Leo takes back his phone and grins. “Shall I saddle up your horse?”
Ten
New Year’s Eve: 9 p.m.
Jonty
“Darling,pleasedo something about that awful drunk man. He’s just poured red wine all over the sofa.”
Jonty is perched on the arm of the sofa, where he has an excellent view of Ashleigh Stafford’s cleavage. Reluctantly, he tears himself away from it to speak to his wife.
“It’s a party, Blythe. Everyone’s drunk.” Everyone except for Jonty. Jonty drinks a lot, but he rarely gets drunk. He enjoys the power that accompanies being the only one to precisely remember the events of an evening.
“Jonty, he’s ranting at Dee. She’s seventy-two. It isn’t right.”
“Okay, okay!” Jonty gives a last lingering look at Ashleigh. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“I’ll hold you to that, babe.”
Jonty is prepared to overlook Ashleigh’s Essex accent given what else is on offer. They had been about to retreat to somewhere a little more private when Blythe rudely interrupted them. He half wonders if his wife did it intentionally.
“Which awful drunk man?” he asks her. The room is full of drunk people. Ceri the postwoman is limbo-dancing under a broom held at either end by Clemmie Northcote and some woman who arrived with four cans of Stella and a bottle of cheap wine.You shouldn’t have, Blythe had responded smoothly, swifting them away and passing champagne around. Jonty wouldn’t have wasted Bollinger on the masses, but Blythe is big onaesthetics, and having cans of lager knocking about the place offends her.
“That one.” Blythe points to a man gesticulating wildly at Dee Huxley. “The boatman.”
Unlike the residents of The Shore, who have at least tried to make an effort with the dress code,the boatmanis wearing jeans, a fleece jacket, and a beanie. Jonty sighs and makes his way across the room.
“Jonty, dear, have you met Steffan Edwards?” Dee says. “Steffan, this is Jonty Charlton, investor of The Shore and our host tonight.” A solid introduction—Jonty’s grudgingly flattered. He doesn’t understand what Rhys has against Dee. She’s batty, of course, but harmless with it.
“You invested in this place?” Steffan stretches his mouth into something approximating a smile. It shows every one of his red-wine-stained teeth, and Jonty recoils slightly.
“Yes, I’m Rhys’s financial partner.”
“Well, you can fuck off, then. And once you’ve fucked off, you can fuck off some more. And then you can—”
“Okaaaaay…” Jonty grips Steffan by the underside of a bicep that would be intimidatingly large were the man not too drunk to use it and propels him toward the exit. “Time to go home, mate.”
“I’m not your fucking mate.”
Jonty pushes onward, the packed room parting like the Red Sea and Steffan shouting his mouth off to anyone who will listen. “What have I got left, eh? Fucking nothing.”
Jonty smiles apologetically as they press toward the front door. “So sorry about this. Yes, a little too much of the old vino, ha ha!”
“I’m fucking ruined!”
“Just needs to sleep it off, I expect.”
“If they find me hanging, it’s on you. You hear me?”
“Yes, I’ll make sure he gets home safely.”
Outside, the crisp air seems to sober Steffan up. He stands upright, shakes Jonty off, and jabs a finger toward him. “You’ve fucked me up, you and Rhys.”
Away from his guests, Jonty no longer needs to playmine host. He pushes Steffan hard in the chest, and the man stumbles backward, tripping over his own feet and smashing onto the path. “Fuck off, you piece of shit.”
“Tell Rhys Lloyd this isn’t over!”
“I’m not interested.”