The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(33)

Leo counts the awards visible in Yasmin’s photograph, then does the same for Tabby’s. He looks at Ffion, and the first piece of the puzzle falls neatly into place.

‘There’s one missing.’





TWELVE




NEW YEAR’S EVE | 7 P.M. | MIA


Mia walks back to The Shore, barely an hour after she left. She’s been there all day, setting out canapés and being bossed about by Blythe. Who has a project plan for a party, for fuck’s sake? A few bowls of crisps, some banging tunes, bring your own booze, and job’s a good ’un.

Not at The Shore. At The Shore, it’s trays of sushi and tiny Yorkshire puddings hiding a curl of rare roast beef. It’s row after row of foil-topped bottles, and one of those pyramids of glasses Mia’s only ever seen in films. It’s a marquee – the sort you find at posh hotel weddings – with deckchairs and parasols and a sand-coloured carpet because Jonty drew the line at actual sand. Crazy money. Crazy people.

Mostly.

Mia didn’t take the job as cleaner (and now, apparently, waitress) because of a man, but that’s why she’s stayed. That’s why she’s put up with the condescension and the casual insults, and the feeling that she’s invisible unless she’s done something wrong. And she knows how insane it is, and what people would say, and God, doesn’t she know how wildly unsuitable he is . . .

But.

Her heart soars as she picks her way over the rocks in trainers she’ll change out of before she reaches The Shore. In her hand she swings a pair of six-inch heels and okay, they’re not the Loubo-whatsits Blythe bangs on about, but they make Mia’s legs look as though they go on forever. The cheek of that woman, suggesting Mia might wear a waitress uniform! Mia has spent six months wearing a cleaning tabard for stolen trysts with her lover, and tonight she intends to wow him. They managed the briefest of encounters earlier today, and she’s hopeful that tonight, when everyone is distracted by the party, they will be able to sneak off.

He’s not everyone’s cup of tea, she knows that. A bit full of himself maybe; a bit flash. But underneath all that, away from his set, he’s lovely. Mia smiles to herself. After the party, he’s going to leave. He’s promised her. He’s going to walk away from all these trappings of success, and be with her. ‘Who needs money, when you’ve got love?’ he always says, and Mia knows he means it.

Why would he lie?

There’s an atmosphere in Jonty and Blythe’s lodge – an undertow to the conversation – and Mia immediately thinks (as she always does, when she gets to work and discovers something is off) that people know. It’s self-centred of her, of course, but people in love are often self-centred.

‘. . . sneaking around, up to no good,’ Blythe is saying. Mia freezes in the doorway, her heart pounding.

‘They’re just kids,’ Jonty says. ‘Didn’t you sneak around when you were a teenager?’

Mia relaxes. Sashays into the room with as much poise as she can muster in vertiginous heels, pretending she doesn’t know the effect she’s having.

‘Ding dong!’

Blythe glares at her husband. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t say that all the time. It’s so disgusting.’ She bears down on Mia with her bloody spreadsheet, and Mia grits her teeth. It’ll all be worth it, in the end.

The local guests aren’t due for another half-hour, but Rhys and Yasmin are here, talking to Bobby and Ashleigh. Mia tops up their champagne, and there it is again – that weird atmosphere, like something tugging beneath the surface.

‘. . . said I was a natural, didn’t they, babe?’ Ashleigh is saying. ‘Even though Bobby’s the actor.’

‘Can we call someone an “actor”, when they’re essentially just playing themselves?’ Rhys says. He grins, as if it’s a joke, but his eyes are stony, and although Bobby laughs there’s a hardness to it.

‘Can we call someone a “singer”,’ he says, ‘when they’re essentially just an arsehole with a microphone?’

The two men turn to face one another, and it looks like the start of every pub brawl Mia has ever seen. Yasmin looks almost gleeful, as though her husband being beaten up by an actual champion boxer is the best thing ever. Whatever Rhys has done, it’s given Yasmin the right hump.

Ashleigh, of course, is oblivious. ‘You should get them to make a reality TV show about you, Rhys. It’s dead easy: they just follow you around for a few months, get shots of you at home with the kids, going to rehearsals, and that.’

‘That would assume he had some rehearsals to go to,’ Yasmin says, acidly.

Something is seriously up with that lot. Mia’s glad when Clemmie and Dee arrive. Clemmie’s wearing a dress which, as she tells anyone who will listen, is made from recycled plastic bottles, complete with flattened bottle tops as buttons.

‘Amazing,’ Mia says, which isn’t exactly a lie. ‘And you look fabulous, Mrs Huxley.’

Dee is wearing black velvet trousers and a white blouse with frills down the front. On her feet are shiny black dress shoes. ‘Fallen arches, dear,’ she tells Mia, when she sees her looking. ‘Besides, men’s shoes are so much more comfortable.’

Mia is supposed to hand food around, but none of the posh lot wants to eat, and the beautiful platters stay untouched until the locals arrive.