And the will.
Glynis feels grief swelling inside her all over again, so many years after she lost Jac. She reads his writing, the clear capitals spelling out what should happen to the shop, the flat, the land on the lakeshore. Rhys had known that was what his dad had wanted, yet he had taken advantage of Jac’s illness – and his refusal to see a doctor about it – and deliberately gone against his wishes. Jac would be devastated.
There’s a sound downstairs.
Someone bangs the door, then thuds against the stairs. It sounds violent, out of control. Glynis is panicking. What if it’s a burglar, here to take advantage of an empty house? What if he attacks her? She looks wildly around for some kind of weapon, as the intruder’s steps come heavily up the stairs. Putting down the folder, she takes a trophy from the shelf above the desk. It’s so heavy she almost drops it, but she grips it tightly, so far out of her depth she can hardly breathe.
And then the door opens and Rhys comes in, and the rush of relief is overwhelmed by anger, the way a mother snatches at a child’s arm when she had thought him lost. He staggers against the wall, too drunk to notice his own mother – although would he even care, she thinks, if he did? Rhys has always done exactly what he wanted. Taken exactly what he wanted. She pictures Rhys telling Jac what to say, where to sign – convincing him he was doing the right thing – and before she knows what she’s doing she’s using all her strength to lift the trophy and hurl it at her son.
Only when he falls to the floor like an axed tree does Glynis come to her senses.
She claps her hand over a scream, every limb trembling.
What has she done?
FIFTY-SEVEN
NEW YEAR’S EVE | CLEMMIE
Clemmie Northcote is having a wonderful evening. She has tried her Welsh on all the local guests （and a few of the English ones）， has drunk way more than she should have done, and doesn’t give two figs because it’s New Year’s Eve! It’s a party! Hurrah for free champagne and stunning surroundings!
Clemmie does some more Irish dancing, which she’s discovered she’s amazingly good at, for someone who has never tried it before. Everyone is cheering, or possibly laughing, it’s hard to tell, but Clemmie doesn’t care either way – it’s all such a hoot.
She takes a breather, bequeathing the dance floor to some of the youngsters, who don’t dance at all, really, just shift their weight from side to side and shout at each other over their drinks. On the other side of the room, Bobby Stafford has his hand on the cleaner’s bottom.
‘Doing his bit for cross-border relations,’ Clemmie says, giggling to herself. Ashleigh’s seen too, and is glaring at Bobby from the sofa so hard he must feel her eyes on him, because he turns around. Clemmie mentally reaches for the popcorn, but Bobby gives a sort of shrug and doesn’t take so much as a finger off Mia. Mind you, Clemmie’s seen Ashleigh coming out of the loo with Jonty twice tonight, so maybe they’re both at it. People have the oddest relationships; Yasmin and Rhys haven’t said a word to each other all night – those poor twins, having parents argue like that, so publicly.
She looks around, but Tabby and Felicia must have gone back to Clemmie’s place. Clemmie hasn’t given up hope of one of them falling madly in love with Caleb, and spends a fair proportion of her lake swims contemplating a Northcote–Lloyd wedding. Sadly, Caleb seems to be more interested in Seren, who is a very sweet girl but who has turned up to tonight’s party dressed – there’s no way to put this nicely – like a prostitute. If Clemmie gets a chance, she’ll have a word with the girl. Woman to woman. Vet her for Caleb, at the same time, just in case the Tabby-or-Felicia thing doesn’t come off.
Any one of those girls would be lucky to have her son, Clemmie thinks, as she wanders off in search of a drink she really shouldn’t have but who’s counting? Caleb’s slowly growing back into the sweet, thoughtful boy he used to be, and it’s all thanks to The Shore. Clemmie’s quite evangelical about the changes in Caleb since they left London, and she feels a bolt of fear as she remembers Rhys’s insistence that she pay back the money he borrowed on her behalf. It’s so unfair – they had an agreement. Maybe not a legal one, but a – what’s it called? Clemmie hiccups. A gentleman’s agreement, that’s it.
‘Gentlewoman’s agreement,’ Clemmie says out loud. She snorts, somewhat louder than she’d intended. Rhys has finished his conversation with Jonty and is walking towards the main living area. Seren puts out a hand to speak to him, but he just stares at her – probably wondering what her parents were thinking, letting her out like that – and carries on. He looks a little worse for wear – too much of the old vino, Clemmie thinks, imagining it in Jonty’s voice, which makes her laugh and then hiccup again.