The blue top she was wearing the previous evening is by the wardrobe, her jeans a few steps behind it. The classic clothes trail: Ffion is nothing if not predictable. With luck, she’ll find her shoes kicked off in the hall, her jumper in a puddle by the front door.
She dresses swiftly, stuffing her socks into her jeans pocket for speed, and hunts fruitlessly for her bra, before chalking it up as a loss. A quick wee, and a peek in the bathroom cabinet （a box of condoms; a half-squeezed tube of haemorrhoid cream）， then she checks for her car keys and skedaddles. The pavements are frosty, and she zips up her coat. It’s khaki green and covers her from chin to ankle, its warmth and practicality the trade-off for looking like a sleeping bag with feet. As she retraces her steps to her car, she does the traditional alcohol-units-into-hours calculation and concludes she can just about get away with it.
It’s after nine when she gets home, and Mam’s making porridge. Two swimming costumes hang on the radiator.
‘You’ve never missed a New Year’s Day swim before.’
Elen Morgan’s voice is neutral, but Ffion has thirty years’ experience interpreting her mam’s stirring techniques, and the way she’s snatching at the wooden spoon right now doesn’t bode well.
Sixteen-year-old Seren bounces out of a pile of blankets on the big chair by the window. ‘They found a—’
‘Let your sister have some breakfast before we get into that.’ Mam’s sharp voice cuts across Seren.
Ffion looks at Seren. ‘They found a what?’
Seren looks at Mam’s back and rolls her eyes.
‘I saw that.’
‘God, you’re good, Mam.’ Ffion lifts the kettle from the Aga, sloshing it to check how much water’s in it before moving it on to the hot plate. ‘Did you ever think of joining the Secret Service? I imagine “eyes in the back of your head” are right up there with jiu jitsu and fluent Russian.’ She plugs in her phone, dead since the previous evening. ‘How was the swim, anyway?’
‘It wasn’t.’ Seren shoots a defiant look at Mam. ‘I was only in up to my knees when they made us all get out.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, if you’d been there, you’d know,’ Mam says tightly.
‘I overslept.’
‘At Mia’s?’
Ffion gives a non-committal mmm. Seren – sharp as a tack – looks between Mam and Ffion, instantly alert to the possibility of drama.
‘Because I’m told she was at the party till late.’
Mia Williams. Two years ahead of Ffion at school: the sort of age gap which gives you nothing in common in your teens, and everything in common a decade later. They are friends by default, rather than choice, Ffion always thinks; who else would they drink with, if not each other?
‘Mam, I’m a grown—’
‘And Ceri left early and saw your car heading out of the village.’
Ceri Jones, the postwoman. Is it any wonder, Ffion thinks, that she prefers to do her socialising away from the town? You can’t fart in Cwm Coed without it making the front page.
‘I had an errand to run.’ The kettle whistles, harsh and insistent, as though challenging Ffion’s lie. She finds a clean mug and drops in a tea bag.
‘On New Year’s Eve?’
‘Mam, stop being—’
‘I worry about you. Is that a crime?’
‘I’m perfectly safe.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’ Elen turns to look at her eldest daughter, voice low; expression loaded. ‘It can’t make you happy, Ffi.’
Ffion holds her gaze. ‘It does, actually.’
Mam settled down too young, that was the trouble. Elen was seventeen when she’d met Ffion’s dad, nineteen when they married. She’d never slept around, never even dated anyone else. How could she possibly understand how good no-strings sex could be? How liberating?
‘Anywaaay . . .’ Ffion changes the subject with a single, drawn-out word, turning to Seren for sibling solidarity. ‘Why weren’t you allowed to swim?’
‘Because someone only bloody died!’ The gossip bursts out of the girl like water from a dam.
Mam cracks the tea towel at Seren. ‘Watch your language.’
‘Ow!’
‘I’d be keeping my head down if I were you, young lady. You know full well you weren’t to go to that bloody party.’
Ffion looks at Seren. ‘You were at The Shore last night?’
The girl’s chin juts out defensively. ‘Everyone was there.’