But Clemmie couldn’t afford it.
“If she wants it badly enough, she’ll find the money,” Jonty said with the confidence of someone who always has something put aside for a rainy day or a likely investment. “Seal the deal, old man, or maybe you’re just not cut out for business?”
Terrified that Jonty would find a way to cut him out of the partnership, Rhys had come up with a plan. He had already ascertained that Clemmie’s credit score meant a personal loan wasn’t an option, but what ifRhystook out a loan? He would pass the money to Clemmie, who would buy the lodge and make monthly payments to Rhys. With a little extra for his trouble, of course.
“You’d really do that for me?” Clemmie had said. They’d met up, to avoid a paper trail. She started crying. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
So Clemmie had her lodge, Rhys had his sale, and Jonty was none the wiser.
But now Rhys has money troubles of his own.
He brings in the last of the luggage and leaves it dripping on the hall floor. Yasmin and the twins slouch glumly on the sofa, faces like the thunder threatened by this week’s forecast. The heating is on full blast, but Yasmin shivers in her cashmere cloak.
“I’m going to bed,” she declares.
“Me too,” Tabby says.
“And me.” Felicia gets up. It is nine p.m.
Rhys pours himself a brandy and stands by the sliding doors, looking out onto the blackness of the lake. Maybe they should have waited till the morning to drive up. The girls are tired; the traffic was bad. He opens the bifold doors, stiff from disuse, and steps onto the deck, sheltered by the balcony above. Yasmin is on the phone, her voice low and her tone plaintive. In the dark, the deck disappears into the unseen water, a black wasteland with no beginning and no end. Only the sound of the waves breaking on the rocks tells Rhys the lake is there at all. He drains his drink. Everything will look better in the morning.
If Yasmin and the twins were in a bad mood yesterday, it is nothing compared to how they are now. Tabby and Felicia stomp around the lodge, opening and closing the fridge and declaring that they will die if they have to stay here another minute.
Their ill humor rubs off on Rhys.
“Whichever one of you nicked my hairbrush,” he shouts, “please put it back. And on that note: Yasmin, is it really necessary to leave so much hair in the shower? It’s still here from the summer.”
“So get the cleaner in,” Yasmin snaps back. “She’s at the Staffords’ now. Her car’s outside.”
“Bobby and Ashleigh have an outdoor shower at their villa in Barbados,” Tabby says. “I saw it on Insta yesterday.”
“Maybe we could cut the holiday short?” Yasmin says. “A long weekend instead of—”
“It’s not aholiday,” Rhys roars. “This is our second home! The plan has always been to spend term times in London and the rest of the time here.” Hasn’t Yasmin been nagging him for years about having another place? Banging on about the Charltons’ Cotswolds home till he could have drawn a bloody floor plan in his sleep?
“But look at it, Rhys.” She turns toward the lake. Rain lashes against the windows, flooding the decking faster than it can drain. The sky is dark and moody, the surface of the lake dangerously high. “It’s going to be like this all week.”
“There’s no such thing as bad weather.” Rhys isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince. “Only the wrong clothing. We’ll wrap up and go for a nice bracing—”
“I amnotgoing outside inthis, Dad. And can youpleasedo something about the Wi-Fi? It’s so slow. Ugh. I hate this place.”
Tabby stomps upstairs, Felicia in her wake. Yasmin takes her coffee to the sofa and slumps in front of an Australian reality TV show. Rhys looks around the lodge. If he were in London, he might go out for a coffee, but he has no desire to sip Nescafé from chipped crockery at Cwm Coed’s only café.
All the lodge owners were issued with bespoke wellington boots when they moved in (a nice PR touch, Rhys thought, until he saw the bill), and he pulls on a pair now and fetches his waterproof coat from the hall cupboard. He may as well go for a walk.
When he steps outside, rain instantly finding its way down his neck, he notices a white car with pink lettering parked outside the Staffords’ empty lodge. SBIC & SBAN. Rhys hesitates for a moment, then he steps back into the hall, opens the shallow cupboard by the door, and unhooks the bunch of master keys.
Inside the Staffords’ lodge, there’s music playing from the kitchen. Mia sings above the hum of the vacuum cleaner and Rhys crosses the small hall to stand in the doorway to the main living space.
Mia wiggles her bottom as she sings, thrusting the vacuum cleaner under the dining table. Rhys grins. He wonders if she saw him come in—if this performance is for his benefit. His suspicions are confirmed when she lets out a shriek of faux surprise. “What are you doing here?”
He walks toward her, a flirtatious smile on his lips. “I was hoping you couldservicemy needs.”
Mia turns away to hide her blushes, and Rhys hardens. She’s wearing jeans, her feet in pink trainer socks that match her tunic, its pockets stuffed with dusters.
“I’m supposed to be cleaning. Ashleigh’s got a thing about moths.”
Rhys is behind her now, his breath on her neck and his fingers running lightly down her arms.