Coats and robes are cast aside, towels draped over waiting arms, and hot water bottles readied for the return. There’s a rush for the shore—a tangle of white limbs and bathing suits, brave bikinis and judicious woolly hats—and excited chatter so loud they wonder if they might miss the second klaxon. But when it sounds, there’s no mistaking it, and they let out a whoop and a“Blwyddyn Newydd Dda!”as they run toward the lake, screaming as they reach the icy water.
When they’re deep enough, they plunge. Mind over matter, through the low-lying mist. Cold clamps a vice around their chests, mouths opening in shock as their breath is wrenched away.“Keep moving, keep moving!”cry the veterans, dopamine pumping smiles to their faces. Ripples become waves, the movement of people this way and that, as the wind picks up and sends shivers across shoulders.
As the mist begins to clear, a woman cries out.
It stands out among the screams of excitement, sending shivers of a different kind down the backs of those waiting on the shore. Those still in their depth stand on tiptoes, straining to see what’s happening, who’s hurt. The rescue boat dips its oars into the water. In and out, in and out, making its way toward the commotion.
Out of the mist floats a man.
Facedown, and quite unmistakably dead.
Part One
One
New Year’s Day
Ffion
Ffion Morgan scans the prone figure beside her for signs of life. The man is tall, with broad shoulders and black hair cropped close to his skull. On the back of his neck, where a shirt collar might lie, is a small tattooed name.Harris.
Ffion clears her throat, testing the silence with a tiny, tentative noise, as though about to make a speech she isn’t sure how to start. The man doesn’t stir. That makes things easier.
There is, however, the small matter of the arm.
The arm is big. It has smooth dark brown skin, stretched across the sort of bicep Ffion always wants to bite, although clearly now is not the time. It lies diagonally across Ffion’s stomach, its hand hanging loosely by her hip. Habit makes her check the man’s fourth finger and she’s relieved to find it bare. She looks at his watch. Eight a.m. Time to split.
She shifts her legs first, shuffling them sideways a millimeter at a time before bending her knees to drop her feet to the floor, all the time keeping her torso still, like a contortionist folding herself into a box. She waits a moment, then presses her upper half into the mattress as she slides slowly toward the edge of the bed. The maneuver is practiced, honed over the past year, thanks to whatever misplaced gene it is that makes men cast out a proprietorial arm in their sleep.
The owner of this morning’s arm gives a grunt. Ffion counts to fifty. If he wakes, he’ll suggest breakfast—or coffee, at least—despite neither of them wanting it. Not with each other, anyway. Ffion blames Generation Z. All thosefeelings. There was a time when men showed you the door before they’d even tied a knot in the condom, but now they’re all woke. It does her head in.
She tries to recall who the arm belongs to.Harrisdoesn’t ring a bell. It begins withM, she’s sure. Mike? Max? She fishes for pieces among the murky depths of the previous evening’s drinking, reeling in a memory of straight white teeth, a shy smile, a desire to please that she found as attractive as it was unusual.
Mark?
She tears a piece of skin from the inside of her top lip. Fuck fuck fuckitty fuck. She hates it when she can’t remember their names. It feels…slutty.
Marcus!
Ffion grins at the ceiling, relief making her giddy. Rule number one: always know who you’re spending the night with.
Marcus.
Recalling his name unlocks the rest, New Year’s Eve unfolding in all its drunken, glorious splendor. Marcus Something-or-other (surnames don’t count)—a skydiving instructor (I’ll sort you and your mates out with freebies) who matched her shot for shot and slipped a hand around her waist when he leaned forward to make himself heard above the noise of the bar.Shall we head somewhere quieter? We could go to mine…
Ffion closes her eyes and indulges in the memory of the tingle of Marcus’s thumb on her bare skin—so full of promise. For a second, she thinks about rolling over and waking him up and—
No second helpings. Rule number two.
Marcus’s bedroom has the sparse, anonymous feel of a rental. Magnolia walls and vertical blinds, a scratchy carpet bristling with static. Ffion sweeps her right foot across it and finds her underwear. Her left foot yields a sock, and as the breathing beside her steadies, she slides out from under Marcus’s arm and onto the floor with all the grace of a sea lion.
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 hemorrhoid 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.”