The Summer Party

by Kate Gray

Genres: Thrillers; Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Your invitation for the hottest summer thriller of 2024 has arrived . . .

'The thriller of the summer' SARA OCHS
'Smart, sharp and stylish' ANDREA MARA
'Addictive' CLAIRE DOUGLAS
'Everything you want in a thriller' FIONA CUMMINS

It's the event of the year - the company summer party. Mel can't wait to let her hair down with her colleagues. Sun, sea, and her sights set on her work crush. One big happy family.

But as the champagne flows and the sun begins to set, cracks in the team start to appear. Secrets, lies, revenge. No one is as innocent as they seem.

But could one of them be guilty of murder? Mel soon realises someone is orchestrating a deadly plan. And she must uncover the truth if she's going to get out alive . . .

A twisty and sun-soaked locked-room thriller that will leave you breathless. Perfect for fans of Lucy Foley, Ruth Ware and T.M. Logan.

'A tense, gripping and atmospheric thriller that will have you up all night' KATY BRENT
'Nail-biting . . . the perfect cocktail-by-the-pool companion' EMILY FREUD
'An immersive psychological thriller with a brilliantly claustrophobic setting' C.L. PATTISON
'A fast-paced, tense locked-room thriller' LOUISE JENSEN
'Extraordinarily suspenseful . . . the perfect holiday thriller' SARAH TURNER

Release date: July 4, 2024

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

The email pings into everyone’s inbox on a Friday afternoon. Within seconds of it landing, excitement tears through the digital creative agency like wildfire. There is very little work that will be done for the rest of the day. Messaging chats light up with childcare arrangements, potential outfit choices and shared links to online news sites showing which famous faces have stayed at Point Grey. But Mel misses all of this as she’s too busy remembering how her colleagues take their tea and coffee.

She wobbles a tray teeming with different-sized mugs and various milk orders and carefully puts them on individual desks, catching snippets of chatter, including a mention of ‘the iconic sea fort’, knowing that something is happening, though she’s not entirely sure what.

‘Here you go.’ She places the generous Sports Direct mug containing instant coffee, three teaspoons of sugar, and a glug of oat milk on the coaster on Amir’s desk.

‘Is it true? Are we really going to Point Grey?’ she asks, breathless despite the short distance from the kitchen. ‘The junior designers were just saying that members of the Royal Family have stayed there!’

He taps to the headphones in his ears, frowning.

Realising he’s on a Teams call, she blushes, dashing off to her desk, desperate to find out what the excitement is about and spilling scalding hot tea – milky English Breakfast, one sugar – on her desk in the process. She pulls a tissue from her drawer to wipe the drips, catching sight of the ‘you don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps’ metal sign, from last year’s not-so-secret Secret Santa. It used to be on show, but she had to take it down because of an anonymous complaint that it was ‘offensive’.

There are ink stains on her fingers. As the only one who knows how to unjam the printer, she’s spent the last painful hour wrestling with the stubborn machine. Time she should have spent working on a new recruitment policy, which means she’ll be staying late tonight to finish it. Her chair squeaks as she leans closer to read the email everyone else has already seen, allowing herself to be swept up in the chatter and enthusiasm around her.

Her mood lifts with every exclamation mark on Zander’s email.

Point Grey.

Tapping through to the website she reads:

Originally constructed as a sea fort in the middle of the Solent for naval defence in the late 19th Century, the imposing historical monument has been transformed into the hottest luxury hotel on the South Coast, favoured by those who like the finer things in life. Its remoteness and quirky design make every stay here an unforgettable experience. Completely circular in construction, the hotel is sectioned off for an array of different uses. Guests will be wowed at supper in the Officers Mess – a moody, low-lit dining room, for up to sixty sit-down diners or enjoy happy hour at the luxurious bar full of dark panelled oak and vintage leather chairs. The eight bedrooms, accessed from a central corridor, leads out onto a cosy open-air courtyard. The real wow factor comes from the enormous roof terrace with 360-degree views of the sparkling Solent waters . . .

‘Looks fancy, hey, Mel?’ Charlie says as he walks past her desk, nodding to her screen. All deep dimples and smiling brown eyes. She accidentally minimises the page in her fluster but he’s gone before her brain has kicked in to come up with a witty reply.

Charlie King. Flavour’s superstar Account Director who bought in the biggest retainer last year. Talented at what he does and loved by his clients for his cheeky charm. Also, the most handsome man that Mel has laid eyes on.

It takes a second or two for the sudden flush that’s bloomed upon her chest to vanish.

She clears her throat and goes back to her screen to admire the glossy images of the hotel, which is all gleaming glass, polished marble, intimately lit bedrooms and state-of-the-art facilities that scream ‘wealth’. She can imagine the sparkling sea and the caw of gulls, can picture her face tilted to the sun, the hem of her floaty floral dress wafting in the warm breeze as she shares a hilarious joke with Charlie before he asks if she wants to spend some time alone. Perhaps they wander through to the cocktail lounge or soak up the breathtaking views from the terrace . . .

From somewhere down the office a phone starts to ring. The trilling sound jolts her from her daydream and brings her crashing back to reality where, for one, she doesn’t own a floaty floral dress, and two, apart from the odd pleasantry, Charlie King has no idea she exists. There’s also three: she doesn’t even know if she’s able to go to the party because Leonora, her mum’s carer, charges extra to stay past eight o’clock.

And four – Holly’s pretty face rushes to the front of Mel’s mind.

Uncertainty replaces the excitement that was there a moment ago. Of course, she wants to experience Point Grey. Lord knows she’d never be able to afford to visit the hotel herself, not when room rates start at over £350 per night and get booked up months in advance. But perhaps this year their annual summer party should be cancelled?

She lets out a deep sigh, summoning the energy to go and talk to Rohan about her concerns. Her limbs are heavy. Her head and her heart battle against one another as she plods across the open-plan office.

The CEO beckons her in from behind his hand-crafted oak desk, which she knows cost more than her monthly pay packet.

‘Mel, come in. How’s things?’ Rohan offers her a broad, warm smile as she closes the door behind her, minimising whatever is on his laptop screen to give her his full attention.

He’s in his mid-fifties but takes care of himself, as her mum would say, his penchant for going for seconds whenever cakes are brought into the office or a client sends thank-you doughnuts mitigated by the punishing schedule set by his personal trainer, which Mel’s often heard him complain about.

‘You get the invite?’ he asks.

The cold air-con breathes down her neck, sending goosebumps across her bare arms.

Mel clears her throat. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk about.’

‘Uh oh . . . I’ve seen that look before.’

Mel doesn’t like it but sometimes she has to be a party pooper. It’s her role as HR & Operations Manager to be practical and level-headed at all times, especially working under someone like Rohan with his impulsive ideas. He doesn’t always see the bigger picture or that his actions have consequences.

‘I know the invitations have been sent out but . . .’ She takes a breath. ‘Perhaps we should skip this year as a mark of respect?’

There is a pause.

‘Ah, I see.’ Rohan pulls out a nicotine replacement mint from a drawer and crunches down on it.

As she waits her eyes are drawn to the shelves behind him. The silver-framed photograph of Rohan and his glamorous wife Rumi, suited and booted at Buckingham Palace where he received his MBE earlier this year. He’s in a tailored Savile Row suit and she’s in a stunning designer cocktail dress, accessorised by the most beautiful teardrop necklace and sparkling pearl earrings. They look every inch the charitable, good-looking couple goals Mel can only dream of one day achieving. The light bounces off an array of awards beside the photo, freshly polished under the spotlights.

‘You know, Mel, you always do such a fantastic job looking after the team’s well-being, but Point Grey has offered us an incredibly generous rate because of the work we’ve done for them. We would be mad to give this opportunity a miss. We can’t stop celebrating our successes.’

‘It’s bigger than that though.’

He leans back. ‘I know what you’re saying, but life moves on. People are still going to feel sad no matter when we have the party, and at least this way they can feel sad in a luxurious setting.’

Mel listens to his logic and bites her tongue.

He’s always been more like a mentor than a manager, and she looks up to him in so many ways, but she’s nervous that he’s jumping the gun with this decision, as much as it pains her to have to try and oppose it.

But, then again, he’s not the one who watered Holly’s potted plant every day. He’s not the one who remembered to clean out the last dregs of her milky coffee from her favourite mug – the one with the ‘one in a million sister’ on the side in faded font – so it wouldn’t go mouldy.

He’s not the one who held back the tears asking the cleaner to collect her things to send to her family. She had wanted to do it herself. She owed Holly that. But when it came to it, the sight of Holly’s half-empty perfume bottle, the unopened box of protein bars and her personalised AirPods lying in her desk drawer set Mel off.

Thankfully, Bonnie had started her shift and kindly offered to take over and leave Holly’s items on Mel’s desk, giving the space a good clean to prepare it for the next employee.

The following morning, Mel had carefully wrapped Holly’s meagre belongings in bubble wrap and posted them, along with a note expressing her deepest sympathy. Her pen dragged with every word.

Rohan’s voice brings her back to the present.

‘There’s no timeline for when we’re supposed to stop grieving and start living. As we’ve all sadly learnt recently, life is too short.’

Perhaps she’s overreacting.

Mel has never worked anywhere where someone so young has died. She struggled to find advice on the protocols for managing such an event, despite scouring the internet. In the end, she’d handed a pamphlet to senior members of staff explaining how to deal with employees’ heightened emotions, sent an agency-wide email with links to free bereavement hotlines, informing them of the quiet space she’d set up in one of the downstairs meeting rooms for anyone to go and take time out if they felt overwhelmed, and an educational online video about night-time safety. She also persuaded Rohan to allow everyone time off to attend Holly’s funeral if they wanted to pay their respects in person.

But that was months ago now and, as Rohan said, life moves on.

Shortly after that time they were nominated for a regional ‘Creative Agency of the Year’ award and won a pitch to rebrand a large health club chain, so what happened to Holly soon became old news. It wasn’t long before the ‘quiet space’ was reclaimed as a meeting room – the fancy biscuits, tea bags and boxes of tissues that Mel had placed there vanishing, and Holly’s name no longer mentioned in every hushed conversation.

‘I think the inquest has given us the chance to turn the page, as it were,’ he adds.

She wants to reply that it’s easier said than done.

A fortnight ago the judge delivered his verdict. What happened to Holly Mills was a tragic accident.

She’s tried to block the events of that night from her mind, but the wine bottles piling up in her recycling every week tell a different story.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ Mel says eventually.

‘I appreciate your concern but think of it as a chance to put the past behind us.’ His mobile phone lights up but he ignores it. ‘I’m also hoping if we get everyone together it will remind the staff of the creativity that comes from collaboration. I know many places are pushing the flexi-hybrid method but the thing that makes Flavour great is the people. We need our family under one roof again.’ He smiles.

There’s a knock on the door. Zander, Rohan’s PA, peers over the top of his trendy plastic glasses, beckoning him to wrap this up. Rohan signals through the glass that he’ll be two minutes.

‘I’m sorry to cut this short but I’m running late for my next meeting. Try not to worry, Mel.’

If everyone else can move on, then so can she.

Lightning doesn’t strike twice, after all.

All Flavour employees are called to gather in the large meeting room for a special announcement. Mel slips in at the back, shivering under the air-conditioning. People around her clutch iced frappés and tropical smoothies in plastic takeaway cups with drooping paper straws.

Everyone has been talking non-stop about the summer party since Rohan announced it three weeks ago. Incredibly, aside from her own misgivings, there hasn’t been a single complaint or suggestion that the party should be cancelled or postponed.

Clearly, Rohan is right; life moves on.

Mel smiles at the last few stragglers coming in and finding a place, some leaning against the ‘inspiration wall’ – another one of Rohan’s ideas to spark creativity. He asked every member of staff to share the words of wisdom that motivated them. Mel had had to Google her suggestion.

The space has, over time, become full of candid Polaroid snaps of the team on socials, impressive press cuttings and framed quotes, such as ‘Every day is a chance to be awesome when you’re creative’ and ‘Design is the way we tell great stories.’ Mel remembers the last time Rohan called everyone into this space to deliver the terrible news.

Many had already seen it online and worked out the reason for this sudden in-person meeting, but still, they filed in under the neon sign reading ‘Live your best life’, its message suddenly tacky and out of place. Someone was crying in the corner. Another sniffed loudly beside her as Rohan began.

‘This is a dark day for the Flavour family,’ Rohan had said, his laughter lines creased in a serious frown. ‘On behalf of the company, I’ve offered my heartfelt and sincere condolences to Holly’s family, but Mel has also set up a memory book in reception and arranged a card for everyone to sign so that you can express your own sympathies. We will stand together. We are here with you, and for you, during this devastating time.’

Mel blinks back the memory. There are no tears today, only excitement. She tries to follow what Rohan is saying.

‘It’s great to see you here again, thanks for making it in. As you know, we smashed the pitch we were given to rebrand Point Grey and, as a special thank you, they’ve offered eight employees the chance to stay over after the party next week.’

There’s a dramatic ‘ooh’ from the huddle of colleagues.

‘Staff at the hotel asked for everyone’s names so they could pull the winners out of a hat and they have just this minute sent over the list of lucky VIPs. Now, I want to reiterate that this was all decided fairly by the Point Grey team and no one here had any involvement. So don’t be grumbling if you don’t win,’ he laughs.

It’s the first social event in forever that Charlie will be attending as a single man.

Mel crosses her fingers behind her back. If only both their names are drawn . . .

Rohan has called out the first name. ‘Congratulations to . . . Wes Nelson.’

Wesley’s face breaks out into a wide smile. The handsome twenty-something is jeered by the lads he shares a bank of desks with. He works as a Digital and Creative Lead and though Mel doesn’t know exactly what he does, it involves a lot of time making noisy TikToks, talking about his impressive burpee reps at the gym and eating boiled eggs for lunch, which stinks out the communal fridge.

‘Next up – Jonty Aspinall.’

Someone lets out a not-very-subtle groan. Jonty ignores it and ambles forward, all scrawny limbs and angles, to shake Rohan’s hand as if accepting an award. He does the same job – Account Director – as Charlie but the men couldn’t be more different in both looks and personality. He’s in his late forties but his retro band T-shirt and drainpipe ripped jeans are more suited to someone ten years his junior. He gels his thinning hair into a peak above his forehead to try and appear younger, and no one has the heart to tell him that it only ages him.

He is also the constant thorn in Mel’s side. She is repeatedly being dragged into meeting rooms to address complaints and deal with disputes concerning him. But nothing ever changes.

‘Nicole Williams, congrats,’ Rohan calls.

‘Oh my God,’ Nicole gasps, clutching her tanned chest with blood-red nails. She is the Head of Client Services and treats the office as a catwalk, showing off her clingy sweaters, skin-tight leather trousers and designer high heels. Mel craves that level of confidence.

Nicole’s getting married in a couple of weeks’ time, and it’s impossible to miss the framed photo of her engagement shoot on her desk, arranged beside a zodiac diary and positive affirmation Post-it notes.

‘She led the bloody rebrand campaign, no shock that she’s been picked. Unless she magically manifested this whole thing,’ Zander whispers scornfully behind his hand. Bringing in Point Grey as a new client is Nicole’s most lucrative deal since she started at Flavour. ‘She has to go over the top with her reaction as you can’t tell from her face if she’s surprised or not. What? You know it’s true.’

Chloë, a junior graphic designer, giggles. Once she realises who she’s stood next to though, she swiftly turns her laugh into a cough.

‘Congrats, doll,’ Zander claps as Nicole walks past.

‘The next lucky winner is – Zander Sims,’ Rohan calls out.

Zander lets out a dramatic whoop and performs an impromptu shimmy. He’s larger than life in both stature and volume. Whenever Mel tries to make small talk with him, he has the knack of making her feel like she’s getting the answer wrong, no matter the question. But as Rohan’s PA, and the one who has to put up with Rohan’s requests all day long, it’s only fair that he has won a place.

‘Next up is . . . Bonnie McCulloch.’

‘Who?’ someone calls out.

‘Our hardworking cleaner,’ Rohan clarifies. There’s a badly hidden scoff from the back of the room. ‘She’s obviously not here right now. Err, Zander, can you make sure she’s told she’s won a place?’

Zander nods, writing it down on his notepad. The cleaner doesn’t start her shift until later. Mel is pleased that Rohan remembered to make sure her name was included on the employee list given to Point Grey.

‘Ok, so next name is . . . Charlie King.’

Mel straightens up as he wanders past smiling. God, he is so handsome. His aftershave trails behind him. A spicy oak smell that she may or may not have one time wandered down the fragrance aisle at Boots when she was picking up her mum’s prescription, trying to find out exactly which one it was before realising how she was acting like a lovesick teen and gave up.

This changes everything.

There are two places left, Mel who was considering cancelling this office party is now praying her name gets called out. She crosses her fingers behind her back. She has as much chance as anyone else in this room. Out of fifty-two employees, why can’t it be her? The next name is called.

‘Dominique Sanchez.’

‘A child-free night. Count me in,’ Dominique laughs.

She is an elegant copywriter, originally from Argentina. She reminds Mel of the women who only exist in fashion magazines. Those who somehow manage to make shapeless dresses look chic, a style that would look like a potato sack on Mel. But then again, Dominique does have a personal stylist, a personal trainer and a very rich husband who works in tech.

‘So . . .’ Rohan clears his throat. ‘One name to go.’

One last chance.

Mel swallows. She crosses her fingers even tighter.

‘And . . . the . . . final . . . name . . . is . . .’

It’s as if the whole room is holding its breath. Mel can’t take her eyes off her boss, praying that he calls her name, at the same time, not knowing what she’ll do or how she will react if he does. She mentally prepares herself for disappointment. Things like this don’t happen to people like her.

Rohan’s eyes slowly trail down the piece of folded paper in front of him. When he looks back up he is looking in her direction.

‘. . . It’s Melanie Robinson. Congrats, Mel.’

She can hear the smattering of applause over the blood rushing to her ears.

Me? Has he really said my name?

People are smiling, waiting for a reaction.

‘I never win anything. Wow. Erm, t-t-thank you.’ She stumbles over her words, her cheeks warm from the spotlight of the entire office.

The rest of the team disperse with a few grumbles about it being rigged and other people asking how much they’d be willing to sell their VIP ticket for, which Mel tries to pretend she doesn’t hear. All she can think about is how she’s going to get through the next few days, wishing the party was tomorrow and not a whole week away.

‘Well done. You deserve it,’ Tom from IT says as Mel floats down the corridor. The smile that had been fixed on her face falters at those simple words.

‘Thanks,’ she replies, suddenly wanting to be back at her desk, burrowed in her workload, away from everyone’s gaze.

She doesn’t deserve a night of luxury. But she can’t admit the truth to anyone. So, she does what she’s been doing ever since Holly died, which is smile and act like everything is completely fine.

The chug-chug-chug of diesel motors on the water is drowned out by excitable chatter from the guests spread out around the Portsmouth quayside, waiting for the boat to take them over to Point Grey. Restless gulls swoop overhead. The early afternoon sun is beating down, and although the water doesn’t sparkle exactly as Mel imagined it would, she knows this is going to be unforgettable.

Her colleagues are dressed in outfits fit for a day at the races or an English country garden party. Florals and silks, chinos and boat shoes. She fans her face with her hand. The entire office is here but not everyone has a golden ticket.

‘Please could the VIP guests gather over here?’ a beautiful woman in a Point Grey-branded uniform politely asks.

A whoop of jealous jeers from the other guests, all seemingly good-natured, ripples across the concourse as the chosen few step forward, easily recognised by the overnight bags and wheelie cases beside them.

Mel smiles at the others. She still can’t believe her name was called out. Perhaps luck will be on her side from now on.

‘Don’t forget us now you’re in the big league,’ Tom calls out, making her laugh.

A glass of champagne is handed to her. She awkwardly grips the stem between her clammy fingers, terrified it’s going to fall from her grip or spill down her dress.

It was such a hard decision to know what to wear.

She was supposed to be in a red satin spaghetti strap number. The dress was a stretch to afford but when she first saw it online, she knew it would be worth it. It was as if, with a slight squint, she could imagine her face where the model’s was. Perhaps after a couple of strong drinks, she might have had the confidence to pull it off, but nerves got the better of her as she got ready this morning, and she changed her mind at the last minute, pulling out her old faithful pale green midi dress. The material is slightly bobbled under the armpits, and it’s not clingy or skimming in any way, but it is comfortable and the thin cotton should help to keep her cool.

She’d left her house with a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach – excited butterflies, perhaps? – but she’s not been able to shake off the sense it’s som. . .