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37
MAY
SKY
Tara’sbarely through the door before she squeals and scoops Rhys from my arms, squeezing him to her, and showering his head with kisses. He grabs a fistful of her long brown hair and tugs.
“I’ve missed you, Rhys! I can’t wait to spend my weekend with my favourite little guy.”
“I bet you won’t be saying that after a couple of days,” I reply. “He has another tooth coming I think.”
Tara rubs his red cheek. “I’ve babysat for my sister loads. I can deal with him.”
Rhys is all smiles for Tara, babbling as he touches her face. As he grows, his cuteness factor hits overload. He’s replaced his dad as the one the press try to take shots of, bonus points for them if doting Dylan carries him.
I stroke my son’s hair. “Is Tom not coming?”
Tara’s face darkens for a moment, and then she switches to looking at the table and my notepad. “Did you leave me a list? Or do you trust my instincts now?”
“Tara?” I ask. “What happened?”
Dylan appears from the opposite end of the apartment and saves her from answering. “Hey, Tara. Was the drive over okay?”
“You packed your things yet?” I ask him.
“Not like I need much for a weekend in Cornwall.” I pull him a warning face. “Yes, Sky, I packed my shit.”
Tara sighs loudly. “He’s so romantic taking you back there. Right, when’s his next feed due?”
The model of efficiency, Tara heads into the kitchen, still cooing over Rhys and I follow. “Are you sure about this?” I ask her.
“We’ll be fine. Honestly. I’m happy to stay in the house with him if you’re nervous about me taking him out.”
I give her a weak smile. “A big ask, locking you in our house with a five-month-old baby.”
“Uh. Your huge, country estate? I think I can cope!”
Smart Dylan dropped the news on me a couple of days ago: a trip to the cottage in Cornwall. He’d already cleared with Tara for her to look after Rhys for the weekend, and I battle between craving alone time with Dylan and panicking whether Rhys will be okay.
My nerves around leaving Rhys with Tara grow as the days pass, and now she’s here, my time’s up. After our early days, the fact I’m worried about being away from my baby is a good sign to Dylan, and admittedly to me too.
I now keep busy helping Dylan with the lead up to his release. I wouldn’t go as far as to say manager, but I’m heading that way much to the amusement of the other band members. They’re still cool with what he’s doing, which is one less stress for us.
Dylan made the decision to spend a weekend in Cornwall before the chaos hits. Two weeks until the release, and until he begins a press and TV circuit. Dylan grumbled about my military precise organisation of interviews and TV appearances, but he should know by now promotion is the nature of the beast. There’ll be extra exposure for us to deal with, which equals us back in the spotlight. Hopefully the focus will be Dylan’s music.
I’m about to ask Tara what’s wrong between her and Tom, but Dylan manages to walk in before I do and save her from my interrogation. Again. He slides an arm around my waist. “Ready?”
“I guess....”
“Don’t stress, Sky. We’ll be fine. Call me every hour if you need.” Tara pauses. “Maybe not in the middle of the night though.”
“That’s Dylan’s style, not mine,” I say, and he nudges me with his elbow.
I walk away from my baby for the first time in four and half months, an avalanche of thoughts and emotions following me. This is the right thing for me to do for our marriage. For Dylan.
* * *
We’ve visitedthe small cottage in Cornwall a few times since we first met, normally when there’re more interesting things than us happening in the celebrity world and we can stay under the radar. The odd photograph always appears, and always will.
