As Rhys crosses the Staffords’ deck he hears Ashleigh’s loud voice drifting from the kitchen. ‘Honestly, babe, it’s in the arse-end of nowhere. I can’t do it no more. It ain’t worth it.’
No loss there. Ashleigh Stafford is easy on the eye, but her voice goes right through Rhys, and she’s far too quick to slag off The Shore. Last week, she bitched on Twitter about the lack of hot tub, adding the hashtag #ShitShore. Bobby made her take it down, but the screenshots were everywhere.
Rhys climbs down the ladder to the pontoon between his own lodge and the Staffords’， where Steffan stands with his feet planted in the centre of the boat, as easily as if he were on dry land. He throws the painter to Rhys, who catches it and pulls the boat close to the pontoon, squinting into the sun.
Steffan’s face and arms are a rich walnut-brown. ‘I just finished fixing up this rowing boat. I wondered if your girls might like it.’
The boat’s nothing fancy, but it’ll do for the kids to mess about in. Tabby’s been nagging Rhys to hire a boat since The Shore opened, but one look at Steff’s price list was enough to put the kibosh on that.
‘Oh, please, Daddy!’ Felicia has paddled her flamingo over to the pontoon. Behind her, the local girl and Caleb are diving for stones.
‘A boat would be marvellous,’ Yasmin says. ‘I’ve seen some cushions which will look simply wonderful in it.’
It seems the decision is made. Rhys turns to Steff. ‘How much do you want for it?’
‘Nothing. It’s yours.’
Rhys isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘Fair play, Steff, that’s very generous of you.’
Steffan hesitates, then he pulls a leaflet from his pocket, and smooths it flat. ‘The proper ones’ll be glossy, of course, with better photos.’ The leaflet is an A4 sheet of paper, folded in three. The front reads: Boat hire and water sports, exclusively for residents of The Shore.
Rhys studies it.
‘By the spring you’ll have another twenty lodges, right? I can give your owners ten per cent off hire, and I’ve been talking to – is it Blythe? – about stand-up yoga. We can definitely work out a good price for that. Then, look here . . .’ Steffan takes the leaflet out of Rhys’s hands and flips it over. ‘Residents of The Shore can choose a free session when they collect the keys to their lodge. Windsurfing, paddleboarding, sailing . . . whatever they want. See?’
‘I see. Great. Thanks for the boat.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘Great job.’
‘I appreciate this, Rhys.’ Steffan grips his upper arm in an awkward half-hug. ‘Between you and me, things have been tough lately. Once The Shore’s open all year round – once the rest of the resort’s finished – it’ll . . .’ He stops for a second, as though he needs to compose himself. ‘Well, it’s going to save my business, mate.’
Tabby and Felicia abandon their flamingos and pile into the boat, spinning in circles as they row in opposite directions. Steffan starts his engine and speeds back towards the boathouse, and Rhys climbs back up to the deck, his mind already back on his career.
The tranquillity of the lake is shattered by a roar from Bobby’s jet-ski, slaloming down the centre, with an arc of water in its wake. Where on earth has Bobby Stafford been for – Rhys checks his watch – almost an hour?
Bobby cuts the engine as he comes close to The Shore, drifting towards the landing jetty between his own lodge and Clemmie’s, before leaping off and securing the jet-ski. His bare chest is glistening with water, and as he climbs the ladder and emerges on to the deck there’s something annoyingly James Bond about the whole thing. Clemmie’s gone quite pink, and even Dee is peering over her sunglasses.
Ashleigh emerges from the lodge, wearing a white bikini with six-inch heels. She strides across the deck, before snaking an arm around her husband’s head and drawing him in for a kiss.
‘Ding dong,’ Jonty says.
‘Get a room!’ Tabby and Felicia shout, in unison.
Bobby and Ashleigh are the focus of everyone’s attention, but as Rhys glances up the shore, away from the lodges, he catches a glimpse of a car on the road that runs through the trees. He might have thought nothing of it, were it not for the expression on Bobby’s face when he sees what Rhys is looking at. His face darkens, and the ‘Jack-the-lad, everyone’s mate, diamond geezer’ isn’t quite so friendly, after all.
Rhys walks to the corner of the deck, keeping his eye on the gap in the trees where he knows he will see a final glimpse of the car before the road snakes out of sight. A second later he sees it: a white Fiat with pink lettering, advertising Mia’s Sbic & Sban cleaning services, coming from the cove Bobby disappeared into.