‘Who are these people?’ Blythe says anxiously to Mia. ‘Were they invited?’
Mia can see a folded invite in one of the men’s back pockets. ‘I guess so,’ she says. ‘That one’s Gruffydd.’ Mia points. ‘And that’s Hari Roberts, Sion Williams . . .’ But Blythe doesn’t care about their names. She doesn’t really mean who are they? – she means what are they? What do they do, what kind of people are they?
‘They drink in Y Llew Coch,’ Mia adds. Blythe blinks rapidly, looking visibly pained as the group takes over a corner of the sitting room. There are eight of them, all in jeans and scuffed work boots, jackets thrown carelessly in a heap. The coats are shiny with spray and Mia realises they must have come in boats, almost certainly straight from the pub.
Caleb is trying to sneak unseen through the party. In the kitchen, he opens a cupboard, Mia intercepting him with his fingers on the bottle of brandy stashed behind the tins. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’
Caleb jumps. ‘Fucking hell, Mia, you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.’
Mia takes the brandy out of his hand. ‘There’s a coolbox by the side of the lodge, with a load of lager in it. They won’t miss a few cans.’
He grins. ‘Cheers.’ And then he’s gone, off to wherever the rest of the teenagers are hanging out tonight. Mia follows, to make sure he hasn’t lifted the whole coolbox, and the night air is a relief on her hot, aching limbs. She walks around the outside of the marquee, hidden from view, and slips off her shoes. She presses her bare feet into the freezing grooves of the decking.
‘I’m sorry!’ she hears a man yell. ‘There, I’ve said it. Happy now?’
Mia blinks in the darkness. Dark clouds move slowly across the moon, disorientating her.
‘I’m not the one you should be apologising to.’ Dee Huxley’s voice is unmistakable, and Mia realises the voices are coming from the deck next door. But who is Dee talking to? ‘What you did to that woman . . .’
Dee leaves the sentence hanging, and Mia holds her breath. Inside the marquee, the doors to the lodge open, a burst of noise breaking over the quiet voices from next door.
What woman?
There’s a roar from the water – the throaty pull of a motorboat – and when the engine is cut a moment later the silence is deafening. Young Seren Morgan appears at the top of the ladder, disappearing into the party before Mia can say a word. She wonders if Elen’s gone soft, or if Seren’s spun her mam a tale.
Mia walks to the edge of the deck, just as Huw Ellis is pulling himself up the ladder from the pontoon.
‘Alright, Mia?’
‘Should you be here?’ Mia likes Huw, but the whole village knows what he thinks about this place.
‘Where is he?’
‘Who?’
‘Lloyd.’ He doesn’t wait for an answer and Mia follows him inside, watching him scan the room, then walk through to the hall and open the front door. People are dancing, now, the furniture pushed to the walls to make more room. She stops to speak to Seren, who holds her glass behind her back, as though that’s enough to hide the fact that she’s drinking, even though her eyes are wild.
‘Amazing party, right?’ Mia says.
Seren shrugs. ‘It’s okay.’ She’s all done up – bodycon dress and heels almost as high as Mia’s. Hair teased into ringlets and eyes ringed with black. She looks dangerously sexy, and Mia wonders if Elen saw her leave the house like this.
‘Is your mam here?’ Mia asks.
‘Mam, at The Shore?’
Yasmin squeezes into a space beside them. ‘Seren! Have you seen Tabby and Felicia? I’ve been looking everywhere for them.’
‘I think they’re watching Netflix at Caleb’s.’
‘Tell them I need them to make their father eat something.’
‘Um. Okay.’
‘He won’t listen to me. I put a sandwich under clingfilm in the fridge; they can give him that.’ Yasmin looks at Mia. ‘He’s completely off his face, it’s mortifying.’
He’s not the only one, Mia thinks. There are now more empty bottles under the table than full ones on it, and even Clemmie has two bright spots on her cheek, as she demonstrates what might be some kind of Irish dancing. Steffan Edwards is knocking back red wine, which isn’t going to end well.
Maybe she’ll join him, Mia thinks. She has been relatively abstemious so far – taking swigs of champagne between canapé rounds – but she’s done with this lot. She looks across the room. Jonty is practically drooling down Ashleigh Stafford’s cleavage, and she feels a sudden burst of anger at being the waitress, the cleaner, the bit on the side. Ashleigh pouts and preens, and flicks her expensive hair extensions with her expensive nails.