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in a ditch and therefore he cannot perform.’

      ‘Claire, relax. We’re not going to find him dead in a ditch, there are no ditches in this field.’

      ‘I will dig a ditch and kill him in it myself if he doesn’t turn up soon,’ she fumes.

      I don’t point out to her that this would be counterproductive.

      ‘Listen to me, Claire, I know how Dylan operates. I’ll find him, don’t worry.’

      ‘You’d better,’ she warns me, ‘because I’m sick of his shit. I won’t be covering for him. If he isn’t checked out of his room and on the tour bus by 6 p.m. tomorrow, then we are leaving without him. The label can deal with him as they see fit.’

      ‘Leave it with me. He’s probably with some girl – somewhere. I’ll find him and he will be on the bus at 6 p.m. tomorrow. Take the night off, relax in the hotel spa, you’ve earned it.’

      Has she bollocks earned it, but she wants Dylan’s head on a stick and she’ll only hold me back. Sometimes I feel like she wants him to get in trouble, even if it’s just so that he learns a lesson the hard way, but all that will do is get him dropped by his label, he’ll drink his fortune away and end up recording irritating car insurance ads for local radio. The final nail in his career’s coffin will be an appearance on Never Mind The Buzzcocks, in the line-up of people who used to be someone.

      ‘Fine. But, Nicole, if you do find him, please make sure he behaves tonight. Not too many girls, not too much drink, and if anyone at the hotel tries to offer him drugs, do be careful.’

      I laugh, rather loudly. Claire just stares at me, clearly not getting what is so funny.

      ‘You said doobie,’ I explain. ‘If they offer him drugs, doobie careful.’

      Still nothing, not even a smile.

      ‘Here.’ She drops his backpack at my feet. ‘He’s your problem now.’

      As Claire storms off, I pull faces at her behind her back. She’s in the wrong line of work for someone who hates musicians so much, but maybe I’d be grumpy all the time if I had to deal with Dylan’s shit for a living.

      I have a look through Dylan’s bag – not that I’m expecting to find a map that will lead me straight to him or anything, but you never know. As luck would have it, it’s not what is in his bag that gives me a clue, it’s what isn’t there – his phone.

      Grabbing my own phone from my handbag, I call Dylan’s number and after several rings a girl answers.

      ‘Dylan King from The Burnout’s phone,’ she chirps with a giggle. I hate her already.

      ‘Hello, can I speak to Dylan, please?’

      ‘Who are you?’ she asks rather rudely.

      ‘I’m Nicole. Who are you?’

      ‘Nicole who?’

      ‘Nicole Wilde.’

      The girl pauses for a moment before she replies, adopting a more serious tone to her voice.

      ‘Do you work for him?’

      I tell her yes. She’s probably more likely to help me if she thinks I’m someone official.

      ‘Oh, OK.’ Her voice relaxes again. ‘Well, we just had sex and he told me I’d get a signed CD. Is it your job to bring me it?’

      Oh dear. I wish I could say that this was the first time something like this had happened, but I’d be lying. Every now and then Dylan meets a girl with real integrity, a girl who won’t sleep with him just because he is Dylan King from The Burnouts – lucky for Dylan, these girls can usually be talked around with a signed album.

      ‘Is Dylan still there?’ I ask.

      ‘He’s gone to get champagne. So are you going to bring me my CD?’

      ‘Yes, just tell me where you are and I’ll bring it now.’

      ‘Awesome,’ she squeaks. ‘I’m at the Williamson Hotel, room 192.’

      Luckily for me, the Williamson Hotel is where we’re staying – it’s the only hotel in this tiny town, which is situated somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Everyone who performed at the Rockin’ Radio Summer Roadshow is staying there, so at least Dylan is exactly where I need him to be.

      After a short taxi journey, I arrive at the hotel. I had expected to find Dylan propping up the hotel bar, but he must have gone back up to see his special new friend for round two.

      I knock on the door of room 192. An underwear-clad girl answers the door, completely unfazed by the fact that she is nearly naked and I am a complete stranger.

      ‘Are you Nicole with the CD?’ she asks me.

      ‘Are you the random girl with the Dylan?’ I ask in return.

      She stares at me blankly, yes, she’s just Dylan’s type – nearly naked and entirely stupid.

      ‘Dylan never came back.’

      ‘Right,’ I reply. I’d pretend to be surprised to spare her feelings but I don’t think she’d even notice. ‘Well, can I have his phone, please?’

      ‘CD first,’ she insists.

      Funnily enough I’m not in the habit of carrying around signed copies of any of The Burnouts’ albums, but I need that phone.

      ‘Sorry, we’re all out. It’s a busy time of year for him.’

      ‘Whatever,’ she replies. ‘No CD, no phone. Get me my CD or I’ll start forwarding photos.’

      I cannot believe Barbie’s slutty brunette BFF is holding Dylan’s phone ransom.

      ‘OK, I’ll find you a CD,’ I promise her.

      ‘Awesome. Laters,’ she replies, slamming the door in my face.

      ‘Laters,’ I repeat to myself in a silly voice. I have no idea where I’m going to get one of Dylan’s CDs – let alone one he has signed. I suppose I’ll have to find the man himself for that, but I need the phone to find him in the first place. It’s a Catch-22 situation.

       Chapter Three: The wrangler’s new clothes

      As I am heading back down to the hotel lobby, I bump into Claire. The poor woman looks frazzled. Her short brown hair is all ruffled and unless she’s been dragged through that ditch she was talking about earlier, I’d guess she’s been tearing it out.

      ‘Here.’ She pushes a keycard into my hand. ‘The spare key for Dylan’s room, he’s your problem now.’

      ‘You already said that,’ I call after her, but she isn’t sticking around for a chat.

      I place the keycard safely in my purse.

      Originally I had intended to head straight home after the gig, but when I saw Dylan earlier he insisted that I stay in town for the night, so that I could go to the after-party with him. The hotel was fully booked – the only hotel in town – but Dylan talked me into staying by telling me I could share his room. That might sound a bit weird, but on tour it’s no big deal to share a room with your mates – male or female. Everyone is so used to living in such a small space on the bus, and often you have to crash wherever you can for the night. Not only would no one bat an eyelid about us sharing a room, but if there’s an after-party going on then there’s a good chance we’ll be there until the early hours. Well, that was the plan, but as you can see Dylan has stood me up for sex. It’s not even like I can enjoy a night in a hotel room on my own, because I’m going to have to waste my night tracking him down.

      I hear girls screaming outside the hotel as more musicians are ushered in by Security. As I look outside, I see a lot of Dylan fans,

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