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When I register the picture, I suppress a giggle and understand why Dylan groaned. Gwen’s eyes twinkle conspiratorially at me. A boy aged about eight, with thick dark hair and freckles, gazes wide-eyed from the frame, in a portrait shot where he’s wearing what looks suspiciously like a choirboy outfit.
“I’ll make some tea. Sit down,” says Gwen, obviously pleased at embarrassing her grandson.
I choke back a laugh. “Dylan, were you a…?”
“Choirboy, yes.” He’s frowning but biting back a smile too. He pokes me in the ribs. “Not exactly unusual for a Welsh boy who likes singing, huh?”
“No, I guess not. You look adorable.”
“Gah!” Dylan rolls his eyes and sits on the sofa.
I place myself next to him. “No wonder your family were shocked if you went from choirboy to international bad boy Dylan Morgan.”
“I stopped choir lessons as soon as they let me,” he whispers, “Hated every minute.”
“Well, they taught you to sing so you can thank your choir boy past.”
Dylan glances to the kitchen where Gwen is rattling cups and plates around, then runs a hand up my leg. “Stop teasing me or I’ll need to be extra bad to change this new image you have of me.”
I narrow my eyes at his challenging look and obvious intent behind his words as they ramp up the sexual tensions between us. I lean forward to whisper, “Do your worst, Dylan Morgan.”
He inhales sharply and I sit back, smirking. I win.
Gwen reappears with a melamine tray carrying a silver teapot and floral painted cups and saucers. She sets them on the table and disappears back into the kitchen, before reappearing with a plate of biscuits. I shift in my seat, and Dylan sits upright, hands folded onto his knees. Should I have stayed away? Maybe he needs to do this on his own.
“I’m glad you came to see me, Dylan,” says Gwen. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“I don’t like coming back to St Davids,” says Dylan, grabbing a chocolate biscuit and biting hard. I take one too as I hope things won’t immediately become awkward.
Gwen pours tea into the cups. “I understand. But I think when you forgot us, you forgot yourself.”
Silence. Great.
“How are you?” Dylan asks.
“Better than I was, pet.” She looks at me. “I was married almost fifty years. People these days don’t do that, do they? Too many people give up.”
“Or just walk away,” says Dylan quietly.
“Well, you’re here now, whatever came before doesn’t matter. Tell me about Sky.”
The clock ticks in the warm room as Dylan and his gran chat, and the ordinariness of the situation is odd considering recent events in our lives. But this is what he needs, and as I see his shoulders relax, and he sits back against the cushions, I’m happy for him. There’s not much for him to tell Gwen about us, but the situation is reward enough.
We could be any couple visiting a family at Christmastime. Normal. Like Grant, every year. Then I realise, I don’t want normal. I don’t want extraordinary. I want mine and Dylan’s world. Drifting off into my own thoughts, I don’t notice them addressing me.
“Pardon?” I blink at Dylan.
“I was telling Gran that you made me come back here.” He squeezes my hand. “Myf’s hassled me to visit for a while; I think she’s waited for an ally.”
I smile weakly, aware that a spike of jealousy about Myf accompanies the smile. Why did Jem have to tell me? Stupid question, why does Jem tell me anything? To cause trouble.
“I heard you’d disappeared for a little while, Dylan. Is everything okay?” She turns to me. “He did this all the time as a kid. If something bothered him, he’d pack up and leave. When he was eleven we’d find him hiding in the shed, but as a teen, he went further afield. I don’t understand why he needs to run away from his life now, all that money and nice things.”
Dylan huffs and looks toward the net curtained windows. I doubt people on the outside would understand the reality of Dylan’s life when they only judge via the media. Like I did.
“I hope you don’t think I’m rude, but I have some last minute Christmas shopping I need,” I say, setting down my china teacup.
Dylan frowns at me. “What do you mean?”
“I think you should spend some time alone with Gwen; you’ve a lot to chat about. Besides, I’ve one more person to buy for.”
“I hope you don’t mean me,” he says in a low voice.
“Are the shops far?” I ask Gwen.
“No, pet, ten minute walk to the edge of town. Unless you want some bigger shops which you won’t find in walking distance, you’ll have to drive to Haverfordwest.”
“I’ll take you,” says Dylan, half-standing.
I place a hand on his knee. “No, stay here. I’ll be fine.”
