by Lisa Swallow
Through the Parisian streets, across our hotel lobby, and in the elevator we joke and kiss and remind each other of the “us” whose love can protect us from the world. Yes, the news hurts, but I won’t let this spoil tonight. I tell Dylan he needs to speak to Jem, and I get a monosyllabic response.
Back in the room, we tumble onto the king-sized bed in the centre of the suite and order pizza and wine. Then, cross-legged on the bed, we share memories from our holiday last year and talk about nothing but us as we eat and drink.
I grab the last pizza slice from the box before Dylan can, and hop off the bed before he can snatch it back. Standing in the floor to ceiling window, overlooking the Paris skyline, my heart swells as I look back at the extraordinary man sitting barefoot on the bed who’s happy with me and the ordinary. “If you really love me, you’ll let me eat the last slice.” I take a bite.
“Yeah?” he asks. I take another bite and smile at him. “I guess I really love you, then.” Dylan stands and drags me to him, then sinks backwards onto the bed. The pizza lands face down on the expensive sheets. “Always be you,” he says, holding my hair from my face. “Never change.”
I place my forehead against his as he grips me to him so I don’t fall. “I won’t, and never try to change me.”
He laughs and wipes sauce from the edge of my mouth with his thumb. “As if I have a chance, summer Sky. I learned that lesson months ago.”
I press my mouth against his and Dylan wraps his arms around, holding me tighter the way he anchors me to the world. Our lips’ gentle touch disappears as we lose ourselves in each other, kiss and seal ourselves back into the bubble we hide in. The reality outside can tear into us but will never pull us apart. Part of Dylan is part of me, and always was. I’m lucky; I found what my heart and soul were missing. Him.
17
APRIL
SKY
Tour over, and life settles for the first time. Blue Phoenix no longer hovers over Dylan’s head. The need to finish the tour was on Dylan’s mind the whole time we spent travelling over summer. Now the dark shadow cast by commitments he wanted to escape lift.
Dylan can’t leave his music though. I doubt he ever could. Writing and performing music are as much a part of him as breathing, which sounds like a bad cliché but isn’t. Dylan becomes irritable if he doesn’t pick up his guitar for a few days, and often disappears into his studio-cave for hours. This isn’t enough for him, and we move to London where Dylan continues to spend time around studios and the record company.
I’m not a London fan, but there’re advantages. Liam and Cerys moved into Liam’s St John’s Wood home with Ella, who now attends an expensive and exclusive school nearby. I spend time with Cerys. We share the take no bullshit approach to our husbands’ fame.
Over the last few months, Cerys has redecorated their house, refusing to employ an interior designer, and between us, we spend days wandering exclusive stores selecting colours and furniture. This encourages me to do the same. Dylan’s—our—apartment. The neutral tones decorating Dylan’s apartment haven’t changed since he bought the place. The place never felt lived in, a London base he spent little time in when in the city to record or rehearse. The choice of colour, or lack of, reflects his own at the time he moved in.
Some rooms look as if Dylan ordered furniture and left it in the corner the delivery guys placed it, untouched. He probably did. Not to mention the fact he hardly had anything in the kitchen apart from the minimum: a couple of pans, a few plates, and cutlery. Dylan was right about his cooking skills he showed in Broadbeach. Years living on takeaway food, I’m surprised he’s not twice the size.
Dylan’s interest in decorating the place ranks around zero still, which annoys me because I’m keen to make the place ours. Dylan’s creative energy is currently channelled into his still-secret project with Jack Kennedy and has no time for browsing shops for cushions. Dylan also continues to hide his project, and we’ve argued he shouldn’t. He needs to be honest with people otherwise they’ll read too much into his plans, and he promises as soon as any firm studio dates are confirmed, he’ll speak to the band and Steve. News travels fast, as we bloody know, so he’d better discuss things soon.
So with Dylan’s permanent daily fixture in the apartment studio, I pull Cerys in to help out. I’m not looking for show home perfection, just to fill the place with colour and wipe out the mute starkness in the apartment.
Today we head to Camden, where Cerys shows me around her favourite furnishings store. Imported rugs and furniture crowd the shop, and I’m attracted to Balinese figures. In my mind’s eye, I picture them in the bedroom, matching the printed throws we bought over there.
The inevitable photo is taken, and Cerys and me exchange despairing looks.
“Great, I’m sure after the size of the lunch we just had my belly will spark pregnancy rumours,” I mutter and rub my stomach.
God forbid I have a large meal and wear something tight. As I’m a normal-sized woman and not a stick, it’s easier for the press to invent baby bumps.
Cerys grabs my hand. “Don’t do that or they will!”
I turn to the not very subtle woman taking shots of us on her phone and pull a face. Lowering the phone, she scurries away, behind a rack stacked with thick towels.
“Don’t think she’s press,” I say. “So bloody annoying.”
Cerys glances after her. “It’s the fact Liam can’t be seen talking to another woman without rumours we’ve split that pisses me off most.”
“Do the articles they concoct bother you?” I ask.
“Do they bother you when Dylan’s linked to other women?”
I laugh. “Not at all. No way I’d marry somebody I can’t trust. At least there’s less crap thrown our way now thanks to other more interesting celebrities.”
“Gotta love the Kardashians.” Cerys says quietly.
“And reality TV ‘stars.’” I make inverted commas with my fingers.
“Ha!” Cerys nudges me. “Shush!”
I pick through some cushions and wander around the store staring at abstract paintings. Okay, this is overwhelming and expensive. I should’ve just visited Ikea. “How did the interview go?”
The face Cerys pulls as she examines an array of candleholders says everything. “Ugh. I swear they spent more time taking pictures than talking to me or Liam. If you could count Liam’s grunting as talking.”
“Not a fan of interviews, is he?”
“No, and he left it all to me, turned up an hour late. Deliberately. Luckily, Ella enjoyed herself and did enough talking for the three of us.”
“I’ll make sure I buy a copy.”
“Six page spread.”
“Six? Jesus. How long were they with you?”
Cerys’s face shadows at the memory, as if I’m forcing her to relive a traumatic experience. “Oh, we’re talking make-up artists, setting up lighting for photos, the whole deal. Nobody warned me about that part, and I’m never bloody doing it again!”
“Crap,” I mutter.
“What?”
“We’re doing the same thing. You seemed enthusiastic about yours, and we thought if Dylan and me showed them something truthful to publish, the scrutiny might stop for a while. Like, if they see what the inside of our apartment looks like, people might leave us alone for a while.”
“Omigod! Don’t. Seriously. Back off.”
My mouth dries. Cerys doesn’t become flustered easily, and her experience isn’t encouraging. I told Dylan not to worry. The interview would be quick and a few pictures. Nobody from the magazine spoke specifics at the time, and I’m beginning to see why.
Dylan lies the full length of the lounge sofa, legs crossed at the ankles on one chair arm, his head resting on the other.
“Tell me again why you agreed to this?” he mutters.
I glance over at where the female journalist stands with the photographer, who is scrolling through photos on his laptop. They talk in low voices. The slender woman with her s
leek black hair glances over with a small smile, then back to the laptop. From the moment she stepped through the door, the woman flirted with my husband.
“I thought an interview would help.”
“Help with what?”
“Allowing the public see who we are and satisfy their weird desire to know everything they can about us.”
I wrinkle my nose, the make-up heavy on my face. When I agreed to a “Dylan and Sky at home” interview, my naivety took over. How the hell was I supposed to know this involved a full on photoshoot and an attempt at invading every corner of mine and Dylan’s London apartment? Once Cerys told me the real deal, I almost cancelled, but Tina recommended we go ahead.
“Huh.” Dylan props his hands beneath his head, his T-shirt riding up revealing his tattoos. A light flashes as the photographer catches his unintentionally sexy pose, and the scowl photographed next helps with the brooding Dylan persona the press like to talk up.
“Dylan, sweetheart!” The saccharin sweet Jenna flicks hair over her shoulder. “I hope you’ll smile in some of the pictures.”
Her response is a false smile from Dylan.
“We want to see the blissful newlyweds!” she continues.
“I thought this was about the apartment?” he asks. “And all the fancy shit Sky’s filled it with.”
I cross my arms. “I have not filled it with fancy shit, as you so delicately put it.” I look to Jenna. “The place looked completely impersonal. I added colour.”
Dylan throws a new cushion at my head. “Like I said, fancy shit. And you put my awards on the wall, Sky. How bloody pretentious do I look?” He sits and gestures towards the hallway, where framed gold and platinum records line the wall.
“You should be proud about what you’ve achieved. I’m proud.” I cross to sit on his lap and wrap my arms around his neck, kissing his forehead. The camera flashes again, and I blink at the light blinding me. Dylan’s right, this was stupid idea.
“Love the natural Sky and Dylan! You really are beautiful together.” Jenna claps her hands. “Okay, so we’ve checked out the kitchen, taken some shots in here. Amazing view by the way.” She waves a hand at the panoramic window through the floor to ceiling windows in our lounge room. “Where next? Bedroom?”
“No fucking way,” mutters Dylan.
“Something to hide?” Jenna giggles. “Which Blue Phoenix member tried to get me into his bed a few years back? Was it you? Or Jem? I have problems recalling.”
Rhetorical question judging by her coy smile. Dylan’s face switches to an angry frown. “Listen. Sky agreed to this charade, not me. I’m only taking part because she wants me to. You write anything about my past in this article, and I’ll sue you.”
“Okay. Calm down, it was a joke.” Jenna shakes her head and taps onto her iPad instead.
I inhale. Stupid cow. If she wanted an open and friendly interview with the pair of us, implying her and Dylan have a dubious history isn’t a good move.
“Dylan’s studio next.” I stand. “I’m sure he’s happy to take you in there. Aren’t you, Dylan?”
“I guess,” he mutters.
“Then I’ll show you the bathroom,” I say to Jenna.
“Bathroom?” Dylan frowns, still lying on the sofa. “Why the hell would people want to see our bathroom?”
“You have no idea how excited people get about bathrooms!” enthuses Jenna.
“You’re joking?” Her face remains impassive. “Huh. Okay.” Dylan inclines his head. “Sure, let me show you the studio.”
“Dylan’s sanctuary! How wonderful.”
Oh good god. Dylan jumps to his feet and strides to the doorway. He throws a look over his shoulder, and I mouth sorry. He mouths back you will be.
They head to the opposite end of the apartment, and I drop the tension in my shoulders. This has to be over soon. Three hours is an exhausting joke.
My paranoid self checked every room before Jenna and the bored photographer attached to her arrived. I walk into the bathroom where the cleaner spent twice as long here yesterday, ensuring the apartment was prepared for the scrutiny. The huge spa bath is in the middle of the vast room with carefully coordinated grey and black towels folded and placed over the side for a colour-ordinated show.
All our usual toiletries and toothbrushes are cleared from the marble vanity and stuffed into a cupboard below. The kitchen surfaces were also cleared of the piles of magazines and letters taking over half the space.
We’re not showing them our life at all. The public will see the life they imagine we have. Despite requests, I refused to dress up for this and wore one of my simple high-street brand summer dresses. Pale blue, knee length, nondescript. No designer label namedropping for me.
I splash my face with water, and as I run damp hands over my hair, I catch sight of my rings in the mirror stretching above the double marble sinks. The huge diamond catches the light and my reality. Of course they’ll want pictures of this and stories of Dylan’s proposal. Then the next inevitable question. Babies.
Mode One magazine purports to be classier than the gossip rags, but we’ll see what they print. Four months into our marriage, and I’ve graced front covers half a dozen times. It’s amazing the amount of arguments we supposedly have, just because I visit Tara a lot. And the ongoing attempts to link Dylan with other women continue. Dylan’s told me he won’t speak to any woman without me around anymore, and I told him he’s ridiculous as I have no doubts about us.
Why am I putting myself in the spotlight when I spend so much time keeping out of it?
Voices travel from the lounge as Dylan and the two other people return from his studio. He’s happier than he was, talking enthusiastically about his new tracks. I shake my head at Dylan from behind Jenna: he needs to stop talking or she’ll grab an exclusive about his plans to record his own album. The last thing we need to deal with is rumour of a Blue Phoenix split.
Stupid Jenna still flirts, and Dylan’s oblivious. He refused to dress up too and is in black denim and a faded blue tee to inadvertently match, the bright ink covering his arms. I don’t often step back and study him as Dylan Morgan. In recent months as Blue Phoenix retreated from our life, he’s more an ordinary guy. Or as ordinary as Dylan gets, anyway. His blue eyes are no longer hidden by curls. He cut his hair again last month; not as short as when I first met him but enough to distance himself from the man in the early Blue Phoenix photos.
My heart speeds as Dylan looks over, aware of my scrutiny, and smiles. I can’t ever express the amount I love this man, or explain how he completes me. Without the certainty in the centre of my soul Dylan feels the same, I’d be terrified how big a grip he has on me. The days we’re apart sharpen and cut into me, the bonds stretching painfully and pulling at my heart.
No wonder the sex is overwhelming.
Jenna turns too. She glows beneath her heavily made-up face, and her excitement grows closer to a kid in a sweet shop with every passing moment. How did she score the prestige interview above other journalists at her magazine? I’d bet on her tenacity, which I also suspect will increase today.
“Dylan’s room was wonderful! Such an insight into the man and his music. Should we chat about your travels last year? And more pictures, now or later? Bathroom?”
I open my mouth to reply and Dylan speaks first. “Later.”
DYLAN
The bed welcomes me as I flop backwards into the middle and stretch out, arms above my head. My head pounds, the afternoon sucking more energy from me than a night on stage. I’d forgotten how full on interviews are, how careful I need to be over what I say. Especially with this woman. Jenna interviewed the band before, and she’s an expert at wheedling information we didn’t want to share. Smart woman, but I’m saying the minimum this time. Mode One is instructed to submit the article to our publicity department, and us to give the green light, so if Jenna does twist anything me or Sky said, it won’t be published.
Supposedly.
The pair finally left
after ticking everything off their list. I watched and listened as Jenna tried awkward questions on Sky, and I interjected only when needed. Sky doesn’t take crap from people, but I could tell she bit her tongue sometimes, rather than reward Jenna with anything to support one public view of Sky. That she’s rude and shrewish.
I’m surprised how collected Sky was over our afternoon beneath the spotlight and impressed at her game face. Sky copes better these days with the intrusion, tells me she zones out. I wish I could wrap Sky in cotton wool and keep her from hurt, but I know she doesn’t need me to. Instead, sharing our strength keeps us safe.
“Next time, I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a sharp object than subject myself to that,” I call to Sky, who’s in the en suite.
“Don’t be so dramatic!” she calls back.
I turn over on the bed and grab my phone, engrossing myself in the messages I’ve missed as I wait for her to come to bed. One from Jack, firming up more studio dates and a meeting with the record company to plan the release.
Each time I take another step into the project, anxiety seizes my chest. Sky’s right. I need to chat to the guys about my plans before something leaks. I can assure them I don’t intend to leave the band, explain I’m certain a solo project would lift me, and I’d inject some new enthusiasm into Blue Phoenix again. Unthinkable a year ago, the idea of control over something musical becomes a reality. My belief in myself grew as Sky encouraged me.
I won’t hide what I’m doing, but I refuse to let anybody tell me what to or not to do anymore. I’ve spent more time with Jack, figuring dates for working together and about the viability. Hell, all I need is session musicians, and I’m pretty damn sure I’ll find plenty who’ll jump at the chance of playing on Dylan Morgan’s album.
Once I have firm plans, I’ll talk to the guys. They’ll be okay. Steve may not.
“Sky. Bed,” I call and wait for a smart reply but silence. “Sky? You okay?”
I sit and put down my phone, then head into the en suite where Sky sits on the edge of the bath, dressed in a blue silk robe, her face pale. I make a quick mental calculation on the dates, number of weeks since… Oh, no. Every month we face this.
