The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(28)

‘Okay, okay!’ Jonty gives a last, lingering look at Ashleigh. ‘Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

‘I’ll hold you to that, babe.’

Jonty is prepared to overlook Ashleigh’s Essex accent, given what else is on offer. They had been about to retreat to somewhere a little more private when Blythe rudely interrupted them. He half-wonders if his wife did it intentionally.

‘Which awful drunk man?’ he asks her. The room is full of drunk people. Ceri the postwoman is limbo-dancing under a broom held at either end by Clemmie Northcote and some woman who arrived with four cans of Stella and a bottle of Lambrini. You shouldn’t have, Blythe had responded smoothly, swifting them away and passing champagne around. Jonty wouldn’t have wasted Bolly on the chavs, but Blythe is big on aesthetics, and having cans of lager knocking about the place offends her.

‘That one.’ Blythe points to a man gesticulating wildly at Dee Huxley. ‘The boat man.’

Unlike the residents of The Shore, who have at least tried to make an effort with the dress code, the boat man is wearing jeans, a fleece jacket and a beanie hat. Jonty sighs and makes his way across the room.

‘Jonty, dear, have you met Steffan Edwards?’ Dee says. ‘Steffan, this is Jonty Charlton, investor of The Shore, and our host tonight.’ A solid introduction – Jonty’s grudgingly flattered. He doesn’t understand what Rhys has against Dee. She’s batty, of course, but harmless with it.

‘You invested in this place?’ Steffan stretches his mouth into something approximating a smile. It shows every one of his red-wine-stained teeth, and Jonty recoils slightly.

‘Yes, I’m Rhys’s financial partner.’

‘Well, you can fuck off, then. And once you’ve fucked off, you can fuck off some more. And then you can—’

‘Okaaaaay . . .’ Jonty grips Steffan by the underside of a bicep which would be intimidatingly large were the man not too pissed to use it, and propels him towards the exit. ‘Time to go home, mate.’

‘I’m not your fucking mate.’

Jonty pushes onwards, the packed room parting like the Red Sea and Steffan shouting his mouth off to anyone who will listen. ‘What have I got left, eh? Fucking nothing.’

Jonty smiles apologetically as they press towards the front door. ‘So sorry about this. Yes, a little too much of the old vino, ha ha!’

‘I’m fucking ruined!’

‘Just needs to sleep it off, I expect.’

‘If they find me hanging, it’s on you – you hear me?’

‘Yes, I’ll make sure he gets home safely.’

Outside, the crisp air seems to sober Steffan up. He stands upright, shakes Jonty off and jabs a finger towards him. ‘You’ve fucked me up, you and Rhys.’

Away from his guests, Jonty no longer needs to play mine host. He pushes Steffan hard in the chest, and the man stumbles backwards, tripping over his own feet and smashing on to the path. ‘Fuck off, you piece of shit.’

‘Tell Rhys Lloyd this isn’t over!’

‘I’m not interested.’

‘It isn’t over!’

It is beyond over, Jonty thinks. Now, where was he?

Back in the lodge, Ashleigh hasn’t moved. When she sees him, she stands and adjusts her dress, which has ridden up high enough to show a flash of panties. She follows him into the hall, and Jonty glances around to make sure no one is watching them, before they slide into the loo and lock the door.

‘Finally,’ Jonty says.

‘You’re really keen, in’t ya?’

‘We’d better get a move on, otherwise someone’ll want to get in.’ Jonty isn’t here for the conversation.

Ashleigh pulls up her dress. ‘Alright, alright!’ She rummages in her underwear and emerges with a clear plastic bag filled with white powder. ‘Nice to have company for once.’

‘Bobby not up for it?’

‘He’s a right bore. Says he did all that shit years ago, after he left the ring. Wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole now, he says. It’s all bloody kale smoothies now.’ Ashleigh cuts two lines, kneels on the loo and snorts the first cleanly off the cistern. Jonty takes a moment to appreciate her backside, then does the same.

‘I’d usually buy from my bloke in Essex,’ Ashleigh says. ‘But I got this here – it’s alright, I reckon. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s bloody marvellous.’

Ashleigh’s a dark horse, Jonty thinks. The Shore’s only been open for six months, and she’s already found herself a dealer. He unlocks the bathroom door, and the pair of them exit with significantly less caution than they entered.

‘Let me know when you want another bump, yeah?’ She plants a kiss on his lips.

As Jonty weaves through the party, his renewed good humour is only marginally dented by finding Mia once again standing around talking. ‘I’m paying you to waitress, not socialise,’ he chastises.

‘Technically, you’re paying me to hand canapés around,’ Mia says. ‘And they’re all gone, so . . .’

She turns away from him, talking to Rhys’s assistant. Jonty almost doesn’t recognise the girl. He’s only ever seen her in casual, mostly scruffy clothes. Now, she’s in a dress almost as short as Ashleigh’s. The neck is high, and the sleeves are long, and the contrast between the modest top and the crotch-hugging hem is . . .