Page 45 of Washed Up

Not now, sadly. Not now when she really needed it. Instead, she closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of the waves, sloshing back and forth on the sand, soothing her into a stupor as it did every night.

Of course, he’d been on stage. She knew that. How arrogant was it to think he would even have had a chance to send a thought her way, let alone a message. He was in a band. For real life. Playing Wembley of all places. It was ridiculous to even think he’d ever speak to her again. They were poles apart.

But (her brain insisted) he’d taken his last curtain call, or whatever the kids were calling it these days, at least an hour before. So, the longer he didn’t reply, the longer it seemed, well, odd.

The trouble was, now she knew why. Jake had told her why. He’d planted a seed and she couldn’t get it out of her mind, the sneaky bastard. Dylan was probably too busy sleeping with some groupie right this very minute. Maybe two groupies. There was a reason they were called groupies, right? Maybe the term wasn’t, as she had always assumed, because they followed groups about but more because of how they did it. Hunting. In packs.

The thought made her stomach churn. What if Dylan was like that? Even if he reformed, for her, how romantic. Would that matter if he’d already slept with three billion women? She shuddered. Now that was icky.

The phone buzzed. It couldn’t be him. Instagram messages didn’t buzz, after all. She knew they didn’t buzz, and yet she was sitting up in bed staring at the screen before those thoughts had even had time to formulate.

Sally: Are you asleep? Can’t sleep.

This was a regular thing. Sally was an insomniac, mainly through her own incessant need to scroll the depths of the internet at 2am. They’d swapped phones for the night so Frankie could continue her shameless celebrity stalking, but even Frankie’s ancient phone didn’t keep Sally from her favourite habit of Late Night Texting.

Frankie tapped out a reply:

Put your phone away for starters.

Sally: Ha. It’s your phone, remember?

Frankie: Still. Not actually a joke

Sally: Has he replied?

Frankie: How did you know I’d messaged him?

Sally: You forget I know Frankie better than Frankie does.

Frankie: Can you not talk about me in the third person? It’s weird.

Sally: Fine. But Frankie hasn’t yet answered the question.

Frankie: Nothing yet.

Sally: Heartbreak emoji

Frankie: Sally is not helping.

Sally: Soz.

And then, Sally:

Give him time.

Frankie sighed deeply, and scrolled idly back to Instagram for the millionth time, resolving that this would be the last check before bed, and there it was. A message. She blinked. It was from him. A teeny tiny late-night miracle.

As she opened it, her whole body tingled in anticipation.

Dylan: Wow. Shell Beach really is beautiful up close. Thanks so much for getting in touch, it’s great to hear from you. I’ve got to hit the hay, we had a crazy night tonight. I’ve got a day off tomorrow, though, so I’ll message you then. Night x

Wonder of wonders. Miracle of miracles. Joy of bloody joys.

Dylan Wright had messaged her. A world-famous celebrity was now ‘in her DMs’ as Sally would call it. Dylan probably called it that, too. Dylan probably got into people’s DMs all the time. This was most definitely a first for Frankie and she squealed, forgetting how late it was. She stopped, sat up from the pillow, listening anxiously, but there was no noise in the house except the steady snoring from her parents’ room.

She flumped back on the pillow, a stupid grin plastered to her face, and read the message again. And again. And again, and again, and again, her skin practically vibrating with excitement. She lay there for a long time after that, beaming up at the ceiling in the dark, clutching the phone to her chest as if he was right there inside it.

He said he was missing her. He’d sent a x. He said he was going to message her again. This day was rapidly becoming the second-best day of her life. In your face, Jake, she thought.