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"What would you like to drink?"
Wine. "Water, please."
Jan sets a plate, cutlery and large glass of sparkling water in front of me then sits in the chair nearby. The vast table fills the room, but doesn’t change the emptiness.
"Does Dylan live alone?" I ask.
"Sometimes, but often the band stays here. The house is large enough for all their egos." She smiles to herself. "There’s a recording studio—well, two but one’s Dylan’s private place."
My stomach twists. The band. "Are the others here now?"
"Liam and Honey are staying. The others are back tomorrow I think—they’ve things to finish before the tour."
Honey? I had a friend at school who had a guinea pig called Honey. It wasn't the brightest of animals.
"I bet they all keep you busy."
"Hmm. Well, I don’t clear their mess up on my own, or cater to their parties. I’m here in the day, and then I go home."
Spooning pasta into my bowl, I take in the surroundings. Every minute I’m here, I’m on high alert. Fish out of water doesn’t even come close to how I feel.
Small talk.
"Have you worked here long?" I ask.
"Three years. I considered leaving after the first year, but Dylan persuaded me to stay. I saw some things I wasn’t happy to see."
The middle-aged woman pulls her lips tight—whether she wants to tell me or not, I don’t want to hear.
"Life here is different recently; they’ve mellowed. Well, some of them." She fixes me with a loaded look. "Like Dylan."
I shift in my seat and focus on the pasta, twirling some around my fork. If I eat, I don’t have to talk.
"Did you know him before?" she asks.
"Before what?"
"Before he disappeared. Did he leave because of you?"
The pasta sticks in my throat. "No."
"Hmm."
"Hmm?"
She stands and brushes imaginary crumbs from the table. "Dylan had a different look when he first came back. He was still unhappy but he was brighter."
No, not her too. What is this? Is Dylan getting everyone to guilt me into a relationship?
"Amazing what the summer skies and sea air can do for someone," I say.
Someone behind giggles. "Sure is, summer Sky."
I twist in my seat. The owner of the giggle and American accent can’t hide the surprise on her face when she registers me. My expression matches hers. Talk about rock star girlfriend cliché; here she is in glorious Technicolor with perfectly straight, long, blonde hair to match the perfectly white and straight teeth she’s flashing at me. Honey is impossibly elegant in tight, hip hugging jeans with silicone breasts straining beneath her tight leopard skin top.
"I’m Honey." She crosses and holds out a hand with talon-like red nails. "I’m Liam’s fiancée.
"Congratulations."
