The brand new novel from

RUTH JONES

coming soon and available to pre-order now.

Read on for an extract …

prologue

February 1968

She is huddled into the corner of a shelter on Aberavon Promenade, wrapped in layers to protect herself from the cold. The wind is icy, though nothing can cool her excitement. She pulls back the cuff of her navy leather glove to reveal her wristwatch. It is still early, too soon yet to worry that he won’t come. Though that is, of course, a possibility. She has no way of discovering his intentions. She only knows he’d held her note firmly in the palm of his hand. And she is here, as she’d said she would be.

‘I brought an umbrella, though the rain’s held off.’

She recognizes his voice in an instant.

And she turns.

And there he stands.

‘Come and sit down,’ she says nervously. ‘I’ve brought a flask.’

She pours them two coffees from the Thermos.

‘We should have done this eighteen years ago,’ he says.

‘Better late than never!’ she jokes, trying to cover up the painful memory of that horrific night.

The grey Welsh waves are crashing on the shore beyond and the promenade is deserted bar two passing dog-walkers, heads down against the cold and unaware that this most precious of overdue reunions is taking place just feet away from them.

2022

1

grace

‘You all right there, love?’

The man wasn’t someone Grace recognized. Must be a tourist. The dog looked unfamiliar too – was it a Schnauzer?

‘Yes, thanks!’ she called back cheerily as she strode into the water, hoping this was enough reassurance to send him on his way, but he hesitated.

‘Are you sure you’re safe doing that?’ he shouted.

Uh-oh, Grace thought, a responsible citizen. She fought the urge to tell him where to go and began cutting through the water with a steady, well- paced breast stroke. The sea was calm today. How she loved the swimming out – her own infinity pool, the Irish Sea stretching for miles before her, brimming with possibility. The number of times she’d thought, What would happen if I just kept going?

She could hear shouts now from the shore, a woman’s voice this time. ‘Excuse me! Helloo? I really think you ought to come back, y’know, dear.’

Oh bugger off! she thought, and carried on sturdily scooping back the water with her arms.

Most weeks she swam at least three times, usually in her outdoor pool but sometimes in the sea, for a treat. She’d done it ever since moving to Dylan’s Quay fifty- four years ago. When she told people she swam regularly in the sea they didn’t believe her; when she told people she had her own pool they assumed she must be very rich; they assumed Spanish villas and mosaic tiles and sun- loungers. But Grace’s pool was a free- standing canvas- and- metal- framed affair – a deeper, wider version of a kiddies’ paddling pool, like the rugby players used to use after a game. It was an ugly utilitarian construction that took up the bottom half of her garden, but she loved it and it kept her fit. Which at the age of eighty- nine was no small feat.