Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Dylan wrapped his ridiculous waistcoat tighter around him as they closed the door to the little cottage.
By the time Frankie had rustled him up some toothpaste and waited while he splashed some water on his face to wake himself up, the wind had picked up so much that, outside, they had to raise their voices just to hear each other.
‘It’s this way,’ said Frankie, pointing him down the sandy path towards the village.
‘What?’ said Dylan.
‘This way,’ she mouthed, pointing. He nodded some kind of understanding and they set off, Frankie glancing at her watch every few minutes.
‘What’s the hurry?’ said Dylan, who seemed to be struggling to keep up with her.
That was a monster of a hangover, thought Frankie. Not sure I’d even be upright. Out loud she said, ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a storm coming.’
‘What?’ said Dylan, again.
‘A storm,’ she shouted.
‘You don’t say,’ he replied.
‘Just come on.’
They stumbled along in silence until they reached a more sheltered section of the path and could finally hear each other.
Trees formed a natural arch here over the sandy track.
A moss-covered stone wall ambled its way down one side.
It was normally one of Frankie’s favourite spots.
But today, all she could hear was the wind roaring in her ears.
As they rounded the corner onto the coastal path, Dylan gave a low whistle.
‘Woah.’
Frankie flushed with pride. ‘I know.’
Before them lay the reason Frankie loved this spot so much.
The view. A wide expanse of the English Channel was spread out before them, and beyond it a large island, Guernsey, with its spread of cottages and shops across the hillside and a harbour jutting out into the bay.
Much closer, on this side of the water, was Bear’s Beach, a long stretch of sand dotted with rocks.
The tide was out and the sea between the two islands was choppy, waves topped with white foam.
The air was misty with rain that hadn’t quite reached them yet.
‘It’s beautiful on a sunny day,’ said Frankie, a little defensively.
‘I’m sure,’ muttered Dylan. His jaw was clenched against the wind, which had a sharp, biting edge to it, and he was breathing heavily.
‘It is. One of the most beautiful places on earth, I think. Shell Beach is just incredible.’ When he didn’t respond she got a bit flustered. ‘But as I was saying, the storm means they’ll stop the ferries. You’ll be stuck here.’
That bit, he heard. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You heard me. You’ll be stuck here.’
Dylan shook his head. ‘That simply can’t happen. I’m needed back over there,’ he said, gesturing to where Guernsey was getting increasingly obscured by rain.
‘It can and it will happen if we don’t get a move on,’ said Frankie.
‘So it’s happened before?’
‘Frequently.’
‘Those bloody gits. I bet they knew that as well.’
‘Which gits? What are you talking about?’
Dylan sighed. ‘My bloody band, of course. They must have got me drunk after the gig and stuck me on the ferry.’
Frankie let out a guffaw. ‘That’s pretty funny.’
‘Easy for you to say. You’re not trying to navigate sand in a pair of cowboy boots.’
Frankie looked down at her own outfit, the classic flowing skirt and T-shirt combo she’d worn pretty much daily since she was sixteen.
But she did have a coat. And sensible footwear at least. Her Converse served her well on this terrain.
Dylan on the other hand was slipping and sliding all over the place.
At this rate they were definitely going to miss the ferry.
‘Come on. Let’s go.’
She was practically dragging him now. She hadn’t yet told him they still had to face the walk down the stony steep Rosaire Steps, the second of two mooring points on the island, to meet the boat, and something told her he wasn’t particularly going to enjoy that.
She wondered if she ought to phone ahead, actually check it was running.
As if reading her thoughts, Dylan said, ‘Can’t you call them?’
‘Yeah, we can call from the pub, if we ever get to the village.’
‘Don’t you have a mobile?’
‘Don’t you?’ she countered.
‘I do. Mine is. Wait. Where the hell is mine?’ He began patting his pockets frantically. ‘Shit. We have to go back to the cottage.’
‘There’s no time.’
‘I can’t be without my phone.’
‘Well, you’ll have to, I’m afraid. And mine’s at my house. Wait a minute. Did you say band?’
‘What?’ Dylan was frantically patting down his skinny jeans. Frankie raised her eyebrows. There wasn’t much space in those jeans for anything much at all beyond, er, him, let alone a phone.
‘You said your “band”?’
‘Oh. Yes. My band,’ he said absently, still patting away as if his mobile was going to magically appear at any moment.
‘What does that mean exactly?’
Dylan stopped patting and let out a sigh.
Rubbed a hand across his face. ‘Look, it’s not that difficult.
I’m in a band. We were playing at the festival on Guernsey.
After the set we had a few hundred drinks and then we went and sat on the harbour wall.
That’s the last thing I can remember. Unless you’ve seen any other musicians lying about the place, I’m guessing they put me on the ferry for a laugh. ’
Her eyebrows went higher. ‘You? You’re in a band?’
‘Yes. I’m in a band. I don’t dress like this on a daily basis, believe it or not.’
‘Sure you are.’
‘I’m not kidding.’
‘Uh-huh. So you’re telling me you were performing? At the Guernsey RockFest? Last night?’
He looked exasperated. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. Now where the hell is my phone?’
‘Yeah, right. Which band is this, exactly?’
‘Oh. Just the Misdemeanours.’
She could have sworn he stuck out his chest a little as he said this. Not that she was looking at it, of course. ‘Who?’
‘Very funny. Come on, shall we get going?’
‘I was being serious. Who the flipping Nora are the Misdemeanours? You must think I was born yesterday.’
‘I think you’re very annoying, that’s what I think.
Now can we please go back and get my phone?
’ His dark blue eyes were so wide that she nearly relented.
But she knew it would be a mistake they might both regret.
If she wanted to get rid of this intruder quick smart – and preferably before her mother laid eyes on him – it had to be now.
‘Come on. We’re nearly at the pub. We can phone the ferry, then at least we’ll know.’
Dylan rolled his eyes. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
They put their heads into the wind and carried on walking, Dylan scowling like a trooper.
‘The Misdemeanours, indeed,’ said Frankie, shaking her head. This was one crazy start to the weekend.
‘Do you even know who that is?’ said Dylan. ‘We’re only one of the biggest bands in the world right now.’
Frankie shrugged. ‘No clue. Not totally up on my music, I’m afraid. Which is probably why you thought you could pull that bullshit and get away with it.’
‘If I had my phone I could show–’
‘Yes, and you conveniently don’t, do you?’
‘God, you’re impossible.’
‘And you’re a liar.’
‘Just come on.’