Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As he surveyed her bedroom a few minutes later, Dylan rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It’s actually lovely,’ he said.
And it was. Frankie’s room had a large four poster bed her mum and dad had salvaged and restored, and the walls were half panelled with oak on three sides.
But it was the windows that made it. Windows on two sides of the room gave panoramic views out across the island.
Frankie and Dylan stood side by side at the larger window, watching the trees bend in the wind and beyond, the waves tossed with foam.
And in the middle, through the gloom, there shone a long strip of pale-yellow sand.
‘What’s that?’ said Dylan.
‘That,’ said Frankie, all too conscious of his arm brushing against hers, ‘is Shell Beach.’
‘That’s Shell Beach?’
‘Yup.’ She couldn’t contain the pride in her voice. ‘I know I sound like a broken record. It might not look like much at the moment, but in the sunshine I swear it’s one of the most beautiful places on earth.’
‘It’s beautiful now,’ said Dylan, staring out across the island.
‘I wish I could take you down there,’ said Frankie.
‘Why don’t you?’ Dylan glanced at her.
‘It’s a long way in this wind. Further than it looks. And honestly, I’d rather you saw it at its best.’
Dylan turned to stare out at the island once more. ‘What if I never come back?’ he said quietly.
Frankie swallowed. ‘I think that would be a mistake,’ she said simply. She felt him move next to her, as if surprised by her comment.
‘Fair enough,’ was all he said.
‘I mean it. Herm is incredible. If this is the only time you ever see it, hungover and dressed like Paddington Bear, in the middle of a hurricane or whatever the hell this is, you’re a damn fool.’
He turned his body so he was facing her. Reluctantly, almost shyly, she matched the movement. He was inches away from her. In her bedroom. This was totally surreal.
‘You really love this place, don’t you?’ he said, looking down at her, his eyes hooded.
She nodded. ‘You might not think it’s much. You’re probably wondering why I’ve stayed this long and it’s a fair question. It’s beautiful. And it’s home. I wouldn’t trade places for anything.’ Most of her, at least more than half of her, was telling the truth.
Something sparked in his navy-blue eyes. ‘I like that,’ he said. ‘I like your passion.’
Something like electricity buzzed down her spine as he said that word. ‘What are you passionate about?’ she asked, scanning his face.
He visibly flinched. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You must be passionate about something. You’re a musician, for God’s sake. You should be passionate about everything.’
‘Oh, so you believe me now?’ he said.
She shrugged. Did she? He was obnoxious enough to be famous but that was about it. ‘I mean, not really, but I’m leaning in for the jokes.’
‘Fine. Suit yourself. And no, I don’t think I have anything I feel that passionate about, to be honest.’ His chuckle was mirthless.
‘Yikes,’ said Frankie. ‘Maybe you need to find it.’
‘What?’
‘Your muse,’ she breathed. His dark blue eyes studied her face for a long moment. With an effort, she pulled her gaze from his. ‘Come on, race you back to the pub.’
Frankie knew she had to put a stop to this – whatever this was – before it even started.
For her own sanity. For her peace of mind.
If she didn’t do it now, she might never be able to.
And then where would she be? He’d be gone tomorrow, back to whatever it was he actually did, whatever kind of life he had out there in the world, and she’d be left on the island.
Bereft and abandoned. And the last thing she needed right now was a broken heart.
The pub was packed with tourists and stragglers alike by the time they made it down.
The walk had been in silence, partly because of the wind, of course, although they had adjusted to it quite well by now, but mainly because of the tension crackling between them.
At least, Frankie felt like there was tension crackling between them.
Whether Dylan was feeling the same was anyone’s guess.
He’d spent the whole trip looking at his phone, holding it out at different angles trying to find even the tiniest scrap of wifi.
It may have been irrational, but deep down she was a bit annoyed that he wasn’t appreciating the scenery, which she had never tired of, not once, in all these years.
Not even in the middle of a mini hurricane.
Liar, came a voice from deep down inside.
It was true. There had been once. When Frankie was a teenager, in fact, there had been a time when leaving Herm was all she could think about, but at that point, she’d been tired of everything.
Bored of the island. Bored of her family.
Bored of the same old routines. When she was sixteen, she’d even planned her escape, planned to hop aboard the ferry one day without even saying goodbye, fantasised about phoning her dad from Spain or Italy or somewhere even further afield, to let him know she’d finally done it.
That had been perfectly normal behaviour for a teenager, right?
Teenagers the world over wanted to escape the confines of the place they grew up, after all, to spread their wings and see the sights and meet new people and all that jazz.
She had got as close as standing on the jetty with a backpack, watching the Herm Trident make its slow, careful way across the Little Roussel, as the channel between the islands was known.
She’d got that far and then the thought of her parents being so sad at her leaving them without a word, of her father’s face when he discovered she was missing, it was enough to stop her in her tracks.
She couldn’t do it to them. It was as simple as that.
Since that day, Frankie had either grown out of it or through it, she wasn’t sure which, but now, most of the time anyway, she could convince herself she was happy with her lot in life.
She’d never had the ambition to leave or go and have an adventure when there was one right here.
How many people got to grow up and live their lives on a bona fide desert island?
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ said Dylan as they arrived in the tiny village, ducking into the shelter along the side of the pub building.
‘Are people still saying penny for your thoughts?’
‘I am.’
‘If you must know, I was thinking about running away.’
‘Is it because of the wind? I mean, because this is Wizard of Oz levels of wind. If you wait long enough it might take you somewhere anyway.’
‘Are you saying I look like the wicked witch?’
He held up his hands. ‘Of course not.’
‘Hmmm. No, I mean I was thinking about the time I thought about running away.’
He blinked at her. They’d arrived at the pub and she paused, feeling uncomfortable, even though she was the one who had started this conversation. His eyes were on hers now, seeing into her very soul or so it felt. One dark eyebrow lifted.
‘What happened to this being the best place on the entire planet?’ said Dylan.
‘It is.’
‘But you just said you thought about running away.’
‘When I was fifteen or something, yeah.’
‘Where would you have gone?’
Where, indeed? She faltered under his gaze. Frankie found she was still unable to look directly at him, he was too shiny, too bright, somehow, like trying to look at a lightbulb. ‘I don’t know. Anywhere.’
‘Where would you go now? If you ran away tomorrow, where would you go?’
He was standing so close that she could see the stubble on his jaw, make out each distinct wave of that dark, glossy hair, windblown as it was. How did he look so good with that dreadful hangover? In the middle of a storm? It simply wasn’t fair.
‘I don’t know. Can we go inside?’
‘Fine, but I am going to ask you again when we get in there.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
They walked through the door of the pub, the warmth and fug wrapping around them, welcoming them in.
‘Look who it is,’ said Charlie. ‘Back again, eh?’
‘I’ve been in this pub about eighty-five times today,’ said Dylan into her ear.
She giggled as his warm breath caressed her neck. ‘There’s sod all else to do today, let’s be honest,’ said Frankie.
‘True enough.’
Drinks in hand, dinner ordered, they nestled into a table in one of the alcoves. It was cosy. His leg was dangerously close to hers and she tried not to notice how good he smelled. It wasn’t easy.
‘So, then,’ he said, taking a sip of his pint.
‘So, then,’ she said, eyes down, trying to ignore the curious looks and whispers from the island residents at nearby tables who were clearly intrigued by this newcomer.
‘Where would you go? If you could go anywhere?’
‘You’re the expert. I’m only a bumpkin, after all. So where would you recommend?’
His brow crinkled. ‘That’s a difficult one.’
‘Where’s the most amazing place you’ve played a gig?’
He frowned. ‘I thought you didn’t believe me,’ he said. ‘Is this a test?’
‘Kind of, I suppose.’
‘God, I’d better come up with something good. Erm. New York City is pretty incredible.’
‘You’ve played in New York City?’ She was trying not to be sceptical but honestly, what a cliché.
He dipped his head. ‘I have. And LA. And all over the place. New York is something special, though.’
‘I would love to go there,’ she said quietly, studying his face for signs of deception. Had he really played in New York? What kind of band was this?
‘But the best place we’ve played so far… it has to be the Minack.’
‘The what?’
‘The Minack. It’s an outdoor theatre, way, way down at the bottom of Cornwall.’ He waved his phone uselessly around. It was all but out of battery anyhow. ‘I’d show you if I could. You’ll have to google it one day.’
‘You tell me about it,’ said Frankie gently.
His lovely mouth quirked into a smile. ‘You need to see it to believe it. This amazing woman called Rowena something or other essentially hand carved an amphitheatre out of rock and it sits right on the cliff edge. We played in the middle of a super-hot summer, just as it was getting dark, and with fairy lights everywhere, and the sound of the sea crashing on the rocks behind us, it was… well, magical. Surreal, almost.’
She was staring again. She knew she was staring but she couldn’t look away.
‘What?’ he said, after a moment.
‘Sorry. I was distracted, that’s all. It sounds incredible.’
His eyes dropped to her lips. Warmth spread through her body at the hint of suggestion in that look. The glimmer of something reckless, inviting.
‘Why does everyone keep looking over this way,’ she said, just for something to say. ‘Haven’t they got enough to worry about today?’
‘They can’t take their eyes off you,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Just like me.’
For a second, Frankie was speechless. The warmth grew to a dull ache deep in her belly.
‘I…’ she began, lost in the midnight of his eyes.
‘There you are,’ said a familiar voice. Sally was standing over their table, eyebrows to the heavens. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Frankie without breaking eye contact with Dylan. ‘There’s only here and you haven’t looked here yet.’
‘Well, I’ve found you now, anyway. Budge up.’
Looking away from those eyes was almost physically painful. Frankie edged a little closer to Dylan so Sally could squeeze onto the end of their bench around the tiny table. Dylan cleared his throat as their legs touched.
‘So,’ said Sally, eyes flashing. ‘What have you two been up to? And is your dad okay? I heard what happened.’
‘News travels fast,’ said Dylan.
‘You have no idea,’ said Sally with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.
‘He’s fine,’ said Frankie. ‘Got a nasty bruise but we’ll get Dr Mac over tomorrow.’
‘Mmm-mmm,’ said Sally dreamily.
‘Dr Mac?’ said Dylan.
‘Oh, he’s about 105, don’t you worry,’ said Sally before Frankie could reply.
‘Why would I be worried?’ said Dylan, his face a picture of innocence.
‘Don’t want some handsome doctor stealing away our Frankie here, do you?’
Frankie spluttered. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ she said, the words sticking in her throat.
Dylan looked amused. ‘Is he a hot 105-year-old, that’s the question?’ he said as he edged out of his seat. ‘You did make a mmm-mmm noise. Which is weird if he is genuinely a centenarian.’
Frankie guffawed.
‘What?’ he said, with a grin. ‘It’s a word. Want a drink, Sally?’
‘Sure, thanks,’ said Sally. ‘What she’s having, please.’
‘Same again?’ said Dylan, pointing to Frankie’s G&T.
‘Yes, please,’ said Frankie, the words catching in her throat. Just like me, he’d said. In a life achingly short of romance, she’d nearly keeled over at those words.
He nodded, gave her a little wink, then sauntered over to the bar, his lean body filling out his new chinos nicely, or at least, Frankie might have noticed that fact, had she been looking.
‘That man has no right to be that hot,’ said Sally with a low whistle.
‘What man?’ said Frankie as she drained the last of her glass.
‘Frankie Jacks, you absolute player,’ said Sally, giving her a nudge.
‘Bugger off. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You bloody do,’ said Sally.
‘Well bugger off anyway.’
‘I just got here.’