The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(75)

The sound of a car arriving makes them all look up. As one, they move into one of the two single rooms looking onto the driveway. Yasmin has had Tabby’s and Felicia’s bedrooms decorated in ice-cream pastels. A black and white photograph of Yasmin, gazing into the camera, adorns the walls in each room. Blythe gets to the window first. She claps her hands excitedly and spins around.

‘They’re here!’

Rhys feels a bolt of excitement. This is it. The first of The Shore’s new residents has arrived.





THIRTY-THREE




LATE JULY | YASMIN


‘I wonder who it is!’ Yasmin rushes to the stairs, keen to establish her position as The Shore’s First Lady.

‘Who’s next to you and Rhys?’ Blythe follows her, breathless with excitement.

‘Clemence Northcote.’ Yasmin has memorised the list. ‘IT professional, teenage son.’ Downstairs, she stops to swipe a fresh bottle of champagne from the waiting ice bucket. ‘Rhys – glasses.’ She clicks her fingers, and he picks up two flutes. ‘Gosh, I feel quite nervous!’ She has been dreaming of this moment ever since Rhys outlined his visions for The Shore. A haven of well-connected, well-to-do, like-minded people, who will commission Yasmin to design interiors around the world.

‘No need for nerves,’ Rhys says. ‘They’ll fall in love with the place the second they see it. The view alone will take their breath away.’

‘I agree,’ Jonty says. ‘It’s pretty sensational.’ He winks at Yasmin, waiting until Rhys’s attention is elsewhere before letting his eyes drop to her cleavage. Yasmin practically purrs. Six weeks ago, the two couples went out for dinner, downing several bottles of wine and splitting an Uber home. Rhys was in the front, boring the driver (who had turned out to be an unlikely fan of classical music) and Blythe was nodding off. Squashed in the middle, Yasmin had felt Jonty’s hand stroking her thigh. It was such a thrill, and, although nothing has happened since, Yasmin knows it’s only a matter of time.

‘Number three’s the soap actor, isn’t it?’ Blythe says.

‘Bobby Stafford,’ Rhys confirms. ‘Middleweight champion years ago, then he started acting and now he’s pretty much retired from the ring, as far as I can tell. His wife’s the blonde who was in the jungle – the waterfall shower with the see-through bikini?’

‘Ding dong,’ says Jonty.

‘Which just leaves Deirdre Huxley,’ Rhys says. ‘I don’t know anything about her except she’s retired.’

‘We should have put in an upper age limit,’ Jonty says. ‘Zimmer frames don’t exactly scream The Shore, do they?’

‘Luxury lodges,’ Yasmin mocks, ‘only available to the rich, the aesthetically pleasing, and those in possession of their own teeth.’

They’re still laughing as they form a welcoming committee outside the lodges. A grey Tesla is bumping up the drive. Automatically, Yasmin sucks in her stomach and presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth – her latest trick to tighten that annoying saggy bit under her chin – but as the car draws nearer she sees an elderly woman behind the wheel. The sun glints off the windscreen as the Tesla comes to a stop.

Deirdre Huxley emerges with a broad smile. ‘Well, isn’t this something?’

Jonty steps forward with a glass of bubbly. ‘Jonty Charlton, investor. Welcome to The Shore.’ Yasmin gives an inward sigh of appreciation. Jonty is so much more refined than her husband. You can take the man out of Cwm Coed, but it seems you can never quite rinse Cwm Coed out of the man.

‘Now that’s what I call a welcome – thank you, my dear.’ She clinks her glass against Jonty’s. ‘And I’m Dee. Unless I’m in trouble, of course.’ Her eyes twinkle. ‘Now, who else do we have?’

Rhys sticks out a hand. ‘Rhys Lloyd. Creator of The Shore.’

‘Indeed.’ There’s an amused expression on Dee’s face as she shakes Rhys’s hand. ‘How nice to see you here.’

‘Will you do the honours, Jonty?’ Rhys throws the keys for lodge two at Jonty, who gives Rhys a flash of resentment before turning on the charm.

‘My pleasure. Mrs Huxley, won’t you come with me?’ He offers her an arm, but she declines, reaching for her stick from the back seat of the Tesla.

‘Plenty of life in this old dog. Although if you wouldn’t mind bringing my bag from the footwell, I’d be ever so grateful. It has all my medication in.’

‘Of course.’

Mia comes running out of number three in her cleaning tabard, shouting instructions down the phone. ‘Turn around . . . you’ll see a farm on your – that’s it! The turning’s a bit further on the left. I’m outside now.’ There’s the throaty roar of an engine, and everyone turns, catching a flash of yellow through the trees. ‘I see you now! Yes, don’t worry, I’ve got it sorted!’ She runs back into the house, as a bright yellow McLaren Spider speeds up the drive and then stops abruptly, with a loud thud.

‘Shit,’ Rhys says. ‘He’s hit a pothole.’

The McLaren rocks forward and then back. There’s a ghastly grinding sound, and then the car bumps out of the hole and continues towards the lodges, creeping a few feet at a time and snaking around the remaining potholes.