Summer Sky (20 page)

"Sky, you already said yes. If he wants sex, he got that, didn’t he?" I don’t respond so she takes this as a yes. "Maybe there’s more? Maybe he really does like you?"

But he didn't get sex, not entirely. God, all I have to do is recall one tiny memory of that night and my lady parts react. I pull a magazine from her table and point at the cover.

"Do I look like her?" I flick through until I find a section comparing models and actresses at awards nights. "Or her?"

My jab becomes more vehement with each person I point to, because this is something bothering me. This is what stopped me; each time I was tempted to reply to him in the first few days after I left Broadbeach.

I left a relationship with someone who tried to change me into the image of how he thought I should be, and I began to mould myself to Grant’s image. Dylan Morgan's world's idea of women isn’t mine.

Tara interrupts with the same words the other voice in my head uses. "But he already knows you don’t look like these girls. He’s seen you naked, right?"

"I’m not talking about being more than a size minus 20, I wouldn't want to be. I'm comfortable with who I am. Look at how manufactured they are. What if he wants to manufacture me so I’ll fit his world?"

Like Grant did. And I did for Grant.

Tara doesn’t respond, sipping her drink. "Hell, so many women would give their right arm to swap with you. You’re crazy."

She is never going to understand, she follows the celebrities lives soaking up every detail from her magazines and TV shows. Tara drools over the clothes and the houses - and the men. Is she talking about herself? Would she swap places with me?

"All this doesn’t matter because he’s going away soon anyway. Then he’ll forget about me."

My words hurt, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with me. All the time the words that come out are denial – not wanting to be used or changed. But every time I think about him with someone else my stomach twists into knots.

"So, did you check out the website I linked?" asks Tara.

"Briefly." I clamp up, blanking the not-so-pleasant things written about me. "Do you think they’ll look for me?’

"Yes."

"Gee, thanks. Some kind of 'maybe not' encouragement would’ve been good."

Tara shrugs. "You need to be realistic about this. I guess things will die down."

"If he keeps away…"

Something in Tara’s expression concerns me, as if she doesn’t want him staying away either.

Tara places her mug on the coffee table. "How about we drive past your flat and see if there’s anyone there?"

As we drive across the city, my head spins. Even if they have discovered who I am and where I live, how the hell could they get there so quickly? I only left four hours ago. Tara pulls into my street, her Nissan Micra crawling towards my flat.

"Advance guard," says Tara.

I follow her line of vision. Three girls sit on the wall next to the gate, chatting to the man who accosted me earlier. Tara keeps driving, and I glance at them hoping they don’t look up. They’re late teens, which is strange – you’d think they’d know better than to behave like the tweens who follow boy bands around. Two of them are bleached blondes in tiny shorts and tops, the third has sleek black hair. All three are beautiful.

"You think they’re waiting for me?" I ask when I turn my head back to Tara.

"No, him. But if they see you they might not be too friendly."

Groaning, I slump down in the seat and put my face in my hands. "I should’ve said no to sharing his pizza and left the house that night."

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.