Free Whatever Love Is by Rosie Ruston Page B

though
he shelled out loads to get me insured on his car – but Ned’s so patient, and I’m sure that’s because he fancies me. By the way, your test was last week, wasn’t it?
I’m sure Ned said. How did you get on?
    ‘I cancelled it.’
    ‘What on earth for?’
    ‘I need loads more practice.’ Frankie sighed.
    ‘So get Ned to take you out,’ Alice said airily. ‘Like I said, he’s really patient.’
    ‘And always round your place,’ Frankie muttered, and then immediately regretted it.
    ‘Oh, I get it! I’m sorry – I didn’t realise. Well, don’t worry, I’ll tell him to take you too,’ Alice declared. ‘He said he’d do anything I
asked – isn’t that sweet? I’ll sort it, OK?’
    ‘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