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22
Sky
Thanks to Tara'sfriend of a friend's brother—or someone equally vague—by the end of the week, I find somewhere new to live without needing a huge deposit.
I’m pissed off I had to move from the modern house in the safe suburb I shared with Grant and into a tiny place in the arse end of town, even though I should be grateful. The musty smell in the lounge is only surpassed by the disgusting state of the kitchen. The cooker looks in dire need of cleaning products, and the cupboards are full of crumbs and goodness knows what from the previous occupants. As the place comes furnished, I don’t have much opportunity to make the place my own and resolve to buy some pictures to cover the ugly brown marks on the bedroom walls.
Two days later and I’m settling in, clean kitchen and steam cleaned furniture. My sadistic side decides to buy a picture of a coastal scene to hang over the dent in the lounge wall.
The flat is close to a bus stop, so I don’t bother taking my car for work, leaving it parked outside my new home. Besides, if I drive anywhere, I lose my space and have to battle for a spot within a fifty mile radius of the flat when I return. Okay, whatfeelslike a fifty-mile radius, especially in the rain.
Tara visits with a "house warming" present, which is odd on two accounts. Firstly, she's not the sort to waste time and money on frivolities unless they pertain to her. And secondly, she brought me a houseplant, a small Yucca in a brown pot she holds out to me as if she’s carrying a stick of dynamite about to explode. With my horticultural skills, the thing won’t last a week.
I know one reason Tara visits—she wants the lowdown on Dylan’s and my sexual exploits, which I've so far refused to give her. A part of me worries she may 'out' me to the tabloids but she’s a better person than that, thank God. Some people would sell me out for the money, so I'm glad our twelve-year friendship stands for something.
I spend a couple of evenings torturing myself searching Dylan on Google, which is ironic—I don't want to see him but I'm spending my evenings with him anyway. Dylan has quite a history: the sex, drugs, and rock and roll cliché at its very best. Many of the worst stories are a few years old, these days the media are more interested in who he's having a relationship with rather than catching him with illegal substances or arrested fighting journalists.
There are some bloody sexy pictures of him though, which does nothing to dampen down whatever remains racing around my body since the night at the beach house.
Dylan hasn’t contacted me since the night he called, drunk. Did I do the right thing by rejecting something that felt so real? Why won't I acknowledge how he shifted my world off its axis?
