The Last Party by Clare Mackintosh

Author:Clare Mackintosh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2022-08-26T00:00:00+00:00

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 #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 absent-minded hand stroking her tanned leg. Now, he stands and walks toward Rhys, greeting him with a back slap that 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 emphasizes 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 wiggle 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.

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