by Lisa Swallow
Once Dylan has disappeared, I wind my robe around myself and prepare for an evening alone. Some nights, being able to lie in bed and watch old comedy shows on cable channels is all I want. I crave Dylan but without my own breathing space, I think things would be hard. I toy with the idea of writing or reading, but I’m sleepy after my hot bath. Curling up with a bag of crisps, I drag my laptop onto my knee and run through my emails.
Junk. Junk. Mum. Junk. Lily. I hover the mouse over. Since the third message from her, I don’t read them anymore and this is the sixth. They’re all the same, decrying my decision to stay with Dylan. I delete. Junk. Recruitment agency. I smile when I find one’s from Tara.
Today’s email almost stops my heart because the message isn’t from her. The email is from Tom, her boyfriend, informing me Tara’s been in a car accident and is badly injured. He doesn’t elaborate, but I freak out imagining all kinds of horrific scenarios. Within seconds, I’m on the phone to him, hysterically demanding answers. Tara, my best friend and the person playing the biggest part in my life since I was a kid, is in a coma in hospital. When Tom has little else to say, I know this is bad. Is he not saying anything because of how bad? Or because he’s in shock?
Dylan will be mid-performance so I can’t call him; instead, I immediately search flights. I need to get back to England as soon as possible. Hands shaking, I book a flight for tomorrow and attempt to calm myself. Please don’t let anything happen to her before I get home.
****
Dylan
I’m a selfish bastard still, losing that facet of my personality will take longer than I expected. Because as I sit in the VIP lounge at the airport with Sky, I’m pissed off she’s leaving me. The lounge is quiet, some older couples immaculately dressed sip champagne and a minor celebrity I vaguely recognise taps messages on her phone, looking out of place in her slouchy (although designer) travel clothes. The actress stares at me momentarily, I look back to Sky who’s slumped into the plush chair.
She’s distant, eyes vacant, and refusing to share the emotion that she’s bottling inside. For fuck’s sake, this is her best friend and I’m getting pissy about her visiting her in hospital? Sky isn’t leaving forever. But she’s my anchor to a new world, and when she leaves, I’m fully immersed in the Blue Phoenix world again.
I take Sky’s hand, rubbing the soft skin with my thumb. She’s cool beneath the air-conditioning, her face pale. I know Sky’s not herself because when I told her I’d upgraded her seat to first class she didn’t admonish me. Definitely not Sky. And here I am fighting with whining about her going.
“Have you heard anything else?” I ask softly.
Sky turns and looks at me as if she’s forgotten I’m there. “About Tara? I called but nothing’s changed.”
I don’t press her to say anymore; hoping my handholding, silent support is enough.
“Sorry, I can’t come with you,” I tell her.
“I never expected you to. You can’t ditch everything; I’d have your fans pursuing me across the globe if I stopped them having their night with Dylan Morgan.”
“A week,” I tell her. “Then I’m coming home.”
She smiles weakly. “Which one?”
“Whichever one you’re staying at.”
“Oh? I was going back to the flat. I’m still paying rent on the place.”
“Sky, no.” The idea of her staying in the flat I know she feels unsafe in horrifies me.
“She’s in hospital in Bristol! Where else would I go?”
The rising hysteria in her voice warns me to back off from interfering. “Okay.”
“But I wish you were,” she says quietly, “coming with me, I mean.”
I cup her face in both of my hands. “It’s killing me that I can’t. You need me, and I can’t be there; how shit does that make me feel when you’ve been here for me over the last few weeks.”
“A week and you’re done,” she says.
“Even tomorrow is too long to be apart from you.”
Realisation hits me that since the night of the breakin at her flat we’ve not spent a day apart, and I’m scared that if she leaves she might rejoin her old world again, like when she left me in Broadbeach. She pulls her phone out and checks for messages for the tenth time in as many minutes, and when the screen is blank, her mouth turns down at the corners. Gently tipping her head toward mine, I place my mouth on hers and Sky sighs, winding her hands around my neck and kissing me softly. Then I cocoon her in my arms, hating the small movement of her back as she cries.
If only I could take the pain from her, the way she takes away mine.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sky
One of the Blue Phoenix drivers meets me at Heathrow. After a motorway journey, which feels like forever, he drops me straight at the hospital. Getting to the car from the plane involved running the gauntlet of media asking if I’d split with Dylan. Too tired to deal with their crap, I wrapped a large, silk scarf around my head and pushed through. Now the image of my red-eyed, haunted look is shared, a big question mark over our relationship. And so, continues my twisted relationship with the press. To my relief, they don’t follow the car.
Tom meets me at the hospital where I stand helplessly by Tara’s bed, dazed by the sight of her. This isn’t Tara; this is a pale, shadow of a girl with her normally beautifully styled brown hair splayed on the pillow behind her. Machines and IV lines surround her and I try to figure out what they do. Keep her alive, I guess. Her head injury worries the doctors and she’s in an induced coma. I know they’re supposed to have ‘game’ faces, but I don’t read anything positive between the lines.
I don’t know Tom well; he’s a lawyer at the firm where she works. On the occasions I’ve met him in the past, he was smartly attired and oozing confidence. This man looks lost; exhaustion is etched into his face. Tara’s parents are there too, in shifts at her bedside, and although they don’t say or do anything, the situation makes me feel intrusive.
That evening, searching the blogs to see how Blue Phoenix’s gig went last night, I’m sickened to see a picture of me hugging Tom, comforting the poor guy whose girlfriend lies in the hospital bed in another room. Who the hell took the picture? And how low for them to take something like this out of context; they know who he is. But where’s the story in that when this supports the current rumours of me and Dylan splitting up and question marks over my return to England?
I’m making dinner (okay, microwaving a ready meal) when Dylan calls. I check the clock on the cooker and calculate he’s recently woken.
“Who’s the guy?” he asks. “Is that Grant?”
“No.” I’m irritated; he knows enough about the media to know how they twist things. His insecurity is worse than I thought. “That’s Tom. Tara’s boyfriend.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
“That’s pretty lousy of you, Dylan.”
“I just woke up and saw the picture; someone emailed it to me for a response. I’m not thinking straight.”
“Why the hell would I want to see Grant?”
“I don’t know, maybe because you all go back a long way. Lifelong friends from school supporting each other because one of you is… in hospital.”
“I’d hardly call Grant my friend,” I mutter.
“I’ll switch my brain on before I call next time.”
“Good idea.”
He pauses. “How is Tara?”
Tears sting my eyes. “Not great.”
There’s a long pause. Has he hung up? “I could come back; if you need me to.”
I suspect he’s the one who needs. “Don’t be silly, Dylan. A week. Then you’re back here and we sit down with Steve and the band and tell them your plans.”
“Shit hits the fan, you mean.”
“Yeah, I hope you have somewhere you can hide for a while.”
“There’s the island,” he says matter-of-factly.
I choke back a laugh. “Very funny.”
“No, we could.”
<
br /> “I’m not a big fan of the boat ride there. You’ll be there on your own.”
“Fuck, you’re funny. A guy offers you a holiday in tropical paradise and you turn your nose up.”
I stare at the dull English winter and consider how a tropical paradise is a better idea. But not right now.
“How are you, being back at the flat?”
I bite back telling him I don’t feel safe here, because I have visions of him charging back from the States to look after me. Following a couple of weeks on tour, and wrapped in cotton wool by security teams, I suddenly feel exposed. I haven’t told him about the emails from Lily either, and I hope her messages are a rant of disgust and not the start of something.
“I’m okay.”
“Liar.” He huffs. “I wish I was there for you.”
“Of course I wish you were here, Dylan, but it won’t be long.”
“I love you, summer Sky. I couldn’t sleep last night.”
I tense. “Promise me you won’t start taking anything. Not when you’ve left the medication alone.”
“Nope, I’ll just cover myself in your strawberry body wash and imagine I’m covered in you,” he says in a low tone.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
God, I want to be with this man. I woke up cold this morning, realising how used to having him around I was, and now he’s heating me up. The microwave beeps.
“I’ll talk to you later; Skype?” I ask him.
“Sure thing. Enjoy your curry and don’t drop it on the floor,” he teases.
“How do you know I’m having curry?”
“Because I know you.”
We end the call and I hold the phone to my chest, summoning images of Dylan into my mind to calm the anxiety over Tara.
Attempting to watch TV and eat, my mind remains full of images of Tara in the hospital bed so I open my laptop. Maybe if I wrote instead, immersed myself in a different world, I won’t have to worry about either.
I read a couple of emails, one from my older brother, asking if I’ll visit him as I’m in the States. I reply, telling him the news. We were all close, attended the same school, and teen parties and I hope Tara’s situation doesn’t hit him as hard as me.
As I scroll through my messages, my heart seizes. Lily Parker. Again. This one was sent half an hour ago. This one I decide to open.
If you’re back in England, I need to see you. What did he do to you?>
Unease prickles across my scalp. My original fear she was a crazed fan doesn’t seem far off the mark. I believe and trust Dylan now; I’m uncomfortable with his behaviour but nothing in the Dylan he is now threatens this trust. Why is she doing this?
I don’t reply.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sky
Grant comes to the hospital. I’m at the drinks machine, waiting for plastic cups of dishwater coloured coffee; coffee that doesn’t taste much better than said water, when I turn to see him approaching.
I half-expected this, but hoped his visit to Tara would be when I wasn’t there. Despite the fact, I loathe him, and what he did; seeing him stirs memories of stability and a safe past. Grant’s alone, wearing maroon jeans, a black t-shirt and a concerned expression as he approaches. I cross my arms and back off. He doesn’t get to touch me, not anymore.
“Surprised to see you here,” Grant says. “I thought you were on tour with your rock star.”
If I’m not mistaken, there’s a tone of jealousy in his voice. Some people break your heart and don’t want anyone else to mend it, as if you should always be broken without them.
“She’s my best friend,” I say flatly. “She’s always been there when I needed her.”
A look passes between us, and his scrutiny shifts to the floor. Yeah, like when you cheated on me.
“He didn’t come with you?”
I’m not talking to Grant about Dylan. The plastic cups burn my hand as I take them from the machine, and I concentrate hard on not spilling them. The desire to tip one over Grant’s head sneaks into the vengeful part of my mind. Maybe if they were cooler.
Grant stays in the waiting room with me and I flick through a celebrity magazine, resolutely ignoring him. Reading about the dissection of the lives of the rich and famous bothers me, and I nervously turn the page in case I appear. I don’t, but Jem’s there. He’s still hated by the British media and pictures of him all over a girl in a nightclub won’t help his cause. Idiot.
“Why are you still here?” I ask Grant as I place the third magazine I’ve read onto the seat next to me.
“In case you need me.”
His words astound me and I can barely find a comeback. “Need you? What the hell? Of course, I don’t bloody need you!”
“No one else is here for you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Yes, they are.”
“If you don’t want to be on your own, come back home.”
This time I choke on the coffee. “Home? Your house hasn’t been my home since June!”
“Sky, whatever is between us, this is a difficult time and you need support.”
“Not from you I don’t,” I snap. “Leave me alone.”
I feel nothing for this man apart from contempt. Even without Dylan in my life, the possibility of allowing Grant to re-enter ranks around zero.
“Are you staying? Or should I drop you back to your place then?” he asks.
“I can get home on my own, thanks.” I didn’t intend to leave yet but alone with this dickhead isn’t helping my stress levels. Standing, I head to the green double doors. He’s doing me a favour by making me go home and sleep.
Sleep is the furthest thing from my mind when I get home and pick up my mail. Having failed at getting a response from emailing, Lily has written me a letter. As soon as I open the envelope and see the letter is from her, I tear the paper in half and throw it in the bin. She’s not allowed into my mind either.
Dylan doesn’t call at his usual time; he’s flying across the States today so our time zones mismatch. I ache to hear his voice and have him remind me of the good in my life, something distant now.
Curling up on the sofa, with my evening ritual of a book and wine, I attempt to block out the nightmare. Can any other shit thing happen in a year? When I press the pedal on the bin to throw away an empty crisp bag, the torn envelope beckons.
What the hell, things can’t get any worse.
I lift the teabag from the top and gingerly open the soggy paper.
Sky
You still don’t know the truth. He doesn’t deserve you; he’ll wreck your life. Please talk to me again. I think it’s time I went to the police because he needs to be held accountable. Call me.
Lily
At the bottom of the page is a mobile number. Shit. The wine and crisps churn around my stomach, the fear threatening to push them out. Is it time to tell Dylan what’s happening? I screw the letter back up and throw the paper in the bin.
****
I don’t call Lily. Dealing with the Tara situation takes all my energy. I don’t tell Dylan either. Each time I talk to him, he sounds more despondent; this can wait until he comes home. I bet she expected me to pick the phone up and beg her not to do anything once I read her veiled threat about the police. Dylan’s innocent, she can’t touch him.
My naivety in this situation doesn’t prepare me for Lily’s next step. I’m at the hospital, in the gift shop looking at the meagre choice of chocolate. The grey-haired proprietor is unpacking new magazines and placing them onto the shelves next to me. Over her shoulder, a celebrity magazine catches my eye. Not because Dylan’s picture is on the cover, but because of the stunning headline.
Exclusive: Dylan Morgan Rape Scandal
I drop the chocolate, and when the elderly woman frowns at me, I realise I’ve just used a string of colourful words. Grabbing the magazine, I leave payment on the shop counter and dash out. Weaving around the slow moving visitors, and out of the stif
ling hospital, I find a wooden bench and sit.
The cold air hits my face, and I shiver in the February weather as I leaf through to the right page. The double-spread article is headed: Silence Broken: The Night Dylan Morgan Raped Me in huge letters. A picture of Lily on a bench under a tree barren of leaves sits in the centre of the article. Her back is to the camera so her identity is concealed. The world around lurches as I skim read the article. She’s not named, and a story similar to the one Dylan and Jem told me is outlined but Dylan’s role talked up. The explanation for her silence is fear, and her decision to come forward now is justice for others like her. I rub my head, unsure of my next move. One thing I can guarantee is the press will be looking for me.
The article ends with a oneline statement from the police that they have received her complaint and are currently ‘looking into the allegations’.
Without thinking about Tara in hospital, I shove the magazine into my bag and head for the bus, wishing I’d accepted Dylan’s offer to lend me a car. Sometimes independence and stubbornness are too close. Calling Dylan is pointless; I’m not waking him in the night with this news. I want to get home, retrieve Lily’s number and call her. What is she hoping to achieve? What happens next?
****
“Hello?” Lily’s voice is small and tired.
“It’s Sky,” I say icily.
“Oh. Now you decide to talk to me?”
The fucking nerve of the woman.
“Why are you doing this?” I shoot back.
“Because he deserves it.”
I inhale, torn between solidarity to a woman claiming a sex crime and my love and trust of Dylan. “What you’re accusing Dylan of isn’t true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“He told me what happened. How he used you and hurt you. But he didn’t rape you, why do this?”
“He did,” she whispers. “I have proof.”
“Proof? Or the hope they’ll believe you over him? Didn’t you say before that you didn’t want to take on the Blue Phoenix lawyers?”