Portia MacIntosh - Between A Rockstar And A Hard Place

‘Yo, Mike,’ I call out as soon as he is done taking questions.

‘Hey, Nic. Did you enjoy the show?’

‘I did,’ I tell him – and I mean it. I watched it from down in the photo pit, that’s the best seat in the house. Well, the best standing position in the field, this is the Rockin’ Radio Summer Roadshow after all – a one-day festival that takes place in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere, with only the best of the best from the music biz invited to perform.

‘You haven’t seen Dylan, have you?’ I ask.

‘Nope. He ran off stage as soon as we finished our set and that was the last I saw of him.’

I noticed that he ran off pretty sharp-ish too. One minute he was thanking the audience for being the best crowd ever (like he always does) and the next he was gone. Just like that.

A worried look spreads across my friend’s face – he knows Dylan, he knows what he’s like – he knows that finding him might not be that easy.

‘No worries, dude. I’ll have a look around, he’ll be here somewhere.’

Mikey doesn’t seem very comforted by my words, but that’s about as much reassurance as I can fake right now. I know that Dylan gets distracted by things (usually girls) and wanders off, and when he does he can be a nightmare to find. I won’t panic yet though, not until I’ve looked everywhere.

I flash my pass so that I can search all the different backstage areas, but Dylan is nowhere to be seen. Even more worryingly, no one but Claire can recall seeing him since he was on stage.

I run my hands through my long blonde hair and let out a sigh of exasperation, but then something catches my eye – a little door hidden behind a huge security bloke. That’s the door that goes out into the crowd. We drove straight into the backstage area, so there would be no need for Dylan to go through that door, in fact it would be quite stupid for Dylan to go through that door because he would be mobbed by adoring fans.

‘Excuse me, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Dylan King from The Burnouts since he came off stage, have you?’ I ask – it can’t hurt to ask, can it?

‘Are you kidding?’ he asks, his tough-guy expression melting into a huge grin. ‘He signed my abs!’

The big security guy pulls up his shirt and shows me his pen-marked stomach. The signature is all wiggly from where the pen has passed over the contours of his impressive eight-pack, but it’s definitely Dylan’s autograph.

‘Awesome, you can cover that back up now,’ I tell him, a little freaked out by all the muscle and the fact he wanted Dylan to put a pen to it. ‘So where did he go?’

‘Out there,’ he tells me, gesturing towards the little door behind him with his thumb.

‘Into the crowd?’ I ask, unable to hide my fear.

‘Yeah.’ He laughs manically. ‘I told him not to.’

So let me get this straight, a very drunk Dylan King has ventured out into the 50,000-strong crowd. The man can’t even go to Starbucks without getting mobbed, why would he think this was a good idea? What’s even more worrying is that, if we say half of the crowd are female, that’s 25,000 girls he could potentially… get distracted by.

Oh, Dylan, why do you make my job so difficult? This isn’t even my job, I’m a journalist. That’s the real reason I’m here today, to cover the event, not to hand-hold the elusive Mr King. Somehow I always end up doing both.

It’s 6 p.m. now. I’ll have a quick glance around the crowd for movement – any movement that looks like a rockstar being mobbed – and if I still haven’t found him… Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Chapter Two: Tat for tit

‘The fucker!’ Claire yells. ‘Fucker, fucker, fucker.’

‘I get it, he’s a fucker, but stating the obvious isn’t going to achieve anything.’

I may be used to Dylan’s bullshit, but Claire cannot tolerate it. I had to tell her though, I can’t be expected to find him all on my own. Oh, and she is paid to handle him, whereas I’m just his mug of a friend.

‘You know he’s supposed to be playing a show for the Magical Star Foundation tomorrow,’ Claire rants. ‘I thought the challenge was going to be getting him to sober up for a kids’ charity gig, not putting together a last-minute press release saying we found him dead 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.