Page 27 of Washed Up

Where, indeed? She faltered under his gaze. Frankie found she was still unable to look directly at him, he was too shiny, too bright, somehow, like trying to look at a lightbulb. ‘I don’t know. Anywhere.’

‘Where would you go now? If you ran away tomorrow, where would you go?’

He was standing so close that she could see the stubble on his jaw, make out each distinct wave of that dark, glossy hair, windblown as it was. How did he look so good with that dreadful hangover? In the middle of a storm? It simply wasn’t fair.

‘I don’t know. Can we go inside?’

‘Fine, but I am going to ask you again when we get in there.’

‘Fine.’

‘Fine.’

They walked through the door of the pub, the warmth and fug wrapping around them, welcoming them in.

‘Look who it is,’ said Charlie. ‘Back again, eh?’

‘I’ve been in this pub about eighty-five times today,’ said Dylan into her ear.

She giggled as his warm breath caressed her neck. ‘There’s sod all else to do today, let’s be honest,’ said Frankie.

‘True enough.’

Drinks in hand, dinner ordered, they nestled into a table in one of the alcoves. It was cosy. His leg was dangerously close to hers and she tried not to notice how good he smelled. It wasn’t easy.

‘So, then,’ he said, taking a sip of his pint.

‘So, then,’ she said, eyes down, trying to ignore the curious looks and whispers from the island residents at nearby tables who were clearly intrigued by this newcomer.

‘Where would you go? If you could go anywhere?’

‘You’re the expert. I’m only a bumpkin, after all. So where would you recommend?’

His brow crinkled. ‘That’s a difficult one.’

‘Where’s the most amazing place you’ve played a gig?’

He frowned. ‘I thought you didn’t believe me,’ he said. ‘Is this a test?’

‘Kind of, I suppose.’

‘God, I’d better come up with something good. Erm. New York City is pretty incredible.’

‘You’ve played in New York City?’ She was trying not to be sceptical but honestly, what a cliché.

He dipped his head. ‘I have. And LA. And all over the place. New York is something special, though.’

‘I would love to go there,’ she said quietly, studying his face for signs of deception. Had he really played in New York? What kind of band was this?

‘But the best place we’ve played so far… it has to be the Minack.’

‘The what?’

‘The Minack. It’s an outdoor theatre, way, way down at the bottom of Cornwall.’ He waved his phone uselessly around. It was all but out of battery anyhow. ‘I’d show you if I could. You’ll have to google it one day.’

‘You tell me about it,’ said Frankie gently.

His lovely mouth quirked into a smile. ‘You need to see it to believe it. This amazing woman called Rowena something or other essentially hand carved an amphitheatre out of rock and it sits right on the cliff edge. We played in the middle of a super-hot summer, just as it was getting dark, and with fairy lights everywhere, and the sound of the sea crashing on the rocks behind us, it was… well, magical. Surreal, almost.’