Page 46 of Washed Up

She spent the next hour wondering whether to reply, agonising over whether to reply. Tapping out drafts, then deleting them. She was so, so desperate to do so, and only with some difficulty managed to talk herself into waiting. Managed to convince herself to Play. It. Cool. If he was the player that he seemed to be, that Jake had said he was, if he really was that bad, it wouldn’t hurt him to wait.

Besides, how many times did you get DMd by a celebrity?

He said he’d message me tomorrow. That’s enough for now.

Despite the fraught night’s sleep, Frankie woke early the next morning, as she always did. It was inevitable with no curtains, but no amount of nagging from her mum could ever make her change her mind about that particular design decision.

She sat up and stared for a moment or two out of the window, taking in the nature of the light, calculating as she always did how early was early from the position of the sun, hanging as it was buttery and golden inches above the horizon. Sevenish, she estimated. She reached for the phone to check but it wasn’t in her hand. She peered over the side of the bed and her heart skipped a beat. There was Sally’s phone, lying on the wooden floor, screen severely cracked. She must have gone to sleep with it in her hand. That was so not like her.

Frankie leapt out of bed and grabbed it, pressing the power button over and over, but no, no amount of coaxing would turn it on. Cracks covered the screen. Even if she could turn it on, it wouldn’t be readable.

‘No, no, no, no, no,’ she muttered out loud as frustrated tears pricked her eyes. This could not be happening. All she could think of were Dylan’s words, I’ll message you in the morning.

Of all the bloody times to not have a phone. Never mind that Sally was going to actually murder her. Frankie got up and paced about her room for a bit, but she already knew what she had to do.

Two hours later she was racing down to the harbour to catch the first ferry to Guernsey.

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ she muttered all the way down, praying she wasn’t too late. She waved quickly at Jake as he buzzed past her on his little ATV, ducking her head in the hope he wouldn’t stop to talk. When it looked like he might, she sped up, her legs breaking into a run briefly. The ferry was about to leave, but Captain Steve had spied her and was holding his position by the dock. His first mate, Graham – none of the crew were older than thirty but they all seemed to have 1980s names for some reason – took her hand and helped her onto the boat, smirking in his usual way as he did so. He loved flirting with the tourists and basically anybody, including Frankie. She ignored him, or at least, she tried to, grimacing when she realised no one else was on board at this early hour. They were both going to try to talk to her if she wasn’t careful.

‘I’m going to sit up top if that’s okay?’ she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder, clattering up the wide iron steps before they could answer.

The trip across to Guernsey was only twenty minutes and Frankie never got tired of the trip. It was a beautiful sunny day and she settled into a seat by the front railing to watch the world go by as the little Travel Trident backed out of the harbour and picked its way through the narrow channel towards Jethou, the privately owned island off Herm’s southwest coast. Jethou was quiet this morning. It was owned by a rich family who occasionally helicoptered or jet boated in and out for a wild party or two, but mostly they left it in the care of their lovely old housekeeper, Martha, and her husband. Frankie had only been over to the island once or twice but it had always fascinated her.

As they rounded the North side of Jethou and hit open water, Frankie inhaled sharply. The sun was sparkling off the water in the English Channel, the sea shining with a million diamonds. And there, bobbing about close to the Jethou coast was a little group of puffins. They were so small and dark it was easy to miss them, and it was one of Frankie’s favourite hobbies, scanning the water for these funny little birds, the thrill of seeing one never getting old. Ten today, she counted, all in a little group, moving gently up and down with the waves as the ferry trundled past.

The ferry made great time across the channel, dodging the larger ships, and Frankie clung to the railing, enjoying the feel of the water spray on her skin, the sea fresh and lightly perfumed. Guernsey loomed larger before them now, the island huge by comparison to Herm, and the large granite harbour at St Peter Port was packed full of boats, moving lightly about on their moorings. The familiar chock-chock of flags from all nations flapped against their masts in the light summer breeze. Castle Cornet, the 800-year-old castle standing at the mouth of the harbour, loomed impressively on her left as they navigated their way through and slid alongside the Trident mooring, where a huge queue of tourists impatiently waited for their chance to spend the day on Herm. Frankie smiled and waved at them, then jumped quickly down the steps and onto the dock before they’d even finished tying off. Several of the tourists gave her a curious look, wondering no doubt whether she’d stayed the night on the island, and she resisted the childish urge to tell them it was her home.

‘Back in a bit,’ she called, giving Graham a wide berth as he dropped her a wink. He would be a bit more of an option, she thought, as she had many times before, if he didn’t like to use ten layers of fake tan so his skin was verging on orange. Or, for that matter, if he didn’t dye the tips of his brown hair blond. The overall effect was like he’d been booted off a boy band tour bus.

Frankie hit the pavements of St Peter Port, which despite the early hour was already bustling. It was Monday and that meant it would soon be busy as the large cruise ships often made their stop here to explore the pretty town. Quick, quick, quick, she sang to herself as she nipped across the road from the harbour and made her way past the little church and up the hill to the electronics store. Judging by the number of new boutiques and clothing shops that seemed to have opened even since she’d last been over, St Peter Port was thriving, thanks in no small part to the tax-free shopping on offer. It was good to see. She always loved coming here, even if she was always delighted to get back home, too.

An hour later, she was £500 poorer. It was amazing how quickly it had happened. She’d gone in to buy a replacement for Sally and come away with a smartphone for herself, too. Her first one ever. The salesman has just been too convincing. The pull of constant access to Instagram – Dylan’s account, at least – was just too strong. What else were savings for, right? And despite the pain in her wallet, Frankie actually skipped back down the high street, stopping on a whim to buy a can of Coke and a newspaper, trying to look intellectual, pretending to be newly interested in Guernsey’s political complexities but really just desperate for any news of him.

She sat down on a bench near the harbour and flicked through it anxiously, the sea breeze catching each page as she turned. And sure enough, there it was. Page 10. A review of the Guernsey festival. The Misdemeanours headline set. Five stars. And across the middle of the page there was an enormous picture of the band, with Dylan front and centre, looking absolutely delicious, sweaty and confident, staring down the camera with that little swagger, eyes intense, almost daring. It sent a little shiver down her spine and she tried not to wonder if he’d been flirting with whoever was behind the lens.

She headed back across to the ferry, unzipping and re-zipping her backpack for the hundredth time to make sure both shiny new phones were still there, anxiety rising in her throat at the thought of telling Sally, yes, but mostly that he might have DMd her and she wouldn’t be there to reply, even as she knew how desperate that sounded. Still. A few more agonising minutes and she’d be online and he’d be none the wiser.

When she jumped off the boat back at Herm, however, it was clear that God had other ideas. Frankie’s heart sank when she rounded the bend from Rosaire Steps harbour and found a small crowd of locals gathered in front of the village sign, ropes and buckets in hand.

This could only mean one thing.

The donkeys were on the loose again.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

‘Ah, Frankie, there you are,’ said her father, who was clearly leading the expedition. He looked pale, and his hair was dishevelled this morning, sticking up at all angles, but then the donkeys did tend to have that effect.

‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘One guess,’ said Jake, rolling his eyes.

‘Donkeys,’ said Frankie.

‘Got it in one,’ said Charlie, already opening a packet of ginger nut biscuits in preparation.

Wow, thought Frankie, this is serious. The ginger nuts were the donkeys’ absolute favourite and therefore only ever came out in emergencies. ‘Where are they?’ she said.

Her dad grimaced. ‘It’ll be easier to show you.’