Page 68 of Interlude

Tara works from home some days, although ‘work’ normally vies with TV chat shows for her attention.

My pale face and shaking is enough to convince my supervisor I have gastro and need to go home. Head down, heart beating in time with my rapid footsteps, I head for the bus. Dazed, I sit on the bus stop bench. The metal is cool against my legs, and grounds me. I stare at my shoes, mind reeling at what might be about to happen.

All because Dylan can't take no as an answer.

* * *

I perchon Tara’s expensive sofa in her immaculate flat. I always feel as if I’m walking into a show home when I visit. Unlike mine, there’re never empty mugs, half-empty biscuit wrappers or clothes strewn around her flat.

Chewing a nail, I stare at the photographs of Tara and friends - nights out, on holiday, at birthday parties. I absentmindedly wonder why I’m not in any; I’m sure I was at some of the occasions I can see on there. An ironic reaction, since appearing in pictures when I don't want to is why I’m here.

Tara crosses towards me, dressed in yoga pants and a loose black top, hair pulled into a ponytail but somehow making her ensemble appear classy. She hands me a mug of tea.

"Will you tell me what’s happening with Dylan?" she asks gently.

"Nothing. Honestly."

"Then why was he seen leaving your flat?"

I wipe my face with my hand. "I didn’t ask him to come. He won’t leave me alone."

"And you want him to?" she asks, disbelief clear in her tone.

I look at Tara as if she’s sprouted an extra, equally pretty head.

"Do you honestly think I could have a relationship with this guy and not end up with my heart torn out and my life a screwed up mess again? He’s only doing this because I’m saying no."

"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."