Page 88 of Washed Up

‘I think it’s best I let you get on. You did say you wanted to be alone to write, after all.’ She couldn’t help the slight edge to her voice as she said it.

He frowned. ‘Did I honestly say that? Eugh. I can be such a douchebag sometimes.’

‘No, you’re not… you’re… I mean, it’s fine. I get it. Creative people need space.’

‘Do you create anything, yourself? Other than these fine-looking shortbread biscuits,’ said Dylan, taking a bite. She tried not to watch his mouth.

‘Me? No. Not really. I mean I used to paint once upon a time. Didn’t we all?’

‘That’s awesome.’

‘You didn’t see them.’

‘True. But I bet they were. Awesome, I mean.’

‘I play the keyboards if you must know. And,’ she ventured, ‘I sing a bit.’

His eyes went very wide.

‘Badly,’ she added hastily. ‘Not like you. God, I can’t believe I said that to you of all people.’

‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I’m just a person.’

She scoffed. ‘Just a person. Sure.’

‘I am. Surely that’s become clear by now. And not a very strong one, apparently. I can’t believe your brother had to carry my bags. There goes my ego.’

Frankie shrugged. ‘He likes to show off. All brawn and no brains, that’s Bobby.’

‘Well, it’s impressive. Anyway, never mind that. Tell me about the singing,’ he said, taking another bite of shortbread.

She took a deep breath. ‘It’s stupid. We had a little band when I was younger. There wasn’t much else to do, to be honest. I was the lead singer and the clarinet player and also sometimes the drummer. Bobby was lead guitar and bass, all at the same time. Sally was backing singer and played the tambourine, I think.’

Dylan laughed. ‘Eclectic.’

‘That’s for sure.’

‘Drummers get all the action, I’m just saying.’

‘Do they now?’ said Frankie, pushing a stray curl behind her ear.

‘Trust me.’

‘Well, I wish I’d known that when I was twelve.’ She laughed.

‘And now?’ he said.

‘Now what?’ she said, her voice catching.

‘Do you still play? Or sing?’

‘Not where anyone can hear me.’

‘That’s a shame. Especially with a name like yours. You were practically born to be a musician. All of you were, in fact.’

Frankie frowned, confused.

‘“Sally Cinnamon”? “Bobby’s Girl”? Even “Lily the Pink”. You’re all songs. Or didn’t you realise?’