When they find Angharad’s dinghy, they’ll need one of them in Steffan’s motorboat while the other gets Seren to safety. Ffion can’t do this on her own.
She might have to.
She starts the engine, and the boat fights against the mooring lines.
Leo takes a step forward, then two back. “I—I don’t think I can.”
Just then, a sound rings out: thepopof a firework, audible even over the wind. Above the water, shooting high and bright into the whiteout, comes a streak of vibrant red.
Not a firework.
A distress flare.
Forty-Nine
New Year’s Eve: 11:45 a.m.
Rhys
“I want a divorce.” Yasmin says this as she’s making the bed, as casually as though she’s asking for a cup of tea. Rhys looks at her in the reflection of the dressing table mirror, where he’s assessing the level of gray in his hair.Divorce?He knew this wasn’t going to blow over as easily as their usual spats—they’ve barely spoken since Christmas Eve—butdivorce?
“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”
“No, Rhys.” Yasmin pummels a pillow with unnecessary force before placing it on the bed. “Poisoning our daughter is extreme.”
“For the hundredth time, I did not poison her!” There is an art to shouting in a whisper, and Rhys and Yasmin are experts at it. They might not agree on many things, but they have always tried to keep their arguments from the twins.
“You will agree to a divorce,” Yasmin says. “You’ll give me the house—it wouldn’t be fair to expect the girls to move—and fifty percent of your share of The Shore. Plus maintenance, of course.”
“And if I don’t?”
Yasmin smooths the bedspread and contemplates it as she answers. “I’ll tell the papers what you did.” She turns to leave the room. “I imagine that would rather undermine the good work your expensive publicity campaign’s been doing.”
“Over my dead body,” Rhys hisses.
“Don’t tempt me.”
When she’s left the room, Rhys looks at himself in the mirror again. If Yasmin goes to the papers, just as he’s starting to claw back a profile, it’ll finish him. He’s done two adverts in the last three months, and there are murmurings of a West End audition. Things are finally on the up.
And what does Yasmin expect him to live on? Rhys owns 51 percent of The Shore, Jonty the remaining 49 percent. If Rhys signs half over to Yasmin, Jonty will become the controlling partner and Rhys’ll be left with just 25.5 percent.
Over my dead body, he thinks again.
His phone pings with a message—another prompt from Blythe on The Shore’s message group.Lots to do, chaps!!!!Last night, she had sent a spreadsheet with everyone’s allocated jobs, from sweeping the decks and putting up decorations to unloading the wine and laying out the canapés.Disaster!she’d messaged after midnight.The ice sculptor has let me down. Is there someone local we could use?
Rhys walks from the bedroom onto the balcony. Beneath him, the row of decking ends abruptly at the Charltons’ lodge, where a vast tent hides the organized chaos Blythe is orchestrating within.
Rhys should show his face before Corporal Blythe comes looking for him. He’s had another text from Seren, and he feels the heady rush that accompanies the promise of something exciting. Their flirting’s been careful. Contained. The sort of flirting you can explain away as a joke—to yourself as much as to anyone else. The sort of flirting that could be nothing or could be something.
Tried on the one I told you about but it’s really short…
Rhys smiles at the ellipsis, inciting the response he knows she wants.
Wear the dress, he types.
Tonight could be interesting after all.
Outside, the air is crisp, the sky a bright winter’s blue. A Fortnum & Mason driver’s talking to Dee, who leans both hands on her stick. As Rhys approaches, the van moves away, and Rhys has no choice but to walk past his neighbor.