Ffion says nothing for a while. Then: ‘Well, that wasn’t corporate speak.’
‘Maybe I’m not as predictable you as think. Shall we check out Charlton’s alibi?’
‘Yeah, he burned through my whole stash, as it happens.’ Ashleigh Stafford seems to be oblivious to the consequences of admitting to criminal activity. ‘One of those guys who only does it “socially”， you know?’ She wiggles her fingers in the air around the word. ‘Which is just another way of saying “I’m gonna sponge off of everyone else when I fancy a hit”。’
‘How many times did you go off together, during the party?’ Leo says.
‘God knows. Like, six? Eight? I mean, the last time, we didn’t even bother going back between bumps, just hung out here for an hour or so.’
‘What time was that?’ Ffion says.
‘Half-eleven? He was definitely here at midnight, ’cause we had a bit of a snog.’ She grins. ‘Don’t mean nothing, does it? Not on New Year’s Eve.’
‘Bobby gave us the footage from your door camera,’ Leo says.
‘So?’
‘So you’re not on it.’
‘We wouldn’t be. We went across the decks and came in through the sliding doors.’
‘Did anyone see you?’ Ffion says. ‘Anyone who could confirm your story?’
Ashleigh chews her lip, then brightens. ‘Alexa! We were pissing about with her, asking stupid questions.’ She gets out her phone and opens an app, tapping deftly across the screen before pressing play. ‘See? Eleven fifty-two.’
The recording plays. Alexa, why is water wet?
Ashleigh laughs. ‘I was so fucked.’ She presses the next recording, and Jonty Charlton’s voice rings out. Alexa, what’s Welsh for shove a leek up your— Ashleigh stops the recording. ‘He was even more fucked.’ She frowns at the memory. ‘Two grams of coke gone, just like that. I’ll have to get Caleb on the—’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Forget I said that.’
Caleb Northcote is Ashleigh’s dealer? Leo looks towards Clemmie’s lodge and pictures Caleb, chucking stones by the lakeside this morning. Leo had felt sorry for him; he truly believed the lad wanted to go straight.
Is anyone at The Shore who they appear to be?
TWENTY-FOUR
CHRISTMAS EVE | BLYTHE
As it’s Christmas Eve, Blythe has let Woody and Hester stay up late to eat with the grown-ups. They’ve been delightful, but it’s long past bedtime and Blythe senses Yasmin and Rhys are not entirely charmed by the youngest members of the Charlton family. Apparently it’s perfectly acceptable for Felicia and Tabby to be glued to their phones during what was （even if Blythe says so herself） a truly superb meal, but Hester’s rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ is intolerable.
‘If you don’t go to sleep,’ Yasmin says, ‘Father Christmas won’t come.’
‘Aka fuck off,’ Rhys says, under his breath, to Jonty, who roars with laughter.
‘I’ll say!’
Blythe glares at her husband. She used to think Jonty was an excellent father: he plays with the children, takes them to the pantomime and to the zoo, and has even been known to do the nursery run, where he is fawned over by the coven of mothers. At home, they have a live-in nanny, who also accompanies them to their house in the Cotswolds and on holiday to Tuscany.
It has become very apparent to Blythe that Jonty is only an excellent father on his terms. Here at The Shore, where the configuration of rooms doesn’t allow for a nanny （there’s no second sitting room – where would she go in the evenings?）， Jonty has been distinctly reluctant.
‘The Shore needs a crèche,’ he said, in the summer. They’d been there for three days. ‘I’ll tell Rhys to factor it into the budget.’
There is, in fact, only one element of parenting in which Jonty excels himself. Blythe supposes she should be grateful for small mercies.
‘Jonty, darling,’ she says now, ‘could you put the children down? You’re so much better at it than I am.’
‘But we’re not tired!’ Woody sprints circles around the dining table, and Hester hares after him, tripping on the rug and face-planting the floor. She lets out an air-raid-siren scream.
Jonty gets up. ‘Come on, you horrors.’
Bedtime has become Jonty’s domain. Woody and Hester, who have always been a nightmare to settle, now go meekly up to bed with a cup of warm milk and a story, and are asleep in ten minutes. Blythe has tried to emulate the same routine, but she lacks Jonty’s magic touch.