How Not To Be Starstruck

Chapter Six

The Fan-bang

Despite the exciting events last night, not only am I at work on time but I am also the first one to arrive.

I am in a fantastic mood today and my work is reaping the benefits. In fact, I am so busy flying through the emails that I don’t even hear Jake arrive. I’m surprised I couldn’t smell the coffee as he was coming up in the lift.

He makes me jump by dropping a copy of the Daily Scoop newspaper on the desk in front of me. Plastic Rap are on the cover accompanied by the headline: ‘We’re having a fan-bang’. Not only am I amazed by the speed these tabloids operate at, but I’d give anything to have been the person who came up with that pun.

‘Oh my God...’

‘I take it you left before this went on?’ Jake enquires.

‘I did. Minutes before, actually.’

‘You’re probably too old for them,’ he jokes.

‘Oi, you! Sam gave me his number if you must know.’

‘For what exactly? In case he needs a babysitter?’

Jake is so funny. He’s not really that into the kind of music we write about, but he is so good at his job and he keeps us all in stitches while we’re working.

I take a long, unladylike swig of my coffee and grab the paper to have a proper read.

It doesn’t say who their source is, but they must have been at the hotel last night because they saw exactly what I saw. I can’t believe this has made the front page.

I read the article out loud as Emily and Vicky arrive together.

‘Plastic Rap, the squeaky-clean teen sensation, are proving to be just as artificial as their name. There has never been any scandal in the press about band members Sam, Carl, Mike, John and Simon, all aged between twenty and twenty-two...until now, that is.’ Looking up to make sure that I have Emily and Vicky’s attention, I carry on reading: ‘At a gig in Leeds last night, the band members sent one of their people out into the crowd to bring them back a couple of fans each. Our spy estimated the age of the fans to be ‘about fifteen or sixteen’. The band, who market themselves as being teen-friendly, should know better – these girls probably had school in the morning.’

I’ve read enough. I wonder who leaked the story to the press – it certainly wasn’t me, I was far too preoccupied last night, but I don’t remember seeing anyone else in the room. It must have been one of the fans, maybe one of them realised how wrong it was and decided to tell the press. Well, good for her – whoever she was – and she didn’t even give her name so she’s clearly not just after the fame. Poor Em has a concerned look on her face, I didn’t realise she was so appalled by the story when I told her about it last night.

‘Nicole, I’m going to go pick the new camera up. I’ve had a message to say that it’s ready,’ Jake informs me, before turning to Vicky and asking her if she wants to go with him – it is for her after all. Vicky jumps out of her chair and heads to the door. She doesn’t even say goodbye to us, the girl is that rude. I’m just glad to get her out of the way so that I can talk to Emily properly about the headline and about Luke.

‘I saw that paper on the way to work this morning, I thought maybe you’d tipped them off,’ she says as soon as we’re alone.

‘Come on, Emily. You know me better than that. As if I’d give trash like the Scoop my story. Anyway, forget that, I have something far more interesting to tell you.’

I tell her everything about my conversation with Luke. She already knows how much I fancy him, but she doesn’t seem that 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.

Chapter Seven

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. There’s nothing glamorous about a luxury bath when it’s nearly full to the top with beer, vomit, piss, fag ends and anything else that happens to be within reach.

I like to think I’m rock and roll, but I remember seeing a huge flat-screen TV taken down off the wall and being promptly thrown off the balcony and into the river that our formerly beautiful room overlooked. The band thought this was hilarious – it was no skin off their noses because their record label would foot the bill – but I’d kill to have a TV like that at my place, it was such a waste.

When I find myself alone in a hotel room I’ll order room service, throw on a fluffy dressing gown and see what the movie channels have to offer. The only things I have ever thrown off a balcony, well technically spat off a balcony, were orange Revels – abominable.

Don’t get me wrong though, I am a party animal. Put me in a hotel room with a bunch of drunk band boys and a few friends and things will always get messy. I’ve thrown up in a bath or two in my time, but that will not be happening on this tour, I’m not going to be able to seduce Luke with vomit.

At the moment I am hurriedly packing my bags so that I don’t miss my train to Manchester. That’s where I’ll be meeting up with Luke’s band, Two For The Road, and joining them on the last week of their tour.

Packing for tour requires two bags. I have a small bag to take to gigs with me – big enough for my phone, purse, camera and make-up – and a huge bag that could rival a suitcase for space. Inside this bag I have successfully crammed enough items of clothing to at least create the illusion that I am wearing a different outfit every day of the tour, my vital grooming items like my hairbrush and the super-important things like my phone charger. I lift it up before I squash in the last few items, just to see if it’s too heavy to carry and it almost certainly is, but I’ll manage.

As I frantically cram the last few things into the two bags, I mentally tick them off my list of things to take with me. Of course, the problem with a mental list is that you have to actually remember the things on it and you can guarantee I will always forget something.

Guess what? I’m running really late. It’s nearly 7 p.m. by the time I am making the short journey from my flat to the train station. I probably should have checked the train times, but I know there is one every half an hour so it should be fine. I really am so disorganised, but I think I secretly enjoy the drama. A few taps on my phone would tell me what time the train is due and what time it arrives in Manchester, but that would be way too easy, and if I start messing around with my phone then I’ll definitely miss my train.

After buying my ticket I check the departures board and learn that not only is my train due to depart in three minutes, but that it is departing from platform sixteen. Just brilliant.

I knew that I’d be running late, so I decided to get ready for the gig before I left home. The downside of this is that I’m freezing in my little dress but on the plus side it will save me loads of time when I get there, and at least I’m wearing my cosy Ugg boots. My pretty shoes are in my bag, I’ll make the swap when I get there.

Running down the steps to platform sixteen I hear the all-too-familiar whistle, the one that means the train doors are about to close and I’m about to miss my train. Before I know what I’m doing, I am diving through the closing doors, landing upright and still holding my things as the doors shut behind me. The train is absolutely packed and all the people standing in the doorway cheer and applaud my James Bond-style manoeuvre. That is probably the most energetic thing I have done in a long time, so I smile and curtsy for my audience before composing myself and trying to find my phone. This is one of those moments in life that is totally Twitter-worthy, in fact I think Twitter was designed with moments like this in mind.

Impressed with myself, I wonder how I managed to move so gracefully with my big bag and, of course, it is then that I realise I have left my big bag at home. This means that I have no clean clothes, no hairbrush and, worst of all, no pretty shoes. Shit. It’s too late to do anything about it now, I’ll just have to try and manage. I’ve survived on low-budget tours, sleeping in the back of dirty old vans and trying to make my face of make-up last for more than one day – I’ll be fine. I’m touring with Two For The Road, they have a big, glamorous tour bus and we’ll be staying in a few hotels. I guess I’ll have to buy some new clothes, but that is hardly an idea I am against.

About an hour later, the train pulls into Manchester Piccadilly station and I hop off far less gracefully than I got on. My friend, Gemma, is stood waiting for me. She’s a huge Two For The Road fan and I remember exactly what it’s like to be a fan, desperate to meet the band, so I told her that if she wanted to come along I would introduce her.

‘Are you excited about tonight?’ I ask.

‘I am so, so nervous. I don’t know how you keep your cool being friends with all these bands! Just promise to introduce me to Eddie.’

She does look nervous, bless her. I remember when I was nervous.

Eddie is the lead singer of TFTR and like every front-man ever, he is gorgeous, charming and as shallow as a puddle.

I resist telling Gemma about Luke – it’s not that I don’t trust her, I’m just worried. What if he acts like we never had that conversation? What if he was just drunk? I am not going to make a fool of myself tonight, although I’m not sure how easy that is going to be as I do plan on getting a little bit drunk.

Finally outside the venue, a big, scary-looking doorman ticks our names off the guest list. I can hear the music from out here, it’s Two For The Road. I told you that I was going to be very late.

Our first stop is the bar and it’s only as we’re ordering our drinks that I realise I am probably just as nervous as Gemma is tonight. It has been such a long time since I felt nervous about meeting a band, and I know these guys so well, but this Luke stuff is having a strange effect on me. I’ve always kept my crush on him under wraps, but now that he might actually fancy me back, everything is different. Oh God, I’m sounding like a schoolgirl again.

Armed with our drinks, we make our way towards the stage where the show is already in full swing. Eddie, the singer, is upfront and smack bang in the middle. He’s very typically good-looking (think Alex Pettyfer, but brunette) and he really knows how to work the crowd. The only time he isn’t surrounded by a crowd of girls is when he’s on stage. He has his shirt fully unbuttoned, like he’s in Whitesnake (circa 1980s) or something, and a guitar hanging off his body which I don’t think I have ever seen him play, that’s Ben’s job. Ben is the lead guitarist, but he’s probably the shyest member of the band. I’m not sure how old he is, but he can’t be more than twenty. He’s a new addition to TFTR (after their original guitarist walked) and hasn’t quite acquired the same level of cockiness as the rest of them, but given time I’m sure he will. Then we have the bassist, Mark. Mark is probably the one I get on with the least because he’s taken that cheeky cockiness that makes Eddie and Luke so likeable and mutated it into full-blown arrogance. Even before they were famous, you could tell he thought he was the shit. He’s never been anything but nice to me though, so I can’t complain, but there is something very unattractive about a man who thinks that he is God’s gift to women. In reality he’s a bit chubbier than the rest of the guys, his short blonde hair always looks like it needs a good wash and I wish he would have a shave – I am not a big fan of beards at the best of times, but his definitely has to go. As I’m staring at him, I catch his eye and he gives me a wink, so I give him a smile in return. Then I look at Luke, he’s sitting behind the drums with his shirt off, sweat literally dripping off him as he bangs away on his kit with real enthusiasm. I get that feeling again, that pang of something in my chest. I think my heart just skipped a beat – how lame is that?

We’ve managed to push our way to the front of the crowd – at Gemma’s request, I’d be happier blending into the background and pretending I’m important. As their song comes to an end, Eddie chats to his audience. I look over at Luke who is downing a bottle of water and the moment he stops drinking, he spots me. Standing up behind his drum kit and grabbing his microphone off the stand, he interrupts Eddie.

‘Nicole Wilde, I see you! Guys, we’ve got a very special lady in tonight, huge shout-out to Nicole from Starstruck. She’s touring with us and we want her to write nice things, so if you see her at the bar then buy her a drink!’ And with that, he returns the mic to its rightful place and sits back down behind his drums.

‘This one is for you, Nicole!’ Eddie shouts as he bursts into their next song. I am both smug and embarrassed in equal measure. Shout-outs are great, but embarrassing, and because it was from Luke I can feel my cheeks flushing. I’m hoping people will assume it’s because it’s warm in here.

The guys put on one hell of a show and, before I know it, they’re about to play their final song of the night.

‘So, this is our last song, guys.’ Eddie stops talking to swig his beer, his audience will wait. ‘Thank you so much for coming. We’re going to party here for a while afterwards so come and say hello, and then we’re going to a club. Where’s cool in Manchester?’ he asks in the faux-American twang he picked up somewhere along the way – I’m not sure where, he’s a Londoner. His question is met by a series of shouted-out suggestions from the happy crowd, none of which are audible.

After they play their final song and go off stage, the nerves really hit me. I’m going to have to have an actual conversation with Luke, and I can’t hide behind a Skype window while I think of cool and clever responses. I am so worried he’ll bring up the other night, but I’m even more worried that he won’t mention it at all.

After a quick trip to the bar for more drinks, I am chatting with Gemma when Eddie and Mark come over to say hello. Like the good friend that I am, the first thing I do is introduce Gemma to them, and if she is nervous then she isn’t letting it show because she is so cool. As the four of us chat, I feel two hands on my waist and my heart jumps into my mouth because I know who it is. I spin around in his gentle grip to see a slightly sweaty and unfortunately fully clothed Luke Fox. He pulls me closer for a hug and plants a kiss on my cheek.