporary metal fence in the huge, empty car park when the bus pulled in. I just stared in amazement as it drove past us. It seemed huge – like the band were travelling around in a hotel on wheels. It’s funny, I’ve been on so many since then that these days they all seem so small to me – tour buses that is, not bands.
Peeping through the fence, I watched them unload the bus. After the roadies had done all the heavy lifting, the doors would open and out strolled the important-looking people like managers and publicists. Then my favourite bit, the band would step off the bus, usually surrounded by girlfriends and friends. I wanted to be one of those people, following them around like a puppy, being the envy of every girl standing around in the car park. Well look at me now, I’m living the dream. Well, almost. Let’s just say things aren’t exactly the way I imagined them to be. I thought it was going to be pure glamour, but the reality of it is rather different. OK, so the five-star hotels are pretty glam, but even the most beautiful hotel room can seem like a shithole when you add a gang of lads who invite thirty of their closest friends for an impromptu party. Without entertainment planned, people will make their own fun and that is when things get messy.
