Page 12 of Washed Up
“And you stopped when I asked.”
He frowns. “Only an absolute arsehole would do otherwise, and I hope I’m not that.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not.”
Okay. We both breathe sighs of relief.
“How about a walk?” he asks. “Might help us both cool off, and I could show you the island. We could go see if any of your stuff washed up.”
Given he’s still perky in a very particular place, that sounds like a good idea. Not that I think finding my missing bag will help. The book is going to be unreadable, and my phone bricked. I point to my feet. “Bit lacking in the shoe department.” I’m feeling battered enough without risking a foot injury by striding about outdoors bare foot.
“Reckon there’s a pair of flip-flops around, and we can go down to the beach.”
The beach is only a very short walk away. Reid takes me over to where he found me last night. “About here.” The tide is way out, revealing a vast stretch of orangey sand and forests of bladder wrack and sea spaghetti beyond a narrow band of pebbles. There’s no sign of my bag.
“Bet I gave you a fright.”
“Yeah.”
In the distance we see a man with two dogs. “That’s Ric. Let me catch up with him.” He sprints off at a pace I can’t hope to match, especially not in my borrowed footwear. Pretty soon, he vanishes from view. The sky turns grey not long after, and the wind picks up. Chilled, I turn back to the row of houses.
There are five buildings in total. Two or three have probably always been houses, the others are clearly converted barns or boathouses, or something like that. I recall the note from earlier said that the one now on my right is the studio.
Steps lead up from the beach to the sea wall. When I emerge onto the paved plaza that connects the buildings, I find Wynter sitting with his back to the seawall.
What’s he doing here? I stroll over to him. “Hey.”
He slowly looks up my body. “Iris.”
“Wynter.”
“Something you need?”
“Not sure.” I sit beside him. “I’m sorry I caused a distraction. I didn’t mean to derail whatever you guys are working on. I’m looking forward to your second album.”
“Are you?” He groans, making it clear that wasn’t really a question. “Well, Iris, I’m not sure there’s going to be one. Leastways, not any time soon.”
I’m not sure what to say to that that won’t sound either trite or condescending. I’m sorry you feel that way, sounds both to my ears. “Maybe you just need a break.”
He scoffs. “Wouldn’t that be grand! Ain’t happening. I’m stuck here and the clock’s ticking. I’ve a handful of days to deliver a solution or we get ditched.”
“Your label would really follow through on that?”
“We’re costing them money. And we’re not getting younger while we do it.”
Unbelievable. “You’re what, twenty-four?”
“Twenty-six.”
“That’s hardly ancient.”
“We’re not fresh anymore. We’re not green kids who do as they’re told because they’re so star-struck and terrified of losing their one shot that they bend over backwards to please. We’ve seen how it works. We’re yesterday’s news. Washed up.”
It’s always said that the music business is ruthless, but hearing it first-hand makes it real. I hurt to my stomach for him… for all three of my rescuers.
“Reid says you’re blocked, but I saw your notebook. It looked pretty full of ideas.”
“Did it, indeed. Took a good look did you?”
