Dee’s son had been delighted when she put the rectory on the market. He was less delighted when, instead of the retirement apartment and cash-in-the-bank option, Dee had bought a two-bedroom flat in King’s Cross – and number two, The Shore, north Wales.
‘You haven’t even seen it!’
‘I’ve seen the plans,’ Dee had said calmly. ‘And, thanks to Google Earth, I’ve had a lovely wander through Cwm Coed. I think I’ll be very happy there, and I’ll have my pied-à-terre for business meetings and seeing friends.’
As Dee turns into The Shore, she knows she made the right decision. The drive sweeps in a semi-circle from the main road to the lodges, allowing teasing glimpses of glistening water and wood-clad lodges between the trees. The surface of the drive, however, is pitted with holes, and Dee navigates carefully around them in her new car.
A small throng of people stands outside the lodges and, as Dee parks in the bay allocated to number two, she recognises Rhys Lloyd.
The question is, will he recognise her?
A handsome man in blue jeans and an open-neck shirt shakes her hand. He has an excellent grip – Dee notices these sorts of things – and he’s either genuinely delighted by her presence, or he’s very good at faking it.
‘Well, isn’t this something?’ Dee says.
‘Jonty Charlton, investor. Welcome to The Shore, Mrs Huxley.’
Ah, an investor. Well, that explains the handshake and the crocodile smile. Dee clinks her glass against Jonty’s. ‘Now that’s what I call a welcome – thank you, my dear. And I’m Dee. Unless I’m in trouble, of course. Now, who else do we have?’ She sees Rhys Lloyd staring at her, a frown creasing his forehead in confusion. The penny hasn’t dropped yet, clearly.
‘Rhys Lloyd,’ he says, when Dee reaches him. ‘Creator of The Shore.’
‘Indeed.’ It does not surprise her that Rhys would describe himself as the Creator. She has deduced enough about him to know he is arrogant. Most men are, in Dee’s experience – and she has plenty of experience. ‘How nice to see you here.’ Rhys’s frown deepens.
‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Huxley.’ Rhys’s wife offers a slim, tanned hand. Dee eyes her with interest.
‘Mrs Huxley.’ Jonty proffers an arm. ‘Won’t you come with me?’
As they make their way towards the lodge, Jonty carrying Dee’s capacious handbag, a garish yellow sports car comes up the drive with a throaty roar. Dee catches the look on Jonty’s face. ‘I’m afraid you’ve been landed with the old banger, dear.’
‘A classic model never goes out of style, Mrs Huxley.’
Smooth, Dee thinks. Perhaps a little too smooth.
She walks through the ground floor of her new lodge, taking in the clean, Nordic-style lines and the carefully chosen furnishings. The steel outline of the vast doors frames the lake like a painting, a hot haze softening the view. She tries the handle, and the doors slide open with a satisfying swoosh.
Turning, she eyes the layout of the open-plan kitchen, dining and sitting rooms, then looks at Jonty. ‘I wonder if I could borrow those muscles of yours . . .’
Fifteen minutes later, Jonty’s shirt is circled with sweat. ‘Anything else?’ he asks, his earlier enthusiasm distinctly lacking.
‘That’s perfect.’ Dee beams. They – or rather Jonty, with Dee waving her stick to direct proceedings – have switched around the furniture so the table is on the opposite side of the room; the L-shaped sofa in the kitchen area, by the glass doors.
‘I never eat at a table,’ Dee says. ‘I’d rather be on the sofa with a tray on my lap and this view, wouldn’t you?’ She walks across the room and waves towards the lake, the inky blue water contrasting with the line of green along its shore. ‘This is what we’re all paying for, isn’t it?’
Outside, the sports car is parked in front of the middle lodge, and a bashed-up BMW has taken the final spot, by number four. A teenage boy is unloading cases from the boot, and a woman with rainbow hair is talking to Rhys Lloyd.
Dee watches him for a moment. Even as she drove here, she didn’t know if she’d confront him, but now that she’s seen him – now that she’s seen his family – she knows that it’s inevitable.
As it turns out, it’s Rhys who confronts her. He rings her doorbell an hour or two later, just as Dee’s about to settle down with a book. She has said hello to her neighbours, who seem perfectly pleasant; although Dee – more than most – knows that looks can be deceiving.