by Lisa Swallow
He groans and I turn to look at him. He’s bleary-eyed; his expression confused. “That’s still the night before.”
“For some of us.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, placing a hand on my arm.
“A little better. Thanks for listening.”
Dylan cups my chin. ”I meant what I said, Sky. Whatever happens between us, I’ll always be here for you. However far you fall, I’ll catch you.”
I nod because I don’t want to respond and trigger my tears again.
“You look exhausted, maybe go to bed?” he suggests, smoothing my tangled hair.
“I don’t think I could sleep, my mind is already planning the day. You get some rest.”
“That’s the best sleep I’ve had in months,” he says quietly.
“On the sofa?”
“I’m not sleeping well; I guess I’ve found the answer to my insomnia.”
I pull my brows together and he leans toward me, placing his lips on mine in a gentle kiss before drawing back again. “You in my arms.”
The stupid, annoying tears return and Dylan holds my face, wiping them with his thumb. “You’ve cried enough without me bringing more.”
I want to tell him how many times I’ve cried over the loss of my Dylan from the sea, the one replaced by the rapist who walked away rather than explain. I want to share the way my chest hurt, as if my heart was ripped from me and taken with him when he left, and how an emptiness I’d never noticed before had consumed the void where my heart had been.
“I’m going to get changed,” I say, aware from his gaze he’s about to kiss me.
Dylan drops his hand and kisses my forehead. “When you’re done, tell me how I can help.”
****
I shower in a bathroom as big as my entire flat. The marble bath set into the centre of the mosaic floor tempts me but I don’t want Dylan to come looking for me. Once I’m dressed, I’m refreshed physically but mentally exhausted. I’m not sure I can face the day yet, as if letting go of the last few months has taken all my energy. I walk back to the area I left Dylan and he’s on the phone. As I approach, he smiles and holds a hand up the way people do when they’re on the phone and don’t want interrupting.
“Okay. Thanks. Yeah, I’ll talk to Sky about this first.”
I sit opposite him, distracted as always by his presence; sucked into him. He cancels the call and smiles at me.
“You look brighter.”
“Liar, but thanks.”
“Did you want to go back to your flat? Or stay away?”
“Did Steve manage to get the place locked up? Are the rest of my things are safe?”
“Yeah. Someone’s dropping a new key round later; did you want to go back?”
My stomach turns over at the loneliness the trashed place represents and how hiding in Dylan’s high security world appeals to my need for safety. “Is it okay for me to sleep here for another night or two…”
Dylan laughs. “Sure, this place is a bit bigger than the last one we were forced to share.”
“Just a bit.”
“Besides, I’m not letting you spend Christmas on your own.”
“I keep forgetting it’s almost Christmas.”
“Weird day yesterday.”
“Weird few months.” He bites his lip and looks away, so I hastily add, “Did you have Christmas plans? I’ll get out of here before then. I don’t want to be in the way.”
Dylan flips his phone over in his hands. “I hate Christmas. I’m a total Scrooge. Or have been since I was about twelve. Besides, I don’t have any family to visit and Christmas is for families, right?”
No family, at twenty-four he should have family around. I doubt this is something he wants to talk about from his distant expression.
“And kids and you’re a big kid.”
Dylan pouts and I fight back a smile. “True. But Christmas still sucks.”
I survey the room; the huge Christmas tree in one corner, small gifts underneath, tastefully decorated. “Why do you have a tree then?”
“Myf. She wanted me to have Christmas with her and Miles, but I’m not interested.”
“Have a non-Christmas.”
“Christmas is just another day to me, but I think it means more to you?” asks Dylan.
“I think the Christmas thing is the reinforcement of how everything is different now. How life has changed this year.”
Dylan studies me and we both know I’m referring to Grant too. “You know what happens after Christmas?”
“Stomach-aches and crash diets?”
“Funny, Sky. I missed your humour. No, New Year. 2014 will be a new year for you. For… me.”
He corrects himself sharply and I realise he was going to say us.
“We’ve both got a lot we need to face,” I tell him.
He reaches across and curls his fingers around my hand. “One day at a time? How about we start today and do something together?”
I start at his touch, relishing the warmth of his protective hand around mine. “We can’t look for shells on the beach or go to tacky tourist shops so what do we do?”
“A proper date?” he suggests, watching me warily. “But somewhere a bit nicer than a fish and chip shop.”
A chance to reconnect and see how we go; where we go from here.
“Where?”
“I know a nice restaurant or two?” he suggests.
“Define ‘nice’.” I picture expensive and exclusive and definitely not me.
“Somewhere a little more exclusive than normal places and where we can relax and not worry about press. Well, once we’re inside anyway.” He wrinkles his nose.
“I didn’t bring anything suitable for that!”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“You remember in the summer before…” He pauses. “We’d arranged that I’d take you out and the date got cancelled because I had to go to Belgium.”
“I’m not going to forget,” I say quietly.
“Well, I kind of bought you something to wear…” My insistence that Dylan doesn’t spend money on me is responsible for the cautious look on his face.
“Kind of?”
He huffs. “I know you didn’t like me buying you stuff, but I wanted you to feel as beautiful as I think you are.”
I stiffen, my fears about Dylan trying to change me into his world’s image of women push in. “You didn’t think my clothes were good enough?”
“Sky, no. I asked Myf to help - she likes nice clothes but doesn’t dress like the people in my so-called world. I wanted you to feel special; that’s all. Can you take this as the gesture it was meant to be? You could always call this a Christmas present?”
A little fantasy might brighten my screwed up world - dressing up and going to an expensive restaurant with rock god Dylan Morgan. I half-smile to myself. “Okay, but if the dress is leopard print you’ll get a big fat no.”
Dylan laughs and leans toward me. “Definitely not. But I hope you like pink?” As I open my mouth to protest, I stop when I notice Dylan’s bitten back smile. “Sky, the dress is blue to match your eyes and your name.”
Chapter Ten
Sky
The restaurants I normally go to don’t have security on the door, or photographers hanging outside chatting to them as if they’re long-term work colleagues. These men are good looking, designer suited with earpieces and not the roughed-up bouncers from nightclubs back home, but they’re still security and there’s a reason for them to be there. From the outside¸ the place is understated, ‘The Cauldron’ is written in small green letters beneath a covered entrance where the photographers lurk. The bouncers stand at a heavy, open black door and the windows are obscured by blinds making it difficult to see (or photograph) the diners. To me, the place doesn’t look much different from the ordinary Italian place I went to in Bristol. This restaurant doesn’t contain ordinary people, and I doubt any ever come here. Nobody looks twice at Dylan and me as we walk through the
dining area, apart from a couple of curious glances from the waitresses. I grip Dylan’s hand and he strokes his thumb across mine, a gentle reminder he understands my discomfort.
The stone-topped tables are arranged far enough apart for discrete conversation, although I notice some are closer than others are. The section of the restaurant we’re seated in is partially screened by a huge aquarium filled with brightly coloured blue and yellow fish, and I suspect our table for two is one of the most sought after for privacy. Dylan orders expensive champagne before the waitress has a chance to leave and I pull a face at him.
“Stop being flashy.”
“Don’t you like champagne?”
“Yes, but… ”
“Then let me date you the way I want.” He attempts a stern tone, but there’s a hint of a smile at his lips.
I kick him under the table. “You’re lucky I agreed to come.”
“You look beautiful,” he says and leans over the table to kiss my nose.
“You’ve told me approximately twenty times since we left your place.”
His eyes zone in on my breasts, and I flick him a look. The dress is elegantly perfect for the location. The knee-length dress made of a satin fabric hugs the curves Dylan loves, a flattering shape and dark blue colour. I hate to admit I’d have picked this myself and I do feel happier to be dressed like this in the environment I’m in. The neckline is scooped a little lower than I’d have chosen though.
“Just saying,” he says.
Dylan’s tattoos are covered with a blue shirt tonight, the top two unbuttoned and a hint of colour contrasts nicely at the top of his chest. Nicely? Am I starting to like tattoos? My mind wanders off on its own course, remembering other parts of Dylan’s tattooed body and realising I now associate ink with mind-blowing sex. I breathe out heavily and he gives me a curious look.
A woman at the nearby table watches us, no longer paying attention to the man she’s with. He’s older with salt and pepper hair, designer suited and impeccably groomed. She’s my age and is perfectly made up - face, hair, and clothes. I managed the dress part; my hair and make-up are not up to her standards. My girlish fantasy of wearing designer dresses and stalking around with a hot as hell, famous guy allows me to return her scrutiny with a smug smile.
I study the menu. “This is English but this reads like a foreign language? I don’t understand any of these words.”
“They’re just trying to make the restaurant sound as exclusive as the prices.”
I attempt to decipher the words and I’m unable to figure out what any item contains. “Whatever you say, I’d rather eat fish and chips on the beach. Or a bacon sandwich.”
Dylan looks at my mouth and moistens his lips. “Me too. Maybe next time.”
The champagne arrives and the waiter pours two glasses. Getting pissed off with the scrutiny of the woman opposite, I fix her with a ‘what?’ look as I drink. Maybe I should sip. But I don’t sip. I set the glass back down and Dylan reaches across to place his hand over mine.
“I heard Kelly and Declan are coming later, they’re over from the States and currently more interesting than me - the paparazzi should have a different focus.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of them which means they must be more famous than you,” I say and Dylan pokes his tongue out. Well, they are Hollywood A-Listers and I know more movies than music.
Dylan pours me another glass. Crap, did I drink the whole thing already? “They’re small glasses.”
Laughing, Dylan empties his glass and refills his too. “I’ll keep up.”
I don’t want Dylan to drink, but I don’t say anything. The fact he is drinking indicates he’s as nervous as I am. I agreed to the date; to starting again but everything is fragile.
The appetisers appear; salmon and asparagus with a weird looking bread that seems stale to me, in the middle of huge square white plates.
“No wonder famous people are skinny!” I say a little too loudly and the woman at the next table who’s interested in Dylan looks over.
Despite our attempts to avoid Christmas, subtle decorations adorn the walls as a reminder and there’s a meal on the menu that possibly reads as Christmas fare. It’s difficult to tell.
“Why do you hate Christmas so much, Dylan?” I ask.
He focuses on his food. “My dad left when I was eleven, and my mum died four years ago and both things happened at Christmas.”
“I’m sorry about your mum.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. He curls his fingers around mine and rubs them with his thumb. “Do you have any other family back in St Davids?”
“Not really. I don’t have a brother or sister, and just my gran is left. I haven’t seen her for a few years either, not since Mum’s funeral.”
“You don’t go back to St Davids and see her?”
He chews on his bottom lip. “I don’t go back there anymore. Too many memories.”
This is the first time we’ve spoken about anything outside of the intensity of us, and the crazy events around our relationship. More than just the real world was missing from our bubble; our past was too. Dylan mentioned this past with the shells on the first morning we were together, and that was the point I first saw a connection to him. His sadness that morning is apparent now too.
“What are your plans, Sky?” he asks, stabbing a solitary piece of asparagus.
“Plans for when?”
“The next week, months, years. Your future.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m interested. In case I can be part of that.”
I shrug and poke at the food. What are my plans? In the days after the breakup, I went back in my mind to remember what I planned to do as a kid. Temporary admin job wasn’t on the list. Ballerina is out and I don’t want to be a teacher anymore. The fantasist inside would like to write, but I doubt I’d be much good.
“I might study.”
“To do what?”
“Marine biologist.”
“Really?”
“No! I haven’t a clue, Dylan.”
The waiter interrupts to ask if we’re enjoying our food then stalks off after I make a comment about portion size.
“I haven’t any idea either,” says Dylan.
“You’re a musician. That’s what you do.”
“Yeah, can’t imagine doing anything different but I can’t stay around the band. I’m leaving after the tour.”
Now I am shocked. “Not easy after all this time?”
“I’ll still write. Might do something solo. Get a new manager.”
“That’s a lot all at once.”
“Hmm. Maybe. Fallout will be a huge bunch of fun. Dylan Morgan, wrecking Blue Phoenix.”
“I think Jem might have that one covered. I take it he’s not sober yet?”
“No, and the company he keeps doesn’t help.”
“Who?”
“His girlfriend’s hangers-on. She’s okay, apart from sharing his addictions, but others around them are sucking the life and money out of him.”
“Wow, I almost feel sorry for him.”
Dylan’s look shifts to the table and he picks at the expensive napkin on his lap. “He fell apart before but came back. Fans had sympathy for him because of the ruined rock star sorting his shit out to return to his role. If I decided to up and leave, that would be selfish as far as they’re concerned.”
“You’re not coping either, only they can’t see you’re on self-destruct.”
Dylan’s hand grips his glass and he doesn’t look at me. “I’m not that bad.”
“You’re worse.”
He drains his glass. “Let’s just enjoy the date and forget about the shit around us.”
“When are you going to tell Steve?” I ask.
My champagne has miraculously emptied again and Dylan tops my glass up. “I’m not.”
“Dylan, you can’t just run again.”
“Why not?”
“Because things are worse when you don’t face up to the
m. Be straight with him.”
The uncertainty in his posture following the mention of Jem intensifies, shoulders drooping. There’s the answer.
“Dylan, why do you let Steve make you like this?”
“Dunno. Habit maybe. Plus, he dragged me out of the shit I buried myself in a few times. I owe him.”
“You owe him? Why? I bet he has a nice bank balance from his life with Blue Phoenix.”
“Not that kind of owe.”
“Lily?” He winces. “I know that, but don’t feel obliged to people who aren’t any good for you.”
“Which is why I can finally breathe when I’m around my beautiful summer Sky.”
Ah, a Dylan subject change. “The song you sent?”
“About you? Obviously. Every word.”
My heart squeezes at the thought someone would do this, someone struggling with his life and music, pouring part of his creativity into something about me.
“Are you going to cry?” He hastily puts down his fork and encloses his large hand over mine. “I don’t have to record the song and release it if you don’t want me to.”
I laugh. “No, I’m not upset with you! I’m touched.”
He relaxes back into his chair. “Oh. I thought you were about to get pissed off with me for dragging you into the spotlight again.”
“I think I’m going to have to accept that as part of you. Now I just have to figure out how to cope.”
The talk for the rest of the meal (if you could call the food scraps a meal, and not a light snack) returns to banter and away from serious life topics. We’re finishing our wine when a commotion begins at the front of the restaurant. I peer through the aquarium and the colourful fish; a distorted view of cameras flashing outside, fill the street with strobe-like lighting. Dylan grabs my hand.
“This is what I’m waiting for, come on!”
Dazed by the change in pace, I grab my bag as he pulls me toward the door. The photographers who have permanent residence outside have cameras trained on a limo a few metres up the street. We duck out of the door, unnoticed amongst their clamour to get photos of Kelly and Declan. The busy street is filled with people and Dylan keeps a firm grip on my hand, half-pulling me along.
“I can’t run in heels!” I say, slowing so I don’t twist my ankle.