Page 108 of Washed Up

‘So,’ said Frankie.

‘So,’ he replied.

‘So, are you going to tell me what happened?’ Frankie prompted, as they got into a bit of a walking rhythm, which was only interrupted when Blondie got too close with one of her bounces and Frankie nearly tripped over her. ‘Dylan? Are you okay back there?’

‘Oh yes, I’m enjoying the view immensely,’ he said.

She glanced back, and there he was, staring right at her, a cheeky grin on his face. Again, that self-consciousness hit. How did he do it? ‘Stop looking at my arse,’ she said, turning back to the path so he wouldn’t see her face was bright red. ‘Or I’ll make you lead.’

‘Sorry. I can’t help it. It’s… well it’s right there. Those shorts… they really suit you.’

‘I never wear shorts if I can help it,’ she replied. ‘But it’s bloody hot today.’

‘You should wear them all the time,’ he said earnestly.

‘Ditto,’ she said, biting her lip to contain her smile.

‘Got my legs out just for you,’ he said smoothly.

‘Stop avoiding the question.’

‘Fine.’

‘Fine.’

And so, as they tramped along, he told her everything. How when he’d got back from his unplanned trip to Herm, his bandmates had been behaving strangely. How they’d had a little chat while he was gone and found that several of them were having a few doubts. How he’d got off the helicopter, all set to kick their arses for their prank, to find them all looking deadly, fatally serious.

And then he told her how his stomach had dropped. Especially at the sight of Johnny’s face. His best friend since the first day of university. The person he trusted most out of everyone.

‘He’d actually been and spoken to our manager, Joel, without me. Can you believe it?’

‘And what was their reason, exactly?’ said Frankie, cautiously.

‘They said it was all too much. Too much touring. The social media intrusion. The papers. “We didn’t sign up for this,” that’s what they said as if they hadn’t made more money from the band, from my songs, than they know what to do with. What hurts the most is that they’d somehow assumed I wouldn’t understand. That was the real kicker. That they thought they needed to wait until I was out of the way to even have the conversation.’

‘You don’t think that’s why they put you on the ferry, do you?’

He stopped walking. Frankie waited for him, immediately regretting those words.

He took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Well now I do.’

‘Nah, that can’t be it,’ said Frankie, attempting to keep her voice light. ‘Come on.’ She carried on up the hill, thinking in that moment of her dad’s favourite joke about ‘puffing your way to Puffin Bay’, which hadn’t been funny the first time he said it, let alone the three millionth.

‘Anyway,’ he said, moving over the rocks behind her. ‘You want to know the other kicker?’

‘Go on.’

‘The absolute worst part of it all is, I totally agreed with them.’

‘What?’ Frankie’s mouth dropped open.

He huffed out a bitter laugh. ‘Yup. That hurts, too, believe it or not. I’d been thinking the same thing, deep down. I just wish they’d waited for me to get back home. We could have talked it all through together. They never had to go behind my back. It makes me feel… betrayed. If they had only waited.’

Frankie narrowly missed standing on a caterpillar that was muscling its way across the pathway ahead. As they walked, she pointed out the old silver mine shaft above Bishops Cove, half hidden in the undergrowth and fenced off lest someone (Blondie) should accidentally fall in.

‘They did,’ she said, as they walked on. ‘Betray you, I mean. It’s really rough. And when did you realise? I mean, when did you start having doubts about the band yourself?’

They were coming further around the island now, and shoulder to shoulder they both stopped to admire the views out across to the east, towards France, across the open sea.