‘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.
As they leave the motorway and head for north Wales, Bobby feels the pressure peeling off him. He loves being at The Shore. He loves messing about on the lake, and climbing mountains, and exploring the forest trails with a backpack of snacks and a cheeky beer. He loves mooching into the village, where the only cameras are the kids with iPhones, more interested in his car than in him. The place reminds him of childhood holidays, when his nan packed him and his brother off with sandwiches and a bucket and spade, and instructions not to come back till tea.
With nothing to photograph, Ashleigh has pushed back her seat and is lying with her mouth open, a thin strand of drool reaching to her shoulder. Bobby imagines posting it to her grid. Hashtag no filter. Brilliant.
It’s the early hours of Christmas Day when they arrive at The Shore. Ashleigh peers blearily through the windscreen. ‘It looks even shittier than I remembered.’
‘You didn’t have to come. You could have gone to your parents.’
Ashleigh pulls on her trainers. ‘And mess up the plan?’
The plan. Bobby is sick to the back teeth of the fucking plan. For a simple man, who likes simple pleasures, Bobby’s life has got a bit too complicated for his liking. Behind the row of lodges the lake is as black as the sky. A single light is still on at the Lloyds’ place. ‘I don’t think I can go through with this,’ he says, surprising himself with his sudden honesty.