‘She’s never—’ Ffion stops herself. She was going to say that Ceri had never had a girlfriend; thoughtlessly repeating what she’d heard others say. But isn’t that precisely what Ffion hates about Cwm Coed? The gossip that becomes folklore, the cap made to fit you so well you wear it your whole life.
Ffion Wyllt.
Rhys Lloyd turned an entire generation against Ceri. Was it any wonder she felt she had to keep her love life private?
Ffion’s phone rings and she frowns at the screen. She can count on one hand the number of times Seren has rung her. The younger girl prefers to WhatsApp and, even then, only ever when she wants something. A late pass, when Mam’s said home by nine. A lend of Ffion’s jeans.
Ffion answers. ‘Ti’n iawn?’
There’s no reply. Ffion moves the phone away from her ear, checking the line hasn’t dropped.
‘Seren?’
She hears a jagged intake of breath; a rough, angry sob. And then, finally, Seren speaks.
‘Tell me it’s not true.’
Ffion’s heart splinters. Her whole world crashes about her feet. ‘What?’ she whispers, even though what else could it be?
Seren’s voice rises, hysterical, pleading. ‘Tell me it isn’t true!’
‘What?’ Ffion says desperately, because if there’s a chance Seren hasn’t worked it out, Ffion won’t be the one to— ‘You’re my mam, aren’t you?’
Years ago, Ffion had sometimes allowed herself to imagine what it would feel like to be called Mam. She would slip into a parallel world – one in which Ffion had been older, able to keep her baby – and she would picture them at the park, or walking to school, Seren’s hand in Ffion’s.
Mam.
She’d never once imagined it sounding like this.
‘Seren, where are you? We need to talk.’ Ffion tries to stay calm, knowing Seren feels out of control; hoping she sounds like the mam she’s never had the chance to be.
‘You’ve had sixteen years to talk, and instead you’ve lied to me!’
Leo puts a hand on Ffion’s arm, but she shrugs him off, fighting to focus.
‘You had me, and you gave me to Mam like I was nothing!’
Ffion stares out at the whirling snow. ‘How did you find out?’
‘Caleb nicked a photo from Glynis. He thought it was funny – said the girl in it looked like me.’
Ffion closes her eyes. She wants to press pause; to rewind. She wants to find Caleb and shake him, ask what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, interfering in something he knows nothing about.
‘It’s you. With Rhys.’ Seren’s crying. ‘And I kept thinking about something Mrs Huxley said, that Felicia and Tabby and me, we could be sisters, and—’ Her voice rises to a shout, hysterical and pleading. ‘He’s got his arm around you in the photo, Ffi. And you’re looking up at him like—’ Noisy sobs fill the phone.
Ffion remembers that photo. One of the photography GCSE students had covered the camp as part of their coursework; taken a load of pictures of the workshops, the show, the party. There’d been some piss-taking afterwards, about how, wherever Rhys was, Ffion wouldn’t be far away. Ffion had wanted to cry. It was the other way around, she’d wanted to say. Everywhere I went, there he was.
Did any of the teachers see the photos of the party? Or were they too concerned with the workshop, the performances? They didn’t look beneath the surface, to where Ffion was gasping for breath.
‘It’s all true, what everyone says, then.’ Seren’s suddenly harsh. ‘Ffion Wyllt.’
‘Please—’
‘And with—’ Seren falters, sobs slicing into her words. ‘With him!’
‘Seren, let me explain.’
‘I can’t believe Rhys Lloyd is my dad.’ She’s crying so hard Ffion can hardly make out what she’s saying. Disgusting . . . Old . . . How could you . . .
‘Wear the dress, he said!’ She’s getting hysterical, dragging gulps of air between each word screamed down the phone. Ffion’s trying to speak, but everything she says prompts another volley of abuse from Seren. Leo’s pulled over, and now he’s reaching into the back seat, unzipping his folder and rifling through papers, and Ffion glares at him. Can he not just sit still for two minutes? Surely he can see how important this is?
‘I hate you.’
‘Seren, please—’
‘And I hate him!’
‘Where are you? I’ll come to—’