The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(93)

‘It’s you. With Rhys.’ Seren’s crying. ‘And I kept thinking about something Mrs Huxley said, that Felicia and Tabby and me, we could be sisters, and—’ Her voice rises to a shout, hysterical and pleading. ‘He’s got his arm around you in the photo, Ffi. And you’re looking up at him like—’ Noisy sobs fill the phone.

Ffion remembers that photo. One of the photography GCSE students had covered the camp as part of their coursework; taken a load of pictures of the workshops, the show, the party. There’d been some piss-taking afterwards, about how, wherever Rhys was, Ffion wouldn’t be far away. Ffion had wanted to cry. It was the other way around, she’d wanted to say. Everywhere I went, there he was.

Did any of the teachers see the photos of the party? Or were they too concerned with the workshop, the performances? They didn’t look beneath the surface, to where Ffion was gasping for breath.

‘It’s all true, what everyone says, then.’ Seren’s suddenly harsh. ‘Ffion Wyllt.’

‘Please—’

‘And with—’ Seren falters, sobs slicing into her words. ‘With him!’

‘Seren, let me explain.’

‘I can’t believe Rhys Lloyd is my dad.’ She’s crying so hard Ffion can hardly make out what she’s saying. Disgusting . . . Old . . . How could you . . .

‘Wear the dress, he said!’ She’s getting hysterical, dragging gulps of air between each word screamed down the phone. Ffion’s trying to speak, but everything she says prompts another volley of abuse from Seren. Leo’s pulled over, and now he’s reaching into the back seat, unzipping his folder and rifling through papers, and Ffion glares at him. Can he not just sit still for two minutes? Surely he can see how important this is?

‘I hate you.’

‘Seren, please—’

‘And I hate him!’

‘Where are you? I’ll come to—’

‘I wish I was dead.’

‘Don’t say—’ But the line’s quiet. Seren has gone.

Ffion drops the phone in her lap and screws her fists into her hair, pulling her head on to her knees and pressing a moan into her jeans. She feels Leo rub her back, and this time she doesn’t shrug him off. She makes herself breathe – in and out, in and out – and then she releases her grip on her hair and sits up.

‘She knows.’

‘I heard. Sorry,’ Leo adds, apologetically.

‘It’ll be okay.’ Ffion gives herself a pep talk she doesn’t believe. ‘Seren’s got my temper – she’ll calm down.’

‘Ffion.’

‘It’s a huge shock, but I’ll call Mam, and—’

‘Ffi.’

She looks at Leo. His face is creased in concern, and he’s still looking in that bloody folder. ‘What?’

‘“Wear the dress”,’ Leo says.

‘You what?’

‘That’s what Seren said, right? “Wear the dress”. Ffion, I think—’ He breaks off, taking his pen from his jacket pocket and marking several lines on the page he was looking at. He hands it wordlessly to Ffion.

It’s a printout of text messages, sent to and from Rhys Lloyd’s mobile phone in the week before he died. Ffion reads the first line Leo has marked.


I can’t stop thinking about you.


She reads down the page.


You’ll look amazing, whatever you wear.


The final text was sent on New Year’s Eve.


Wear the dress.


The phone number Rhys was texting is Seren’s.





FORTY-FIVE




CHRISTMAS EVE | BOBBY


The airport was rammed, but now they’ve left London the roads are empty and the McLaren gobbles up the miles. For once, Bobby and Ashleigh flew home first class. Business class is more than comfortable enough for Bobby, but Ashleigh begged, and Bobby’s a soft touch. It would at least give him some decent kip before the long drive to The Shore, he reasoned, handing over his credit card.

He had reckoned without Ashleigh, who insisted on ‘banking’ images for her social media channels, requiring several changes of outfits so she could make out they take even more luxury trips than they already do.

‘Can I borrow your seat?’ Ashleigh said, to a bemused man in the middle row.

‘Ash!’ Bobby was appalled. ‘You stay where you are, mate.’

‘It’ll look well dodge, if I’m always in the same seat.’

The whole thing is well dodge, if you ask Bobby. He’s not daft – he knows social media isn’t real life, and he’s not averse to sharing shots of his car from time to time – but Ashleigh’s dedication to her craft is at once impressive and terrifying. Every meal is ‘styled up’ before they can touch it; every hotel room shot from a dozen different angles before Bobby’s allowed to unpack.

As he trotted after Ashleigh to the aeroplane bathroom to take a photo of her in the shower, he thought he might just as well unzip his balls and pop them in her washbag.

Bobby has been a celebrity, of sorts, for most of his adult life. Soon after he retired from the ring he was booked to do a walk-on in Carlton Sands, and he proved such a hit with the viewers that they wrote him into the series. But celeb life has never sat comfortably with a man who would rather have a pint in a spit-and-sawdust pub than drink mojitos in whatever trendy bar the Instagrammers have deemed worthy of their grids.