Page 91 of Washed Up

‘The usual, Frankie?’ called out Betty, who never missed anything, even in a throng of tourists.

‘Lifesaver, thank you,’ said Frankie.

And sure enough, a few minutes later, Betty appeared at her side with a cappuccino and a chocolate oat bar. Surplus to the order but much needed at that moment. Frankie handed over some coins and took a grateful slurp of coffee, holding the cake-laden paper bag to her chest like a comforter.

‘Thank you, Betty,’ she said.

‘You’re welcome, darlin’. Cake’s on me.’ Betty hesitated by the table, one eye on the queue at the kiosk. ‘Everything okay?’ she said gently. Frankie knew she really meant, ‘Who on earth was that lovely young man you were here with the other day?’ but to her credit she didn’t say it.

‘Yes, all good, thanks, Betty,’ said Frankie. Don’t ask me anything else.

‘How did things go with our lovely Jake?’ she said. There it was. The emphasis, though subtle, was on the ‘our’. He wasn’t an islander, but he was still considered part of the family. Dylan definitely was not.

‘The crab sandwiches were delicious,’ said Frankie, forcing a smile. ‘Thank you.’

Betty visibly shone with the praise. ‘I’m so pleased. He’s a delightful young man.’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Frankie.

‘If I may say so, I think you two make a beautiful couple.’

Frankie shook her head. ‘Oh no, we’re not a couple.’

‘You’re not?’ said Betty, crestfallen. ‘I just assumed. The picnic and all.’ She said the words as if Frankie had somehow implicated the crab sandwiches in the relationship failure. ‘Or do you just mean, not yet?’ she added with a wink.

‘It’s complicated,’ said Frankie. ‘But trust me, you’ll be the first to know.’ She took a deep breath, then an enormous bite of her oat bar so Betty couldn’t ask her anything else. The queue was getting fractious in the heat of the day.

‘I’ll leave you to it, dear,’ said Betty, backing away, eyes on the line behind her that was growing by the second.

Frankie waved her thanks and went back to her food, inwardly rolling her eyes. This bloody island.

She picked up her phone and began idly scrolling. What had become of her? Idle scrolling is what other people did. What people like Dylan did. Not Frankie. And anyway, Dylan was here. He was on the island right now… after all her longing. All that Instagram stalking. All the times she’d nearly written him messages only to delete them at the last second. All the late-night doom scrolling, looking for a girlfriend. Then it hit her. Dylan hadn’t so much as looked at his phone in the whole time she’d been with him. That was strange, to say the least. Even in the little time she’d known him, she knew that was strange.

A family with what seemed like at least eight or nine young children clambered onto the next table. The children were fractious and clearly hungry from waiting, yelling noisily and arguing over whose sandwich was whose even though they all seemed to have ordered the same thing.

Frankie sighed and fished out her EarPods. She wasn’t quite used to the underwater feeling of them, but they’d come free with the new phone and she had found them to be a Godsend lately, both when she was cleaning cottages and when she was trying to block out her family’s nonsense. She went to her music app and put Dylan Wright into the search engine. Loads of Misdemeanours music, of course. Then, further down, ‘Dylan Wright is hot’. A playlist dedicated to Dylan. There were several, in fact, mostly from women but not all. Playlists of thirsty songs dedicated to everyone’s favourite frontman. To her favourite frontman.

Something lurched in her chest.

It had occurred to her before, of course. Many times. But somehow this time it went from head to heart, like a coin drop in a slot machine. Thousands of girls wanted Dylan Wright. Millions, probably. Those eyes. That smile. The swagger. It was undeniably sexy. And here was the proof. They were well and truly lusting after him.

What right did she have to even consider he might want her, of all people?

And if she did. If they, heaven forfend, actually got together. What then? What would life be like as Dylan Wright’s girlfriend? It was laughable, honestly.

Frankie took a sip of coffee, another deep breath, then put those precise words into Google. Dylan Wright’s girlfriend. She finished off the oat bar, chewing nervously as the search results dropped in. There he was, pictured again and again with glamorous women at various awards ceremonies. None she recognised, but then, she hadn’t even recognised him. Plenty of images of him looking hot, mostly in that leather waistcoat, dark jeans, occasionally in a dark suit and blue shirt, looking, God damn him, absolutely edible. What there wasn’t though, thank God, were any stories about a girlfriend. All the headlines were speculative.

Is Dylan Wright dating Lindsey Luft?

Rockington sister pictured with Dylan Wright at Brit Awards.

Dylan Wright embraces unknown girl on street.

She paused at that one. Backtracked. But it was a grainy half-focused image of Dylan that may or may not have been him standing vaguely close to a woman on a busy road. That was it. They were clutching at straws. And it made her feel strangely comforted.

How did he keep his love life so private? He must have had one. Must have one.

What the hell, she thought, almost snorting her coffee over the table, would they make of him dating someone from Herm of all places?