Page 24 of One Last Try

I could call Simone and ask her advice, or call Dan, but we don’t have that kind of friendship, and honestly, we likely never will. It’s also gone three in the morning and I doubt either would want to hear from me. It’s media day tomorrow, so it’ll be one of those days where everyone is super, super busy waiting around doing nothing.

Okay, this kid must have parents, or a guardian, or some form of adult who cares about him. Somebody must have paid for those Hugo Boss jeans and that . . . I peer down at the tiny badge on his breast pocket, tilt my head to make it out . . . Tommy Hilfiger shirt. No twenty-year-old is making that kind of money on their own, unless he’s one of those Minecraft YouTubers. Or maybe he has an OnlyFans for his feet.

And now that his face is visible, I see he’s twentyat most. Either that or his skin care routine is as spenny as his boots.

This dipshit must have a phone on him, or a wallet with ID. I prod him again with my foot—no way I’m going in there with my bare hands. This time it shunts him hard enough to knock his forehead against the porcelain. I don’t laugh at him, that would be mean, but I don’tnotlaugh.

“Come on, kid, wake up. I need to call your parents or some shit.”

I kick him again. His head thunks against the bowl.

And then someone moans. Not me, not my mysterious barfer. A third person. The voice is feminine, and I realise this asshole brought his drunk fucking girlfriend with him too.

Now I’m pissed.

“Lan?” she whines, or at least I think that’s what she says. “Where are you?” There’s something vaguely familiar about the cadence of her voice.

The sound came from the spare room, so I leave the unconscious idiot on the bathroom tiles and dash across the hall.

She’s face down on one of the kids’ beds, heels still on her feet, sparkling black dress so high up her bare thighs I can almost see her knickers, and a neon-pink borg fleece jacket still on.

She must hear me enter the room because she lifts her head, blonde hair falling like swathes of silk over her face, obscuring her identity for a moment. But then she spots me, recognises me, and bolts up into a sitting position. She pulls the hem of her dress down and just blinks at me, looking as though she might join her boyfriend in his puking party.

Daisy fucking Bosley is in my spare bedroom, drunk as fuck.

“Where’s Dad?” she says. “Where’s Lando?”

Before I can even answer her question, she’s clutching her face and groaning. She shimmies back down on top of the covers. “Don’t tell my dad about this, okay?” And then she’s closing her eyes and whining like an injured animal.

Fuck that. I’m not being told what to do by a teenager. I make my way downstairs, already googling the landline for The Little Thatch. Thank fuck Owen was still awake when I last looked out my window.

There are two abandoned pizza boxes in the hall next to the porch, a couple of pizza bones have escaped their confinements and are scattered across the welcome mat, distressingly close to my selection of “everyday” trainers. The front door is wide open, but otherwise there’s no sign of breaking and entering.

I pick up the crusts, drop them back into the box, and take the boxes to the kitchen for disposal tomorrow as I locate The Little Thatch, Mudford-upon-Hooke, on Google and hit the telephone icon. A mobile number appears on the screen.

It’s ringing. Owen doesn’t answer my first call attempt. Nor the second. I stand in the open front door and watch his pub for any sign he hears the calls. Maybe the phone’s on silent. I try again, and I’m just about to tug on some shoes and march over when he answers.

“Hello?” He’s panting, out of breath, which probably has more to do with the adrenaline rush of receiving three calls from an unknown number at three a.m. than running downstairs to collect the phone.

“Hi, Owen, it’s Mathias. Mathias Jones,” I say.

There’s silence on his end. I’m certain he’s holding his breath.

“I wanted to let you know your daughter is drunk and passed out—”

“Oh my god, where are you? Is she okay?” I hear the tinkling of keys, like he’s ready to drop everything to come get her.

“She’s here at the cottage, asleep in . . . her old bed. She seems to be fine. Can’t say the same about her boyfriend, though.”

“Her boyfriend?” The absolute confusion in his voice is clear, and my heart flips over in my chest.

Fuck, this is why the pair came here instead of going to Owen’s. What if she’s not allowed to see this boy and I’ve just thrown her under the bus?

“Don’t tell my dad about this, okay?”

Damn. Well, I’m not cleaning up this mess on my own.

“Uh, yeah . . . some kid named Lando . . . or something like that.”

---