The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(62)

‘I’m supposed to be cleaning. Ashleigh’s got a thing about moths.’

Rhys is behind her now, his breath on her neck and his fingers running lightly down her arms.

‘Don’t,’ she says softly, quivering beneath his touch.

‘It’s okay, the coast is clear.’

Mia moans. They can fuck here, Rhys thinks. In the kitchen, in front of the vast expanse of water, the rain lashing against the windows. Then they’ll go upstairs and fuck on the Staffords’ bed, which he knows will turn her on. He moves a hand to her breasts, then slides it upwards, caressing her neck, slipping his fingers into her mouth so she can suck on them.

‘I want you,’ Mia moans, through a mouthful of his fingers, and God, does Rhys want her too, but his attention is caught by a movement outside, on the deck. He and Mia spring apart, Rhys’s heart beating furiously. Is Yasmin spying on him? Or – God forbid – did one of the twins see him with Mia?

‘I should—’ Mia breaks off, gesturing to the vacuum cleaner. Rhys knows the moment has passed, and, besides, his cock has been scared into submission, retreating between his legs.

‘To be continued!’ he says, with more conviction than he feels. He rushes back to number five, where Yasmin’s still on the sofa, huddled beneath a blanket. Music comes from upstairs; thuds as Tabby and Felicia practise the latest TikTok dance. Rhys relaxes. It was a bird he saw, perhaps, or the shadow from a cloud, chasing across the deck. Their secret is safe.

It rains solidly for three days. The lodge, which had seemed so spacious on the plans, is claustrophobically small. The girls spend all day in their rooms; Yasmin huddles in front of the log burner with Rhys’s credit card, ordering home accessories which arrive the next day, filling the tiny hall with flattened boxes and bubble wrap.

‘I must show you our bedroom,’ she says to Glynis, who has come for lunch. ‘I’ve completely restyled it.’

Rhys, who was planning forty winks on the sofa, finds himself chivvied to help your mother up the stairs, even though Glynis is fighting fit and manages the stairs in her own house without trouble. Rhys knows this is because he has failed to notice Yasmin’s restyling, which he now sees consists of adding new cushions and moving a lamp from one side of the room to the other.

‘And doesn’t Jac’s cabinet look lovely in Rhys’s office?’ Yasmin says, as they walk back through.

‘Perfect,’ Glynis says, touching a hand to the battered drawers. Rhys escorts his mother downstairs before she can get misty-eyed about T?’r Lan, a glorified shed which Rhys remembers as a storage shack for fishing tackle, and furniture his parents didn’t have space for at home. It was a far cry from The Shore, which – even in the dreary October rain – is breathtaking.

The clouds finally clear towards the end of the week. And because they are on holiday, and because The Shore carries the memories of summer, everyone drifts outside, bundled in coats and with blankets over their knees, but nevertheless outside. It’s sheltered, by the lodges, but the wind is high and the waves are tipped with white foam. The lake is swollen, the trees around the shoreline seeming to grow directly from the water.

Clemmie, who swims the length of the lake most days, emerges in her wetsuit. If Jonty were here he’d make jokes about Greenpeace, but Rhys keeps his mouth shut. Clemmie spends most days with Dee Huxley, and the more distance Rhys puts between himself and Dee, the better. The older woman hasn’t yet said anything to Yasmin, but Rhys knows if he puts a foot out of line, she will.

Clemmie sets off at a surprisingly fast pace, her head low and her arms slicing through the water. Waves break across her, so that there are moments when she’s entirely underwater. Yasmin settles into a book, the twins slope off to hang out with Caleb, and Rhys sweeps the deck, finding satisfaction in the pile of green sludge he pushes from the grooves. They have no outside space to speak of, in London, only a basement yard useless for anything but bicycles. He breathes in clean, cold air and thinks of the hours he spent as a child each day, roaming the hillsides around Cwm Coed. He thought coming back would give him that same sense of freedom, so why does he still feel so hemmed in?

There’s a sudden commotion behind him; Yasmin is out of her chair, pointing at the lake. ‘Clemmie’s in trouble.’ She’s thrashing about in the water, her head dipping beneath the waves, one arm stretched high above her head. Automatically he gets out his phone, then stares at it blankly. Which emergency service covers the lake? He is about to dial 999 when Yasmin puts a hand on his arm.

‘I think they’re going to help her.’ She points to a red-sailed boat, which has changed course and is heading straight for Clemmie. Everyone watches as the little boat comes about, skirting closer to where Clemmie dips in and out of view. The helmsman throws a life ring and Yasmin clasps her hands together as Clemmie grabs it. ‘Thank God!’

‘Thank God,’ echoes Rhys, thinking about all the money Clemmie owes him.

By the time the boat arrives at The Shore, Dee has Clemmie’s swimming robe ready to throw around her, Yasmin has a mug of sweet tea, and the twins have their phones out.

Yasmin glares at them. ‘That’s hardly appropriate.’

‘Hashtag dramatic rescue hashtag The Shore, though!’ Felicia says, but Yasmin stands firm.

As Clemmie’s rescuer helps Clemmie up the ladder, on to the deck, Rhys realises he recognises her. Angharad is his mother’s age, although the two women couldn’t be more different. The jumper beneath her dungarees is darned in so many places it looks like patchwork. She wears no make-up and her face is mapped with tiny, fine lines. Despite the excitement of everyone around her, there’s a stillness about her that Rhys finds unsettling.