CUNT.
Closer to the lodges, Yasmin and Blythe are gossiping. Jonty has been perched on the end of his wife’s sun lounger, an absentminded hand stroking her tanned leg. Now, he stands and walks towards Rhys, greeting him with a backslap which sticks Rhys’s polo shirt to his back.
Jonty steers Rhys to two chairs, set apart from the others and looking out across the lake. ‘The girls are talking babies.’ He grimaces.
‘Not having another one, are you?’
‘Good lord, no! I got the snip the second Hester was home. Not falling for that again.’ He guffaws, clinking his beer bottle against Rhys’s and settling into one of the chairs. ‘I got a phone call today from your builder chap.’
Rhys takes a slow drink.
‘I managed four months,’ Yasmin is saying, behind them, ‘then it was on to formula, so I could get some sleep.’
‘Huw Ellis? What did he want?’
‘You.’ Jonty’s gaze burns into Rhys. ‘Only apparently you’re not picking up, so someone in the office gave him my number.’
‘Sleep?’ In the background, Blythe gives a hollow laugh. ‘Remind me what that is? If Woody’s not awake, Hester is – I swear they plan it. I’m exhausted.’
‘Tabby was a dream,’ Yasmin says. ‘But Felicia!’
‘I’m supposed to be a silent partner, old man, not dealing with the bloody trade. What’s going on?’
‘He needs paying.’ It’s almost a relief to get it out. ‘There’s not enough money in the business account.’ Jonty frowns. ‘We had that problem with the electrics, remember? And the bloody rain pushed the schedules out, so . . .’ Rhys goes on, knowing it won’t be long before Jonty’s eyes glaze over, bored with the minutiae.
‘How much do you owe him?’
‘We’ – Rhys emphasises the word – ‘owe thirty grand.’
Jonty winces. He stares at the lake, flickers of tension crossing his face. Then he gets out his phone. ‘Thirty?’ He taps at his phone. ‘I’ll transfer it to you. Get the office to sort the paperwork in the morning. That’s it, though, old man – no more wriggle room.’
‘Of course.’ Rhys is flooded with relief. ‘Much appreciated.’
‘As for sex,’ they hear Blythe say, ‘forget it!’ The women burst into hysterical laughter.
‘Kids not sleeping?’ Rhys says. Anything to change the subject.
‘Arseholes, the pair of them. Worse than newborns.’
Giddy with relief that his money worries are – for now – solved, Rhys raises his bottle in a self-congratulatory toast. ‘You, my friend, are talking to just the person. They call me the Baby Whisperer.’
Later, Rhys calls his agent, Fleur Brockman.
‘How’s life at The Shore?’ she asks.
‘It’s fabulous – you must come and visit.’ The heat in Rhys’s study is stifling. He walks through to the bedroom to throw open the French windows, stepping on to the balcony and leaning on the railing. The slim metal pole is fixed to the top of a glass panel, giving an uninterrupted view of the lake from the master bedroom. Beneath the glass on every balcony is a gap.
Blythe had gone ballistic when she saw it. ‘The children could slip straight through that!’
‘Don’t let them on the balcony, then.’ It seemed perfectly simple to Rhys.
Down on the deck, the twins get up from their sun loungers and pick up the enormous inflatable flamingos they insisted on. Yasmin and Blythe have gone inside.
‘Darling,’ Fleur says, ‘you know I can’t be more than twenty metres from a Pret. Listen, I’ve had another chase from the branding agency, asking when they can expect the balance for the campaign.’
‘Today.’ Rhys watches Jonty cross to his own deck. ‘I’ll pay it now.’ Sweat breaks out across Rhys’s brow. He’s never known Cwm Coed to be so hot. Beyond the decks, Bobby Stafford is zigzagging across the lake on a jet-ski hired from Steffan Edwards. He’s wearing a pair of baggy red shorts, his chest bare and pink from the sun.
‘Great.’ There’s a rustle on the other end of the phone. Rhys pictures Fleur ticking the job off her list. ‘The deliverables are looking excellent.’ She would say that, given it was her idea to go with the most expensive agency. Bobby’s jet-ski loops in front of The Shore, throwing up a spray of water before heading up the lake.
Rhys and Fleur had cooked up the idea over lunch, soon after Christmas, when Rhys had been passed over for a role as a judge on a TV singing show.