Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Frankie lay on her bed, staring out of the window into the darkness beyond.
No need for curtains around here. No one was ever around to see in, after all, and it meant she could see the sea at all hours of the day, right from the comfort of her bed.
Waking up to a dawn on Herm, watching the sun rise from the ocean, even day after day, was still extraordinary.
Not now, sadly. Not now when she really needed it. Instead, she closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of the waves, sloshing back and forth on the sand, soothing her into a stupor as it did every night.
Of course, he’d been on stage. She knew that.
How arrogant was it to think he would even have had a chance to send a thought her way, let alone a message.
He was in a band. For real life. Playing Wembley of all places.
It was ridiculous to even think he’d ever speak to her again. They were poles apart.
But (her brain insisted) he’d taken his last curtain call, or whatever the kids were calling it these days, at least an hour before. So, the longer he didn’t reply, the longer it seemed, well, odd.
The trouble was, now she knew why. Jake had told her why.
He’d planted a seed and she couldn’t get it out of her mind, the sneaky bastard.
Dylan was probably too busy sleeping with some groupie right this very minute.
Maybe two groupies. There was a reason they were called groupies, right?
Maybe the term wasn’t, as she had always assumed, because they followed groups about but more because of how they did it. Hunting. In packs.
The thought made her stomach churn. What if Dylan was like that? Even if he reformed, for her, how romantic. Would that matter if he’d already slept with three billion women? She shuddered. Now that was icky.
The phone buzzed. It couldn’t be him. Instagram messages didn’t buzz, after all. She knew they didn’t buzz, and yet she was sitting up in bed staring at the screen before those thoughts had even had time to formulate.
Sally: Are you asleep? Can’t sleep.
This was a regular thing. Sally was an insomniac, mainly through her own incessant need to scroll the depths of the internet at 2am.
They’d swapped phones for the night so Frankie could continue her shameless celebrity stalking, but even Frankie’s ancient phone didn’t keep Sally from her favourite habit of Late Night Texting.
Frankie tapped out a reply:
Put your phone away for starters.
Sally: Ha. It’s your phone, remember?
Frankie: Still. Not actually a joke
Sally: Has he replied?
Frankie: How did you know I’d messaged him?
Sally: You forget I know Frankie better than Frankie does.
Frankie: Can you not talk about me in the third person? It’s weird.
Sally: Fine. But Frankie hasn’t yet answered the question.
Frankie: Nothing yet.
Sally: Heartbreak emoji
Frankie: Sally is not helping.
Sally: Soz.
And then, Sally:
Give him time.
Frankie sighed deeply, and scrolled idly back to Instagram for the millionth time, resolving that this would be the last check before bed, and there it was. A message. She blinked. It was from him. A teeny tiny late-night miracle.
As she opened it, her whole body tingled in anticipation.
Dylan: Wow. Shell Beach really is beautiful up close. Thanks so much for getting in touch, it’s great to hear from you. I’ve got to hit the hay, we had a crazy night tonight. I’ve got a day off tomorrow, though, so I’ll message you then. Night x
Wonder of wonders. Miracle of miracles. Joy of bloody joys.
Dylan Wright had messaged her. A world-famous celebrity was now ‘in her DMs’ as Sally would call it.
Dylan probably called it that, too. Dylan probably got into people’s DMs all the time.
This was most definitely a first for Frankie and she squealed, forgetting how late it was.
She stopped, sat up from the pillow, listening anxiously, but there was no noise in the house except the steady snoring from her parents’ room.
She flumped back on the pillow, a stupid grin plastered to her face, and read the message again.
And again. And again, and again, and again, her skin practically vibrating with excitement.
She lay there for a long time after that, beaming up at the ceiling in the dark, clutching the phone to her chest as if he was right there inside it.
He said he was missing her. He’d sent a x. He said he was going to message her again. This day was rapidly becoming the second-best day of her life. In your face, Jake, she thought.
She spent the next hour wondering whether to reply, agonising over whether to reply.
Tapping out drafts, then deleting them. She was so, so desperate to do so, and only with some difficulty managed to talk herself into waiting.
Managed to convince herself to Play. It.
Cool. If he was the player that he seemed to be, that Jake had said he was, if he really was that bad, it wouldn’t hurt him to wait.
Besides, how many times did you get DMd by a celebrity?
He said he’d message me tomorrow. That’s enough for now.
Despite the fraught night’s sleep, Frankie woke early the next morning, as she always did. It was inevitable with no curtains, but no amount of nagging from her mum could ever make her change her mind about that particular design decision.
She sat up and stared for a moment or two out of the window, taking in the nature of the light, calculating as she always did how early was early from the position of the sun, hanging as it was buttery and golden inches above the horizon.
Sevenish, she estimated. She reached for the phone to check but it wasn’t in her hand.
She peered over the side of the bed and her heart skipped a beat.
There was Sally’s phone, lying on the wooden floor, screen severely cracked.
She must have gone to sleep with it in her hand. That was so not like her.
Frankie leapt out of bed and grabbed it, pressing the power button over and over, but no, no amount of coaxing would turn it on. Cracks covered the screen. Even if she could turn it on, it wouldn’t be readable.
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ she muttered out loud as frustrated tears pricked her eyes. This could not be happening. All she could think of were Dylan’s words, I’ll message you in the morning.
Of all the bloody times to not have a phone. Never mind that Sally was going to actually murder her. Frankie got up and paced about her room for a bit, but she already knew what she had to do.
Two hours later she was racing down to the harbour to catch the first ferry to Guernsey.
‘Wait, wait, wait,’ she muttered all the way down, praying she wasn’t too late.
She waved quickly at Jake as he buzzed past her on his little ATV, ducking her head in the hope he wouldn’t stop to talk.
When it looked like he might, she sped up, her legs breaking into a run briefly.
The ferry was about to leave, but Captain Steve had spied her and was holding his position by the dock.
His first mate, Graham – none of the crew were older than thirty but they all seemed to have 1980s names for some reason – took her hand and helped her onto the boat, smirking in his usual way as he did so.
He loved flirting with the tourists and basically anybody, including Frankie.
She ignored him, or at least, she tried to, grimacing when she realised no one else was on board at this early hour.
They were both going to try to talk to her if she wasn’t careful.
‘I’m going to sit up top if that’s okay?’ she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder, clattering up the wide iron steps before they could answer.
The trip across to Guernsey was only twenty minutes and Frankie never got tired of the trip.
It was a beautiful sunny day and she settled into a seat by the front railing to watch the world go by as the little Travel Trident backed out of the harbour and picked its way through the narrow channel towards Jethou, the privately owned island off Herm’s southwest coast. Jethou was quiet this morning.
It was owned by a rich family who occasionally helicoptered or jet boated in and out for a wild party or two, but mostly they left it in the care of their lovely old housekeeper, Martha, and her husband.
Frankie had only been over to the island once or twice but it had always fascinated her.
As they rounded the North side of Jethou and hit open water, Frankie inhaled sharply.
The sun was sparkling off the water in the English Channel, the sea shining with a million diamonds.
And there, bobbing about close to the Jethou coast was a little group of puffins.
They were so small and dark it was easy to miss them, and it was one of Frankie’s favourite hobbies, scanning the water for these funny little birds, the thrill of seeing one never getting old.
Ten today, she counted, all in a little group, moving gently up and down with the waves as the ferry trundled past.
The ferry made great time across the channel, dodging the larger ships, and Frankie clung to the railing, enjoying the feel of the water spray on her skin, the sea fresh and lightly perfumed.
Guernsey loomed larger before them now, the island huge by comparison to Herm, and the large granite harbour at St Peter Port was packed full of boats, moving lightly about on their moorings.
The familiar chock-chock of flags from all nations flapped against their masts in the light summer breeze.
Castle Cornet, the 800-year-old castle standing at the mouth of the harbour, loomed impressively on her left as they navigated their way through and slid alongside the Trident mooring, where a huge queue of tourists impatiently waited for their chance to spend the day on Herm.
Frankie smiled and waved at them, then jumped quickly down the steps and onto the dock before they’d even finished tying off.
Several of the tourists gave her a curious look, wondering no doubt whether she’d stayed the night on the island, and she resisted the childish urge to tell them it was her home.
‘Back in a bit,’ she called, giving Graham a wide berth as he dropped her a wink.
He would be a bit more of an option, she thought, as she had many times before, if he didn’t like to use ten layers of fake tan so his skin was verging on orange.
Or, for that matter, if he didn’t dye the tips of his brown hair blond.
The overall effect was like he’d been booted off a boy band tour bus.
Frankie hit the pavements of St Peter Port, which despite the early hour was already bustling.
It was Monday and that meant it would soon be busy as the large cruise ships often made their stop here to explore the pretty town.
Quick, quick, quick, she sang to herself as she nipped across the road from the harbour and made her way past the little church and up the hill to the electronics store.
Judging by the number of new boutiques and clothing shops that seemed to have opened even since she’d last been over, St Peter Port was thriving, thanks in no small part to the tax-free shopping on offer.
It was good to see. She always loved coming here, even if she was always delighted to get back home, too.
An hour later, she was ￡500 poorer. It was amazing how quickly it had happened.
She’d gone in to buy a replacement for Sally and come away with a smartphone for herself, too.
Her first one ever. The salesman has just been too convincing.
The pull of constant access to Instagram – Dylan’s account, at least – was just too strong.
What else were savings for, right? And despite the pain in her wallet, Frankie actually skipped back down the high street, stopping on a whim to buy a can of Coke and a newspaper, trying to look intellectual, pretending to be newly interested in Guernsey’s political complexities but really just desperate for any news of him.
She sat down on a bench near the harbour and flicked through it anxiously, the sea breeze catching each page as she turned.
And sure enough, there it was. Page 10. A review of the Guernsey festival.
The Misdemeanours headline set. Five stars.
And across the middle of the page there was an enormous picture of the band, with Dylan front and centre, looking absolutely delicious, sweaty and confident, staring down the camera with that little swagger, eyes intense, almost daring.
It sent a little shiver down her spine and she tried not to wonder if he’d been flirting with whoever was behind the lens.
She headed back across to the ferry, unzipping and re-zipping her backpack for the hundredth time to make sure both shiny new phones were still there, anxiety rising in her throat at the thought of telling Sally, yes, but mostly that he might have DMd her and she wouldn’t be there to reply, even as she knew how desperate that sounded.
Still. A few more agonising minutes and she’d be online and he’d be none the wiser.
When she jumped off the boat back at Herm, however, it was clear that God had other ideas. Frankie’s heart sank when she rounded the bend from Rosaire Steps harbour and found a small crowd of locals gathered in front of the village sign, ropes and buckets in hand.
This could only mean one thing.
The donkeys were on the loose again.