The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(86)

‘Ashleigh wants the lodge cleaning?’

‘It’s too weird, isn’t it? I’ll tell her you can’t do it.’

‘And have her pay someone else to do it? So not only do I have to spend the next week on my own, I can’t pay the rent—’

Mia’s teasing, but Bobby cuts in, horrified. ‘You can’t pay your rent? Why didn’t you say, babe? I’ll send you the cash.’

‘Don’t you bloody dare. I’m not taking your money. Course I’ll clean the lodge.’

‘Can you get the key from Rhys or Jonty? They’re going up next week, right?’

‘I can, but I’m fully booked next week – it’s half-term, and the holiday lets are mental. I’ve got a couple of hours tomorrow, though, I’ll sort something out, don’t worry.’

‘Thanks, babe. I love you, you know.’

‘I know.’

Huw Ellis is wearing pyjama bottoms and slippers in the shape of Shrek’s head. He opens the door with a piece of cheese on toast in one hand, crumbs sticking to his T-shirt. On the floor in the hall, his work clothes are in a pile around his boots.

‘Does Ffion know what she’s missing out on?’ Mia says, taking in the scene.

‘She collected more of her stuff today.’ Huw ignores the jibe. ‘Waited till I was at work, of course.’ He takes a bite of toast, talking through a mouthful of cheese. ‘Will you talk to her again?’

‘Yeah, because that went well, didn’t it?’

A few weeks after Ffion and Huw split up, Mia – against her better judgement – had attempted to reconcile the couple. The result was her friend refusing to speak to Mia unless she promised to never again bring up the subject of Ffion’s love life.

‘I came to blag the keys to The Shore off you,’ she says, before Huw can ask again. ‘I’ve got to clean number three.’

Huw eyes her suspiciously. ‘How do you know I’ve got a set of keys?’

‘Rumour has it you’re refusing to give them back till you’re paid.’ Mia leans against the porch door. ‘Come on, Huw, I need to get my bunions into salt water.’

‘I did not need that image in my head.’ He leaves the front door open and walks through the hall to the kitchen. Mia follows, watching as Huw rummages in a drawer. Dirty dishes are piled in the sink, and the worktop is smeared with the traces of what might be bolognese sauce.

‘You should get a cleaner.’

‘You offering?’ He opens another drawer.

‘Nope.’

‘Some women would consider it an honour to pick my pants off the bathroom floor, you know.’

‘I think that’s unlikely. Bloody hell, Huw, how many keys have you got?’

‘I’m a builder. Buildings have keys.’ He scratches his ear. ‘I swear they were here last time I looked.’

Mia’s feet are killing her. She walks towards the front door. ‘I’ll have to wait till Rhys gets here, and fit it in next week. But honestly, Huw, sort this place out – it’s a shit pit.’

Later, with a glass of wine in her hand and her feet in a bowl of hot water, she re-jigs next week’s diary, then messages Rhys and arranges for him to leave number three open for her. In a fit of pure masochism, she finds an old episode of Carlton Sands and fast-forwards between Bobby’s scenes. Their daily rendezvous in the cove over the summer seem light years ago, and she aches with longing.

It’s pouring with rain when Mia gets to The Shore. She’s worked all weekend, getting holiday lets ready for half-term visitors, and she’s got Airbnbs on one-night turnovers all week. She sends Bobby a photo of his bedroom.

Wish you were here.

Ditto. He sends a photo back: dazzling white sands and turquoise sea.

She sends one of the loo brush and receives a string of laughing emojis, followed by dozens of hearts. Love you, my Mia.

Downstairs, Mia cracks open the sliding doors to let in some air, and puts on music while she works. She turns up the volume, singing as she pushes the vacuum cleaner under the table. Bobby has come good on his pledge of time away together, booking a suite and promising to spoil her rotten.

She catches a movement and looks up, screaming when she realises it’s the reflection in the glass doors. She spins around, one hand on her chest as she gets her breathing back under control.

‘What are you doing here?’

Rhys walks towards her, his face twisted in a sleazy leer. ‘I was hoping you could service my needs.’

Mia turns away. She has encountered this sort of thing before. Clients – or clients’ husbands – making suggestive comments as she vacuums their offices. Once, she turned up at a new customer’s house to find him in a bathrobe, the belt ‘accidentally’ falling open once the door was closed. She has a one-strike rule, which is easy to do when you work for yourself and it’s a single client. But Rhys owns The Shore. If she tells him to fuck off, he won’t hire her again, and when the rest of the lodges are built that’s a lot of money.

‘I’m supposed to be cleaning,’ she says. She moves away, her eyes on the vacuum cleaner. ‘Ashleigh’s got a thing about moths.’ If she ignores him, he’ll go away. He’s trying it on, is all.

But now he’s behind her, and she can feel heat on her neck, and she’s so scared she can’t move. He runs his hand down her arms.