Page 33 of The Last Party

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“It isn’t over!”

It is beyond over, Jonty thinks. Now, where was he?

Back in the lodge, Ashleigh hasn’t moved. When she sees him, she stands and adjusts her dress, which has ridden up high enough to show a flash of panties. She follows him into the hall, and Jonty glances around to make sure no one is watching them before they slide into the loo and lock the door.

“Finally,” Jonty says.

“You’re really keen, in’t ya?”

“We’d better get a move on. Otherwise, someone’ll want to get in.” Jonty isn’t here for the conversation.

Ashleigh pulls up her dress. “All right, all right!” She rummages in her underwear and emerges with a clear plastic bag filled with white powder. “Nice to have company for once.”

“Bobby not up for it?”

“He’s a right bore. Says he did all that shit years ago, after he left the ring. Wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole now, he says. It’s all bloody kale smoothies now.” Ashleigh cuts two lines, kneels on the loo, and snorts the first cleanly off the cistern. Jonty takes a moment to appreciate her backside, then does the same.

“I’d usually buy from my bloke in Essex,” Ashleigh says. “But I got this here. It’s all right, I reckon. What do you think?”

“I think it’s bloody marvelous.”

Ashleigh’s a dark horse, Jonty thinks. The Shore’s only been open for six months, and she’s already found herself a dealer. He unlocks the bathroom door, and the pair of them exit with significantly less caution than they entered.

“Let me know when you want another bump, yeah?” She plants a kiss on his lips.

As Jonty weaves through the party, his renewed good humor is only marginally dented by finding Mia once again standing around talking. “I’m paying you to waitress, not socialize,” he chastises.

“Technically, you’re paying me to hand canapés around,” Mia says. “And they’re all gone, so…”

She turns away from him to talk to Rhys’s assistant. Jonty almost doesn’t recognize the girl. He’s only ever seen her in casual, mostly scruffy clothes. Now, she’s in a dress almost as short as Ashleigh’s. The neck is high and the sleeves are long, and the contrast between the modest top and the crotch-hugging hem is…

“Ding dong,” Jonty mutters to himself as he makes for the kitchen, where Rhys is taking what he presumably thinks is a covert swig of brandy from the cupboard. Jonty slaps him on the back, sending Rhys into an uncontrollable coughing fit. “Have you seen your admin girl, old man? Ding bloody dong, that’s all I can say.”

“That’s out of order.”

“Honestly, she’s…” Jonty gives a chef’s kiss.

“She’s off-limits. Just a kid.” Rhys is slurring his words.Jusht a kid.He puts a hand on the kitchen counter for balance.

“You know what they say.” Jonty nudges him. “If there’s grass on the wicket, time to play cricket.” He opens his mouth, a guffaw at the ready, but Rhys looks so revolted, it takes the wind out of Jonty’s sails. “Joke!” he says, both palms out in self-defense. This is what happens when people get drunk—they lose their sense of proportion. It was just a bloody joke.

Rhys looks as though he’s about to say something else, and Jonty is relieved to be interrupted by Tabby and Felicia, the former thrusting a sandwich at Rhys. “Mum says you have to eat this.”

“Not hungry.”

“She says we’re not to leave you alone till you’ve eaten it.” Tabby rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Might be a good idea to get something down you, old man,” Jonty says. “Line the stomach and all that.”

“Can you just eat it, please, Dad? Like, we’ve got better things to do with our time than pass messages from Mum.”

“Eat,” Felicia says, sharper than her sister. “You’re lucky she still cares enough about you to make you something. You’re luckywecare enough.” She gives her father a loaded look, then flounces off, Felicia close behind.

“Fallen out with the famalam, have you, old man?” Jonty claps a hand on Rhys’s shoulder, then swiftly removes it when the other man glares at him. Rhys mumbles something unintelligible through his sandwich. Jonty makes out…all your fault. His cocaine-fueled good mood is being severely tested. “Now, come on, I hardly think—”

“…should never have helped you out,” Rhys mumbles.

Jonty has had enough. How dare Rhys try to take the moral high ground after everything he’s done?


Tags: Clare Mackintosh Mystery