She was tottering up Bessemer Place, which ran along the side of St Theodore’s. Decades earlier the lane had been a teenage haunt for them, a place for slurping sweet cider and smoking in secret. She sighed, heart heavy, weighed down by loss and the searing pain of grief. All exacerbated by the discomfort in her feet.

Approaching the corner where Bessemer Place met the main street, she saw several figures dressed in black heading for the church – some solitary, some in couples, some in groups, all united in their loss. The service would no doubt be packed and Lana’s heart lurched like a stalled engine at the prospect of what lay ahead: the funeral of her most wonderful friend.

‘Lana.’ A voice behind her.

Cautious. Sad.

It was Judith.

Inevitable that they should see each other – today of all days. Uncertainty fizzled between them, and they hesitated on the verge of a hug before both deciding against it.

‘Can’t believe it’s happening, can you?’ asked Lana, her voice shaking as she fumbled in her bag for a small bottle of Rescue Remedy and swigged back its contents like whisky.

‘The family wants us down the front,’ said Judith.

‘Oh Christ, I’m not sure I can handle that …’ replied Lana, panicking. ‘So close to the coffin and … I’m just not very good with—’

Judith trampled over her words. ‘Today’s not about you though, is it, Lana? It’s about Catrin.’

Lana bit her lip and refrained from reacting as the awkwardness between them grew. Then, without warning and with the worst possible timing, Lana felt the familiar surge of heat spread across the back of her scalp and down her neck as if she’d been plugged into a wall socket. ‘Bloody hot flushes,’ she mumbled, and pulled off the black silk wrap that was draped over her shoulders before flapping the neckline of her dress.

‘Here y’are, borrow this,’ said Judith, reluctantly rustling in her bag for a Spanish-style fan.

‘Cheers,’ said Lana, flicking it open with flamencan flair and cooling herself in its welcome breeze. A minute later the flush had passed.

‘Shall we go in then?’ asked Judith, a tad more gently.

‘Yes,’ said Lana as she held Judith’s gaze. ‘We can do this. Can’t we?’

Part One

1986

Thirty-one years earlier

1

Catrin

Catrin’s father was doing his Sensible Face. This was the face that forty-eight-year-old, half-Welsh, half-Irish Huw Kelly adopted whenever Catrin or her brother were about to embark upon any kind of trip without their parents.

Catrin had first encountered Sensible Face aged five, before her school visit to Coed Celyn museum in Mrs John’s class. After that, the Face appeared before all hockey, netball and swimming tournaments, Guide camps or youth-club jaunts to Belgium, church pilgrimages to Lourdes, and sixth-form skiing trips to Austria. Sensible Face was also known as Here-Are-the-Practicalities Face and What-To-Do-in-an-Emergency Face. But underneath it lurked the precariously hidden face of Terrified Dad, looking down at this precious cargo, which grew more valuable with every day that passed, and who was currently thinking, If anything happens to you, my life will be over.