If We Ever Meet Again. Portia MacIntosh

      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