She knows that the trick is to get her hands in, so she walks in deeper, her fingertips under the surface, her gloves filling with cold water. She’s aware now of the sound of the sea and the sucking shush of the backwash.

The water, which had seemed a clear green from the shore, is tea-coloured up close. A wall of milky builder’s brew is coming closer now, rearing up in her vision, and she stands firm, letting the wave sweep her up in its path, lifting her off her feet.

And she’s in.

She sighs out through her mouth, like a woman in labour, going through her natural reaction to gasp as the cold hits her spine. She can just see the black shadows of her gloves as she breaststrokes out towards the glittering horizon. The waves are bouncy and the exposed bit of neck at the base of her hair line tingles like a high-top drum. She’s aware of her skin – the whole of it – stinging.

Chris, oh Chris, how you’d love this, she thinks, noticing the tears rising, but she’s resigned to them. On land, she feels that she’s a vessel full of unshed tears that might spring a leak at any time and buckle, but here, where the water inside collides with the water outside, she feels more solid than she has done for days.

She carefully puts her face under the surface, not wanting to get her bobble hat – or her hair – wet. She likes the feeling of violent, masochistic brain freeze, and she takes the opportunity to open her mouth and scream as loudly as she can, knowing that only the sea will know this secret and the others won’t hear.

She comes up, the salt taste of the water filling her mouth and nose, the cold seeping into her bloodstream like the delicious relief of a drug.

Pull yourself together, she tells herself. It’s been ten months since Chris died. Ten months to find a reason to carry on.

She turns back towards Helga and Tor but she sees that there’s a man swimming in between and she realises it’s Bill.

‘Dominica! I thought it was you.’ He’s with two other men who look like twins with their beards and red swimming caps, like Santa’s little swimmers. ‘How have you been?’

‘Oh, you know, getting there,’ she replies with a weak smile. She can tell that he’s genuinely concerned. His kind face is as engaging as ever.

‘We’d love to have you back. Any time you’re ready?’

She nods. She’s often thought of Bill and the team and how the phone lines must be jammed with a queue of desperate people. She can’t help feeling that she’s let him down, but she hasn’t been able to face going back.

‘Well, keep in touch. Happy Christmas.’ He gives her a salute and a cheerful grin.

‘Who was he?’ Helga asks, in her usual direct way.

‘Bill. My supervisor at the Samaritans.’