“They were saying something about instructors and boat hire. I wasn’t really listening, I just wanted to get home and start painting, but I remember thinking Steff sounded really pissed off.” Ceri leans back in her chair. “You want my advice? You need to look closer at Steffan Edwards.”
Forty-Three
Christmas Eve
Felicia
This is going to be the worst Christmas ever. Last year, Mum said they were too young to go to the pub with their mates, even though everyone was going, and Barnaby in Year Eleven had sorted them all out with fake IDs.
“Next year,” Yasmin said. “Sixteen isn’t so bad.”
But where are they? At the bloody Shore. A fat lot of good Barnaby’s ID is now.
“Seren says we could go to the pub in the village.” Tabby looks at the message on her phone, sounding out the Welsh. “Y Llew… How do you say the doublelagain?”
“Who the fuck cares?” Felicia thumps her pillow. “Esme’s dad’s put five hundred quid behind the bar in a private room at the Frog & Hammer, and the whole of Year Eleven’s going.”
“You hate Esme.”
“That’s not the point!”
Yasmin pops her head around the door. “Darling, where’s that Primark card Auntie Laura sent you for your birthday? The post lady’s here.”
Felicia picks it out of the mess on her bedside table. “Here. Why?”
“Can I have it? I’ll pay you back.”
“I don’t know what’s left on it.”
“It’ll do.” Yasmin grabs the card and runs downstairs.
“Let’s hang out with Seren,” Tabby says. “We can ask Caleb too.”
Felicia gives her sister a sly grin. “That’s literally the only reason you want to go, isn’t it? Because you want to shag Caleb.”
“I do not want to shag Caleb.”
“You do.”
Tabby grins. “Well, maybe a bit. Come on. Let’s get ready. We can flirt with the Young Farmers.” They shriek with laughter at the idea. There’s less talent in Cwm Coed than there is in their school, and that’s saying something. “I’ll tell Seren she has to dress up.” Tabby’s fingers fly over the keyboard.
“You know she won’t.” Seren spent the whole summer in the same pair of shorts and half-term in the same pair of jeans. “She only puts makeup on when she’s working for Dad.” Felicia flutters her eyelashes and Tabby screams.
“Rank! God, I feel sick now.”
Two hours later, they’re ready, and they look fucking fantastic. They’ve straightened their hair, so it falls in shiny curtains either side of their contoured cheeks, and outlined their lips into perfect pouts. They’ve posted a million selfies on Instagram and muted Esme’s story tagging the Frog & Hammer.
“Bit much for a kitchen supper, isn’t it?” Rhys says when they trip downstairs. Literally, in the case of Felicia, who’s borrowed Yasmin’s heels.
“We’re going out,” Tabby says.
“No, you’re not.” Yasmin’s in tight black jeans and sneakers, her sparkly top the only festive concession. “We’re having supper with the Charltons.”
“But—”
“No buts. It’ll be nice.”
It isn’t fucking nice. Neither Felicia nor Tabby are the sort to throw tantrums—they know exactly how many presents are under the tree right now, and they also know their parents aren’t above removing a few to teach them a lesson—but both girls are expert sulkers. They give monosyllabic answers until the adults give up.