Page 70 of Washed Up

Frankie cornered her in the hotel reception, where she knew army boys weren’t allowed to linger, during her evening shift.

‘Tell me everything,’ she said, leaning on the counter. ‘But not actually everything. I’m his sister, remember.’

Sally’s smile was as wide as Frankie had ever seen, her face flushed, eyes bright.

‘Oh my God, Franks. It’s so good to see him again. He’s a man now, you know, and I cannot tell you how much he’s grown up. He’s really mature, you know, and he even showed me his uniform, you know, he looks so gorgeous, and he’s a great kisser, I’d forgotten that, you know, and…’

Frankie let her chunter on, gushing about this and that about Bobby until she finally ran out of stream twenty minutes later.

‘Better?’ said Frankie.

‘Much. Thanks,’ said Sally. ‘I’m just so happy.’

Frankie hopped up on the counter next to Sally and swung her legs. ‘I’m very pleased for you, Sal. But seriously…’

‘Seriously what?’

‘Seriously, he’s leaving in a week. He’s going to break your heart all over again.’

‘No, he won’t. I’m much tougher this time,’ said Sally, shaking her head. ‘I’ll be fine. Besides, you never know, he might want to see me again.’

Frankie’s jaw dropped. ‘Is that as good as you can hope for, that he’ll want to see you again sometime? Aren’t you afraid…?’

‘Afraid of what?’

‘That he’s got a girl in every port.’

‘I wasn’t,’ said Sally, leaning back in her chair. ‘Now I am.’ Her forehead crinkled.

‘Now you know how I feel about Dylan,’ said Frankie. Saying that, it turned out, was a mistake.

Sally bristled. ‘It’s nothing like you and Dylan. Dylan’s never going to be able to commit to anything proper. Come on, Frankie.’

‘Is that what you really think?’

‘Course it is. Bobby is real. He loves me. He’s always loved me. He doesn’t have groupies; he’s been saving himself for me. Waiting for me. He told me he only came back to the island for me.’ She clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oops, did I say that out loud?’

‘Did he, now?’ said Frankie, the anger rising in her throat.

‘He told me not to tell you that,’ said Sally, shaking her head.

‘That is typical of him, to be honest. And if you think he’s not had any visitors to the barracks since he left the island, if you honestly think he’s been keeping himself for you, you’re stupider than I thought.’

‘Hey!’ said Sally.

‘Sorry. But honestly, Sal, wake up and smell the roses. Speaking of which, have a listen to this.’ She scrolled to her Instagram to find the track Dylan had sent. But it was gone. Unsent. She panicked, ice dripping down her spine as she scrolled up and down through her messages to find it, but no. It was gone.

‘Strange, he must have deleted it,’ she muttered. Maybe he’d had second thoughts. Who could blame him?

‘What, did he write you a song or something?’ scoffed Sally.

‘Yes. Actually, he did.’

‘Pah. If you think he’d actually pitch that to his bandmates, you’re even stupider than me. What is it, like, here we are on a lovely island in the sun, fa la la. “Mysterious Girl”, Peter Andre, something like that?’

‘It was really good, actually.’

‘Sure it was.’