by Lisa Swallow
Dylan appears in the doorway. The dark look he started the day with had lifted, but now it’s firmly back on his face. “Can I talk to you, Sky?” he asks in a low voice.
My heart races. “What’s happened?”
He inclines his head to indicate I should follow him, and I set down the vegetable peeler. I follow Dylan into the back of the house, where the blinds are pulled down in the conservatory to block out intruding eyes.
“Dylan?”
He slings his phone onto the table. “I’m really sorry. I thought you should know. I don’t want you to think I’m hiding this.”
“What?” I snatch it from the table. Every muscle in my body stiffens as I look at the image on screen.
A grainy picture of Dylan and me in Bali, taken on the beach. I’m in my wedding dress talking to Tara; in a second image, I’m kissing Dylan.
Our perfect moment shredded.
I grip the phone. “Bastards. Who the hell…?”
“Not somebody involved with the wedding or resort; otherwise, the pictures would be better quality.” He swipes his thumb across the screen. Dylan and me in the water at the beach. And my worst nightmare. I’d somehow avoided this moment in the time we’d travelled earlier this year.
A photo of me in a blue bikini.
I scowl. “Well, at least the shot isn’t close enough to give a run down on the size of my ass or all the imperfections a normal woman has.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your ass,” says Dylan with a small smile.
“I know there isn’t,” I retort. “But this is bullshit. Can someone find out who sold the pictures?”
“Probably.”
“Can we sue them?”
“What’s the point, Sky?”
I sink onto the cushioned wicker chair and grit my teeth. “Will this ever stop?”
“Probably not.”
“Wow, thanks. You could’ve sounded a little doubtful.”
Dylan sits next to me and takes my hand. “This is a big deal. I doubt they’ll watch our every move. I think the only time we’ll get this scrutiny again is if we have….”
A baby. His words delve into the box where I’ve locked away my grief and shake everything out. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Not today.”
Ed barges into the room holding two Xbox controllers. “Dylan, you said you’d play with me before dinner.”
“We’re a little busy, Ed, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I nudge him. “No. Play with him now.”
The intense blue eyes, which have an annoying habit of looking straight into my real thoughts, search mine as he touches my cheek. “I need to know you’re okay.”
“I am. Let me read this and see what they thought of my wedding dress.” I squeeze his hand. “Tara will be pissed off if they criticise it.”
Dylan sits back and laughs. “Who gives a shit?”
“Tara will!”
The boys head off to play their game, and I swallow my bravado back down. I sling Dylan’s phone onto the seat and apply the response that helps me the most in these situations: screw them all.
Our plans for a magazine interview to share what we wanted about the wedding? Not happening anymore. If the press don’t play nicely with me, I sure as hell won’t co-operate with them.
14
SKY
The Berkshire house echoes as Dylan closes the heavy door behind us, empty after Mum’s small house and unfamiliar after weeks away again. For the few days between the wedding and Christmas with Mum, we stayed in Wales for Liam’s wedding, then headed back to London for our last minute Christmas shopping. After the last nightmare days back in the public eye, the large property and security fences, which normally feel wrong, are a welcome sight.
Jan took her Christmas holiday too but has dropped by to switch on the heating and leave a welcome home note. I cautiously eye the stack of envelopes, remembering the last time we returned from overseas and our surprise note from Lily. There must be dozens of Christmas cards. Bright envelopes in reds and silvers, more than I’ve ever received before.
I pass by into the kitchen. If one is from Lily, I’ll freak out. We haven’t heard anything from her since her creepy communication in October, and my fear we had a stalker ebbed. Maybe Lily was looking for a reaction we refused to give her.
Lily is the past and can stay there.
I walk out of the kitchen with mugs of tea, and I have to bite my tongue at the scene in front of me. Dylan sits at the large table, opened cards and empty envelopes strewn in front of him.
“For somebody who hates Christmas, you seem overexcited by Christmas cards.” I place the mug next to Dylan and ruffle his hair.
“I wanted to go through them before you, in case….”
Dylan doesn’t need to say, of course he’s thought along the same lines as me.
He sets a gold and silver card on the table next to half a dozen more.
“My mail’s filtered these days anyway. That’s why there’re only cards. I’ve been sent weird shit in the past.”
I pull a chair out and sit. “And I don’t want to know.”
He grins and holds up an envelope. “I like that the cards are addressed to both of us.”
“Hmm.”
“Not all. There’s a thick one for you there.” He indicates a brown padded envelope and I eye it suspiciously.
“Where from?”
“Postmarked Bristol.”
I don’t recognise the black writing on the envelope. “Probably another old school friend trying to be ‘friendly’ again now I’m with you,” I say making inverted commas with my fingers. “Tara told me a couple of old school friends asked for our address.”
“It happens. Funny how suddenly you hear from ‘friends’ who wouldn’t give you the time of day because now it looks good to be connected to you.”
“I’m beginning to see.”
“Yeah.” He gestures at the table. “Uh? Where are the biscuits, Sky?”
“In the kitchen. You never said you wanted any.”
Dylan tuts. “I’ll get them myself, then.”
“Yep.” I sip my tea and look at him from over the mug.
“You fail at being a dutiful wife,” he says and pokes me. I make a choking noise and he laughs at me. “Chocolate?”
“Please.”
The mood lifted the moment we stepped through the door, away from what should’ve been a relaxing Christmas. We’ve invited Mum and the family to stay when Blue Phoenix finish the tour in March and agreed to a belated wedding celebration in the summer for everybody upset we didn’t invite them to the event.
Family and friends. Zero celebrities, apart from the band.
I tear open the padded envelope and pull out the contents: a small book decorated in purple and blue. I envy crafty people who make beautiful things. I never had the patience for the scrapbooking craze. Once, I attempted to create a book memento of a holiday, but one lost fight with a hot glue gun, and I gave up.
‘Dylan and Sky’ is stylishly embossed on the front, edged with glitter. I tug my eyebrows together in curiosity as I open the book.
A photo album.
The first picture is identical to the one Dylan showed me, leaked online yesterday. With shaking hands, I turn the pages. More photos taken in Bali, at a distance, but clearly Dylan and me.
I flick onto the next page. And another, desperate to see what’s next. The photos are a pictorial diary, moving backwards in chronological order. Each image is accompanied by a carefully written, precise, date and location.
Dylan with me at the airport, the day we flew out to Bali.
A shopping trip with Tara a week before we left.
Me, alone, in my car at traffic lights.
Holy fuck.
I flip through, perspiration breaking out across my back.
Our arrival at Heathrow in October after the holiday.
Dylan with me in New York, the day after the tour was cut short last year.
T
he bizarre timeline of our life heads further and further back. Me, leaving the hospital in Bristol after visiting sick Tara. Pictures of me alone at times I don’t remember, taken the summer I met Dylan.
One I do remember: a picture of me sitting inside the coffee shop where I met Lily.
Then come the photos without me in them.
Dylan on tour. Dylan with the band: in clubs, at celebrity functions. I swallow. Longhaired Dylan with girls. A lot of girls. I touch the images as I scrutinise them. How old is he here?
The album ends with a photograph of a much younger Dylan with Jem sitting on a large sofa. Bottles line the table in front and other people are in the background, party-style. The pair are a mess, drunk or stoned, probably both.
My heart beats out of rhythm as I look closer.
Lily is with them.
She’s on Dylan’s lap, holding a drink and smiling. I examine the background. I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but the photo looks like it was taken in this house.
Beneath the photo, a love heart and date: May 2010
Is this the night that triggered everything?
What the fuck? What happened to the “shy Lily who wasn’t interested story”’?
“No chocolate biscuits. Are these any good?” I drop the album onto the table as if it’s burning my hands and it falls open. “Oh cool, is this pictures from your school days or something?”
“No,” I rasp.
“Sky?” Dylan hands me the biscuits, then reaches for the album. He flicks through the way I did, expression shifting from shock to anger until his face pales to the shade I’m damn sure mine is too. “What the fuck? How long has she been doing this?”
He catches a page and prepares tear it from the book. I snatch it off him. “Don’t! That’s evidence.”
He tries to take it back, and I hold it to my chest. “Evidence of what? That I’ve had a psycho following me around for the last three years?”
“Yes! She followed us to bloody Bali? How? How did she manage to?”
“I presume she flew, Sky.”
“Don’t be snarky with me!” I shake, unable to believe I’ve been under surveillance by a girl whose activities put the best paparazzi to shame.
“I don’t fucking believe this.” He manages to wrench the book from me and leafs through again. Dylan’s hand shakes too, anger shadowing his face the way our world suddenly darkened. “Some of this is from before I met you.”
“The last picture is a particularly nice one,” I say and attempt to hide the pain in my voice.
Dylan stares at the image without speaking and grips the book. “Why would she send this now?” he asks eventually.
“It’s obvious. You marrying me has flipped something.”
“Sane people don’t do this.”
Lily met me. Twice. There wasn’t anything dangerous about her, just a sad, strange girl. But the time I met her at Tara’s hospital, there were hints she still thought she held a connection to Dylan.
I tuck my hands beneath my arms, and the tea cools in mugs on the table in front of us. Dylan doesn’t look at me and attempts to rip the page again.
“Dylan!” I pull it from him, and he wipes both hands down his face.
“You shouldn’t see those pictures, Sky. Not the ones from before I knew you.”
“I said they’re evidence.” I clutch the disgusting album to my chest. “Call somebody. Anybody. Now.”
“Like who?”
“What if she’s out there?” I ask, voice rising. “Watching us.”
“She can’t be, Sky. Look, there’re no pictures of this house in here. The London place, but—”
“Apart from the last one,” I say through gritted teeth.
Dylan shakes his head. “No, Sky, don’t go there.”
“I’m won’t let this upset me, because that’s what she wants.” I breathe heavily, fighting the dizzy shock of the situation. But she has. And I thought Christmas Day was bad… “Are you going to call somebody or not?” I half yell.
“Sky, calm down.”
Bad idea. Really bloody bad idea. Those words are not sensible ones in this situation. I throw the book across the room, and it bounces off the wall, landing open at a picture of us kissing in New York.
“Do something!” I shout at him. Dylan’s eyes widen at the strength of my reaction, and he steps forward. Before he can touch me or reply, I rush from the room.
I will not cry. I will not let her win.
15
DYLAN
I file a complaint with the police.
Nothing happens.
Apparently sending a picture album of my life over the last three years isn’t an arrestable offence. The fact this girl accused me of rape earlier this year doesn’t help my cause.
Sky asked to be alone after she lost her shit and walked around the estate. I watched her from the window, her figure hunched against the winter cold, and anger gripped deep in the pit of my stomach. When Sky returned she’d closed down and returned to her ‘do I give a crap?’ attitude. The longer I know Sky, the harder this is for her to hide from me. She’s an expert at protecting her emotions behind sarcasm and humour, but that doesn’t work with me anymore.
The powerlessness pisses me off. I don’t cope if something interferes with my need to protect Sky from everything the world throws at us, and there’s little I can do right now. I arrange for all mail to be redirected to the PR offices. A lot already was, we’ve intercepted a few ‘Sky c/o Blue Phoenix’ to avoid weird things reaching her, but something was likely to slip through the net eventually.
I step up security on the property and short of an armed guard patrolling the perimeter, which I half consider, there’s little else we can do. Lily hasn’t threatened us. We refuse to have our life dictated by fear, and Sky insists we live as normal and write this off the way we did the strange card she sent following our return from Europe.
I’ve dealt with crazy fans a lot over the last few years, including the occasional obsessed girl and more marriage proposals than I can count, but I don’t understand Lily’s game. First she attempts to have me arrested, and then this “gift.”
Blue Phoenix is due to leave for Europe at the end of January, and Sky isn’t keen on joining me for every date. This worries me. I don’t want to her left alone. I understand why and I’m hoping if Lily continues her stalking, she’ll target me because I’ll be easier to locate. Tour security will deal with her if she does. I half want her to find me. One threat against either of us and I’ll hit Lily with a restraining order, which won’t let her in the same bloody country.
In the weeks leading up to the tour, the band are hauled back to London to rehearse. The last time we played together was nine months ago, but we slip into our natural rhythm with each other as always. There’s a weird vibe though. The normally laid-back Bryn is currently the edgiest, and Jem’s behaving like a normal person again. Well, seminormal. Jem smiles which hasn’t happened much in recent months, or years.
He’s back with Ruby, and as Ruby Riot rehearse nearby, they’re often huddled together in our breaks. The happiness I promised he’d find, that he denied he ever would, radiates from the couple, and I hold hope for him. Liam’s well… he’s Liam, never one for drama unless it seeks him out. Lucky bastard has managed to take himself, Cerys, and her kid out of the public eye and play happy families.
Bryn. No idea what the fuck is going on with him, but he’s a moody bastard. I catch up with Bryn at the end of the day when he remains in the rehearsal studio taking out whatever frustrating shit is happening in his life on his drums. I hang while Bryn finishes his assault on my ears until he notices me.
“You okay, man?” I ask.
Perspiration glistens on his forehead, T-shirt soaked across his chest and back from his exertion. He drops the drumsticks and pushes his damp curls from his face with both hands. “Yeah.”
“Uh huh.” I pass him a bottle of water, which he slugs.
Bryn finishes and dum
ps the bottle on the floor next to him. “Just out of practice. Wanna sound good, yeah?”
The look passes. The one warning me not to push the issue, warning me to shut up.
I sit on the plastic chair nearby and grasp at a topic change. “Bloody Jax was hanging round before, asking a million questions. Again.”
“He’s excited. Don’t you remember your first big tour?”
“I guess. But he’s intense. At least the twins aren’t as full on. I can’t stand him in my face all the time.”
Bryn laughs. “They’re too busy living the dream, Dylan.”
“You been out with them?”
“A few times. No point asking you boring bastards, not like you can bring your girls, and Jem… yeah.”
“Been enjoying yourself living the dream too?” I tease. “Who’s the chick I saw you with?”
“Which one?”
“Which one? You have a selection?” I point at his boots. “Saw you ice-skating. Dude, what’s with that? New place to pick up girls? I’ll give you points for originality.”
“Nah, me and Avery went together.”
“Like on a date.” I pinch his cheek. “Aww, you big old romantic.”
“Not exactly. We just hang out sometimes.” He swats my hand away.
“Hang out? Friends with benefits? You’re funny. It’s about time.”
“About time what? I settled down? Fell into a serious relationship like you guys?” he snaps.
“Whoa, okay, Bryn. I didn’t say that.”
He grabs his drumsticks again and starts tapping a low rhythm. “Really, man. Don’t wanna talk about this shit.”
Liam appears in the doorway, red curls free of the ponytail he normally wears it in, holding up his phone. “Think I’m gonna have a party at my place.”
Bryn snorts. “Dinner party at Liam’s. How refined.”
He throws a guitar pick with a perfect shot as it bounces off Bryn’s forehead. “You don’t need to come.”
“Good. The Riot boys heading out?” Liam nods, and Bryn drops the sticks to grab his jacket. “Cool. Guess I’ll see you later.”
“Have fun!” I call after him.
“I intend to.”
I scratch my head as he walks out. “What’s with him? Doesn’t he want to tour again?” Liam shrugs at me. I’m pissed off because I wanted to chat to Bryn about the Lily issue for his understanding and wisdom. No way can I mention this to Jem and drag shit up, and Liam will play things down. He always does.
