It’s been a long time since I attended a gig. It’s not that I don’t love music, I was just always too busy when I was in LA, and since I moved back home, I don’t know, it’s just never really been a priority. I didn’t really feel like live music was missing from my life… until tonight.
After Dylan and his brother fell out – and disbanded – Dylan went solo, and in a Robbie Williams/Justin Timberlake/Zayn Malik kind of way, he somehow managed to become an even bigger, even more successful star than he was before. Tonight he performed at a charity concern, to an audience of 5,000 people – at the Royal Albert Hall, no less. The event, set up to raise money for the Magical Star Foundation (a kids charity Dylan has always supported), was completely sold out, but Dylan told me I could watch his set from the wings and… I can’t think of a better way to put it… he took my breath away. Sure, I’ve heard his songs on the radio, and I’ve seen his music videos, and I’ve read all about him in the news… but we live in a time of auto tune, where the production can make or break a song. But Dylan’s voice speaks for itself. It’s just amazing and unmistakable and, whether he was thrusting his hips to his more lively songs or belting out his ballads, he left me with goose bumps.
After his set, Dylan went off to do a few interviews before heading back to his dressing room. He told me to enjoy the show and meet him there, so after I’d watched a couple more acts, I headed backstage, with the hope of getting back to business. The sooner I get everything I need, the sooner I can write this book, the sooner I can get paid and get on with planning my wedding.
I could hear Dylan in the shower so I made myself at home, relaxing in the comfortable chair, eating his strawberries and sipping his champagne – this is the life. After five minutes Dylan emerged from the bathroom in nothing but a towel. There’s just something about him, and it doesn’t matter that he isn’t buff or classically handsome – it’s just the Dylan King package that makes him so attractive to seemingly all women.
‘You want me to drop the towel so you can get a better look?’ he laughed.
‘I was looking at your tattoos,’ I told him. ‘How many do you have?’
‘Fuck knows,’ he said, examining his chest and arms. ‘I got some individual ones, got my sleeve, a few of them merged, had a few covered with better shit when I was sober. They all tell a story, I just don’t always remember them.’
He laughed, running a hand through his wet hair.
I climbed out of my chair to get a closer look. On the left side of his chest, creeping over his shoulder, his ink makes it look like his skin has been torn from his body, slashed open as though a lion has clawed him. Through the gaps of seemingly torn flesh, a page of fancy writing peeps through.
‘Song lyrics,’ he told me. ‘My own, obviously.’
I’m not really a fan of tattoos, but I have to admit this one is truly a work of art. As I admired his work, Dylan raised a hand to gently push a piece of my hair behind my ear.
‘Hey, what are all those numbers on the backs of your hands?’ I asked, suddenly noticing them.
Dylan held his hands out in front of him to reveal a series of three- and four-digit numbers inked on in a variety of styles and shades.
‘I, er, I stay in a lot of hotels, and I’d forget my room number a lot, so drunk Dylan would get them tattooed on – it’s a good system.’
‘But there’s so many now,’ I pointed out. ‘How would drunk Dylan know which one was the right one? And aren’t you always drunk?’
‘I said it was a good system, I didn’t say it was a great one,’ he laughed.
Dylan’s body is a canvas that tells a multitude of stories. There are his tattoos – painstakingly detailed, beautiful, expensive-looking ones that clearly took a lot of planning and skill, and then some that aren’t as detailed or as high-quality that he had done on random drunken nights. He also has a few scars, like the little patch that’s missing from the outside edge of his left eyebrow that I’d always thought was a fashion choice, but it turns out it’s from fighting when he was at school. And then there’s the one on his arm that he simply and casually explained came from the time he tried to climb out of a hotel window to get away from a girl he didn’t want to sleep with, which makes me wonder, what on earth could have been wrong with this girl to make Dylan not want to sleep with her, because so far I’ve seen him flirt with girls indiscriminately.
After Dylan got dressed we headed to the afterparty. I’ve been to some swanky parties in my time but – and maybe it’s just because I haven’t been to one in years – tonight is something else. We’re in an enormous function room in a hotel, the one I’m staying in tonight. I did have second thoughts about staying in London. It’s not that Leo minded – he’s working nights anyway and I think he’s just so happy I’m enjoying my job – but I realised I didn’t have any of my stuff with me. I told Dylan this and he simply told me he’d take care of it. When I checked into my room I found everything I could possibly need waiting there for me – a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a bag of make-up and toiletries, an iPhone charger and an oversized Burnouts T-shirt (that’s Dylan’s old band).
At the party I met all kinds of amazing people, from celebrities to people who work for the charity. I had a chat with a guy called Mark, who is head of PR for the Magical Star Foundation, who was there with his tiny pregnant wife – they seemed like such a happy couple and being around them made me miss Leo more than I had expected to, seeing as how I’m only away for one night. Mark told me that Dylan is such a huge part of the charity – a constant driving force, that’s what he called him. He told me not to let Dylan’s reputation precede him, and that those who knew him knew he was actually a good guy. Amid the drinking and the constant swearing and the stories of rehab and shagging multiple girls a night, I do see glimmers of normal human Dylan, rather than rockstar Dylan, and it’s nice. I’m sure he’ll want his autobiography to be page after page of sexual conquest and nights he doesn’t quite remember, but I really want to show his human side. Earlier, when he was talking about his family – that was real and relatable. To see something genuine in him endeared him to me, and to realise that even rockstars have to deal with family shit that is entirely out of their control made me feel better about my own family.
At the party tonight Dylan was unmistakably drunk, but a sort of weirdly manageable level that he seems to constantly maintain. He didn’t seem drunk, not really, he just seemed like the charismatic life of the party. He’s truly a joy to be around. Everyone within a twenty-foot radius of him at the party had the time of their lives, but I do wonder if it’s just a coping mechanism for him. Still, I’ve had an amazing time, and a fair bit to drink myself. Dylan introduced me to everyone, made sure I always had a drink in my hand and we even hit the dance floor together.
Now I’m back in my room – my big, luxurious hotel room, all alone in a bed that could comfortably sleep four of me. There’s a great big bath that I’m going to spend some serious time in when I wake up and a TV the size of my bedroom window. I’ve been living in an unfinished house for so long, I forgot just how amazing it is to be truly comfortable, surrounded by nice things – things that don’t smell like paint.
From the lovely, sweet-smelling, soft bed sheets to the room service I just polished off (a cup of tea and a chocolate brownie), I am in heaven. But as I swipe a hand over the large, empty space on the bed next to me, I think of Leo and wish he were here to enjoy the perks of the job with me.
My phone vibrates, snapping me from my thoughts.
‘Speak of the devil,’ I say, answering the phone to my amazing fiancé. ‘I was just thinking about you.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, I’m just at the hotel. I’m in bed…’
‘Oh really, you dirty girl,’ he laughs.
‘Not like that,’ I reply. ‘Although… where are you?’
‘I’m at work,’ he tells me. ‘Just on a break. Thought I’d check in, make sure you weren’t bored and alone in a hotel.’
Truth be told, I’ve only been here about 30 minutes. There’s no point bragging to Leo about what an awesome night I’ve had, though, especially when I’m sure he must be missing me as much as I’m missing him.
‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me,’ I assure him. ‘That reminds me, what’s wrong with your hand?’
‘What?’
‘Your hand,’ I repeat. ‘You had a plaster on it last night, I felt it while you were sleeping.’
Leo laughs.
‘Have you been holding my hand while I’m asleep again, Mia?’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ I laugh awkwardly.
‘I grazed it at work, it’s not big deal. And for the record, I think it’s cute when you hold my hand while I’m asleep. Anyway…’ Leo’s tone suddenly changes, which makes me think real manly fireman types have just entered the room, so he needs to keep a lid on the cuteness. ‘I’ll let you get some sleep in your no doubt big, comfortable bed.’
‘And I’ll let you get back to work,’ I tease. ‘Don’t hurt yourself again.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ he laughs before lowering his voice a little. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ I reply.
I hang up the phone and make myself comfortable in bed. I hate sleeping without Leo. I just love having him to cuddle up to and keep me warm at night. Still, this is only temporary and, you never know, if I can get more high-profile ghostwriting jobs and keep making money like this, he could retire sooner rather than later, which will mean less worrying for me and more nights in the same bed. Either way, I get to spend the rest of my life with him and I can’t wait.