Page 9 of Washed Up

‘That’ll take the heat off me for a bit at least,’ said Michael.

‘Oh Lord,’ said Dylan. ‘You poor thing.’

Frankie laughed. ‘You two can handle my mother, I’m sure. Wait, that sounded wrong.’

Dylan snort laughed. ‘I’m fairly sure you wouldn’t want us to do that.’

Frankie lifted a shoulder and turned to the clothing racks. ‘Wouldn’t bother me. Everyone else has.’

‘Ooh, like that, is it?’

‘Definitely. She’s the fifth tourist attraction on Herm, didn’t you know?’ She couldn’t keep the bitter edge from her voice.

Dylan raised his eyebrows. ‘And which one are you?’ he said, his voice low.

‘Oh yes. Very amusing.’

‘I wasn’t actually joking.’ Dylan took a step closer to her, a lazy smile on his face, and she tensed.

‘So, you need some clothes?’ said Michael, coming out from behind the counter and pointing needlessly to the racks right in front of them.

‘Yes, please,’ said Frankie, gratefully. ‘A jumper, at least. And some decent footwear.’

Dylan looked down at himself. She tried not to let her eyes follow. ‘What’s wrong with my footwear?’

‘Great boots. Crap for the island, trust me. What about a nice pair of Crocs?’ She lifted up a pair of the holey waterproof rubber shoes in sky blue.

Dylan made a face. ‘Those are the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen in my life.’

Frankie smiled. ‘You say that now but I’m telling you, these are the king of shoes. You can even get some little buttons and flowers and things to snap in the holes. Hey, maybe you could get a picture of your “band”?’ She couldn’t resist the air quotes.

‘Good Lord,’ said Dylan, ignoring the jibe. ‘I don’t care what you say, you won’t catch me dead in a pair of those things, I’m telling you now. Anything else?’

‘You’re in a band?’ said Michael, who was leaning against the counter watching this discussion with some amusement.

‘The Misdemeanours,’ Dylan replied casually, flicking through the jackets and anoraks.

‘Flip-flops?’ said Michael with a smirk, pointing at the display.

‘Nope.’

‘Welly boots?’ said Frankie, holding up a pair of yellow wellingtons.

Dylan laughed. ‘Now you’re talking.’

‘I’ve got a matching raincoat,’ said Michael, flicking through the racks.

‘I’m going to look like Paddington Bear,’ sighed Dylan.

‘Cute,’ said Frankie.

‘No photos,’ said Dylan, slipping the raincoat over his wet clothes.

‘I think you might want to actually get changed out of those first, though,’ said Frankie, indicating the drips still coming from his jeans.

Ten minutes and lots of swearing later, Dylan emerged from the changing rooms, a furious expression on his face.

‘If anyone sees me like this,’ he said with a grimace, ‘I swear to God…’