by Rosie Ruston
‘No, I . . .’
‘Enough!’ Alice said. ‘I’ve messed up again because I’m a self-centred cow wanting him all to myself and now I’m going to put it right. Am I forgiven?’
‘Of course,’ Frankie murmured. What else could she say?
‘That’s good.’ Alice grinned. ‘Because, to be honest, I guess I’ll never change! Come on, open the gate, will you?’
Frankie was on her way back to the house, eager to get her latest idea onto her laptop, when her thoughts were rudely interrupted by a motorbike roaring its way up the drive, throwing up gravel and screeching to a halt at the front door. Its rider, clad from head to toe in leathers despite the warmth of the day, leapt off the bike and, taking the steps to the entrance in a single stride, pulled off his helmet.
Frankie did a double take. The guy was black with close-cropped hair and a pair of diamond nose studs. As she drew near he turned, and ran down the steps towards her.
‘Well hi! Now let me guess. You’re Jemma? No? Mia then.’
Frankie shook her head. ‘Frankie,’ she said.
‘Aha – the cousin rescued from the pits of poverty.’ He nodded. ‘I’ve heard about you.’
Frankie bit her lip so hard she could taste blood on her tongue. ‘Are you looking for someone?’ she asked curtly.
‘James. Where is he?’
‘Mexico,’ Frankie replied.
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he said, glancing at a flashy watch on his wrist. ‘See, he sent me a text not three hours ago to say he’d landed at Heathrow and needed to see me, like now. Sounded really hassled.’
‘But he’s not due back for another week,’ Frankie said.
‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. ‘Jump Leads – that’s our band – lost the festival slot because of James going off all of a sudden. Then Skid – he’s our keyboard player – blew a fuse and has gone off backpacking with some mates, and Natalie – she does backing vocals – has jacked us in for good.’ He kicked at the gravel. ‘It’s a total mess.’ He sighed. ‘I’m Jon, by the way. Jon Yates.’
‘Oh yes, James has talked about you. You’re a rapper, right?’ Despite their bad start, Frankie couldn’t help liking this guy.
He grinned. ‘Rapper, songwriter, street dancer – you name it, I’m it!’ he said. ‘In between I write freelance stuff on the music scene for whichever paper will take it! Even the Daily Telegraph – get that! Mind you, my godfather works there which helps. So, are you going to ask me in or what?’
To her great relief, Frankie caught sight of Nerys staggering up the driveway from Keeper’s Cottage, her face almost completely masked by the enormous dog basket she was carrying. She was about to call out to her when Nerys dumped the basket down and waved officiously in their direction.
‘Young man! YOUNG MAN!’
Jon looked at her in surprise.
‘And about time too,’ Nerys stormed, striding over to him. ‘You call this premier service? Twelve pounds a month I pay British Gas for the privilege of hanging about all morning waiting for you to show up. It’s simply not good enough and I’ve a mind to write —’
‘Nerys, this is Jon Yates. He’s nothing to do with British Gas. He’s a friend of James,’ Frankie explained hastily.
‘What? You’re Jon? But you’re . . . really? How very strange.’ She eyed Jon up and down suspiciously. ‘Well, he’s out of the country so you’ve had a wasted journey.’ She sniffed.
Frankie was about to explain the situation when Ned appeared round the side of the house.
‘Is that the lot, Nerys? You’re only going to be here for a few days and there’s enough stuff to — Oh, sorry! I didn’t realise . . .’
‘This young man says he’s a friend of James,’ Nerys announced, in a tone of voice that suggested that she would prefer to believe that Thornton Parslow had been taken over by aliens.
‘Jon!’ A look of recognition crossed Ned’s face. ‘Hi, how are you doing? Remember me? Ned, James’s brother? We met at that gig in London.’
‘Oh sure, I remember – you’re Golden Boy.’
‘I wish people would stop . . .’ Ned retorted, colour flooding his face.
‘Hey, lighten up, man!’ Jon laughed. ‘I’m just joking.’
Ned shrugged. ‘Anyway, James is away, I’m afraid.’
‘So who’s that then?’ Jon said as a black cab drove up to the house and a holdall was flung from the door, followed by a dishevelled-looking James. ‘Hey, mate, good to see ya!’
Jon threw an arm round James’s shoulder as he climbed out of the taxi and slapped him on the back.
‘James? What are you doing back so soon? Where’s Dad?’ Ned asked. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Wrong? Depends how you look at it,’ James said.
‘Where is Dad?’ Ned asked again.
‘Still shouting the odds in Mexico, I guess. Not that I give a damn.’
The expression on his face suggested to Frankie that his last remark was a total lie.
‘But how come he agreed to let you come back?’ Ned persisted.
‘I said it was wrong to let the band down,’ James mumbled. ‘Besides, he was quite happy to be rid of me.’
‘Really? But I thought Dad wanted you to —’
‘Dad wanted, Dad wanted – well, for once, Dad’s not getting his own way. And if you knew the things he’s . . . Oh, forget it! Now be a good little brother and pay the cab, will you? I’m skint.’
With that, he picked up his bag and, with Jon hard on his heels, disappeared into the house.
Friend Request.
Henry Crawford has invited you to be a friend on Facebook. Accept/ignore.
Frankie hesitated. She couldn’t very well press ignore – he’d be sure to want an explanation. She pressed accept – after all, she didn’t have to take any notice of his posts; she could say she rarely went online. The moment she pressed accept, his profile came up and there he was, smiling confidently. Under About me he had written, I’m young, fit, open to all sorts of offers, as long as they involve fun and pushing the boundaries. Check me out, babes!
‘Typical!’ she muttered, her eyes scanning the extensive list of his friends. She had to admit his profile threw up some interesting and unexpected facts about him – the plays he’d seen, his love of Chekhov, Alan Ayckbourn and Harold Pinter, and his ambition to work in theatres on every continent of the world. She was about to write him a message (Pinter she simply didn’t get), when a message popped up at the corner of her screen.
Hi Frankie!
Sorry I couldn’t chat for long when you phoned last week but as I said, the big boss was floored with a sickness bug and I had to do the photos for the Fancy Dress Ball. Then I caught the bug and thought I was going to die.
Frankie smiled to herself. William had many attributes but putting up with illness wasn’t one of them.
Thrilled about your prize. I’d heard about Thomas’s award before you told me – I read the papers online and his photo caught my eye. Well done him. Well, time to come clean: the other reason I have been slow getting back to you is because I have been putting off bad news. Siren Lines are going out of business; it’s been on the cards for some time, with passenger numbers dropping and the state of the two ships pretty inadequate by today’s standards. So I’ve got to find another job. Any ideas? Got to go – spotted dolphins and want to get some shots to add to my website. Sold two prints of Mount Etna last week so at least there’s that to fall back on. More later xxx :)
Frankie was overcome by a surge of guilt. She had it so easy – and there was William, only three years older, having to earn every penny for himself with just the small allowance that Thomas gave him to top up his meagre salary. That’s why she saw so little of him – every time he was on leave from the ship, he would dash up to Northamptonshire, spend a couple of days with her, and then go to Hove to visit their mum and earn money at whatever fast-food chain or pier café took him on.
She typed back.
> Really sorry about the job – but you’re so good I’m sure you’ll find something soon. What do you most want to do? Mia and Nick have spent all morning being photographed by Country Life – I bet you could do that with your hands tied behind your back. Not that you’d want to – it’s all so pretentious. Could you get a job with a newspaper? The guy who took my picture was
The sound of a car crunching to a halt below had her dashing to the window. Alice had promised to make Ned take Frankie out as soon as she had finished her turn and she watched as the bright yellow Peugeot crunched to a halt. The driver’s door flew open and she saw Alice, head tipped back, roaring with laughter. Frankie’s gaze took in her long, tanned legs, the minuscule white shorts and the high-heeled strappy sandals, totally unsuitable for a driving lesson.
Alice swung her legs out of the car and in an instant, the passenger door opened and he was there, taking her hand as she tossed the car keys at him. Deftly he caught them, pocketed them – and still held onto her hand. They seemed to be in freeze frame: neither of them moving, they stood staring into one another’s eyes.
Frankie held her breath. She wanted to turn away, pretend that none of this was happening, but she couldn’t move. Slowly he raised a hand, and gently brushed a tendril of hair from Alice’s face. His hand slid down her cheek as he pulled her towards him.
Frankie swallowed, her heart thumping in her chest. Don’t do it. Please, don’t do it. Not her. Not now.
Their lips met. Watching, Frankie could almost feel the tenderness of the kiss, the shiver down the spine as hands caressed one another. And then the car, the figures and the surrounding garden became a blur as the tears spilled down her cheeks.
She was a fool, an idiot, a complete fantasist. What made her think for even one second that she stood a chance with Ned? Even before Alice appeared on the scene, she’d just been little cousin Frankie and the only reason he’d taken any notice of her at all was because he was a kind and thoughtful person. Come to think of it, he probably saw her in the same light as one of his youth projects – let’s help poor Frankie who comes from a broken home.
Well, sod him. Sod Alice. Sod all of them.
She was wiping mascara off her cheeks fifteen minutes later when she heard footsteps running up the stairs. The door opened and Alice, flushed and breathing heavily, burst in.
‘Knock, why don’t you?’ Frankie muttered.
‘Sorry,’ Alice panted. ‘I’m all over the place.’
All over Ned, more like, Frankie thought bitterly.
‘Ned’s in the kitchen waiting for you,’ Alice went on. ‘I’ve got to go and see to Fling, but I so need to talk to you when you get back. Something amazing’s happened and I’ve just got to tell someone! Hey, are you OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘You’ve been crying.’ Alice took a step closer to her. ‘Can I help?’
You can back off, thought Frankie. You can go back to East Grinstead on a one way ticket.
‘No, I’m fine, really,’ she muttered. ‘Must dash. Can’t keep Ned waiting.’
And with that she pushed past Alice and ran downstairs and into the kitchen, expecting to find Ned on his own. Instead, she found half the family there: James, gazing miserably into a mug of coffee, was slumped at the table next to Jemma and Jon, while Mia perched on the granite worktop and Ned, a frown creasing his forehead and a can of Pepsi in one hand, leant against the larder fridge.
‘I just can’t believe that you cancelled our slot at M-Brace for nothing!’ Jon was storming. ‘You’re here now – we could have gone ahead. In fact, why did you bother coming back for the festival if —’
‘What did you say?’ Suddenly James was alert and staring at his friend.
‘I said, why did you cancel —?’
‘Are you telling me you didn’t cancel the slot?’ James said.
‘Course not! You said you’d do it when you phoned me from the airport, remember? Said you’d do it right away.’ Jon’s eyes widened. ‘Are you telling me you forgot?’
James nodded, a grin spreading across his face. ‘I did,’ he said. ‘Which means we’re still on. We’re in business!’
Frankie stared at him, her forehead puckering in a frown. She remembered him saying that he’d come back from Mexico because he couldn’t let the band down – but if he assumed they weren’t playing anyway . . . then what was the real reason he’d rushed back so unexpectedly?
‘We are in business!’ James repeated and for a moment Jon looked as excited as his friend, but then his face clouded.
‘No we’re not.’ He sighed. ‘When you left, Skid and Nat went off in a huff and without them . . .’ He paused. ‘Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’ James said.
‘I’m the front man, right? My lyrics, my rapping, my stand-up routine? This whole thing is about showcasing my stuff.’
‘And the band’s,’ James said.
‘And I’m here,’ John went on. ‘You’re the drummer and you’re here. So if we could just rework —’
‘Come off it,’ James protested. ‘We’ve only got till the weekend and without Skid on the keyboard and Nat’s vocals —’
‘Like I said, we rework it,’ Jon interrupted. ‘Listen, I need to get my routine noticed and let’s face it, the rest of you have always been just back up.’
‘Well, thanks!’
‘You know what I mean,’ Jon said impatiently. ‘So . . . it’s new talent night, right? Let’s get some new talent! What about you lot?’ He gestured round the room. ‘We need a vocalist and a keyboard player. And if we could get the girls to do a dance routine to fill the slot left by Nat’s solo . . .’
‘That is just the coolest idea!’ Mia cried.
‘Do you really think it could work?’ Jemma asked.
‘Anything that means I can get on that stage is worth trying,’ Jon said decisively. ‘I’d given up all hope without James – but now he’s back . . .’ He paused. ‘But we do need a girl who can —’
‘Who needs a girl?’
Alice peered round the door, giving a little four-fingered wave to Ned who, to Frankie’s disgust, adopted the facial expression of a salivating puppy.
‘This is Alice,’ he said, turning to his brother. ‘I told you about her.’
‘Charles Grant’s daughter, I know.’ James gestured to an empty chair and grinned at her. ‘Hi! Can you dance?’
Alice frowned. ‘Like, can birds fly? I did tap, disco, modern, the lot when I was a kid. I was pretty good, won cups and everything.’
I bet you were, Frankie thought. If there was an A-level in self-esteem you’d get an A-star.
‘Why do you want to know?’ Alice asked.
‘Don’t ask,’ Ned muttered.
‘Ignore my brother,’ James said. ‘He sees having fun as one of the seven deadly sins.’
Alice shot a quizzical look at Ned. ‘In which case,’ she said, smiling at him, ‘he needs someone to show him a good time. So what’s all this about anyway?’
‘M-Brace,’ James said. ‘Jon here has cooked up this great act. Usual band stuff, backing vocals and all that, but then he does some stand-up and rap.’
‘And a bit of street dancing thrown in,’ said Jon. ‘The basics are all there but we need to do some improvising fast. So come on, who’s up for it?’
‘Me!’ Mia’s hand shot up.
‘You bet,’ Jemma added hastily.
‘Bring it on,’ Alice said, wiggling her hips and waving her hands in the air.
‘Only one problem.’ Jon sighed. ‘We still haven’t worked out how to get a guitarist.’
‘No problem,’ James declared. ‘Ned’s a pretty good guitar player. Grade eight and all that!’
‘Hang on, there’s no way you’re roping me in,’ Ned said firmly. ‘I’m going to be tied up.’
‘What you mean, tied up? It’s the holidays, for God’s sake,’ James said. ‘Don’t tell me you’re like Dad – all festivals are Bad Things.’
‘Might
disturb a few stag beetles and the odd otter,’ Mia chipped in sarcastically.
‘As it happens, I’ll be tied up at the festival,’ Ned replied. ‘KOT’s doing this massive promotion.’
‘Cots? You’re selling cots at a rock fest?’ Alice asked.
‘No,’ Ned laughed. ‘KOT – it stands for Kids Out There. I do placements with them whenever I’m not at uni – working with disadvantaged kids from inner cities and giving them adventure holidays. The festival organisers wanted an area for kids to play and we decided to run it. It’ll be great publicity for the charity and the money parents pay will fund holidays for the kids. There’s a whole team of us manning a climbing wall and zip wire and stuff.’
‘Wow, Ned, that’s amazing!’ To Frankie’s surprise James sounded really interested. ‘Is it just kids locally?’
‘No, nationwide,’ Ned said, clearly pleased that his brother was showing an interest. ‘It started —’
‘Never mind all that,’ Alice broke in. ‘Fact is, if there’s a whole team, they can do without you, can’t they? Cancel – this’ll be far more of a laugh.’
‘And we need you,’ James said.
‘For the last time, no,’ Ned said. ‘End of.’
‘You know what, Ned?’ Alice challenged, tossing her head. ‘Poppy said you were boring and I didn’t believe her. But I’m beginning to think she was right.’
For a moment, Ned said nothing. Then he tossed his empty drinks can into the bin and walked to the door. Alice deftly stepped in front of him, blocking his way. ‘Come on, prove me wrong,’ she said, tipping his chin with her finger. ‘Do it for me. Remember, only an hour ago you said you’d do anything to make me happy.’
Frankie’s stomach lurched into her mouth and her throat went dry. Ned’s face turned a livid shade of red.
‘Oooh, get you!’ Jemma teased. ‘Ned’s in lurve!’
‘And this would make me very happy,’ Alice said. ‘Please, pretty please.’
‘Come on, Ned,’ James said. ‘You can’t get all precious about it because, actually, it’s right up your street. Jon’s rapping is all about social justice and all that kinda stuff. I thought that’s what you were about?’