Page 93 of Washed Up

He cocked his head to the side. ‘That’s a point, why didn’t you?’

Frankie pretended to swipe at his breadstick with her finger. ‘Well firstly, it was in the middle of a storm so my spies were hunkered down in safety. And secondly, because you hadn’t just stepped off the ferry. You were passed out on our bed with a hangover the size of Manhattan. And thirdly, because I never read the glossy magazines and I couldn’t care less about celebrity gossip.’

‘Frankie Jacks, you are a breath of fresh air,’ said Dylan.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Never mind, ignore me. Shall we eat?’

‘Let’s.’

The food was served surprisingly quickly, with waiters and waitresses tripping over themselves to serve them drinks, check how the food was, top up their water, so much so that Sally actually came over at one point and shooed them all away from the table, raising her eyebrows at Frankie as she did so. Dylan took it all in good humour, but Frankie was already starting to wonder how he actually went about his daily life with any kind of normality.

She was also painfully aware that the dining room was dated, it needed painting, the burgundy tablecloths were tired and faded, and there was a faint smell of cabbage. She’d always known it wasn’t the most up to date of locations but with Dylan here, for the first time in her life, she was almost a little embarrassed. It must be a far cry from the Michelin starred restaurants and fancy bars he was used to. She was instantly ashamed of herself for even thinking it.

‘Where do you live, then, when you’re not touring?’ she said as they tucked into their meals. The crowd had finally dispersed, although Frankie was painfully aware that the other hotel guests were all pretending to chat while they watched them. And listening in, no doubt.

‘In north London,’ said Dylan. ‘I’ve got a little place in Primrose Hill.’ He winced. ‘Is that a horrible cliché?’

‘Not at all, makes sense,’ said Frankie, making a note to google it later. Somewhere expensive, no doubt. She was willing herself to think of some better questions. If the invitation had been casual, it was feeling a little like a date right now, even if Dylan did seem rather on edge.

He coughed, as if aware of the vast chasm between them. ‘But I was born in Cambridge,’ he said, as if that made him somehow down to earth.

She bit her lip to hide a smile. ‘You didn’t want to stay there? I’ve heard it’s lovely.’

‘It is, but no. I was out of there as soon as I could. If you’re an academic and can get into the university it’s obviously amazing but if not, you want to get the hell out.’

‘I get that.’

‘What about you? Did you ever want to go to university?’ He had this way of looking you right in the eye when he asked a question, as if he was genuinely interested in what you had to say. It was rare, in Frankie’s limited experience at least. She wasn’t sure if she liked it. Somehow his gaze, his interest, it was lovely to have his attention, of course, for however little or long she might have it, but it also made her squirm. Like the glare of the sun.

‘I thought about it, I won’t lie. But when Bobby left, you know, I thought…’

‘You thought the ferry had sailed,’ said Dylan, grinning.

She couldn’t help but smile back. ‘Yes, exactly.’

Dylan’s phone began buzzing on the table. He glanced down at it, then turned it over quickly, but not quickly enough.

‘Johnny,’ said Frankie. ‘Isn’t he…?’

Dylan caught her eye. ‘From the band, yes.’

‘Well, you can get it, that’s fine, I don’t mind.’

He frowned. ‘I… No, honestly, I couldn’t do that. He’ll call me later.’

‘Really?’

‘Honestly. I know what it is. It’s not urgent.’

The phone stopped buzzing, then started again seconds later.

‘I mean, it seems urgent.’

‘No, it’s fine.’

Dylan’s mouth was a tight line. They tried to continue the conversation but every few seconds the phone would start ringing again, and even when it wasn’t, it was clear Dylan was majorly distracted.