“How much do you owe him?”
“We”—Rhys emphasizes the word—“owe thirty grand.”
Jonty winces. He stares at the lake, flickers of tension crossing his face. Then he gets out his phone. “Thirty?” He taps at his phone. “I’ll transfer it to you. Get the office to sort the paperwork in the morning. That’s it, though, old man—no more wiggle room.”
“Of course.” Rhys is flooded with relief. “Much appreciated.”
“As for sex,” they hear Blythe say, “forget it!” The women burst into hysterical laughter.
“Kids not sleeping?” Rhys says. Anything to change the subject.
“Arseholes, the pair of them. Worse than newborns.”
Giddy with relief that his money worries are—for now—solved, Rhys raises his bottle in a self-congratulatory toast. “You, my friend, are talking to just the person. They call me the Baby Whisperer.”
Later, Rhys calls his agent, Fleur Brockman.
“How’s life at The Shore?” she asks.
“It’s fabulous. You must come and visit.” The heat in Rhys’s study is stifling. He walks through to the bedroom to throw open the French window, then steps onto the balcony and leans on the railing. The slim metal pole is fixed to the top of a glass panel, giving an uninterrupted view of the lake from the master bedroom. Beneath the glass on every balcony is a gap.
Blythe had gone ballistic when she saw it. “The children could slip straight through that!”
“Don’t let them on the balcony, then.” It seemed perfectly simple to Rhys.
Down on the deck, the twins get up from their sun loungers and pick up the enormous inflatable flamingos they insisted on. Yasmin and Blythe have gone inside.
“Darling,” Fleur says, “you know I can’t be more than twenty meters from a Pret a Manger latte. Listen, I’ve had another chase from the branding agency, asking when they can expect the balance for the campaign.”
“Today.” Rhys watches Jonty cross to his own deck. “I’ll pay it now.” Sweat breaks out across Rhys’s brow. He’s never known Cwm Coed to be so hot. Beyond the decks, Bobby Stafford is zigzagging across the lake on a Jet Ski hired from Steffan Edwards. He’s wearing a pair of baggy red shorts, his chest bare and pink from the sun.
“Great.” There’s a rustle on the other end of the phone. Rhys pictures Fleur ticking the job off her list. “The deliverables are looking excellent.” She would say that, given it was her idea to go with the most expensive agency. Bobby’s Jet Ski loops in front of The Shore, throwing up a spray of water before heading up the lake.
Rhys and Fleur had cooked up the idea over lunch, soon after Christmas, when Rhys had been passed over for a role as a judge on a TV singing show.
“Darling, I hate to be blunt,” Fleur had started, which didn’t bode well.
The bottom line was: Rhys was going nowhere. The only auditions in the frame were for provincial theater; Rhys’s only income that year was from adverts. If they didn’t do something drastic, his career was over. But Fleur had an idea…
They had spent weeks looking over presentations from PR firms, committing to an innovative campaign the branding agency called #LoveLloyd. For the price of a stamped addressed envelope, fans receive an autographed photograph of Rhys, which they’re encouraged to share on social media for the opportunity to win prizes. The national press covered the launch; regional papers up and down the country feature each excited winner. The campaign has plastered Rhys’s face all over the internet and already boosted sales of his last album. Rhys Lloyd was about to be reborn.
“They’re absolutely swarming in, darling. I’ve put another batch in the post to you today.”
“I’m supposed to be on holiday, not stuffing envelopes.”
“Hire a PA.”
“I can’t afford a PA,” Rhys says through gritted teeth. “Maybe if you got me a decent audition—”
“Must dash, darling. Lovely to chat!”
The line goes dead. Rhys stands on the balcony for a while, fighting the cold dread inside him. He starts the breathing exercises he always does before singing, and slowly his heart rate returns to normal. There’s only one way out of this: he’ll have to use Jonty’s money to pay the branding agency. The campaign will be a success, which means Fleur will find him a decent job, and he’ll negotiate a good up-front fee so he can pay Huw Ellis’s bill. Everything’s going to be okay.
Rhys gazes up the lake toward Pen y Ddraig mountain. Bobby disappeared into a cove a few hundred meters up the lake and hasn’t reappeared. Has the Jet Ski broken down? Steffan’s place is on its knees—it wouldn’t surprise Rhys if he was cutting corners.
“Give us a song!” Jonty shouts from his deck, a beer bottle in his hand.
“Oh, yes, do!” Clemmie looks up from her book.