‘Will the children be staying up on New Year’s Eve?’ Yasmin’s seemingly casual tone has a tightness beneath it.
‘Don’t worry,’ Blythe says. ‘We’re planning a grown-up affair, aren’t we, Jonty?’
‘Too right. Smalls in bed by seven, and I gather Clemmie’s offered her pad for the not-so-smalls.’
‘Why can’t we be at the party?’ Tabby complains.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to hang out with us old people.’ Jonty grins, and Tabby doesn’t contradict him.
‘And you’re sure you’re okay to host it?’ Yasmin says.
Blythe smiles sweetly. ‘Honestly, we don’t mind.’ Ever since the party was mooted, Yasmin has angled to host, desperate to showcase her interior design skills, even though the villagers probably think Anthropologie is a BTEC option at the local college.
‘It’s just, with the children being so young . . .’ Yasmin takes a sip of wine.
‘They’ll be tucked up in bed. You’d never even know we had any.’ In their playroom at home, Blythe maintains a strict colour palette of black, white and natural wood, which is much more challenging than Jonty gives her credit for. She allowed Woody and Hester to each choose three toys to keep at The Shore, which she tucks away in the ottoman when they’re not needed.
‘If Jonty and Blythe are happy to host,’ Rhys says, ‘I think we should let them.’
‘Thank you, Rhys,’ Blythe simpers, as is expected, although she knows precisely why Rhys is so keen not to have the party centred around number five: it would mean putting his hand in his pocket. As it is, Jonty – always quick to show off his largesse – has declared the Charlton bar will be bottomless.
‘In fact, we should invite some of the locals.’ Rhys’s lips are stained with port.
‘Are there any?’ Yasmin laughs.
Blythe is no longer simpering. What a cheek! It’s clear Rhys just wants to show off to the village, and on someone else’s dime. ‘I’m not sure Jonty will want—’
‘What won’t I want?’ Jonty comes back downstairs.
‘All and sundry coming across from Cwm Coed,’ Yasmin says tartly. ‘They’re not our sort of people, Rhys – you know that.’
‘It’s very important to have diverse representation within one’s friendship circle.’ Blythe read this in the Guardian. She isn’t entirely sure she wants diverse friends – she’s perfectly happy with the ones she has – but it’s good to show willing. Do the Welsh count as a minority ethnic group?
‘It’s a ball-ache alright,’ Jonty says, ‘entertaining the hoi polloi, but we do need to get them on-side. The view’s great, but people want more than that from a second home. They want to wander around the shops and chat to the locals. They want community.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ Rhys says. ‘I’ll draw up a list of the right kind of people.’
Yasmin leans towards Blythe. ‘Is there anything we can do to help with the party prep? Décor, perhaps?’
Blythe bristles. ‘All taken care of, darling. The marquee will go up on the thirtieth, and the deckchairs are coming the same day. I’m still pricing up sand—’
‘No bloody sand!’ Jonty says.
‘And I did wonder about some sort of water feature, to go with the beach theme.’
Jonty puts down his glass with a bang. ‘There’s a bloody lake out there!’ He looks at Rhys. ‘Women, eh? All this, and we have to make small talk with farmers.’
‘Call-me-Clemmie will entertain them.’ Rhys chortles, and everyone laughs.
Blythe claps her hands, like a child. ‘That reminds me! The locals do a swim on New Year’s Day, and I had thought it would be fun to join in, only I asked the girl in the newsagent’s about it and . . .’ Blythe briefly shuts her eyes, then breathes out. ‘Well, let’s just say it’s a closed shop. Anyway . . .’ she looks around the table ‘。 . . I thought we’d start our own tradition. The Shore Christmas Day Dip! What do you think, girls? Caleb’s doing it. I’ll cheer you on from the deck – I mustn’t let my meridian lines get cold.’
Felicia doesn’t look up from her phone. ‘Yeah, whatevs.’
‘Tabby?’
‘S’pose.’
‘Rhys?’
‘Can’t wait,’ he says, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.