There’s a sudden commotion behind him; Yasmin is out of her chair, pointing at the lake. ‘Clemmie’s in trouble.’ She’s thrashing about in the water, her head dipping beneath the waves, one arm stretched high above her head. Automatically he gets out his phone, then stares at it blankly. Which emergency service covers the lake? He is about to dial 999 when Yasmin puts a hand on his arm.
‘I think they’re going to help her.’ She points to a red-sailed boat, which has changed course and is heading straight for Clemmie. Everyone watches as the little boat comes about, skirting closer to where Clemmie dips in and out of view. The helmsman throws a life ring and Yasmin clasps her hands together as Clemmie grabs it. ‘Thank God!’
‘Thank God,’ echoes Rhys, thinking about all the money Clemmie owes him.
By the time the boat arrives at The Shore, Dee has Clemmie’s swimming robe ready to throw around her, Yasmin has a mug of sweet tea, and the twins have their phones out.
Yasmin glares at them. ‘That’s hardly appropriate.’
‘Hashtag dramatic rescue hashtag The Shore, though!’ Felicia says, but Yasmin stands firm.
As Clemmie’s rescuer helps Clemmie up the ladder, on to the deck, Rhys realises he recognises her. Angharad is his mother’s age, although the two women couldn’t be more different. The jumper beneath her dungarees is darned in so many places it looks like patchwork. She wears no make-up and her face is mapped with tiny, fine lines. Despite the excitement of everyone around her, there’s a stillness about her that Rhys finds unsettling.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine!’ Clemmie says, her teeth rattling so hard she can hardly get the words out. ‘Cramp. So embarrassing. The one time I go without my tow float, too.’
‘Cool boat,’ Caleb says. Rhys assumes the boy is being sarcastic, then sees him gazing at the long, thin boat with something close to envy. Instead of the fibreglass of modern boats, Tanwen has a wooden hull, the varnish thin and chipped. Here and there, sections have been cut out and replaced, the seal around the join still visible. The red sails, now dropped away from the wind, are patched and faded.
‘You think?’ Angharad eyes Caleb, who reddens.
‘I don’t really know anything about boats,’ he mumbles.
‘If you’re going to live on the water, you should learn.’
The colour’s slowly returning to Clemmie’s cheeks. She turns to Caleb. ‘Maybe, if you ask Angharad nicely, she might teach you to sail.’ Rhys and Yasmin exchange a glance. There she goes again: pushy Clemmie. But Angharad gives a slow nod.
‘Ella.’ Perhaps. ‘But for now, you must get warm. Your core temperature will continue to drop for some time.’
Angharad accompanies Clemmie inside her lodge, and the twins and Yasmin drift back to their own lodge. Rhys feels a prickle across his neck and turns to see Dee Huxley watching him.
‘Lakes are so dangerous,’ she says. ‘You think you’re in control and then—’ She bangs her stick sharply on the deck.
Rhys shivers and follows his family inside.
A bundle of post has arrived from Fleur and Rhys feels a surge of optimism for the future. He imagines recording again, touring proper venues, instead of small-town theatres. He opens the contacts on his phone and sends his new assistant a text message. I’ve got a couple of hours’ work for you, if you can fit it in this week.
Rhys could process the post himself – there’s little else to do – but there’s something pathetic about licking an envelope in which you have placed your own signed photograph. It hardly says ‘Celebrity’。 When Rhys’s career was at its peak, he had a full-time assistant, working from an office on High Holborn. First the work went, then the office, then the PA. Rhys misses the kudos; likes having an assistant again, even if only for a few hours. A few quid is a small price to pay for self-respect.
She comes the next day, taking over Rhys’s desk to sort the mail. She discards the outer envelopes, and paperclips each competition entry to its accompanying stamped addressed envelope, along with a photograph ready for Rhys’s autograph.
‘This one wants a personal dedication.’
Rhys shakes his head. ‘We don’t do that – it’s in the Ts and Cs.’
‘The woman’s got terminal cancer, Rhys.’ She hands him a photograph and a pen. ‘Write a nice message, yeah?’
An hour later, Rhys has written messages on well over half the photographs, including anything which arrived with a note, or appears to be from a child. You could be inspiring the next generation of singers, he is told, when he complains.