Page 107 of Washed Up

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Dylan had definitely lingered outside the hotel. There had been definite lingering. In the end, Frankie reached up to give him a shy kiss on the cheek, then spun on her heels and ran towards the Manor before he had a chance to object, her feet barely touching the ground all the way home.

Oh, how she had wanted to kiss him properly. But the haunted look that had been in his eyes all evening gave her pause. He was an emotional wreck, whether or not he let on. And she had no intention of taking advantage of that. Okay, the truth was, if he had pushed it, she might have taken full advantage of it, but she felt better deep down in her soul that she hadn’t.

And besides, he was coming out with her tomorrow and that, for now, was enough.

The following morning, Frankie was up bright and early and stupidly excited, despite the copious wine they had consumed the night before. She packed sandwiches, apples, lemonade and iced buns into a small rucksack, feeling very Famous Five-ish. Lashings of ginger beer and all that. And there was even a dog. Blondie was pottering around the kitchen, getting under her feet, so Frankie popped some food down in her bowl and gave her ears a scritch.

‘Wanna come with us today, old girl?’ she said softly.

Blondie finished her biscuits, then looked up at her expectantly. Frankie wrote a hurried note for her mum and dad and left it on the table as there’d been no sign of either of them. Unusual for a Saturday morning, but she decided to let them sleep.

The house was so quiet without Bobby. She tried not to notice. She’d lived with the silence all these years, after all. She slipped out of the door, Blondie following close behind.

Dylan was waiting outside Heron Cottage when they arrived, leaning against the gatepost, arms folded. Blondie went bounding over to him, bouncing around him and then putting her paws up for a cuddle. He grinned and squatted down to give her a hug. Meanwhile, Frankie was trying not to giggle.

‘Are those your legs?’ she said with a guffaw.

For that is what they seemed to be, though Frankie had never seen them before. They were surprisingly muscled and even a little tanned, which was the most surprising thing of all. Dylan was wearing chino shorts, a polo shirt and…

‘And are those flip-flops?’

He stood up, hand idly scratching Blondie’s ears. ‘It was these or those godawful Crocs,’ he said. ‘And these are surprisingly comfortable.’

Frankie winced. ‘I’m super proud of you, but I think you might regret those as a choice once we get going. Have you got any trainers?’

Dylan nodded and disappeared into the house without a word, flip-flops abandoned in the hall. Frankie had a not unpleasant flashback to the day she first found him in this cottage, and her stomach did a little flip flop of its own.

Ten minutes later, they had set off, Blondie leading the way eagerly, as if she immediately knew what they were doing. Every few feet she bounded off ahead of them, bouncing back a few seconds later with a look on her face that said, ‘Hurry up, slowpokes.’

But Dylan and Frankie were quite happy to pootle. The sun was already warm on their faces, the sky the bluest blue. Frankie (and Blondie) led Dylan down the hill past the hotel, but when Frankie made to turn left at the harbour, he put a hand on her arm.

‘Wait, are you about to try to put me on a ferry back home? Because I think I’ve got PTSD from the last time you tried to do that, just so you know.’

‘Nonsense. I mean, good memory, we are going that way, but no, I promise I’m not trying to ship you off anywhere.’

‘Oh yes, hilarious. Lean into my trauma with the boat jokes.’

‘I will.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, you big baby, you left in a helicopter in the end if I remember correctly.’

‘Fair point.’

Sure enough, they did walk along the coast towards the Rosaire Steps, where the ferry docked from time to time, particularly in rough weather. But a little way further along, Frankie turned left again, leading Dylan through a gap in the stone wall and onto the coastal path. Dylan let out a long breath.

‘See? You can trust me,’ said Frankie with a chuckle.

‘Phew,’ was all he said in reply. The path before them climbed steeply for a short while, and there was a low, long whistle from Dylan as he took in the view from the southwest side of the island for the first time.

‘Doesn’t beat the view from a helicopter, I bet,’ said Frankie. ‘But it’ll do.’

‘Actually, I love it even more,’ was his response as he took in the craggy cliffs, the view across the sparkling sea to the island of Jethou and Guernsey beyond it.

‘Just you wait,’ breathed Frankie.

This was her happy place, the south coast of Herm. The path she had walked hundreds, maybe thousands, of times in her life. So many times, it was like part of her soul at this point. And rain or shine, it never failed to make her smile, to calm her, to bring clarity when it was needed. But today, on this perfect day, sun streaming down on her back, flowers and butterflies all around them, birds chirping in the hedges, and bonus of all bonuses, sharing it all with Dylan Wright, of all people, this was something else entirely.

He was already puffing as they climbed, swearing with some imaginative words as the track wiggled upwards, until finally they emerged onto a straight section that took them along the south coast proper. The path before them weaved inland and out again, but every few minutes there was that breathtaking view of the sea, the steep cliffs stretching below them.