“Ding dong,” says Jonty.
“Which just leaves Deirdre Huxley,” Rhys says. “I don’t know anything about her except she’s retired.”
“We should have put in an upper age limit,” Jonty says. “Walkers don’t exactly scream The Shore, do they?”
“Luxury lodges,” Yasmin mocks, “only available to the rich, the aesthetically pleasing, and those in possession of their own teeth.”
They’re still laughing as they form a welcoming committee outside the lodges. A gray Tesla is bumping up the drive. Automatically, Yasmin sucks in her stomach and presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth—her latest trick to tighten that annoying saggy bit under her chin—but as the car draws nearer, she sees an elderly woman behind the wheel. The sun glints off the windshield as the Tesla comes to a stop.
Deirdre Huxley emerges with a broad smile. “Well, isn’t this something?”
Jonty steps forward with a glass of bubbly. “Jonty Charlton, investor. Welcome to The Shore.” Yasmin gives an inward sigh of appreciation. Jonty is so much more refined than her husband. You can take the man out of Cwm Coed, but it seems you can never quite rinse Cwm Coed out of the man.
“Now that’s what I call a welcome. Thank you, my dear.” She clinks her glass against Jonty’s. “And I’m Dee. Unless I’m in trouble, of course.” Her eyes twinkle. “Now, who else do we have?”
Rhys sticks out a hand. “Rhys Lloyd. Creator of The Shore.”
“Indeed.” There’s an amused expression on Dee’s face as she shakes Rhys’s hand. “How nice to see you here.”
“Will you do the honors, Jonty?” Rhys throws the keys for lodge two at Jonty, who gives Rhys a flash of resentment before turning on the charm.
“My pleasure. Mrs. Huxley, won’t you come with me?” He offers her an arm, but she declines, reaching for her stick from the back seat of the Tesla.
“Plenty of life in this old dog. Although if you wouldn’t mind bringing my bag from the footwell, I’d be ever so grateful. It has all my medication in it.”
“Of course.”
Mia comes running out of number three in her cleaning apron, shouting instructions down the phone. “Turn around… You’ll see a farm on your—that’s it! The turning’s a bit farther on the left. I’m outside now.” There’s the throaty roar of an engine, and everyone turns, catching a flash of yellow through the trees. “I see you now! Yes, don’t worry. I’ve got it sorted!” She runs back into the house as a bright yellow McLaren Spider speeds up the drive and then stops abruptly with a loud thud.
“Shit,” Rhys says. “He’s hit a pothole.”
The McLaren rocks forward and then back. There’s a ghastly grinding sound, and then the car bumps out of the hole and continues toward the lodges, creeping a few feet at a time and snaking around the remaining potholes.
“Good start,” Yasmin mutters. Jonty has taken the champagne, and she’s about to fetch more when Mia reemerges from number three carrying a silver tray. On the tray are two glasses and a bottle of champagne, around which is tied a gold helium balloon in the shape of a heart.
“Special instructions from Bobby,” she says when she sees the others staring. “He wanted to surprise Ashleigh.”
Bobby. Ashleigh.Why is the cleaner on first-name terms with these people when Yasmin hasn’t even met them yet? She and Blythe exchange glances.
The man who gets out of the driver’s seat is instantly recognizable as Bobby Stafford. He’s in his early forties, with a nose so broken it points in three different directions and teeth too white and straight to be God-given. He’s small-framed, and as he leaps around to the passenger side to open his wife’s door, he could still be in the ring from which he retired a decade ago.
Ashleigh must be a foot taller than him. She’s in tracksuit bottoms and glaringly white trainers, with a tight band of Lycra passing as a top.
“She’s so stunning,” one of the twins murmurs. Yasmin looks at Blythe and flashes her eyes wide for a split second.
“You wanna sort that driveway out, mate,” Bobby says, striding toward them. He looks at Rhys. “Lloyd, right? The place looks mint, but that”—he points down the drive—“is a fucking liability.”
“It’s all in hand, I assure you. Welcome to The Shore!” Rhys can’t match Jonty’s easy confidence, but Bobby shakes his proffered hand while Ashleigh snatches a glass of champagne from the cleaner’s tray. She takes a selfie, the gold heart balloon bobbing behind her as she boomerangs the glass to her lips and down again.
Bobby takes the remaining glass from the silver tray in one hand and the balloon-festooned bottle in the other, then he plants a kiss—a kiss!—on the cleaner’s cheek. “You’re a diamond, Mia, that’s what you are. Did the shop arrive?”
“All packed away. I wasn’t sure if you’d have eaten, so I did you some sandwiches. They’re in the fridge.”
“Star. Okay to do the beds and that when they need doing?”
“Course. Just pop me a text.”
“Legend. Come on, babe. Let’s take a look round the new gaff.”