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Authors: Rosie Ruston
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on this Alice girl?’ Lulu asked, offering a stick of chewing gum to Frankie as the bus crawled past the multiplex cinema.
‘Do birds fly?’ Frankie murmured. ‘He’s besotted. It’s all, “She’s so witty, Frankie; oh, Frankie, she’s such fun to be with; oh, Frankie, you
will be nice to her won’t you? She doesn’t know anyone down here.” What hope do I have?’
Lulu touched her arm. ‘Look at it this way,’ she said encouragingly, ‘you live in the same house, you know him better than anyone and you can wangle it so you do stuff
together. Anyway, she won’t be here forever. And if you get into Newcastle Uni, you’ll virtually be on Ned’s doorstep in Durham. How did the driving lesson go, by the way? Yours,
not Alice’s.’
‘Huh,’ said Frankie. ‘What driving lesson?’
‘The car’s nearly out of petrol – really sorry. Tomorrow, I promise.’
That was Sunday afternoon.
‘Did I say today? Oh sorry, I promised to drive Alice down to Sussex so she can load the horse into the trailer herself. Tomorrow, OK? Absolutely definite.’
That was Monday.
But when Tuesday came, he was cleaning the stable and having a riding lesson with Alice, who stayed for lunch and tea then dragged him off to the cinema. Although ‘dragged’ was
hardly the word to describe the eagerness with which he went.
After the third excuse, Frankie gave up mentioning the subject. Her driving instructor kept reminding her that she needed more practice; she was tempted to ask Mia but she was so preoccupied
with scouring rightmove.co.uk for flats in Brighton, uploading pictures of her engagement ring onto Facebook, and telling the world about her forthcoming holiday in Barbados at the Rushworth family
villa, that she had no time for anything else. Frankie knew Tina would take her but the last time they had tried it, Tina had screamed ‘Stop!’ every time their speed reached twenty
miles an hour.
First thing on Wednesday morning, Frankie rang the test centre and cancelled her test. It would probably have been too soon anyway.
‘Now that,’ Lulu declared as the bus pulled into Greyfriars bus station, ‘is totally defeatist. Just because Ned’s a waste of space . . .’
‘No, he’s not, he’s lovely.’
‘ Now who’s besotted?’ Lulu teased.
Frankie pulled a face. ‘Drop it, OK?’ She sighed. ‘So – shall we meet for coffee at Leopold’s when I’m done at the paper? Eleven-thirty?’
Lulu glanced at her watch. ‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘Then we can hit the shops. I have nothing to wear for the festival.’
An hour later, Frankie was walking down Wellington Street with a broad smile on her face. She’d been interviewed for the following day’s edition, and given the
prize money, tickets to all three days of M-Brace and a clutch of money-off vouchers for various cafés and clubs in town.
The only thing niggling at the back of her mind was William. When she’d mentioned to the photographer, a ginger-haired guy called Spike, that her brother was a photographer on the Sea
Siren , he had whistled through his teeth. ‘Wow! That is a ticket to serious money if he plays his cards right. He needs to get a few commissions from the blue rinse brigade – make
’em look years younger than they really are – and then brandish his card and hey presto! Before you know it, he’ll be getting invites to do the society set all over the
world.’
Frankie had laughed knowing that things weren’t quite that simple, but it had started her thinking. The last few messages on Facebook from Wills had lacked his usual hilarious,
punctuation-free outpourings. They had read more like travelogues, with lots of news about what Malta was like or how he hadn’t managed to go ashore at Cagliari because he had to photograph
some damage to the swimming pool. In the past he’d been bubbling over with news about his plans, and his Facebook page had been full of new photos for sale; recently he had sounded flat and
‘Do birds fly?’ Frankie murmured. ‘He’s besotted. It’s all, “She’s so witty, Frankie; oh, Frankie, she’s such fun to be with; oh, Frankie, you
will be nice to her won’t you? She doesn’t know anyone down here.” What hope do I have?’
Lulu touched her arm. ‘Look at it this way,’ she said encouragingly, ‘you live in the same house, you know him better than anyone and you can wangle it so you do stuff
together. Anyway, she won’t be here forever. And if you get into Newcastle Uni, you’ll virtually be on Ned’s doorstep in Durham. How did the driving lesson go, by the way? Yours,
not Alice’s.’
‘Huh,’ said Frankie. ‘What driving lesson?’
‘The car’s nearly out of petrol – really sorry. Tomorrow, I promise.’
That was Sunday afternoon.
‘Did I say today? Oh sorry, I promised to drive Alice down to Sussex so she can load the horse into the trailer herself. Tomorrow, OK? Absolutely definite.’
That was Monday.
But when Tuesday came, he was cleaning the stable and having a riding lesson with Alice, who stayed for lunch and tea then dragged him off to the cinema. Although ‘dragged’ was
hardly the word to describe the eagerness with which he went.
After the third excuse, Frankie gave up mentioning the subject. Her driving instructor kept reminding her that she needed more practice; she was tempted to ask Mia but she was so preoccupied
with scouring rightmove.co.uk for flats in Brighton, uploading pictures of her engagement ring onto Facebook, and telling the world about her forthcoming holiday in Barbados at the Rushworth family
villa, that she had no time for anything else. Frankie knew Tina would take her but the last time they had tried it, Tina had screamed ‘Stop!’ every time their speed reached twenty
miles an hour.
First thing on Wednesday morning, Frankie rang the test centre and cancelled her test. It would probably have been too soon anyway.
‘Now that,’ Lulu declared as the bus pulled into Greyfriars bus station, ‘is totally defeatist. Just because Ned’s a waste of space . . .’
‘No, he’s not, he’s lovely.’
‘ Now who’s besotted?’ Lulu teased.
Frankie pulled a face. ‘Drop it, OK?’ She sighed. ‘So – shall we meet for coffee at Leopold’s when I’m done at the paper? Eleven-thirty?’
Lulu glanced at her watch. ‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘Then we can hit the shops. I have nothing to wear for the festival.’
An hour later, Frankie was walking down Wellington Street with a broad smile on her face. She’d been interviewed for the following day’s edition, and given the
prize money, tickets to all three days of M-Brace and a clutch of money-off vouchers for various cafés and clubs in town.
The only thing niggling at the back of her mind was William. When she’d mentioned to the photographer, a ginger-haired guy called Spike, that her brother was a photographer on the Sea
Siren , he had whistled through his teeth. ‘Wow! That is a ticket to serious money if he plays his cards right. He needs to get a few commissions from the blue rinse brigade – make
’em look years younger than they really are – and then brandish his card and hey presto! Before you know it, he’ll be getting invites to do the society set all over the
world.’
Frankie had laughed knowing that things weren’t quite that simple, but it had started her thinking. The last few messages on Facebook from Wills had lacked his usual hilarious,
punctuation-free outpourings. They had read more like travelogues, with lots of news about what Malta was like or how he hadn’t managed to go ashore at Cagliari because he had to photograph
some damage to the swimming pool. In the past he’d been bubbling over with news about his plans, and his Facebook page had been full of new photos for sale; recently he had sounded flat and
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