Ffion drops the phone in her lap and screws her fists into her hair, then pulls her head onto her knees and presses a moan into her jeans. She feels Leo rub her back, and this time she doesn’t shrug him off. She makes herself breathe—in and out, in and out—and then she releases her grip on her hair and sits up.
“She knows.”
“I heard. Sorry,” Leo adds apologetically.
“It’ll be okay.” Ffion gives herself a pep talk she doesn’t believe. “Seren’s got my temper. She’ll calm down.”
“Ffion.”
“It’s a huge shock, but I’ll call Mam, and—”
“Ffi.”
She looks at Leo. His face is creased in concern, and he’s still looking in that bloody folder. “What?”
“Wear the dress,” Leo says.
“You what?”
“That’s what Seren said, right?Wear the dress.Ffion, I think—” He breaks off, taking his pen from his jacket pocket and marking several lines on the page he was looking at. He hands it wordlessly to Ffion.
It’s a printout of text messages sent to and from Rhys Lloyd’s mobile phone in the week before he died. Ffion reads the first line Leo has marked.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
She reads down the page.
You’ll look amazing, whatever you wear.
The final text was sent on New Year’s Eve.
Wear the dress.
The phone number Rhys was texting is Seren’s.
Forty-Five
Christmas Eve
Bobby
The airport was rammed, but now they’ve left London, the roads are empty and the McLaren gobbles up the miles. For once, Bobby and Ashleigh flew home first class. Business class is more than comfortable enough for Bobby, but Ashleigh begged, and Bobby’s a soft touch. It would at least give him some decent sleep before the long drive to The Shore, he reasoned, handing over his credit card.
He had reckoned without Ashleigh, who insisted on “banking” images for her social media channels, requiring several changes of outfits so she could make out they take even more luxury trips than they already do.
“Can I borrow your seat?” Ashleigh said to a bemused man in the middle row.
“Ash!” Bobby was appalled. “You stay where you are, mate.”
“It’ll look well dodge if I’m always in the same seat.”
The whole thing iswell dodge, if you ask Bobby. He’s not daft—he knows social media isn’t real life, and he’s not averse to sharing shots of his car from time to time—but Ashleigh’s dedication to her craft is at once impressive and terrifying. Every meal isstyled upbefore they can touch it, every hotel room shot from a dozen different angles before Bobby’s allowed to unpack.
As he trotted after Ashleigh to the airplane bathroom to take a photo of her in the shower, he thought he might just as well unzip his balls and pop them in her washbag.
Bobby has been a celebrity of sorts for most of his adult life. Soon after he retired from the ring, he was booked to do a walk-on inCarlton Sands, and he proved such a hit with the viewers that they wrote him into the series. But celeb life has never sat comfortably with a man who would rather have a pint in a spit-and-sawdust pub than drink mojitos in whatever trendy bar the Instagrammers have deemed worthy of their grids.
As they leave the motorway and head for North Wales, Bobby feels the pressure peeling off him. He loves being at The Shore. He loves messing about on the lake and climbing mountains and exploring the forest trails with a backpack of snacks and a cheeky beer. He loves wandering into the village, where the only cameras are the kids with iPhones, more interested in his car than in him. The place reminds him of childhood holidays, when his nan packed him and his brother off with sandwiches and a bucket and spade and instructions not to come back till tea.