Starstruck (17 page)

‘Do
you have a girlfriend/wife/boyfriend?’ I giggle.

‘None
of the above, but I’m still looking. Tell me about your last boyfriend.’

‘Gosh,
I wasn’t expecting to have this conversation tonight. I haven’t had a boyfriend
in years.’ I instantly regret this confession because now he’s going to wonder
what is wrong with me.

‘That
surprises me.’

I
told you.

‘It’s
a long story,’ I say in my defence.

He
smiles. ‘You’re beautiful, any man would be lucky to have you.’

‘You’re
only saying that because you’re in bed with me,’ I joke.

‘No,
I’m not,’ he says rather bluntly, and as I turn to look at him he kisses me.
It’s only for a few seconds, but it takes my breath away.

‘Well,
good night then,’ he says, reaching over and turning the light out.

So
there I am, in the dark – and in more ways than one. I’m a little confused
because I just kissed a normal boy, and I think I liked it.

I
woke up in the exact position I fell asleep in – cuddled up to Charles. This
must mean I really love him, or at least that’s the soppy line that Emily fed
me during our five minute phone call. When I woke up Charles was already awake.
He kissed my forehead and then went for a shower – that’s when I called Em.

It
took me a little while to fall asleep last night. I felt such a buzz from that
kiss and I’m still feeling it now.

Stepping
out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and a smile on
his face, Charles stares at me and I feel a bit awkward.

‘Good
morning, you,’ I say to break the silence.

‘Good
morning, Miss Wilde. How are you today?’

‘I’m
ok – not looking forward to getting the train home.’

‘Well
I’m free all day. I could walk you to the station?’

I
smile. ‘That would be great, thank you. Oh, and thank you for letting me sleep
here, I don’t think I could have survived another second with Daisy.’

‘It
was no problem – and I really enjoyed your company.’ Charles runs a hand
through his wet hair and I battle to look maintain eye contact again.

‘Do
you mind if I use your shower?’ I ask.

‘Sure.
Cup of tea after?’

‘Oh,
that would be great.’ I haven’t had any caffeine in twenty-four hours and I’m
really starting to feel it.

I
climb out of bed as ladylike and as sexily as possible – something my SpongeBob
jim-jams are making very difficult. As I pass Charles he plans a kiss on my
cheek before watching me make my way to the bathroom, giving me a little wave
as I close the door behind me.

Unlike
in Daisy’s room, there is a nice fluffy robe and towels galore waiting for me.
The bath is much bigger too.

I
hear Charles click the TV on, so as soon as I get in my warm, bubbly bath I get
straight back on the phone to Emily.

‘Can
you talk now?’ she asks excitedly when she answers.

‘Yes.
How are you?’

‘How
am I? Are you joking? Tell me what happened, what is he like?’

‘Like
a younger Daniel Craig with the charm of Michael Bublé.’ I’m teasing her,
although that’s actually a fairly accurate description.

‘If
that’s true then you marry him! I don’t care if he isn’t in a band,’ she teases
me in return, although she probably means that as well. ‘Imagine if we both had
boyfriends, things are going really well with –‘

‘Shit,
Em, I’d better go,’ I interrupt her. Charles must have turned the TV off and
I’m worried he might hear me on the phone.

I
place my phone down carefully on the bathroom floor (the last thing it needs is
a bath) and grab the bottle of complimentary body wash – this is the life. It’s
flashy hotels like this one that remind me of touring with Dylan. Now that Two
For The Road are pretty famous they’re staying in much nicer hotels but that
wasn’t always the case. When I hit the road with them in the early days - when
they were supporting any band that would have them - they couldn’t even afford
to stay in hotels, not even the odd night in a Travelodge. Instead we slept in
the old banger of a van we drove around in, everyone in their sleeping bag on
the floor surrounded by all their gear. I know I complain about the bathroom
facilities on the big tour buses but they beat the ones in the van – there
weren’t any. It’s easy enough for the boys to hop off the bus and pee up a tree
- or do it out the window as you’re flying along the motorway if you’re Eddie -
but for girls it’s difficult and that’s why to me that tour will always be
known as the Hold It In Tour.

I
used to be terrified sleeping in that damn thing - the back door didn’t even
lock. What we would do is, on a night (or let’s face it, early morning) we’d
all pile in and the last person aboard had to take everyone’s bags and pile
them up behind the door so that no one outside could get in. It also meant that
no one inside could get out in a hurry so if there was a fire you’d be screwed
– luckily the fires only happened while the van was moving. Thankfully they
signed a record deal before the van had chance to kill them.

I
stop daydreaming and examine my hands. My fingers are sufficiently wrinkled and
I wonder how long I’ve been in here.

I
wrap the fluffy robe around my body and start putting on my make-up. To be
honest with you, I’d rather he saw me without the robe than without the make-up
and that might actually happen because it didn’t occur to me to bring any
clothes in here with me. I’m going to have to go out there for my clothes.

Emily
seems to think I should make a move on him and while I’m not that great at the
emotional stuff, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s make a move.
Wearing nothing but a towel will certainly help me in my quest.

Charles
is sitting on the bed playing with his phone, so I sit down next to him.

‘Sorry,
do you want to get dressed?’ he mutters, jumping to his feet, keeping his eyes
on his phone. ‘I’ll take a walk to Mikey’s room.’

Rejected.
A quick flash of his smile and he’s gone. I guess I will be getting dressed
after all.

I
waited with Charles as he checked out, deciding not to pop up and say goodbye
to Daisy the cow, or Dylan and Crystal who I’m certain would not want me
popping my head around the door to say “see ya”.

We’re
currently making our way to the train station, Charles dragging my pink
suitcase along behind him.

‘So
how did you get into music journalism?’ he asks me.

‘Well,
I was a total crave when I was a teenager and -’

‘What?’
he interrupts me.

‘What?’
I ask, confused.

‘You
were a what?’

‘Oh,
a crave. Sorry, it’s easy to forget you’re not a teenage girl.’ I give him a
wink. ‘A band crave. A crave is just a fan I guess - an extreme fan – but not
in a weird way. Craves follow bands around, turn up at hotels, queue outside
venues for hours on end... just to meet the band and hang out.’

‘So
you were a groupie?’ he asks.

‘No!
No sex!’ I laugh. ‘I was probably about fourteen when I started craving.’

‘A
stalker then?’

‘I
suppose you could liken craving to stalking, but it was always a friendly act.
Well, most often a friendly act,’ I correct myself.

‘Most
often?’ he asks with a confused laugh.

‘Oh,
you don’t mess with craves.’ I laugh to myself, a million memories bouncing
around in my head. ‘Craves can be brutal, and sometimes you have to do extreme
things to meet bands – lots of lying to lots of people...’ As well as flirting
with security guards and breaking and entering but we won’t tell Charles those.
He looks shocked (but slightly amused) as it is.

‘All
you need is one boybander and twenty or thirty craves trying to get a photo and
you’ve got a Royal Rumble right in front of you eyes.’ A sports reference, nice
one, Nicole.

‘Well
who knew that sort of thing happened,’ he chuckles. ‘So when you hear stories
about fans going crazy at gigs...’

‘Craves.’

‘And
you were one of them?’

‘I
was. If I hadn’t craved bands, I wouldn’t have made as many friends as I have,
I probably wouldn’t be doing journalism – I wouldn’t have met Dylan! I craved
The Burnouts for a while before meeting them and that’s when we hit it off.’

‘Did
you and Dylan ever get together?’ he asks rather bluntly, and with a very
serious look on his face.

‘Oh,
God no!’ I insist, without a moment’s hesitation. I don’t think anyone would be
surprised if I had slept with Dylan – who hasn’t these days? – but I honestly
haven’t.

‘You
didn’t ever, you know, get it on?’

I
laugh loudly. ‘Get it on? Who says that?’

‘Don’t
dodge my questions,’ he replies sternly, instantly wiping the smile from my
face.

‘No,
of course not, we’re friends – best friends – we’ve never even come close
to...,’ I stifle a smile. ‘...getting it on.’

‘Like
When Harry Met Sally?’ he asks, sounding a little sarcastic.

‘Not
really, they get together in the end of that film.’

‘Exactly.’

We
carry on walking in silence. So Mr Perfect does have a bit of a dark side.

‘So,’
I eventually break the silence. ‘You’ve seen When Harry Met Sally? Men like you
are hard to find.’

‘We’re
a dying breed,’ he says, back to his usual charming self.

Finally
at the train station, the familiar whiff of Starbucks fills my nostrils and I
can’t resist it.

‘Well,
thank you for walking me here – and carrying
that
suitcase, that takes a
real man. I’m going to pop in Starbucks to kill a little time.’

‘I’ll
come with you,’ he suggests, ushering me in the right direction. ‘What can I
get you?’

‘Caramel
macchiato, please.’

‘I’ll
have a large caramel macchiato and a large cappuccino,’ he tells the girl
taking our order.

I
insist he lets me pay, after everything he’s done for me this weekend, but he’s
having none of it.

As
we wander out of Starbucks I check the time – I really ought to be boarding my
train now.

‘Well,
I had better get going,’ I tell Charles, and I could swear he looks
disappointed. ‘Thank you for the coffee. And for the room. And for the alibi.’

He
laughs. ‘You’re welcome – especially for the room.’

Oh,
there’s that smile again. We stand and stare at each other for a moment – what
is the proper etiquette for saying goodbye to a man you hardly know, but have
shared a bed with twice?

‘It
was nice to finally meet you,’ I tell him sincerely and wrap my arms around his
neck for a goodbye hug.

‘It
was nice to meet you too.’

Charles
loosens his grip around my waist and I move back slightly, leaving us face to
face.

It’s
an intense moment and I can’t think of anything to say, not that it matters,
because before I can utter a few awkward silence-breaking words, Charles pulls
me closer again only this time for a kiss. A long kiss.

‘Wow,’
I say out loud, although not intentionally, when he finally lets me go.

‘Wow
indeed. You had better go, you’re going to miss your train.’
‘Goodbye then,’ I turn around and make my way towards the barriers. As I walk
through my phone beeps and I fumble in my bag to find it.

It’s
from Charles. “Miss you already.”

“You
too,” I reply.

Lying
on my sofa, nursing a cold cup of tea, I can’t help but feel a little pissed
off. After what felt like the longest train journey of my life, I was looking
forward to coming home and having a night in and a catch up with Emily. Instead
I am sitting here bored and alone because Vicky is still living with Em and apparently
she needed her tonight.

I
called Emily when I got home and we managed to chat for a few minutes while
Vicky was in the shower. I think she’s driving Emily mad. Today Vicky went
through Em’s wardrobe, pulled out all of her clothes and concluded that they
would all be too big for her to borrow – that’s Vicky though, total bitch. She
makes these little comments that don’t seem so bad, but you know exactly what
she means and it cuts like a knife. She may as well have jumped up and down on
Emily’s bed shouting “look how big your clothes are on me, fatty!”.

I
don’t know what could have possibly gone wrong in the shower, but Vicky came
out crying so Em had to take care of her tonight. So here I am, alone and
bored, and without any work to keep me busy because I did all I had to do
before I went to London.

I
grab my laptop and type a parent-friendly version of the weekend’s events in an
email to my mum, who is even more excited about the photos being in Bacci
magazine than I am. Then I go through the motions of replying to emails,
checking Facebook and Twitter, that sort of thing. I log into Skype and glance
down the list of names and my heart skips a beat at one of them - Luke Fox. So
much for telling myself that I didn’t care.