Today I have my first meeting with Dylan at his London home. Now I know there’s going to be more money coming in, and because I’m about to be rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, I thought it would be a good idea to fully channel LA Mia, and splash out on my hair. To fully return to my glory days I need to go longer and blonder, so I’ve been here since the crack of dawn having my hair transformed by a barrage of peroxide and head full of extensions. Then I’ll need to find some toilets, get changed, plaster on some make-up and then hop on another train to Dylan’s house. It’s just an informal first meeting so I’m not too worried, although it has been a while since I hung out with a celebrity.
‘I’d probably take a test if I were you,’ the stylist persists.
‘Thanks,’ I reply.
Wow, the service here is exceptional – a hairdresser and gynaecologist rolled into one. I won’t just be leaving here with long, blonde locks. I imagine my pelvic examination is next.
There’s no way I could be pregnant, surely… I’ll probably hold off from texting Leo and my parents for now. Can you imagine Belle’s face, though, if I was? She’d think I’d done it on purpose to upstage her. But there’s no way I’m pregnant – what would I do if I was? I’m not ready for a baby. The last baby I held was Belle, so I was probably only five or six years old. People just look at me and decide I’m not the kind of person who should be allowed to handle their kids. But I’m not pregnant, so none of this matters – I have plenty of other things I need to worry about before I need to worry about that.
Chapter Fourteen
As I make my way along the pathway to Dylan’s front door, I am taken aback by how beautiful his house is.
I’m standing outside a massive, double-fronted detached house, cloaked in privacy, with high walls, tall trees and large electronic gates, somewhere between Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park. The front of the house is floodlit, and light is pouring out of the large, curved window that sits above the front door. I hate these dark winter evenings; it must be amazing to have such a big, light house where you don’t feel the darkness outside. Through the window I can see the spiral staircase that leads upstairs. It’s simply amazing. It certainly puts my little house to shame.
Before I knock on the door I touch up my lip gloss, straighten my outfit and smile brightly. It’s show time.
‘Hello,’ a forty-something man says, opening the door. He’s very tall, well over six foot, and skinny too – with the bright hallway backlighting him, he looks a little like Slender Man, which creeps me out for a split second.
‘Hi, I think we just spoke on the gate intercom. I’m Mia Valentina. I’m here to see Dylan.’
‘Hello, Mia,’ he says, offering me a hand to shake. ‘I’m Mitch, Dylan’s manager.’
I shake his hand. I’ve read all about Adrian ‘Mitch’ Mitchell, Dylan King’s manager. He used to be The Burnouts’ manager, until Dylan and his brother Mikey had their huge fallout. They actually had a legal battle over who got to keep him as their manager – can you imagine? A custody battle over a grown man.
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘So, what I was trying to tell you over the intercom… Unfortunately, something has come up,’ Mitch explains. ‘Dylan is going to need to reschedule.’
‘Oh,’ I start, unsure what else to say.
‘He said to pass on his apologies, but…’ Mitch’s voice tapers off as a noise echoes through the house. Is that…? ‘Erm, yes, so…’
The sound of a woman groaning fills the hallway.
I purse my lips and widen my eyes as I look at Mitch, waiting for some kind of explanation. He doesn’t offer one.
‘So, I can call you to reschedule,’ he says, raising his voice, trying to drown the sex noises out.
‘Is he here?’ I ask, already well aware of the answer.
‘He’s working,’ Mitch replies.
‘Oh yeah? On who?’ I ask.
Right on cue, a skinny blonde in her underwear peers over the banister.
‘Dylan says can we have more champagne,’ she yells down.
‘That his wife?’ I ask sarcastically.
‘No, Dylan isn’t… Oh, that’s a joke, right?’
I nod.
The groaning continues before the blonde disappears, so, of course, he’s got two of them in there. Well, at least now I know his reputation isn’t just hype. He really is a lazy womaniser.
‘Well, I’ll go then, I guess. All the way back to Kent, after travelling all the way here. For nothing,’ I tell Mitch, laying it on thick.
‘It’s out of my hands, unfortunately,’ he tells me, showing me to the door, and just like that the first day of my new job is over in under five minutes. I wouldn’t mind, but I’m being paid a flat rate for the project and not by the hour.
As I walk back down the driveway, I call Leo.
‘Hey, how’s it going?’ he asks, sounding a little frazzled.
‘Dylan stood me up – for two chicks,’ I add.
‘You can’t blame him for that,’ Leo laughs.
‘So, I’m on my way home – are you OK? You sound stressed.’
‘No, I’m fine, it’s all good. I’m glad you’re coming home, though. I could do with a hand.
‘What’s up?’
‘Hannah has a date and her babysitter cancelled, so she’s dropped Angel off for us to look after.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ I tell him, ending the call.
Great, just what I need. I was supposed to be hanging out with a rockstar tonight and instead I’m babysitting a three-year-old. Then again, it sounds like Angel is much more mature than Dylan. I’m a professional – who does he think he is, standing me up like this? I’ll bet he’s used to people kissing his arse all day long… but not me. I’ll be having words with Mr King.
Chapter Fifteen
As I approach my own house, I can’t help but notice that it doesn’t pack the same punch as Dylan’s. His big, beautiful house was on a nice, clean, quiet street. Unlike my house, on a street almost always abuzz with drunk people. Dylan had a Range Rover in his garden. I have a condom in mine that I cannot bring myself to move – I don’t think it’s used because the first time I noticed it, it was inflated to the size of a large marrow. Still, I’m not in a hurry to touch it.
Another significant contrast between mine and Dylan’s life is the company. The two people Dylan arrived home to entertain are very different to the two I’m about to walk in on…
‘Hello,’ I call out, closing the door behind me. I slip my coat off and hang it up on the coat rack (read: put it down on top of a pile of boxes).
‘Oh my God, look at you,’ Leo greets me. ‘Your hair is all long and blonde… You look just like we did when we first met…’
My fiancé’s jaw is practically on the floor and it makes me wish I’d got back to my old self much sooner. Still, it was a gradual process of not looking like myself – the same goes for not feeling like myself – but hopefully now I’m getting out to work and hanging out with interesting people (in theory, if it ever happens) that will change too.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, all smiles, but then I notice Leo’s face fall. ‘It’s OK, isn’t it?’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ he replies. ‘It’s just a little weird, to see the old you again. You look exactly like the old you…’
‘You fell in love with the old me,’ I remind him.
‘I did,’ he replies. ‘But she was hard work… you’re happy with how things are now, right?’
‘Of course I am,’ I insist. ‘Now, never mind how I look, why aren’t we talking about the fact that you look like that chimney sweep from the wedding. Why are your hands all black?’
‘OK, don’t freak out,’ Leo starts gently.
‘Already freaking out,’ I tell him.
I follow Leo upstairs into our bedroom, only to find our newly painted white walls covered in black smears. Sitting on the floor, all smiles, brandishing a black YSL eyeliner, is my first cousi
n once removed, three-year-old Angel Edwards. I don’t know which has more black on it, the wall or her face, and I don’t know which will be more expensive to replace, the white paint or the eyeliner (it’s definitely the latter).
‘What happened here?’ I ask her gently, as though as three-year-old might be able to give me a reasonable explanation.
‘I helped,’ she mumbles, in that cute way three-year-olds talk.
‘You helped?’ I ask.
‘I helped to do the house.’
Oh shit, that is an almost reasonable explanation.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But you’re not supposed to use make-up, that’s for your face… which, I guess you also did. But we’d better get you cleaned up.’
‘I like to look pretty like my mummy and like you. But not like my gran, she looks old,’ Angel babbles.
Those harsh words against my Auntie June almost make this worthwhile.
‘Your gran does look old, doesn’t she?’ I reply. ‘Like a baddie from a Disney film. OK, let’s get you in the bathroom.’
I usher Angel towards the bathroom.
‘Hey,’ Leo calls after me.
‘Two secs,’ I tell Angel. ‘Yeah?’
‘I thought you were going to hit the roof,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise you were so good with kids.’
‘I’m not going to scream at a three-year-old,’ I laugh. ‘I’m going to scream at you later, for not keeping an eye on her.’
Leo laughs.
‘We’d make a good team, if we had kids, right?’ he says.
‘Oh God, don’t… I’ve already had one pregnancy scare today,’ I laugh.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, nothing. My hairdresser thought I might be pregnant…’
Leo’s eyebrows shoot up.
‘I’m not,’ I insist quickly. ‘She just took the stuff off my hair a little prematurely.’
‘Wouldn’t have been the worst news,’ he says with a smile.
‘Are you kidding me?’ I ask. ‘With the wedding coming up and my new job and the house being like it is?’
‘OK, fine, one excuse would have been enough, sorry I mentioned it,’ he says stroppily. ‘Sorry the idea bothers you so much.’
Leo and I have had several discussions about what we want for the future over the course of our relationship. I might have been a commitment-phobe before we met, but the deeper in love I fell with Leo, the faster that scared feeling faded. When he proposed to me, sure, it was a surprise, but we had talked about the idea of marriage and we both knew where we stood and that we were both happy to do it. But when it comes to kids, well… I’m just not sure. I don’t not want kids, I’m just never sure that I do. I’m not sure I’d make a very good mum – or that any of the mums in my family have turned out to be good mums, so why would I be any different? I just need a bit more time with this one.
‘It’s not the time,’ I tell him.
‘OK, but it’s a time-sensitive thing, right?’
I tilt my head inquisitively.
‘Like, women only have so much time to do these things, right?’ he continues.
I puff air out of my cheeks.
‘Can we talk about my ticking biological clock some other time, please? I need to wash Angel before her mum sees her, Instagrams it, and my auntie accuses me of putting her grandchild in blackface or something equally as ridiculous.’
Leo scratches his head.
‘Sure.’
‘Mia, Mia, come look how pretty I am,’ Angel calls from the bathroom.
As I walk in I catch Angel just in time to see her putting the finishing touches on her fringe (or what used to be her fringe) with a pair of scissors.
‘I look so pretty,’ she sings. ‘I look like a princess.’
Angel dances for herself in the mirror, singing some song I imagine is from some Disney film I haven’t seen – probably the modern kind with feminist female leads, where the princesses don’t have to rely on Prince Charming to save them from evil witches or the passage of time rendering their old ovaries useless.
‘Ohhh shit,’ I can’t help but say.
‘Swear,’ Angel ticks me off. ‘I’ll tell Mummy.’
‘That’s the least of my worries,’ I say to myself.
Leo hurries into the room to see Angel holding a pair of scissors, blonde locks on the floor all around her and a big empty space where her fringe used to be.
‘Still want kids?’ I ask him.
‘Not so much right now,’ he says, grimacing.
‘OK, Angel, let’s get you in the bath,’ I say calmly. ‘It’s all fine, it’s all going to be fine.’
‘I’ll, erm…’ Leo stares at me blankly.
‘Clean the wall, I guess?’ I suggest.
‘OK,’ he replies. ‘Got it.’
I run a bath but I’m terrified that three-year-olds aren’t allowed Lush bath bombs or water that is too hot. I lift Angel into the tepid, plain water and sit on the floor next to her.
‘Mummy gives me Frozen bubbles,’ she tells me.
‘I don’t have any, sorry,’ I reply.
‘It’s OK. Do you like my hair?’
I reach out to examine her hair, moving what is left of her fringe, trying to brush it forwards, but it’s not exactly helping. What did I think, that she was one of those dolls with retractable hair like I had when I was a kid?
‘I want a horse for Christmas,’ she tells me, splashing the water.
‘A hat might be a better idea, chick,’ I tell her, but she’s not listening.
‘A big horse that’s a girl,’ she continues.
‘Leo,’ I call out.
‘Yeah?’ he says, appearing in the doorway.
‘We’ve got two choices. We do nothing, and leave this issue for Hannah to sort out – although it will be very much our fault and we’ll be in lots of trouble… or maybe it will just be my fault, because isn’t it always?’
‘Or?’
‘Maybe your mum could help?’
Maria De Luca is a hairdresser and an all-round-lovely lady. When we were away for Belle’s wedding and a hairdresser made my hair look awful, Maria was happy to help me out. Maybe there’s something – anything – she can do, to make this look not quite so awful.
‘Good thinking,’ he says. ‘I’ll give her a call.’
‘Hey, Angel, how would you like to look even prettier?’ I ask her.
‘Like a princess?’ she asks.
‘Exactly like a princess,’ I tell her.
‘Yes!’ she says, punching the air, splashing water everywhere.
‘My mum says she’ll try and help,’ Leo says. ‘I’ll go pick her up.’
‘OK, thank you so much,’ I call after him.
‘Do you think Mummy will be mad I cut my hair?’ Angel asks.
‘Not with you, sweetheart,’ I tell her honestly.
Half an hour later Angel is clean and I’ve blow-dried her hair, just in time for Leo getting back with Maria.
Maria claps eyes on Angel and laughs gently.
‘Oh, love,’ she says as she examines my little cousin’s new ‘do.
‘Are you gonna make me look like a princess?’ Angel asks Maria.
‘I am, sweetheart. I am.’
Maria takes out her hairdressing kit, laying it flat on top of some cardboard boxes. Leo lifts Angel up and sits her down on a sturdy box that is just about the right height.
‘So…’ Maria starts. ‘I mean… it’s not ideal… but I could cut her a thicker fringe and hopefully the hair on the top will disguise the underneath while it grows?’
‘Oh, could you do that, please,’ I reply.
‘Will her mum be OK with that?’ Maria asks.
I pull a face. ‘More so than this.’
Maria looks at Angel again, her cheeky little face smiling widely, still looking adorable even though her hair looks awful.
My heart is in my mouth as Maria snips away, but I trust she knows what she’s going.
‘Leo tells
me you have a new job, Mia,’ she says.
‘Yeah, ghostwriting an autobiography for a singer,’ I say. ‘Although I turned up for my first day today and he was… indisposed.’
‘I suppose you’re used to that, having worked in the movie business,’ she replies.
She’s not wrong. I’ve worked with celebrities, made friends with some of them and even dated one or two. I only have one ex, if we can really call him that, who everyone has heard of and that’s actor Jimmy Menzel. I met Jimmy when we were shooting a movie I’d written on location in New York. The director was an absolute nightmare, constantly demanding changes, so in the end I flew to New York for the duration of filming, and enjoyed a fleeting romance with Jimmy. I suppose, given that he couldn’t even remember his assistant’s name, the fact he made a point of remembering mine is quite a big deal, but he was selfish, childish, impatient – and possibly a drug addict, I realised towards the end of our time together. So I suppose, when it comes to Dylan, I’ll expect that, and if he’s a better person than Jimmy, then I’ll only be pleasantly surprised.
‘Yeah, I’ll soon get him under control,’ I laugh.
‘And the wedding planning… how’s that going?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, good,’ I lie. I look over at Leo who has his eyebrows raised. ‘Well, I mean, I’ll be starting soon. Just as soon as I get this job started. We both want to plan it together and we’re having a bit of trouble coordinating at the moment.’
‘OK,’ Maria replies. God, I wish I could tell what she’s thinking right now. She’s got this look on her face, like she’s thinking something…
‘I’m bored,’ Angel whines.
‘Your mummy will be here for you any minute,’ Leo tells her. ‘Don’t you want to look your best for her?
‘OK, fiiiine,’ she replies.
A few more snips and Maria is done.
‘There. What do we think?’
‘I want to see, I want to see,’ Angel begs.
How Not to be a Bride Page 8
