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4
Sky
I’ve takentime off work until after Christmas, and I spend the day lying on the sofa with endless tea and chocolate, reading.
I guess I should buy Christmas gifts, but a week to go, and there’s not time to post anything to Spain now. My brother lives in America so definitely too late to send anything to him. A thought strikes. Online. I really need to get onto Tara’s internet shopping kick. I got burned on eBay once, buying some dodgy electronics from China so I don’t trust that site. There’s Amazon, I suppose, and I forget they sell more than eBooks. Feeling pleased with myself for my sudden ingenuity, I log onto my laptop to order gift vouchers.
Sifting through the offers for holidays to exotic destinations and car insurance that fill my email inbox, I come across one titled ‘Dylan’. Immediately my chest constricts as I check the sender, hoping to hell the message isn’t from Lily Parker telling me he’s also a mass murderer.
The sender is Myf Roberts. I hover the mouse icon over the delete button. It’s a long time since anyone emailed me digging for information about Dylan so why start now? Another crazed groupie?
Then the name jogs a memory. Myf is an unusual name, one I’ve heard recently. Is this the girl Dylan was with at the party? I stare at the screen willing the email to disappear, so I don’t have to decide whether to read the message or not.
After four months, opening this email will be like re-opening the raw part of my heart and acknowledging his existence again. Dylan never attempted to fix anything, why is this Myf person getting involved now? This question is enough to prompt me to click on the email.
< Sky,
I hope you don't mind me contacting you. I'm a friend of Dylan's and I think you need to hear some truths. I know some of what happened with Lily and what she said to you. I also know why. I need to talk to you about this.
Myf >
No contact details.
I respond to her email.
Sky >
Liar.
I focus on the important task—buying Christmas vouchers for distant family members. Within minutes, another message from Myf appears.
Broadbeach floods my mind, a sudden replay of everything Dylan and the fantasy by the sea. No. He’s gone; he never existed. Myf’s email confuses me; how can any woman be okay with his actions?
I don’t reply, but the message follows me all day, popping into my head as soon as my mind is empty of thoughts. Pushed away memories resurface, as if those few lines have poked a hole in the box I held everything inside. What if there is more to this? Why after four months would Myf choose to contact me?
When my dreams are filled with Dylan for the first time in months, I know I have to see Myf. He has a grip on my headspace again if he’s back in my subconscious. If Myf can explain the things he didn’t, I could get the closure I need.
* * *
I waitin the expensive cafe where I normally meet Tara, taking comfort from meeting Myf on familiar ground. Myf apparently lives in London—the fact she takes a trip out to Bristol to speak to me indicates how important this is to her.
Last time I saw Myf in the dark, when I thought Dylan was hitting on her. All I know is she’s short with long dark hair.
A woman a little older than me, wearing skinny jeans and a tailored brown coat strolls into the bar. Her long dark hair shines and, despite her lack of height, she takes up a lot of space in the room through her presence. A few heads turn; she’s dressed simply and inexpensively but she’s stunning. This has to be Myf. If I’d seen her face that night at the party, my jealousy would’ve been tenfold.
She searches the room and when she sees me, she waves as if I’m an old friend. I give a half-wave back, heart thumping already. As Myf orders a drink, I debate whether to leave. What the hell am I doing, allowing myself to be dragged back into this? I was moving on.
Apart from I wasn’t; who am I kidding?
Myf slides her china cup of coffee across the table as she sits on the chair opposite me. “Is the food any good here?” She has a Welsh burr to her accent, stronger than Dylan’s.
“Pretty good; great cakes.”
“I might order something, I haven’t eaten lunch.” She picks up the laminated menu.
