* * *
I leaveDylan for the weekend, as agreed, and head to Bristol to visit Tara. She lives with Tom now, and her recovery after the accident earlier this year continues. In the early days, Tara lost some movement in her legs due to a brain injury, but her determination, and Tom’s support, is evident when I see her. Tara walks with a slight limp, but she’s herself again: beautiful, confident, and with the smile that’s always infected those around her.
I hug Tara for a long while, proud of my best friend fighting back to her old life. Working for Tom’s law firm has eased Tara back into very part-time work from home, and she’s determined to start working at the office too. I know Tara, and if anybody suggests she needs to slow down, she’ll fight twice as hard to prove them wrong.
For old times’ sake, I arrived with Chinese takeaway and a bottle of wine. Tom left for an evening with friends too, allowing us to catch up in Sky and Tara style. Loudly. Despite my promise not to give a blow by blow account of my holiday of a lifetime with a rock star, I do anyway. Tara soaks up my stories, demanding pictures of every single place we visited, even though her fridge is covered in postcards I sent.
We’ve stayed in touch the whole time. Tara’s my little piece of normal in my weird new world and one of few who I can share my sense of humour with. I still need to bite my tongue a lot around new people because they take my comments as snarky, but it’s not my fault people can’t tell when I’m joking.
I fork the chow mein onto my plate and set the foil container on the table. “I missed this.”
“Surely you’ve eaten better than Chinese takeaway recently.”
I lick sauce from my fingers. “But not with my best friend.”
Tara picks up the wine and pours a glass. “I missed you too. Please don’t tell me this is one visit, and you’re disappearing for another six months back into your lifestyle of the rich and famous.”
“No! And you look amazing by the way.”
Tara smiles. “In my scruffy jeans and shirt?”
“You know what I mean. You look a lot better than last time I saw you. Even your eyes shine now.”
She shakes her long brown hair over a shoulder; hair I’ve always been jealous of because she can persuade it to do what she wants. Such as now, sleek and glossy, unlike my pain in the backside hair, which can only be controlled when forced into a ponytail. Even then the bloody stuff tries to escape.
“Things are going well.” She holds the wine bottle over my glass and I place my hand over before she can pour. “Not drinking? You’re staying the weekend, you don’t need to drive.”
“I’m trying to cut back.”
Tara splutters. “You? Cut back?”
“Hey!” But I share her smile.
“Or are you pregnant?” she says with giggle.
I poke at the noodles on my plate. This is not a conversation I intended. I promised Dylan. The problem is, Tara has known me since primary school and her friend who’s in a long-term and loving relationship with red wine suddenly refuses a glass.
“Sky!” she shrieks. “Noooo! Seriously?”
I screw my face up. “Only just, Tara. A few weeks. Nobody else is supposed to know.”
“Omigod, you’re having a baby!” She slugs her wine. “A rock star’s baby. Dylan freaking Morgan’s baby!”
“Please, Tara. I don’t want a fuss yet. Promise me you won’t say anything to anybody, not even Tom.”
Tara places a slender hand over mine and squeezes. “This is amazing. And of course I won’t.”
“Thanks.”
“But omigod!” she half squeals again.
“I know, right?” I say because I really don’t know what else to at this point.
Tara shakes her head and mutters“Dylan freaking Morgan” under her breath again. A few mouthfuls of food later, she breaks her silence. “Will you get married before you’re too fat?”
“Tara!”
“What? Oh. Um. Big, I mean. I’m only asking because I wouldn’t want a baby bump in my wedding photos. Or are you waiting until after?”