The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(65)

‘Oh, my God, I wondered what that smell was!’

‘You didn’t think it was down to me, did you?’

‘I was more concerned with where my bra was, to be honest.’

Leo clears his throat. ‘Um, I found it in the kitchen. I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I thought you might be embarrassed if I gave it back.’

‘Have you any idea how expensive bras are?’

‘Gotcha. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.’

‘You arrested a dangerous predator,’ Ffion says quietly. ‘You did a great thing.’

‘I put my son at risk.’

‘He was shaken up, that’s all. No harm done.’ Ffion puts a hand on his arm. ‘Turn off here.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘I’m taking you home to meet my mother.’





TWENTY-EIGHT




LATE AUGUST | RHYS


August has been unbearably hot; the air close and heavy, with not a breath of breeze. Rhys stands on the edge of the deck, lethargic yet restless at the same time, and sees his own face staring back at him from water smooth as glass. He hears Dee Huxley laughing at something, and a familiar unease forms in his chest. Her presence – the power she has over him – hangs over him like a noose.

He scrolls through his phone, looking for the #ShoreLife posts and flagging potential opportunities to their PR team. He flicks to Twitter, unable to stop himself from checking his mentions, even though the thought makes his chest feel tight. There are no new tweets, only yesterday’s charming direct message.


CUNT.


Closer to the lodges, Yasmin and Blythe are gossiping. Jonty has been perched on the end of his wife’s sun lounger, an absentminded hand stroking her tanned leg. Now, he stands and walks towards Rhys, greeting him with a backslap which sticks Rhys’s polo shirt to his back.

Jonty steers Rhys to two chairs, set apart from the others and looking out across the lake. ‘The girls are talking babies.’ He grimaces.

‘Not having another one, are you?’

‘Good lord, no! I got the snip the second Hester was home. Not falling for that again.’ He guffaws, clinking his beer bottle against Rhys’s and settling into one of the chairs. ‘I got a phone call today from your builder chap.’

Rhys takes a slow drink.

‘I managed four months,’ Yasmin is saying, behind them, ‘then it was on to formula, so I could get some sleep.’

‘Huw Ellis? What did he want?’

‘You.’ Jonty’s gaze burns into Rhys. ‘Only apparently you’re not picking up, so someone in the office gave him my number.’

‘Sleep?’ In the background, Blythe gives a hollow laugh. ‘Remind me what that is? If Woody’s not awake, Hester is – I swear they plan it. I’m exhausted.’

‘Tabby was a dream,’ Yasmin says. ‘But Felicia!’

‘I’m supposed to be a silent partner, old man, not dealing with the bloody trade. What’s going on?’

‘He needs paying.’ It’s almost a relief to get it out. ‘There’s not enough money in the business account.’ Jonty frowns. ‘We had that problem with the electrics, remember? And the bloody rain pushed the schedules out, so . . .’ Rhys goes on, knowing it won’t be long before Jonty’s eyes glaze over, bored with the minutiae.

‘How much do you owe him?’

‘We’ – Rhys emphasises the word – ‘owe thirty grand.’

Jonty winces. He stares at the lake, flickers of tension crossing his face. Then he gets out his phone. ‘Thirty?’ He taps at his phone. ‘I’ll transfer it to you. Get the office to sort the paperwork in the morning. That’s it, though, old man – no more wriggle room.’

‘Of course.’ Rhys is flooded with relief. ‘Much appreciated.’

‘As for sex,’ they hear Blythe say, ‘forget it!’ The women burst into hysterical laughter.

‘Kids not sleeping?’ Rhys says. Anything to change the subject.

‘Arseholes, the pair of them. Worse than newborns.’

Giddy with relief that his money worries are – for now – solved, Rhys raises his bottle in a self-congratulatory toast. ‘You, my friend, are talking to just the person. They call me the Baby Whisperer.’

Later, Rhys calls his agent, Fleur Brockman.

‘How’s life at The Shore?’ she asks.

‘It’s fabulous – you must come and visit.’ The heat in Rhys’s study is stifling. He walks through to the bedroom to throw open the French windows, stepping on to the balcony and leaning on the railing. The slim metal pole is fixed to the top of a glass panel, giving an uninterrupted view of the lake from the master bedroom. Beneath the glass on every balcony is a gap.

Blythe had gone ballistic when she saw it. ‘The children could slip straight through that!’

‘Don’t let them on the balcony, then.’ It seemed perfectly simple to Rhys.

Down on the deck, the twins get up from their sun loungers and pick up the enormous inflatable flamingos they insisted on. Yasmin and Blythe have gone inside.

‘Darling,’ Fleur says, ‘you know I can’t be more than twenty metres from a Pret. Listen, I’ve had another chase from the branding agency, asking when they can expect the balance for the campaign.’