Page 33 of Washed Up

‘What, to your room?’ said Frankie, then cursed herself inwardly for her idiocy.

He laughed. ‘Yes, to my room. What did you think I meant?’

‘I don’t know. It was something to say. I was…’

‘Buying yourself some time?’ he asked, looking deep into her eyes.

‘Yes. Something like that.’

‘And…? What did you decide?’

‘That it would be a terrible idea.’

‘What? Seeing my room? It’s a nice room.’ His dark blue eyes twinkled in the dimly lit foyer.

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. Unlike you I’m sure, I’m not in the habit of sleeping with people I’ve just met.’

He put a hand to his chest in mock hurt. ‘Ouch. Besides we haven’t just met. We’ve spent the whole day together. We’re old friends.’

She tried to make her voice firm. ‘Especially ones I’m never going to see again.’

He pouted, his perfect jaw flexing. ‘Aren’t you at least going to come and see me off tomorrow?’

She sighed, took a step backwards, throwing up walls as best she could. ‘I’ve got stuff to do. There’ll be loads of clean-up from today and all the tourists who were meant to arrive today… they’ll all be on their way over on that very same ferry.’ He looked down at his feet and Frankie’s heart twisted. ‘Look, fine, I can come and wave you off. I’ll see you there.’

He lifted his eyes to hers. ‘Second thoughts, don’t meet me there. Too many people. Meet me in the Fisherman’s Field at 8.30am. Okay? I’d like to say a proper goodbye.’

‘How do you know about Fisherman’s Field?’ said Frankie, a thrill of excitement going through her at his suggestive tone. He wanted to say goodbye. Maybe he would kiss her. Maybe she was going stir-crazy. One of the two.

‘I pay more attention than you give me credit for,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Goodnight, Miss Jacks. Thanks for taking care of me today. It’s been… wild.’ He leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek, then turned and sauntered off down the hall.

‘See you in the morning,’ she said to his retreating back. Without stopping he threw up a hand in a little jaunty wave as if he knew she’d be watching him go, which only annoyed her more. Infuriatingly, he was right.

Frankie trudged back up the hill for what felt like the 45th time that day, her legs aching, but this time she was alone. And although that was her usual, default state, although she had roamed the lanes of this tiny island at all times of the day and night, on her own and in company, millions of times over the years, this time was different. Different how? What had he meant by that? She was aching to run back and ask him, but had a feeling no answer would make her feel better.

Without Dylan by her side, cracking jokes and annoying her and generally being irritating, without him, she felt hollow. Empty. And overwhelmingly sad.

‘Frankie, wait up.’

She’d know that voice anywhere. Jake was huffing up the hill behind her. The wind had died down at last and the evening was eerily still, as if in shock.

‘You okay?’ she said, her voice flat.

‘I thought I’d walk you home,’ said Jake.

‘You don’t live here,’ said Frankie, amused. ‘Where are you even staying tonight?’

‘I’ve sorted one of the Flowers with your mum.’

‘Oh I love those. Which one?’

‘Iris, I think.’

‘Fancy.’

The Flowers were the second set of cottages up on the hill, a small row of terraces that looked east across the open sea of the English Channel. On a clear day, you could see all the way to France.

They fell into step for a few minutes more. When they reached the Manor House, Jake lingered, as if he had something to say.