Page 94 of Washed Up

Eventually she put a (bold) hand on his. ‘Please. Take the call.’

He looked her right in the eye, then sighed. ‘You’re right, thank you. Please excuse me, I’ll be right back.’

‘Sure, of course. I’ll just learn the dessert list off by heart,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘I might even set it to music.’ Her poor attempt at a joke went over his head, or he was too distracted to hear.

‘I’ll be back shortly,’ he said, grabbing his phone and practically running out of the room.

Cue more sympathetic looks from the youngsters at the back of the restaurant.

‘It’s a phone call,’ she mouthed towards them, before wondering exactly how pathetic she had become. Why was she having to explain herself, explain him, to these children of all people? It rankled as the time went by and for the millionth time that day, she wondered if this is what her life would be like. Sitting in a mansion in Primrose Hill. Waiting. Always waiting for Dylan. Fending off an endless line of lithe young things all eager to take her place.

It wasn’t a good feeling.

Twenty minutes, she told herself. I’ll give him twenty minutes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

After thirty minutes, Frankie stood up. Her face was burning but she walked as calmly as she could past crowded tables, murmurings all around her as the diners casually tried not to look at her, through to the lobby, paid the bill with Sally and set off for home.

Sally’s face had been all scrunched up with pain and pity for her, but she couldn’t face discussing it. And after all, it was no big deal, right? He’d taken a phone call and he’d had to leave. And maybe it was some kind of emergency and if it was, she’d feel terrible for making any kind of fuss. All she could do was leave with a modicum of dignity – okay, none, not a shred of dignity whatsoever – and wait to hear from him. It was a small island. She’d definitely hear from him soon.

There was absolutely no reason to trudge back to the Manor, but trudge she did.

There was absolutely no reason to feel like crying, but she did.

The following morning, of course, after a few hours’ sleep, everything felt a bit better as it so often does. Especially when she flipped over her phone to see a text message from Dylan. Bleary-eyed, she sat up and pulled the covers up to her chin. Condensation dripped down the windows, obscuring the extraordinary view. The Manor House was always cold in the mornings no matter the temperature outside. It was one of its many quirks. She shivered as she peered at her phone in the semi-darkness.

Dylan: I feel awful. I never meant for you to leave but Johnny was going on and on at me and I couldn’t get away. Please forgive me, Island Girl.

Frankie bit her lip. How to reply? Be mad or be nice?

Frankie: Island Girl?

Instantly he was typing a reply. When the three dots appeared *Dylan is typing* warmth spread through her. Or was it relief? Had he been waiting for her? That was a nice feeling.

Dylan: It’s just something I’m trying out. Like it?

Frankie: It needs some work, I think

Dylan: Fine. We can work on it tonight at dinner.

Frankie: (Toes curling)

Aren’t you meant to be writing?

Dylan: Indulge me. I owe you dessert.

Frankie: Fine.

Frankie: Oh.

Dylan: Oh?

Frankie: No.

Dylan: No?

Frankie: Buggeration. It’s Bobby’s last night tonight, I’d better be here. Sorry.