Summer Sky: A Blue Phoenix Book

by Swallow, Lisa

  The look Tara gives me is stranger than before. “You can stay at mine until you figure out what to do.”

  *****

  “I’m not doing this – I refuse to stay at your place.”

  I spend the afternoon at Tara’s mulling things over as she works in her office. There’s only so much daytime TV one girl can take. Tara periodically shouts out Twitter and Facebook updates to me. By early evening, this grates on my ears so much I’m ready to start a Twitter account and lash back. Apparently, the fact Dylan has been spotted leaving his country house, and going into some exclusive London club has perked up the fandom. Which I hope means they’ve left the front of my house.

  Tara’s reluctance to let me go home and her eagerness to have me stay in the first place raises suspicion. I’d lay bets on her hoping Dylan comes to see me again. When I remind her the press might appear here too she changes her mind.

  So at seven pm I walk along my street, heart thumping in my ears. I hold my breath as I get closer. The streetlight illuminates the pavement near the gate, and there’s no longer anyone outside. The held breath rushes out, as I pull my keys from my black handbag with shaking fingers.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sky

  My phone buzzes dragging me out of dreams about stalkers breaking into my flat. In my dream, I escaped with Dylan, and we sat outside the beach house reading until the house was struck by a tsunami. Bizarre. Tsunamis aren’t a feature of the English climate.

  Opening an eye, I pull the phone into the bed. A text from Tara.

 

  Still lying down, I hit the screen to dial her number. “What? It’s Saturday and early?”

  “He stepped things up a notch.”

  My half-asleep brain struggles to catch up. “Who? What? Tara, I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “I’m texting you a picture. You really need to start watching social media and looking out for yourself.”

  “At this rate I’m pissing off back to Cornwall, or emigrating. What now?”

  I put the call on hold and wait for the beep of Tara’s text message, a screenshot from Twitter, time stamped around 3am this morning. More drunken Dylan antics?

  Beneath the Twitter profile of @Real_DylanM:

 

  Underneath, a long list of tweets profess love for him, other responses bitching about me.

  The phone beeps again. Another picture. Another tweet. This is a picture of Dylan uploaded by someone else. This isn’t a paparazzi picture because the shot of Dylan and the band looks staged. They’re conversing, heads together but Dylan is staring into space with the lost look of a love-struck teen. A tweet attached from profile @DMfanforever:

 

  Again a list of replies, some questioning why he’s so cut up about me, when I’m clearly not worth his love, while others suggest they should come and talk to me.

  Panic seizes my chest. Talk to me. Does Dylan know what he’s doing? Of course he does. Bastard. I climb out of bed and throw on my robe, dragging fingers through my mess of hair. My bedroom window overlooks the street and with trepidation, I open the curtains a tiny amount and peek out.

  Then wish I hadn’t. There are at least twenty people hanging around the garden, sitting on the wall or doorstep, waiting. Holding the windowsill, I stare in dizzy disbelief at the unreal scene below. Me. They’re waiting for me. Tears prick my eyes and I sit on the floor, back to the wall.

  I startle as my phone rings again.

  “I hope your Facebook profile is private,” says Tara, my social media guru, “because the media will dig up any dirt on you they can now. He’s confirmed you’re in his life now, whether you like it or not.”

  “He can’t do this,” I say hoarsely, “why is he doing this to me?”

  “Because he’s in love with you?”

  No. Because he’s used to people doing what he says, being with who he wants. Instead of letting go, he’s trying to trap me. This is fucked up.

  “You don’t do this to people you love. He’s trying to manipulate me.”

  Tara doesn’t respond.

  “There’s a crowd of people outside my flat. How do I get out? He’s got me trapped!”

  “Really?” The excitement in her voice pisses me off.

  “This isn’t a game, Tara. This is my life. Fuck.” In anger, I hang up and throw the phone across the room. I hate him.

  Awesome start to the weekend. I’ve no idea whether the fans outside are friendly or not, but I sure as hell don’t want to be photographed. As I shower, I mull over my options. Run? Stay? Talk to him and tell him what a fucktard he is - a term I reserve for those who are above and beyond dickheads, one he’s joined the ranks of.

  The texts start.

  Why I’m surprised I don’t know, because if they can find out where I live, tracking my mobile number isn’t hard. The messages match those on social media. No sympathy for me, apparently I should revel in the fact he’s prepared to ruin my life because he loves me.

  I switch my phone off before anybody calls. Verbal abuse has to be next.

  Banging my head against the wall behind, I inhale and hold the breath, fighting down the tears. I almost gave this guy a chance, but this is who he really is.

  Someone knocks on my door and I want to crawl into a hole and hide. Will they kick the door down?

  “Sky?” A man’s voice.

  I hold my breath again and close my eyes. Like monsters under the bed, maybe they’ll all leave if I pretend they’re not there.

  “Sky. This is Steve Bennett. I’m Dylan’s manager. I’m trying to sort out the mess the fucker has landed you in.” He sounds as if his weekend shares the same super-fun start as mine.

  “How?” I shout back through the door. “Put me in witness protection?”

  “I’ve got a car. Will you come with me somewhere the public can’t find you while things cool down?”

  “You’re telling me I need to hide?” I call.

  “Sky, sweetheart, just open the door. Here. This is my card.” A business card slips beneath the door.

  I pull myself up, and then walk on shaking legs towards the card:

  Steve Bennett

  Phoenix Promotions

  And a phone number. I squint through the peephole; a middle-aged man in a business suit, shifts from foot to foot outside. Satisfied he’s alone, and who he says he is, I open the door. My eyes tear and he can’t hide his surprise as he takes in my appearance. I’m sure I look awesome in my towelling robe with my tangled hair and red-rimmed eyes.

  “Take me where?” I ask.

  “Somewhere that’s quieter.”

  Steve scowls and his eyes are tired; but he also has one of those faces that have lines from scowling a lot. I wonder how much of the grey around his temples was caused by Blue Phoenix antics? I think Dylan’s actions are causing him as big a headache as me.

  “Maybe get dressed? They’re going to see you when you leave.” I stare unblinkingly at him, proverbial rabbit in headlights. “I have a car. They saw me come in and they’re waiting for you to come out.”

  “I can’t!”

  I walk back into my flat and he follows me.

  “Sweetheart, they’re not going anywhere soon. Believe me - I’ve done this before, way too many times to fucking count.”

  I slump onto a dining chair, picking at the fast food wrapper I forgot to bin last night. “Fucking fuck.”

  Steve laughs a short bitter noise. “Maybe if you’d let this run its course instead of shutting him out, we’d have avoided this.”

  “You mean wait until he got bored of me?”

  Steve’s look shifts to his shoes; I don’t think he expected me to read his mind.

  Would a broken heart when Dylan used and dumped me have been better than the hell outside my window? I’m gripping onto a life spiralling out of control facing an unknown future; the exact feeling I had the day I found Grant
with whoever she is. Living in Dylan’s surreal world and ending up broken-hearted would’ve been easier than being dragged into his life against my will, and dissected by everyone around.

  I’m about to become public property and I hate him.

  *****

  The journey to “somewhere quiet” takes a couple of hours, time in which I gulp air and attempt to claw back normality. The trip from my front door to the car was bad enough. I’ve seen stars dealing with paparazzi before; and I wonder if they shared the sheer terror of the first time, they were accosted, too. The cameras in my lowered face were bad enough, but when some of the girls shouted at me, I blocked my ears and my mind in an attempt to drown out this strange world I’m unwillingly part of.

  The winding country lane passes through a small village before the driver turns sharply into a wooded area off the main roads. The willow trees form a canopy above, filtering the sun into an eerie green light as they spread together across the country lane. The green tunnel this forms feels as if I’m transported to another world, and when I see where we’re going I decide I am. From nowhere, and in direct contrast to the natural surroundings, a heavy metal security gate and fence appear. The black, wrought iron gate is attached to a wire fence worthy of a high security prison. Behind the gate, a gravel driveway bordered by manicured trees stretches towards a country house. Is this a mansion or a hotel? I don’t know, but judging by the security, I’d go with mansion.

  The gates swing open and the car crunches along the driveway towards the huge grey-bricked building and stops close to the entrance.

  The Regency building could be the set for a Jane Austen novel, the golden brick cleaned and restored. Smooth lawn borders the front of the house, lined with flowerbeds blooming for the summer. The driveway is clear of other cars. Behind two pillars, the glossy double wooden doors are ajar. I jump as someone opens the car door, pulled out of my silent gawking.

  “Grab your bag,” Steve says gruffly.

  I grab my handbag and stumble out of the car, into the English sunshine. My brain stayed in my flat in Bristol because my powers of speech and movement are minimal.

  “This way.”

  I follow Steve towards the entrance doors, which open into an entrance hall the size of the entirety of my flat. The marbled floor is gleaming white – like those ads for floor cleaner – but in contrast, the walls are grey and black. Stairs sweep upwards from either side, supported on shining black marble columns, and meeting in the middle to form a balcony. Behind the balcony, a huge window floods the room with light.

  My common sense catches up. “Where are we?”

  Steve doesn’t answer, but leads me across the hall, our footsteps echoing through the quiet house.

  A kitchen as big as the entrance greets me as we walk through a second set of white painted doors. Everywhere is so clean and sterile looking. The spotless kitchen could be a show home - granite benches span the expansive room and state of the art stainless steel appliances are set into the oak cupboards. A beautiful house, but void of life.

  “Jan! We’ve got a guest – fix her a drink?”

  A woman tidies plates into a dishwasher and she looks around. She’s around the same age as my mum - late forties - and she looks a little like my mum with her blonde ponytail and kind face. Jan regards me for a moment then her eyes widen in recognition.

  “Oh! You’re Sky?” She glances behind me to Steve.

  “Sky – Jan. Jan – Sky. Jan’s the housekeeper officially, but don’t treat her like staff,” he says brusquely as his phone rings.

  Staff? Where in my world does anyone have staff? “Hi.”

  Jan smiles. “You look tired and hungry. Let me fix you something to eat?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be back in a bit.” Steve walks off, answering his ringing phone.

  Floor to ceiling windows brighten the kitchen and to the right of the room, glass doors lead out of the house onto a terrace. On the spacious terrace, a modern wooden table and chairs fill the space, facing onto a view of the nearby hills.

  “Where am I?” I repeat, hoping Jan won’t tell me I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole.

  “Dylan’s place.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dylan

  My favourite place to be when I’m in England is the old barn I had converted into a studio. Blue Phoenix never record here - this is my place – a time capsule of my journey. Posters decorate the exposed brickwork – small A4 print outs from early gigs to huge posters from festivals. Follow the posters around the room and you’ll see Blue Phoenix go from being tiny print at the bottom, up to second support and finally to headlining. Glastonbury. Summerfest. Rock in Rio. We’ve done them all, worldwide, over and over.

  Now this life is killing me.

  In the photo on the middle shelf, four teenage boys pull moody faces for the camera. Jem has his hands extended into the devil horns salute, brown curls obscuring his eyes, arm across my shoulders. Liam’s face is barely visible under his long red hair and Bryn is the nervous looking one, clutching his drumsticks. The last boy in the picture is me - tall and skinny with curls like Jem’s. Jem’s belief in us was fierce, pushing us into every opportunity to play and sending demo tapes the world over. Like Jem, I believed we’d make it big and a year after this picture was taken, we did. I changed from the strange kid who sat at the back of the classroom, ignored, to someone everyone wanted a piece of. Suddenly I was the hot lead singer of a world-famous band and the guy the chicks wanted. Man, I fucking loved it.

  The shot was taken shortly before our first ever real gig - supporting Chain Saw Babies, a new up-and-coming band. We were seventeen year old, long-haired boys with no clue what would hit them in a few months time. That night, the four friends from St David’s were noticed by Steve Bennett.

  Blue Phoenix rose and the world turned upside down.

  Everything happened so fucking fast - one album later we hit the festival circuit and then toured our backsides off for three years. I saw half the world but was never part of it. By the end of that time I wasn’t Dylan Morgan anymore, I was part of the Blue Phoenix brand and played my role. Would I rewind and do things differently? No. I’ve made some huge mistakes, some that haunt me still, but living for music, fame and money is what I wanted. The problem is, I don’t want this anymore.

  The soundproofing helps hide where I am, and the distance from the house acts as a warning to others who know to find me here. If Dylan’s in his cave, keep the fuck away.

  The song I’m writing is killing me as much as the girl the song is about. I’m unsure what bothers me more – the fact she’s making me feel like this, or the fact she doesn’t feel the same way. Strumming chords on my acoustic, I piece together the lyrics and sounds. The songwriting pulls me back to the beaches and away from the life, I dragged myself back to. I wish I could say writing this song is cathartic, but the emotions released are raw.

  This afternoon I’m in hiding from Steve. Drunken tweets at 3am after fending off Honey’s slutty friends again did not make for a happy Steve. He tore a strip off me about the amount of damage control he’s had to do recently, from the day I cut my hair and fucked off, and now this. I shut down, told him to fuck off but Steve had a careful line of attack.

  His words eat at me several hours later: ‘You ruin her life; she’ll never want to be in yours.’

  Those words hit harder than when my car and life collided with Sky’s, the exact consequences of my actions crystal clear. I held Sky out to the world and said ‘here she is, come and get her’. I didn’t mean to. Now I’ve monumentally fucked up any chance with her.

  Headphones on, drowning in the music, I turn back to the laptop. Something’s missing; I can’t make this track work. The caller name flashing on my mobile phone catches my eye.

  Steve.

  Fucking great.

  I can ignore him, but the mood Steve’s in today, he’ll likely come and haul my ass out of here.

  “Yeah?” I snap as I answer, “I’m bu
sy.”

  “So am I, sorting out your shit. She’s here.” His words are staccato, fed up.

  “Who?” Not his PA as well, I hope, anything but that stuck-up bitch.

  “Sky, you dick.”

  Excitement and apprehension vie for space in my head. “Here? As in she’s at the house? You’re at the house?”

  “Yes. Here. Now fucking sort this out. I don’t have time for your lovelorn bullshit, we’re already behind on the album deadline and the tour kicks off in two weeks. Sort it.” He hangs up.

  Why did she agree to see Steve, but not me?

  *****

  The sight of Sky standing and gazing out of the kitchen window kick starts my heart. Her back is to me, small figure rigid in her jeans and dark blue shirt. The denim hugs her gorgeous backside, and I blink away images of her naked and in my arms. The colour contrasts her dark blonde hair, the thick waves pulled into a ponytail. Sky. Here.

  I fight my body’s screaming need to stride over and hold her, the need to run my hands along the curves of Sky’s body, remember how her skin feels beneath my hands. I could bury my face in her strawberry scented hair and close my eyes to imagine we’re in Cornwall again. But I don’t want to scare her so I hesitate before moving over. She senses me and turns before I reach her.

  The Sky looking at me now is nothing like my Sky. Her eyes are stony, face hard and a mask of hurt. Arms crossed tightly over her chest, she challenges me to dare approach. Not the reunion I hoped for.

  “Why?” she asks.

  I know why Sky has her arms crossed; I can see her hands trembling. I don’t know what she’s asking about - she could be referring to any one of my stupid, drunken acts. So I do what I guess is expected. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Her voice is low. “You out me to the world then you say ‘sorry’? You bastard!”

  The pink creeping across her pale cheeks reminds me of the colour I put in her face when we were in bed. Then my mind travels back there, joined by my gaze wandering along her body. Sky spots what I’m doing and makes a sound of disgust.