Fran has a tried-and-tested solution for dealing with her problems: run away.
And despite what the self-help books say, it's worked pretty well up until now. "Now" referring to her hiding in the seaside town of Seacombe until the end of summer, and...
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After one of the deepest sleeps of her life, Fran woke up to a lump in her throat that hurt when she swallowed and the makings of a headache. She wrapped herself in her blankets, relishing the warmth. She wasn't surprised she had a cold. She'd spent the best part of yesterday soaked to the skin. This was her karmic retribution for being stupid. So she took it gracefully; she made a cup of Darius' herbal tea and spent the day curled up in bed.
Much to Fran's surprise, her mum didn't visit. She'd expected her to burst through the door the day after with her typical "Frannie, darling!" and a hazy cloud of perfume, but the store stayed quiet all day. Darren seemed to sense that she needed the space; he'd come up the stairs to offer her something for breakfast, and when she'd politely declined let her know he'd be downstairs if she needed anything.
The tea helped her cold a little. By mid-morning the pain in her throat had ebbed and her head only hurt when she moved too much. She figured she might as well do something with her time instead of moping all day, so she got to work cleaning the balcony. She'd dumped all her wet clothes in a damp pile by her bed the night before, the contents of her bag scattered around her bed. She checked to see if any of her rock had survived the trip: apart from a few sections, most of it had dissolved in the rain.
Sighing, she gathered all her clothes up to put in the laundry, but as she did so, she felt something dislodge from the pocket of her jeans. Something rolled out, dropping against the floor with a gentle thud.
A white pebble.
Fran stared at it for a moment before the words of the old man on the beach resounded. You can see a pebble, or the chance to reflect on who you really are.
She thought hard about it, about true selves and hidden depths, about the people she'd spent time with this month. She'd thought Elliot was insecure, and stubborn about it, when she'd first met him. But there had been several times she'd been taken by surprise at his determination. Paige was quiet and gentle and formal, but she remembered the anger in her eyes at the pub and the breathless joy she'd seen when she started playing piano. Darius was aloof, but she'd seen him animate when they talked about Radical Face and Whiteridge a couple of days ago, seen him gentle and caring with Rhodes yesterday. Ash could be demanding and a little callous sometimes – but when Fran was upset she'd been genuinely concerned and helped her out.
What about her? Who was she, really? Immature and dramatic, someone who gave up too easily; who ran from all her problems because she was too afraid to deal with them herself; who made horrible, reckless decisions and hurt people close to her? What about her mum...? She'd seen her transform from funny and caring, to cold and unemotional, to flighty and superficial over the course of her life. Which was the real her?
She placed the rock on the floor next to her. Her thoughts were spiralling out of control – she needed a way to control them. Instinctively, her hands groped for the battered satchel she kept her songs in, rummaging around in her suitcase. Her fingers closed around soft leather and she tugged it out, spilling clothes everywhere, before grabbing a wad of blank recycled paper. The rest of it slopped out over knees and onto the floor, but she barely noticed. Her mind was desperate to get her whirling, muddled thoughts on paper, to start to work through this mess of thoughts and feelings she'd kept for so long they'd tangled up together.
