‘Oh God, I’m in brunch heaven,’ I squeak.
Dylan laughs at me.
‘I’ve never seen anyone look at a latte like that before,’ he laughs.
‘Well, I gave coffee up a little while ago,’ I confess. ‘But I’ve given up giving up now.’
Dylan stabs a sausage with his fork and takes a bite.
‘The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The second best time is right now,’ he says through a mouthful of food.
‘What?’
‘If you’re not recovering, you’re relapsing,’ he continues. ‘I don’t know, they used to say shit like this to us at rehab.’
‘It’s a cup of coffee, not a crack pipe,’ I laugh. ‘Are you going to take it off me?’
‘Oh, Mia, I wouldn’t dare,’ he replies, pretending to quiver with fear. ‘Plus, I can’t say anything, can I?’
I pick up the latte glass and take a big, meaningful sip. As the hot, sweet vanilla latte warms its way from my lips to my stomach, and that first buzz of caffeine hits my system, I feel alive.
‘Oh, such a bad girl,’ Dylan laughs.
‘Buddy, you don’t know the half of it,’ I reply.
‘So, tell me,’ he insists, suddenly very interested.
I take another bite of my pancakes with strawberries, banana and maple syrup before responding. My God, this is good. I’d forgotten how much I loved staying in hotels, having expensive meals – especially ones paid for by work.
‘All I’m saying is, you might think I’m this boring, engaged writer, but four years ago things were very different. I was living in LA, writing screenplays, hanging out with movie stars, refusing to settle down… So, there’s hope for you yet,’ I tell him.
‘Or there’s hope for you yet,’ he replies. ‘Maybe you are a bad girl.’
‘Was,’ I laugh. ‘Definitely was. If you’d told me four years ago that this would be my life now, I probably would’ve thrown myself in the sea. When you meet someone you love, you actually want to change. I mean, you were married once, right?’
‘Yeah, we’re not talking about that,’ he says curtly.
‘Dylan, we’re writing your autobiography – the story of your life. Your wife and kids are a huge part of it.’
‘Leave it, Mia,’ he snaps.
Dylan is a womaniser and has been ever since he found fame. He’s one of those celebrities who is always romantically linked to someone, but never has a girlfriend. He has a reputation for sleeping with his fans, but they’re happy to sleep with him. He is every inch the rockstar cliché, so everyone was surprised to learn he was not only getting married, but that his fiancée had twins on the way. This was maybe five years ago, but I remember reading about it at the time because they decided to get divorced almost immediately, adding his name to the list of shortest celebrity marriages. He didn’t do as badly as Britney Spears’ 55 hours, and he even beat Kim Kardashian’s 72-day marriage, but they can’t have stayed together for more than a few months. Dylan has never publicly opened up about it and, weirdly, neither has his ex, which is just unheard of in these situations, because the media will pay big money for these secrets spilling.
We’re sitting in silence. Actual, complete silence now that I think about it. I glance around the dining room to see that we’re the only people here.
‘It’s dead in here,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Kind of strange, for such a big hotel.’
‘I hired this room for breakfast,’ he tells me casually. ‘I don’t like to be disturbed. Don’t look at me like that, like I’m some kind of arsehole, but I can’t get through a meal in public without having to take a photo with everyone in the room and sign a million autographs, and I love my fans, but I need to eat.’
‘I completely understand that,’ I tell him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. I can see the frustration building up inside him. Sometimes, when I look into his eyes, his head looks like a truly dark place to be. I know being famous has its perks, but it must be horrible sometimes.
‘Are you coming to the studio with me today?’ he asks. ‘We can talk on the way and between takes.’
‘I can’t today, unfortunately. I’ve got to go and see my mum.’
‘How old are you?’ he laughs, suddenly a little more like his charming, easy-going self.
‘If you met my mum, you’d change you mind.’
‘So take me with you,’ he says, straight-faced.
‘Some other time,’ I laugh, unsure if that was a joke or not.
Dylan grabs his napkin and wipes his mouth.
‘OK, well, come over to mine tomorrow.’
‘OK,’ I reply. ‘Thank you for last night – and for breakfast.’
‘Never heard a woman say that to me before,’ he laughs. ‘They don’t usually get breakfast.’
I laugh as I stand up.
‘See you tomorrow.’
I slip on my coat, grab my bag and head for the door. I’ve got an afternoon tea date with my mum, back in Canterbury, so I’d better get a move on. My mum and I don’t really have the kind of relationship where we socialise, which makes me think she has summoned me for a talking to about something or other. Usually when she calls upon me she has a list of things we need to address. But after that I get to go home and spend an evening with my wonderful fiancé, and I can’t wait.