Page 11 of Washed Up

‘Can I get a selfie?’

Dylan laughed. ‘Maybe when the rain stops, eh?’

Frankie stared at Michael. ‘Why’d you want a selfie with Paddington? I mean, I know he looks a bit ridiculous but no need to make him feel worse.’

‘He’s famous,’ said Michael, his eyes wide.

‘No, he’s not,’ said Frankie. ‘He’s winding you up.’

Michael started to object but before he could finish his sentence, Frankie had pushed Dylan out of the door into the rain.

‘Come on, Paddington.’ She laughed. ‘This way.’ She shrieked as the wind gusted and the rain turned horizontal again, hitting them full in the face.

‘Should have got that hat,’ spluttered Dylan.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ said Frankie.

They pushed their way back up the hill to Heron Cottage, leaning into the wind, which was roaring in their ears, trying to keep their mouths closed so the rain didn’t get in. By the time they reached the top of the hill they were both drenched again.

Frankie’s fingers were so cold and sore she could barely turn the key in the lock.

‘What a bloody day,’ she muttered as the door swung open at last. Dylan pushed his way through behind her and they both stood in the doorway, dripping from every conceivable place, their hair flat to their heads. ‘I can’t believe you made me come all the way back here.’

‘Jeez,’ said Dylan. ‘That is some weather.’

‘I did warn you. When it comes, it really comes,’ said Frankie, her mouth practically frozen shut. ‘Blown the hangover away though, I bet,’ she went on, slipping off her wellies and heading to the airing cupboard in the hallway.

‘It has, actually,’ said Dylan. ‘Who knew?’

Frankie dripped back down the hall carrying a couple of towels. ‘For your hair,’ she said, throwing one in his face.

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ she replied, although she wasn’t. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

‘Got any coffee? I don’t drink tea.’

Frankie’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you actually kidding me?’

‘Not at all. I’m quite fussy about my coffee too, sorry.’ He grimaced in a way that made her want to push him over.

‘To think, I was having quite a nice morning until you turned up,’ said Frankie.

‘Sorry,’ said Dylan, again, looking over her shoulder towards the tiny kitchen. ‘What I’d kill for right now is a ground roast.’

Frankie actually laughed out loud. ‘No chance. I mean, we’re not Neanderthals or anything. We get whatever supplies we can bring over on the boat, but fancy coffee is rarely on the list, I’m afraid. Not for us mortals. The hotel will have some, though.’

Dylan rubbed a towel across his wet hair. ‘Damn. I could have sworn Charlie had some in the bar.’

‘He might have. He gets a bit in, now and then. Under the counter, like.’

‘You make him sound like a pirate.’

‘Maybe he is,’ said Frankie. ‘Maybe we all are.’

‘I knew it,’ said Dylan, hanging his raincoat on the banister.

‘I’ve got instant?’ said Frankie with a sigh, wrapping her arms around herself. Already sick of being damp and cold.