Ffion hangs up.
Rhys feels a pain in his chest so violent he wonders if he’s having a heart attack. Nausea rises in his gullet, acrid and intense, and he lurches to the edge of the lake, hands on his knees, face reflected in the glassy water. He thinks of the flirting in his study, as Seren helped with his post. He thinks of the text messages they’ve batted back and forth.
Wear the dress.
Rhys vomits into the water, acrid bile stinging his throat. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, takes out his phone and swipes blurrily at the screen, deleting the messages and wishing he could delete his thoughts as easily.
He half walks, half runs back home, skirting the Charltons’ lodge, where the front door is wide open. He can see Yasmin, and a pile of balloons; Blythe with a clipboard.
Bobby’s carrying boxes of wine up the path. ‘There are more in the car if—’
Rhys doesn’t stop. He gets to his study and sits heavily in his chair, fighting his breathing under control. His phone pings with a text from Seren, and Rhys lets out a low moan. She’s sent a photo, and he catches a glimpse of smooth thigh before he deletes the message. Oh God oh God oh God make it stop. He deletes her contact then blocks her number, his breath coming in painful lumps, as though he’s been running.
He doesn’t know how long he spends there, slumped at his desk, but it’s gone two when Yasmin sends Tabby looking for him, telling him there are too many jobs to do and not enough people.
Rhys snaps at her. ‘Can’t you see I’m working?’
‘You don’t look like you’re working.’
Rhys snatches up the latest padded envelope from his agent and rips it open, mail spilling out across the desk. ‘Happy now?’ He hears the door slam and knows she’ll be running straight back to Yasmin, but he doesn’t care. His world is on fire and he doesn’t know which blaze to tackle first. He starts opening his mail, stuffing the waste paper back in the padded envelope and laying out the entry forms; slotting signed photographs into the waiting SAEs. He winces as he cuts his tongue on an envelope, pressing angrily on the seal then pushing it into the post bag. Over and over: slot, seal, push. Slot, seal, push. And breathe. The repetitive action quietens his mind and blocks out the thoughts, and slowly he begins to calm.
An exhaust backfires outside, angry and loud in the crisp air. Rhys stands and looks out of the window to see a rusty Triumph Stag jerking to a stop in the space outside their lodge. The driver’s door opens, and Rhys’s chest tightens.
Ffion.
He can’t let her get anywhere near Yasmin or the girls, not when he doesn’t know what she might say – doesn’t even know the facts himself. He races downstairs, tripping on the last step and hurtling into the hall so fast he smashes into the door before he can open it. Black blurs the edges of his vision as he lurches down the path towards Ffion.
She hasn’t changed. Still small, still with a groove between her eyebrows, as though she spends more time scowling than laughing. Her hair’s lighter than Seren’s – Rhys doesn’t remember if it’s always been that way or if it’s mellowing with age – and scraped into a bun, so what’s on show is straight.
‘Am I right?’ Rhys says. ‘Is Seren . . .’ He still can’t say it, is still horrified by the very thought. But Ffion’s eyes are flashing. It’s true.
‘How did you find out?’ She spits it out, as though it’s Rhys’s fault this happened. ‘Nobody knows. Nobody!’
‘I – I guessed.’ Rhys looks towards the lodges, anxious this conversation should finish before Yasmin comes looking for him. She’s going to be furious. Does that matter? Rhys wonders. She’s furious anyway – she wants a divorce.
Ffion takes two steps one way, then the other. She stops and looks at Rhys. ‘Have you said anything to Seren?’
‘No.’
‘You promise?’ Ffion’s voice cracks, and tears spill over her lower lashes.
‘I promise.’ Rhys feels a sudden need to atone – for the girl at Number 36, for the nameless, faceless women he’s cast aside, over the years. ‘But I have two daughters – two other daughters. They should know – in time – that they have a half . . .’ Hunger gnaws at his insides, sweat breaks out across his brow. When did he last eat anything?
Ffion stares at him. ‘No fucking way.’
‘Not now, but . . . when you’ve told her. Once she’s got used to the idea.’