Oh good god.Dylan jumps to his feet and strides to the doorway. He throws a look over his shoulder, and I mouthsorry. He mouths backyou will be.
They head to the opposite end of the apartment, and I drop the tension in my shoulders. Thishasto be over soon. Three hours is an exhausting joke.
My paranoid self checked every room before Jenna and the bored photographer attached to her arrived. I walk into the bathroom where the cleaner spent twice as long here yesterday, ensuring the apartment was prepared for the scrutiny. The huge spa bath is in the middle of the vast room with carefully coordinated grey and black towels folded and placed over the side for a colour-ordinated show.
All our usual toiletries and toothbrushes are cleared from the marble vanity and stuffed into a cupboard below. The kitchen surfaces were also cleared of the piles of magazines and letters taking over half the space.
We’re not showing them our life at all. The public will see the life they imagine we have. Despite requests, I refused to dress up for this and wore one of my simple high-street brand summer dresses. Pale blue, knee length, nondescript. No designer label namedropping for me.
I splash my face with water, and as I run damp hands over my hair, I catch sight of my rings in the mirror stretching above the double marble sinks. The huge diamond catches the light and my reality. Of course they’ll want pictures of this and stories of Dylan’s proposal. Then the next inevitable question. Babies.
Mode Onemagazine purports to be classier than the gossip rags, but we’ll see what they print. Four months into our marriage, and I’ve graced front covers half a dozen times. It’s amazing the amount of arguments we supposedly have, just because I visit Tara a lot. And the ongoing attempts to link Dylan with other women continue. Dylan’s told me he won’t speak to any woman without me around anymore, and I told him he’s ridiculous as I have no doubts about us.
Why am I putting myself in the spotlight when I spend so much time keeping out of it?
Voices travel from the lounge as Dylan and the two other people return from his studio. He’s happier than he was, talking enthusiastically about his new tracks. I shake my head at Dylan from behind Jenna: he needs to stop talking or she’ll grab an exclusive about his plans to record his own album. The last thing we need to deal with is rumour of a Blue Phoenix split.
Stupid Jenna still flirts, and Dylan’s oblivious. He refused to dress up too and is in black denim and a faded blue tee to inadvertently match, the bright ink covering his arms. I don’t often step back and study him as Dylan Morgan. In recent months as Blue Phoenix retreated from our life, he’s more an ordinary guy. Or as ordinary as Dylan gets, anyway. His blue eyes are no longer hidden by curls. He cut his hair again last month; not as short as when I first met him but enough to distance himself from the man in the early Blue Phoenix photos.
My heart speeds as Dylan looks over, aware of my scrutiny, and smiles. I can’t ever express the amount I love this man, or explain how he completes me. Without the certainty in the centre of my soul Dylan feels the same, I’d be terrified how big a grip he has on me. The days we’re apart sharpen and cut into me, the bonds stretching painfully and pulling at my heart.
No wonder the sex is overwhelming.
Jenna turns too. She glows beneath her heavily made-up face, and her excitement grows closer to a kid in a sweet shop with every passing moment. How did she score the prestige interview above other journalists at her magazine? I’d bet on her tenacity, which I also suspect will increase today.
“Dylan’s room was wonderful! Such an insight into the man and his music. Should we chat about your travels last year? And more pictures, now or later? Bathroom?”
I open my mouth to reply and Dylan speaks first. “Later.”
* * *
DYLAN
The bed welcomesme as I flop backwards into the middle and stretch out, arms above my head. My head pounds, the afternoon sucking more energy from me than a night on stage. I’d forgotten how full on interviews are, how careful I need to be over what I say. Especially with this woman. Jenna interviewed the band before, and she’s an expert at wheedling information we didn’t want to share. Smart woman, but I’m saying the minimum this time.Mode Oneis instructed to submit the article to our publicity department, and us to give the green light, so if Jenna does twist anything me or Sky said, it won’t be published.
Supposedly.
The pair finally left after ticking everything off their list. I watched and listened as Jenna tried awkward questions on Sky, and I interjected only when needed. Sky doesn’t take crap from people, but I could tell she bit her tongue sometimes, rather than reward Jenna with anything to support one public view of Sky. That she’s rude and shrewish.
I’m surprised how collected Sky was over our afternoon beneath the spotlight and impressed at her game face. Sky copes better these days with the intrusion, tells me she zones out. I wish I could wrap Sky in cotton wool and keep her from hurt, but I know she doesn’t need me to. Instead, sharing our strength keeps us safe.
“Next time, I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a sharp object than subject myself to that,” I call to Sky, who’s in the en suite.
“Don’t be so dramatic!” she calls back.
I turn over on the bed and grab my phone, engrossing myself in the messages I’ve missed as I wait for her to come to bed. One from Jack, firming up more studio dates and a meeting with the record company to plan the release.
Each time I take another step into the project, anxiety seizes my chest. Sky’s right. I need to chat to the guys about my plans before something leaks. I can assure them I don’t intend to leave the band, explain I’m certain a solo project would lift me, and I’d inject some new enthusiasm into Blue Phoenix again. Unthinkable a year ago, the idea of control over something musical becomes a reality. My belief in myself grew as Sky encouraged me.
I won’t hide what I’m doing, but I refuse to let anybody tell me what to or not to do anymore. I’ve spent more time with Jack, figuring dates for working together and about the viability. Hell, all I need is session musicians, and I’m pretty damn sure I’ll find plenty who’ll jump at the chance of playing on Dylan Morgan’s album.
Once I have firm plans, I’ll talk to the guys. They’ll be okay. Steve may not.
“Sky. Bed,” I call and wait for a smart reply but silence. “Sky? You okay?”
I sit and put down my phone, then head into the en suite where Sky sits on the edge of the bath, dressed in a blue silk robe, her face pale. I make a quick mental calculation on the dates, number of weeks since... Oh, no. Every month, we face this.
Sky looks over, blonde hair loose across her expressionless face. “Dylan—”