The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(97)

‘What do you think?’ Steff shows his phone to Huw. He popped into the pub, ostensibly to have a celebratory sandwich, but mostly to show off his website to anyone who stands still long enough.

Huw looks at the screen. ‘Fair play, Steff, that’s a good job, that is.’

Steffan shows him the gallery of images: a mosaic of happy holidaymakers wakeboarding, kayaking, picnicking on paddle-boards. On Steffan’s website the sun is always shining, the lake always sparkling.

‘You’re getting ready, then?’ Huw says.

Steffan, who has a mouthful of cheese and pickle, nods with vigour. He has never felt readier. There will be people viewing The Shore from early in the New Year, he’s heard, seduced into buying off-plan by the flagship lodges already in place. When they look across the lake, the newly smartened boathouse will be the first thing they see. Steff pictures them – wealthy, successful, influential – picking up his leaflet with their new owner pack, making plans for their year.

Oh, do let’s hire kayaks – what fun!

I’ve always fancied windsurfing.

The children absolutely must have sailing lessons.

Huw’s still talking. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to fight fire with fire, right?’

Steffan tears himself away from his imagination. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t want to be on the back foot when the water sports centre opens.’

Slowly, Steff puts down his sandwich. What water sports centre? He feels cold inside, like he’s coming down with something, and now Huw’s face has changed to something which looks a lot like pity.

‘You didn’t know.’

‘Water sports centre?’ A piece of bread is stuck in Steff’s throat, his mouth suddenly devoid of saliva. The pub door opens, and Ceri comes in, still in her Royal Mail uniform.

‘At The Shore. Discounts for lodge-owners, day memberships for visitors.’ Huw picks at a beer mat, his eyes sliding away from Steffan. ‘I only know because I quoted on the job. He turned me down, of course. He’ll bus in a load of Eastern Europeans on the cheap.’ He snorts. ‘Not that I’d lay another brick till he pays me what I’m owed.’

‘Iawn?’ Ceri says.

Huw nods a greeting. ‘Alright, Ceri?’

Steffan says nothing. He’s thinking of his expensive website; the Zorbing ball and the trampoline. He’s thinking of the hours spent refurbishing the boathouse and painting a fleet of dinghies in the colours of The Shore. ‘Offering what, exactly?’ His voice is strangled.

‘Can I nab a bit of paper?’ Ceri is saying. Behind the bar, Alun pulls a page from his order pad.

‘And you’ve got your local trade.’ Huw drains his coffee. Reaches out and claps a hand on Steff’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be alright, mate.’

But Steffan knows it’s over. How many of the Shore owners will walk to the other side of the lake to hire a boat, when it can be delivered to their deck? How many of them will care about Steff’s years of sailing experience – that he knows every eddy and curve of Llyn Drych – when they can have some buff guy in a branded polo shirt sucking up to them? The locals are loyal, but they’re a fraction of his business.

‘With instructors?’ He blinks rapidly, focusing on Ceri’s pen as she scribbles on a piece of paper, because he can’t trust his eyes not to water. ‘Are you sure?’

‘That’s what Rhys said.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Steffan’s voice rises. ‘I went there at the end of summer, I gave his daughters a rowing boat, for fuck’s sake!’ The door bangs as Ceri leaves the pub, an icy blast reaching the bar. ‘Why didn’t he say anything?’

Huw raises his hands, flat palms fending off Steffan’s words. ‘Listen, I’ve got to get back to work. Don’t let the bastards get you down.’

How is Steffan going to pay back the bank loan? Even if he hadn’t borrowed the money, invested in the promise of what he thought The Shore could offer, how can he survive another season? He’s barely been able to pay his bills this year; once The Shore opens a water sports centre, Steffan’s business is over. He’s ruined.

He stares morosely at the bar. Ceri’s left a pile of cards behind, her scribbled note on top, and he leans over to read it. Open invitation. Free bar. Curious, Steffan takes a card, and rage floods through him.

The residents of The Shore warmly invite the neighbours for drinks and canapés.

Drinks and fucking canapés. Rhys Lloyd will drink champagne while he pisses on Steff’s business – on the business that his father built up, that his grandfather founded. The invitation shakes in Steff’s hand, the black words swirling before him. It’s not enough for Lloyd to take the trade Steff could have got from The Shore; they’re inviting the locals to ooh and ahh over the lodges. No doubt Lloyd’ll tell them all about the water sports centre, offer them taster membership, discounts, freebies . . .

Steffan tears the invite in half, then in half again. He tears and tears until in front of him is a pile of confetti. Then he looks up. ‘Pint of Purple Moose,’ he says.

Alun speaks levelly. ‘I think that’s a bad idea, don’t you?’

Steff’s teeth clench hard, his fists itching for the feel of a glass, his tongue already working, waiting for the bitter taste of beer. ‘A. Pint. Of. Purple. Moose,’ he repeats, each word a separate sentence.