“It’s just, with the children being so young…” Yasmin takes a sip of wine.
“They’ll be tucked up in bed. You’d never even know we had any.” In their playroom at home, Blythe maintains a strict color palette of black, white, and natural wood, which is much more challenging than Jonty gives her credit for. She’s allowed Woody and Hester to each bring three toys to keep at The Shore, which she tucks away in the ottoman when they’re not needed.
“If Jonty and Blythe are happy to host,” Rhys says, “I think we should let them.”
“Thank you, Rhys,” Blythe simpers, as is expected, although she knows precisely why Rhys is so keen not to have the party centered around number five: it would mean putting his hand in his pocket. As it is, Jonty—always quick to show off his largesse—has declared the Charlton bar will be bottomless.
“In fact, we should invite some of the locals.” Rhys’s lips are stained with port.
“Are there any?” Yasmin laughs.
Blythe is no longer simpering. What a cheek! It’s clear Rhys just wants to show off to the village, and on someone else’s dime. “I’m not sure Jonty will want—”
“What won’t I want?” Jonty comes back downstairs.
“All and sundry coming across from Cwm Coed,” Yasmin says tartly. “They’re not our sort of people, Rhys. You know that.”
“It’s very important to have diverse representation within one’s friendship circle.” Blythe read this in theGuardian. She isn’t entirely sure she wants diverse friends—she’s perfectly happy with the ones she has—but it’s good to show willingness. Do the Welsh count as a minority ethnic group?
“It’s a ball ache all right,” Jonty says, “entertaining the hoi polloi, but we do need to get them on our side. The view’s great, but people want more than that from a second home. They want to wander around the shops and chat to the locals. They wantcommunity.”
“That’s settled, then,” Rhys says. “I’ll draw up a list of the right kind of people.”
Yasmin leans toward Blythe. “Is there anything we can do to help with the party prep? Décor, perhaps?”
Blythe bristles. “All taken care of, darling. The tent will go up on the thirtieth, and the deck chairs are coming the same day. I’m still pricing up sand—”
“No bloody sand!” Jonty says.
“And I did wonder about some sort of water feature to go with the beach theme.”
Jonty puts down his glass with a bang. “There’s a bloody lake out there!” He looks at Rhys. “Women, eh? All this,andwe have to make small talk with farmers.”
“Call-me-Clemmie will entertain them.” Rhys chortles, and everyone laughs.
Blythe claps her hands, like a child. “That reminds me! The locals do a swim on New Year’s Day, and I had thought it would be fun to join in, only I asked the girl in the corner shop about it and…” Blythe briefly shuts her eyes, then breathes out. “Well, let’s just say it’s a closed shop.Anyway”—she looks around the table—“I thought we’d start our own tradition. The Shore Christmas Day Dip! What do you think, girls? Caleb’s doing it. I’ll cheer you on from the deck. I mustn’t let my meridian lines get cold.”
Felicia doesn’t look up from her phone. “Yeah, whatevs.”
“Tabby?”
“S’pose.”
“Rhys?”
“Can’t wait,” he says with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
Blythe is delighted. She sends a message to The Shore’s WhatsApp group and fields the thumbs-ups as they come in. Dee Huxley sends a fully punctuated response, complete with akind regardssign-off. Bless her. Blythe hadn’t relished the arrival of a septuagenarian as a neighbor, but Dee’s young at heart and very stylish for her age. She also makes a number of barbed comments about Rhys, which Blythe secretly finds delicious.
“Are the Staffords here for Christmas?” Yasmin asks.
“I get the impression that’s a bone of contention,” Jonty says. “Ashleigh fancied Dubai; Bobby wanted to be at The Shore.”
“They’ve just landed at Gatwick,” Blythe says, holding her phone aloft. She studies Jonty’s reaction, but there’s not even a flicker. He’s not fucking Ashleigh, then. Or he’s a better liar than she thinks. She has been through his pockets with forensic detail and found nothing incriminating, but twice she’s caught the drift of a woman’s scent on his clothes. In the summer, he took the little boat up the lake most days, sometimes disappearing for hours. It isn’tthatbig a lake, for heaven’s sake.
That night, when Jonty is in the bathroom, Blythe goes through his things again. She feels his jackets, hung in the dressing room, and shakes the trousers he left draped over a chair. She slides a hand under his side of the mattress and opens the drawers in his bedside cabinet. Just as she is about to give up, she finds something. Not a second phone or incriminating letters. Nothing to do with an affair at all, in fact.
She finds an envelope, folded into four, containing a crushed, grainy powder.