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32
Sky
One of theBlue Phoenix drivers meets me at Heathrow. After a motorway journey, which feels like forever, he drops me straight at the hospital. Getting to the car from the plane involved running the gauntlet of media asking if I’d split with Dylan. Too tired to deal with their crap, I wrapped a large, silk scarf around my head and pushed through. Now the image of my red-eyed, haunted look is shared, and so a big question mark hangs over our relationship. Thus continues my twisted relationship with the press. To my relief, they don’t follow the car.
Tom meets me at the hospital where I stand helplessly by Tara’s bed, dazed by the sight of her. This isn’t Tara; this is a pale, shadow of a girl with her normally beautifully styled brown hair splayed on the pillow behind her. Machines and IV lines surround her and I try to figure out what they do. Keep her alive, I guess. Her head injury worries the doctors and she’s in an induced coma. I know they’re supposed to have ‘game’ faces, but I don’t read anything positive between the lines.
I don’t know Tom well; he’s a lawyer at the firm where she works. On the occasions I’ve met him in the past, he was smartly attired and oozing confidence. This man looks lost with exhaustion etched into his face. Tara’s parents are here too, in shifts at her bedside, and although they don’t say or do anything, the situation makes me feel intrusive.
That evening, searching the blogs to see how Blue Phoenix’s gig went last night, I’m sickened to see a picture of me hugging Tom, comforting the poor guy whose girlfriend lies in the hospital bed in another room. Who the hell took the picture? And how low for them to take something like this out of context and claim Im cheating? They know who he is. But where’s the story in the truth if the lie supports the current rumours. Dylan and Sky split and is this the answer why I returned to England?
I’m making dinner — okay, microwaving a meal — when Dylan calls. I check the clock on the cooker and calculate he’s recently woken.
“Who’s the guy?” he asks. “Is that Grant?”
“No.” I’m irritated; he knows enough about the media to understand how they twist things. His insecurity is worse than I thought. “That’s Tom. Tara’s boyfriend.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
“That’s pretty lousy of you, Dylan.”
“I just woke up and saw the picture; someone emailed it to me for a response. I’m not thinking straight.”
“Why the hell would I want to see Grant?”
“I don’t know, maybe because you all go back a long way. Lifelong friends from school supporting each other because one of you is… in the hospital.”
“I’d hardly call Grant my friend,” I mutter.
“I’ll switch my brain on before I call next time.”
“Good idea.”
He pauses. “How is Tara?”
Tears sting my eyes. “Not great.”
There’s a long pause. Has he hung up? “I could come back; if you need me to.”
I suspect he’s the one who needs. “Don’t be silly, Dylan. You’ve a week left. Then you’re back here and we sit down with Steve and the band to tell them your plans.”
“Shit hits the fan, you mean.”
“Yeah, I hope you have somewhere you can hide for a while.”
“There’s the island,” he says matter-of-factly.
I choke back a laugh. “Very funny.”
“No, we could.”
“I’m not a big fan of the boat ride. You’ll be there on your own.”
“Fuck, you’re funny. A guy offers you a holiday in tropical paradise and you turn your nose up.”
I stare at the dull English winter and consider how a tropical paradise is a better idea. But not right now.
“How are you coping at the flat?”
