Unwelcome sparks in Wales: Paperwork, side-eyes, and a partnership nobody ordered.
Episode 1
Bethan Treharne learns two things on the bus out of Kitchener: snow can have attitude, and she has absolutely no moral right to complain when she’s the idiot who booked Canada in late January.
The bus smells of wet clothes and stale coffee. A thick, shared dread settles over the passengers as the blizzard blows snow in dense sheets. The world outside is a moving white wall. Bethan’s stomach keeps dropping a half-second behind each skid. Her scarf is pulled up to her nose, and her gloves are too thick to work her phone properly. She pecks out messages with her knuckles like a walrus trying to order groceries.
Made bus.
If perish, tell…
…died doing what love: Making terrible decisions.
Her cousin replies with a gif of someone skating into a bin.
The bus fishtails. There’s a collective intake of breath, and the cabin goes quiet in the way people do when they meet reality head on. Bethan laughs, because if she doesn’t, she’ll cry. And she doesn’t want to ruin her makeup.
“Never again,” she tells the window.
By the time Pearson Airport appears, Bethan’s shoulders are bunched around her ears, and her teeth have formed their own union. She stumbles off the bus into wind that slaps the breath out of her lungs, drags her suitcase over ridged ice, and follows the snaking line of humans towards the terminal.
Inside is chaos.
The departure boards flicker with DELAYED, CANCELLED. Travellers cluster in defeated little knots around power points. As Bethan stares in dismay, a man stops beside her. He’s covered head-to-toe in a high-vis traffic-cone suit. The reflective strips compete in earnest absurdity with the fluorescent orange.
He points at the screen. “On the bright side, if we crash, they’ll find me first.”
“Great,” says Bethan. “I’ll just lie next to you like a sensible corpse.”
She finds a seat between a woman in a puffer jacket large enough to qualify as housing and a teenager who is emotionally fused to a neck pillow. A toddler sits on the floor nearby eating a packet of chips with the grim focus of a tiny accountant.
Bethan has survived enough life to know that most things are not solved by flailing. Still, there’s a particular humiliation in being delayed by something you could’ve predicted simply by looking at a calendar.
January, Bethan. January. What did you think Canada was going to offer? A light breeze and a gentle apology.
Her stomach growls. She buys a sandwich that tastes faintly of fridge and loses her cherished seat. Leaning against a pillar, she promises herself a G&T so crisp it could rate as a medical intervention when, if, she gets home. She can hear the ice clinking, the tonic fizzing.
The airport announcements change tone, from brightly cheerful to serious to apologetic, as though cycling through grief. Bethan’s calves ache, her eyes sting from drowsiness, her back cramps. She is suddenly emotional about wanting to get home to Wales, where winter is at least honest about misery.
The flight is finally called. Only after boarding does she question flying in the middle of an Arctic tantrum.
Heathrow is a blur. She clears it on stubbornness and muscle memory, finds her car, and drives with one thought pinned in her head: home.
By the time she reaches Betws-y-Coed, the light has thinned into that winter dimness that makes everything look slightly underwater. Bethan wrestles her suitcase up the path. She inserts the key, debating between pouring a G&T or popping on the kettle. Nothing happens. She tries again. The key won’t turn. The lock has frozen.
“Oh, come on now!”
She blows into the lock, fiddles the key, mutters something uncharitable about January. Holding up her phone torch, she pokes at the keyhole with focused contempt.
“Everything alright?”
The voice comes from behind. It’s calm, male, and far too composed for the hour. Bethan has one shoulder wedged into the doorframe, cheek almost pressed to the paint, working the key like it’s a safe-cracker’s job and not her own front door.
“All good.” She doesn’t look back.
She jiggles and twists, tiny furious movements of wrist and hip in sync which cause her bottom to wiggle. The lock gives in with a grudging click.
Mid-triumph she turns to find a man in a dark coat, neat as a pin, observing her with blank politeness.
“Oh, good,” says Bethan. “An audience. I always do my best work under pressure.”
He gives a small nod. “Right.” A pause. “Goodnight.” He steps away as if distance is a blessing.
Inside, she kicks off her boots, peels the layers, and drops everything on the floor. She picks up the mail from the mat. On top of the pile lies an official-looking envelope.
“Obviously you’re not a welcome-home card.” She tosses it back. If it lands face-down, it can wait until tomorrow.
Face-up.
“Bugger.”
Somewhere between the river’s steady rush through the village and the G&T she hasn’t made yet, Bethan Treharne has the first prickling sense that Wales is about to become significantly less boring than a week with her Canadian cousin.
Episode 2
The solicitor’s waiting room is the sort of place where time slows out of respect for paperwork.
Bethan crosses her legs, uncrosses, recrosses. She glances at the pamphlets arranged in neat piles and laughs out loud at After a Death: What Happens Next. The receptionist looks up, frowning.
Bold claim. If anyone truly knew what happens after death, they wouldn’t be printing it on A4 with a staple. They’d be out making squillions.
The door opens and in walks the coated stranger from last night.
“Oh,” says Bethan brightly. “It’s you. I was worried I’d have to commit a fresh crime alone.”
He stops as though he’s hit an invisible line on the carpet, announces himself to the receptionist, then sits in the chair furthest away.
“Good morning to you, too.” Bethan doesn’t quite huff.
The man nods.
She considers offering him a pamphlet, then decides he’s not the sort of man that requires a simple guide to a legal matter.
The receptionist calls, “Ms Treharne? Mr Cynan?” as if she’s introducing a double act. “Mr Partridge will see you now.”
They stare at each other. One is amused. The other is not. They follow the receptionist down the corridor.
The solicitor, Mr Partridge, stands and shakes their hands with the kind of solemnity normally reserved for memorial plaques.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he begins.
“My…what?” Bethan blinks.
Mr Cynan’s jaw does something tiny and controlled, like a muscle has twitched and he’s offended by the movement.
“The passing of Mr Harry Stokes,” says Mr Partridge.
She frowns. “I don’t know any Harrys.”
Mr Partridge freezes, his face forgetting for a moment what expression it was wearing. “You agreed to act as a co-executor of his estate.”
“No, I didn’t.” Bethan laughs politely.
Mr Cynan clears his throat. “It’s obvious you’ve forgotten.” He points to the chairs. “May I?”
“Yes, of course. My apologies. Please sit. Both of you.”
Mr Partridge slides a document across the desk. There it is: her name, signature, dated seven years ago. Bethan stares like it’s an accusation from the past.
“I…honestly don’t remember him.”
His eyes soften the way lawyers do when people embarrass themselves on official paper. “That’s not uncommon. It was, as you wrote here, ‘a pub conversation’.”
A strangled groan escapes from Mr Cynan.
Bethan blushes. “I wrote that?”
“You did,” Mr Partridge confirms. “In the margin.” He turns towards Mr Cynan. “He was your neighbour, is that correct.”
“Yes.”
“How did poor Harry die?” asks Bethan.
“Heart attack,” says Mr Partridge. “Very sudden.”
“Would you mind telling me a little about him?”
“Certainly. Mr Harry Stokes was an Englishman who lived outside the village, in the Lledr Valley. As mentioned previously, he was a neighbour of Mr Rhys Cynan. Who is a co-executor with yourself, Ms Bethan Treharne.”
Mr Partridge glances at his notes and adds, “He had concerns about family contesting the will. He was of the impression that you both, in conjunction with myself as your legal advisor, would stand your ground.” He passes over a thick document to them. “These are your copies of the will.”
“Which pub?” she asks.
Mr Partridge reads, “You wrote, and I quote, ‘the one with the fireplace that lies about being warm.”
Bethan is scandalised at her poor memory. “That’s every pub in Wales.”
“He apparently offered to buy you a gin and tonic. You wrote: ‘Correct’.”
“I’m being ambushed by my past self.” Bethan puts a hand to her throat.
“Perhaps we can move on,” Rhys prompts.
“Indeed. Mr Stokes left detailed instructions. Very thorough. Today is simply the confirmation of executorship and discussion of immediate responsibilities. Then we arrange access to the property, an asset register, and all necessary documentation.”
Half an hour later, they sign the papers. She watches Rhys’ precise, tidy strokes. Her signature is quick, readable, slightly rebellious.
“I’m free now to visit the house, if that suits?”
“Okie dokie.” She picks up her handbag, ready for war. “May as well get the job done.”
“Straight up the A470. I’ll see you there.” Rhys strides out of the office.
Rhys is waiting when she arrives. He unlocks the door like he’s done it before, and steps aside to let Bethan enter first.
The house smells of pulped trees and musty cardboard.
“Perhaps if we start in the study,” suggests Rhys.
On every surface, and over half the floor, there are stacks of paper—files, envelopes, documents of every shape and size.
“Harry really committed to admin.” Bethan whistles.
Rhys moves around the room with quiet purpose, assessing the chaos. Bethan pokes around the desk.
“Odd sort of paperweight. More like an artefact from a crime scene.” She picks up a chunky sandpaper block from a pile of papers. “Ow.” She sucks her thumb. “Lovely. Harry’s house attacks on entry.”
“We should make a start,” says Rhys.
“Where do we even begin?”
“Make an inventory. Sort into categories. Finance, Correspondence, Property etc.”
“Where does this fit?” Bethan holds up a zip lock bag containing a pair of swimmers and a note. “BEACH SPEEDO—RETURN TO THE SEA,” she reads.
Rhys sighs like a man watching civilisation crumble. “The world was created by optimists.”
“If that’s true, I’d like a word with the manufacturing department.”
“Come here.” Rhys waves a paper. “Read this.”
She scans the page and laughs. “We can’t do that!”
“Apparently,” says Rhys, “we’re going to.”
Episode 3
The doorbell rings with the confidence of a person already halfway inside.
Bethan and Rhys glance at each other. The bell rings again, insistent with the sound of someone who has never once considered the possibility of being ignored.
Rhys sets the paper face-down on a pile of documents. They walk into the hall. He opens the door with caution, just enough to see out.
On the step stands an immaculately dressed woman in a pale coat that probably has its own insurance policy. Her hair is sleek, her lipstick restrained. Her expression is polished grief, the kind that has already decided what belongs to her.
“I’m Harry’s niece.” She sighs, a tiny performance, and tries to step inside.
Rhys raises a hand and doesn’t move. “How can I help?” he asks, neutral as a spreadsheet.
The woman’s eyebrows rise a fraction. “And you are?”
“Rhys Cynan. Co-executor with Bethan Treharne.” He indicates Bethan.
“I just need to collect Harry’s personal belongings.”
“Perhaps you’d care to introduce yourself,” says Rhys.
“Catrin Thomas.” Her gaze flicks from one to the other. “Now, if you’ll move out of my way.”
Rhys remains planted in the doorway like a polite barricade, with Bethan squeezed in beside him.
“Here you go,” says Bethan. “Something very personal.” She holds out the zip lock bag like a raffle prize.
Catrin looks at the bag with the speedos and note, and for a second she forgets to perform.
“That’s…” She steps back.
“Thanks for dropping by. We’ll be in touch, if necessary.” Rhys closes the door with a gentle thud.
“Well done for locking the door earlier.” Bethan pats Rhys on the arm.
The bell rings again. Then again. A window rattles.
They poke their heads around the lounge room door. Catrin is pressed against the glass, hands shading against the glare.
“Are they locked?” Bethan asks.
“I’ll check this end of the house. You take the back.”
When they return to the hallway, Bethan peers through the mail slot. “Now she’s texting. Oh my, she’s furious texting. Two thumbs. Full commitment.”
“We should change the locks,” says Rhys.
“Dramatic. But warranted, I suspect.”
They go back into the study.
“Death by paper,” groans Bethan. “What about that cursed page? Where did you put it?”
“Not today. It can wait.”
Bethan picks up a sealed envelope labelled IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS. “This feels weird.” She rips it open and draws out two socks: one pink, one purple. “This file is certainly going to be hard to shred.”
Rhys looks over. “A pity Catrin has left. You could’ve offered those as well.”
Bethan laughs. “Tell me, was Harry…ah…all there?”
“As far as I know. Perhaps it was to goad his relatives?”
The doorbell rings twice, in quick succession. Bethan trots to the window, peeks around the curtain. A small hatchback is parked at the end of the path. A man stands on the porch holding a duffle bag.
“Guess,” says Bethan. “A petty thief, the postman, or a relative.”
“We’re not opening.”
“He’s trying the handle.” She moans. “He’s pulling a jemmy out of the bag.”
“What!” Rhys rushes to the window.
Bethan bursts out laughing. “Just kidding.”
They watch as the man eventually gives up.
“We’d better check the safe.” Rhys pulls the keys out of his pocket. The heavy door opens grudgingly with a slow swing and a dense thunk. The sterile smell of metal and dust drifts out.
Rhys groans.
Bethan laughs. “Oh, Harry. You were a corker, alright.”
Rhys pulls out old stationery (blank), a roll of tape (mangled), a plastic folder (empty), and a hand-held eggbeater.
Bethan claps her hands. “I’m beginning to like Harry.” She picks up the beater and spins, at once domestic and dangerous. The wire loops blur into a silver halo as the soft hum slices through the air. For a moment she looks unhinged.
Rhys doesn’t smile. He does, however, look like he might actually be reconsidering the concept of reality.
The doorbell rings.
“Not again,” they both mutter.
Bethan looks out the window. “It’s a courier.”
“Enough of your jokes, woman.”
“I’m not joking. He’s left a parcel on the step.”
They crack the door open with care, and peer around the heavy timber. A small white box sits squarely on the red porch steps.
Rhys does something Bethan doesn’t expect. He slowly picks up the parcel, weighs it in his hands, then very carefully raises it.
“Oh,” Bethan chuckles. Unable to resist the moment, she lifts her chin slightly and summons her best ‘BBC period drama’ voice. Low and grand, with every consonant over-enunciated, she says, “As he held the package to his ear for confirmation, the soft but discernible tick, tick, tick, froze his breath.”
Episode 4
Bethan arrives like she always does—coat open, scarf loose, already smiling at someone she knows. Rhys is waiting at a table with a clear view of the door.
“My shout.” He stands. “It was my suggestion to meet in the pub.” He points to the chair. “Please.”
She doesn’t argue. Instead, she observes him.
From a distance, he’s…different. Shoulders broad under the jacket, posture relaxed but deliberate. He stands at the bar with quiet confidence. Bethan realises she hasn’t really looked at him before. Not properly.
He orders efficiently; the barman nods.
Then Rhys’ gaze shifts.
It settles on the wall at the end of the bar.
On the photo.
Bethan recognises the exact moment it hits him. The stillness, the slight tilt of his head, the blink that suggests recalculation.
The photo is large, framed, and very clear. A group of locals stand laughing with their arms around each other’s shoulders, with underwear on their heads like crowns. Bethan’s are unmistakable–red, lacy, unapologetic. She’s mid-laugh, glorious and unashamed.
She chuckles.
Rhys collects the drinks and returns to the table with a restraint that suggests discipline rather than indifference.
“National Undies Day.” Bethan laughs. “Fab day. Pity you missed it.”
He takes a long sip of his pint.
“It was a fundraiser. We raised a lot of money.” She picks up her gin and tonic. “Can’t remember what for, though.”
“Perhaps we should make a start.” Rhys glances at the documents.
“Don’t you ever laugh? Yesterday, when you picked up that parcel and held it to your ear, that was hysterical.” She wipes her eyes. “A grimace doesn’t count.”
“I laugh when something’s funny.” Rhys pulls out his phone. “I’ll take notes.”
They talk logistics, inventories, locks, and relatives. Bethan makes jokes. Rhys pretends they’re interruptions but somehow responds to every one. They work well together; that’s the irritating part.
Eventually, they drain their glasses and tidy the files.
Outside, the afternoon is sharp and bright. As they step onto the path, a window above them bangs open. A deep, angry whirring sound follows.
Bethan barely has time to look up before Rhys steps in front of her, instinctive and immediate. Something shoots out of the window with alarming speed.
It lands on Rhys’ shoulder.
Soft. Red. Lacy.
Bethan explodes. She laughs so hard she has to grab hold of his arm. Tears streak down her face. She wheezes, helpless. “I…oh…Rhys…”
He stands frozen, holding the offending item like it has fangs.
From above, a voice calls, “Sorry. Clogged vacuum cleaner. Was trying to clear it.”
Bethan sinks to a crouch, absolutely undone. “I can’t…this is…”
Rhys clears his throat. “I’ll leave it…ah…them on the hedge, shall I?” he calls to the woman at the window.
He turns to Bethan. “Perhaps we should call it a day.”
She stands, pats her chest, flutters a hand over her mouth. “One more thing,” she hiccups.
“We should deal with this.” Bethan pulls out the piece of paper from her bag. “Before you head back to the valley.”
“No.” Rhys straightens his spine, squares his shoulders. “I’m not.”
“It’s in two days’ time. We have to pull something together fast.”
“I do not perform. And absolutely not in public.” He has the grace to look slightly abashed. “And not with you. God forbid, what you’ll get up to.”
“But the clause says we have to do this. If we don’t, the charity doesn’t receive Harry’s donation.” Bethan taps the print. “Then his greedy relatives will take it.”
“My answer remains the same.”
“How about I promise not to do anything you don’t agree to?”
And because she can’t stop herself, she adds, “Or should we just terrify the village?”
Episode 5
The copier makes a noise like a dying sheep. Then it goes silent.
Bethan glowers at the machine as if proximity alone might intimidate it into behaving. Rhys stands very still behind her.
The display flashes in a font that feels smug. JAM.
“It’s eaten it.” Bethan stares into the slot. “It’s swallowed a legal document like a python.”
“It hasn’t.”
“It has,” Bethan insists, and presses a button.
“No!”
The copier responds with a wet, grinding splutter. She presses another button, then another.
“Bethan,” Rhys’ voice is soft and careful. “Please stop…”
“I’m troubleshooting.”
“You’re attacking it.”
She jabs at the control panel with the fury of someone who has never respected technology’s emotional fragility. She hits COLLATE. Then STAPLE.
Rhys flinches.
The machine whirs, clunks, and emits a mechanical belch.
“Right.” Bethan tilts her head. “New strategy.”
She begins humming something low and ominous under her breath—half chant, half tune—while swaying, like she’s coaxing an animal out of hiding. Her hands float over the buttons without touching them, as if she’s about to conduct an exorcism.
“Is that…”
“Voodoo.” She raises her arms. “Or possibly just confidence.”
“It’s neither,” Rhys groans.
The shop owner appears with the slow patience of a man who has seen people break things in creative ways.
“Ah,” he says. “It’s you, Bethan.”
“Huw.” She brightens.
“Aye. You’ve brought a man. Is this the one you’re dating?”
Rhys makes a sound that isn’t a word but can be translated in any language.
Bethan pauses, considering the question as if it’s a menu option. She laughs, quick and delighted, imagining the entire village gossiping about a romance she hasn’t even started.
“Absolutely not,” she says.
Huw nods as though she’s said the opposite. “Mmm.”
Rhys interrupts. “We’re co-executors. The machine has retained documents needed for the probate application.”
“Co-executors,” Huw repeats, in the same tone people use for ‘co-conspirators’. He taps the copier. “It’s temperamental.”
He opens a side panel. “It’s jammed around the rollers.”
“Can you get it out?” asks Rhys.
“Probably.”
“Be gentle,” Bethan says. “It’s important.”
Rhys rolls his eyes. “You pressed STAPLE.”
“I panicked.”
Huws pulls. A shredded edge appears.
Rhys moans. “It’s the original document.”
“Leave it with me. Come back tomorrow.”
Bethan places a palm on the machine like it’s a sick horse. “Rest now,” she whispers. “Reflect on what you’ve done.”
Rhys steers her toward the door. “Until tomorrow,” he tells Huw, as if apologising for Bethan’s entire personality.
“Let’s try another task, shall we?” Rhys suggests.
“Inventory?”
Harry’s house is still damp and cold, still paper-heavy and pretending it isn’t quietly wining. They start in the kitchen.
Bethan opens a cupboard. “Right. What counts as valuable?”
“Anything with monetary or practical worth.”
“What about emotional worth?” Bethan holds up a potato masher.
Rhys doesn’t even look over.
She pulls out a small tin. “Toothpicks?”
“No.”
They work their way round the kitchen; sorting, labelling, noting. A heroic effort in a house crammed with belongings.
“I wouldn’t call Harry a hoarder,” Bethan says, “but he certainly wasn’t one for throwing anything out.”
She reaches up to a high shelf. Her sleeve catches. A glass wobbles.
“Oh…”
The flute falls and shatters into glittering fragments on the tiled floor. The shards catch the light, becoming a hundred fractured rainbows.
Then two toothpicks appeared in thin air and floated gently down to land beside the smashed champagne glass.
“A moment of pure poetry,” she sighs happily, then adds ‘toothpicks’ to the inventory under the category of EMOTIONAL WORTH.
Rhys doesn’t smile, but one corner of his mouth curls slightly.
His phone rings.
“Hello.”
A loud voice spills out. Even from where Bethan stands, she can hear the entitlement, the false grief.
“No,” says Rhys.
Then, “No,” again. And a third time.
The voice becomes enraged.
“You will not be coming here.” Rhys hangs up.
“Relative?” Bethan frowns.
Rhys nods. “I don’t know how he obtained my number.”
“Poor Harry.” Bethan throws her arms wide, gesturing at the chaos. “So. About that clause.”
Rhys stares at the inventory sheet and the items Bethan has listed under EMOTIONAL WORTH.
“Fine,” he says quietly.
Bethan’s eyes widen. “You’ll do it?”
“Yes,” he says as if he’s agreeing to a tooth removal. “Tomorrow. The charity event. We’ll perform…together.”
Bethan beams like she’s just been awarded a trophy.
“Within limits.” Rhys points a warning finger.
“Of course.” Bethan pulls out her phone, because limits are a concept she respects mostly in theory.
Music bursts into the kitchen. Glossy and high octane, it pulses with a sharp beat and vocal stacks engineered to feel stadium-sized. She sings along, something about slaying demons, as if greedy relatives and paperwork are the same species.
Her feet slide then snap into place, hands slice the air, her shoulders snap forward and back in tight percussive jolts. She does a clumsy turn, an even clumsier kick, then lunges.
Rhys’ mouth parts in a small, stunned, “No,” then pinches tight. One eyebrow lifts in pure disbelief while the other drags downward, and a small blink lands like a verdict: Absolutely not.
Episode 6
Bethan takes the microphone with the calm confidence of a woman about to commit to a public decision. The will demands a performance, so she builds a crowd big enough for Rhys to hide in.
The village hall hums with the soft chaos of a Welsh fundraiser: folding chairs, thermoses, familiar faces, and the gentle optimism of people who have come for a good cause and stayed for the biscuits. The banner at the back reads CHARITY NIGHT in hopeful letters that have seen better days.
“Before we start,” she says, light and cheerful, “a quick housekeeping note. If standing isn’t your idea of a good time; if your knees have opinions; or your seat has wheels, come down to the front. You’re the VIPs tonight.”
Chairs scrape and people shift. The front rows suddenly become prime real estate.
“Okie dokie,” Bethan says. “Everyone else, please stack the chairs to the side and stand where you are now. Give yourselves room to be ridiculous.”
Rhys watches from the side of the stage, hands in pockets, posture braced. He has the look of a man who agreed to this under duress and is now assessing exits.
Bethan grins. You’re safe, she mouths.
She turns back to the room. “Please welcome Rhys Cynan. He’s not a joiner, so be kind.”
Rhys walks onto the stage like a man approaching an interrogation. Loud cheers and claps greet him.
Bethan gestures grandly. “Follow me if you feel like it. If you’re seated, you’ve got the hardest job: hands, shoulders and facial expressions of courage. If you’re standing, try not to take out your neighbour.”
Chuckles run through the room.
Bethan demonstrates first with big, silly hand moves, overdone steps, and exaggerated drama. The seated group mirrors her with arms, wrists, and shoulders.
Rhys stands like a statue.
“Alright,” Bethan claps. “Let’s get into the vibe.” She plants her feet wide, stabs the air with one fist. “We’re the hunters tonight.”
A few people whoop. Someone cough-laughs. Bethan beams like that’s plenty.
“C’mon,” she calls. “We need strong voices. How are we going to fix the world otherwise? Ready?” She points at Rhys, who couldn’t look more mortified if he tried. “Hunters, with me.”
A mixed response of mumbled shouts, brave calls, and fluttering arms stutters around the room.
Rhys remains frozen, cheeks colouring, eyes wide with horror.
Bethan hits the music.
A slick, fast beat pounds out of the speakers. Rich vocals ride over a hard, shadowy undercurrent, like a neon chase with fangs. The hall instantly feels younger.
She starts with a simple sequence; easy enough, in theory.
Rhys tries to imitate.
His timing is off. Badly. Every part of him does a strange variation of Bethan’s.
She expects people to follow her. They don’t. They copy him.
Rhys’ delayed, cautiously erroneous movements ripple through the hall like an accidental instruction manual. His mistakes become the choreography. Within seconds the dance turns into a crowd-sourced experiment of pure pandemonium: spins that aren’t spins, stomps that are more like foot negotiations, sideways steps that drift dangerously towards other people’s toes.
Nobody cares. Everyone is laughing too hard.
Bethan nearly loses her mind with delight.
Rhys panics. He stiffens more and overcorrects. It only makes it worse. The hall follows instantly, religiously.
Bethan claps a hand over her mouth, tears threatening.
His shoulders soften, just enough to suggest he’s stopped fighting the room. His cheeks tighten as he bites back a smile. Bethan vows to never let him forget this.
The music stops and the hall erupts into grins, clapping, and people fanning themselves like they’ve run a marathon of joy.
Someone whistles. Someone yells, “Encore!”
Bethan bows extravagantly. Rhys gives a brief dip of the head.
Then his smile vanishes.
Bethan follows his stare.
A man stands to the side of the hall, phone raised, recording.
“It’s fine,” she murmurs. “He’s just filming.”
Rhys doesn’t answer.
They step off the stage.
“You were great,” Bethan says, still pumped. “They followed you. Not me.”
His phone pings. Rhys pulls it from his pocket and reads the message. His face hardens; his jaw sets.
Bethan waits, the post-performance buzz draining away. “What is it?”
Rhys turns the screen slightly, as though hiding it from the room.
Nice little show. Looks like you’re running a scam. See you in court.
Bethan gasps and rubs her eyes as though she can erase the entire message by friction.
“I should have seen this coming.” Rhys locks his phone, his movements precise and controlled. “Instead of going along with you.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it.
Around them, the hall bubbles with laughter, chatter, and clinking cups. Someone asks about raffle tickets.
“I hear you,” she says softly. “But we did as Harry instructed.”
Rhys nods without looking at her, the gesture packed with contained anger, not acknowledgement.
Across the hall, the man with the phone raises a teacup in a small, smug toast.
Episode 7
Bethan and Rhys walk out of the solicitor’s office. They’re close enough to touch, but silence sits between them like a dry-stacked stone wall.
“Well, that’s a relief.” Bethan’s words drop into the empty space. “Mr Partridge sorted that out nicely.”
“Yes.”
“I was worried we’d have to duel at dawn,” Bethan adds lightly. “With pistols. In a dreary alley.”
Rhys stops walking. “You laugh like this wasn’t a serious issue.”
“It’s not that it didn’t matter. I just wasn’t going to let him ruin a perfectly good village do.”
“You treat risk like entertainment.” He thrusts his hands in his pockets.
“And you treat joy like a suspicious substance,” she fires back. “Highly regulated. Possibly toxic.”
“Perhaps we should change our plan for this afternoon?” He checks his watch.
“Good idea. My cat needs a bath.”
Rhys holds her gaze, then looks away. He strides away.
Bethan glares at his retreating back. The sting of dismissal bites. “How ridiculous,” she mutters, angry that her humour has finally met something it can’t soften.
Near her house, Bethan passes a woman loading suitcases into a car. A teenage girl leans against a wall, a phone resting loosely in her hand rather than pressed to her ear.
“I can’t live without you.” Pleads a voice on loudspeaker.
“Then die.” The girl laughs as she ends the call. “Boys,” she grins at Bethan, “they’re so dramatic.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“OMG!” the girl yelps. “You’re the crazy old lady from last night. In the village hall.”
“That’s me. I didn’t see you. Were you hiding in a corner?”
“I was actually dead.” The girl’s thumb flicks the grip on her phone case, like it’s a button that can rewind time. “Mum forced me to go. It was soooooo embarrassing.”
“Age doesn’t tame crazy. It just gives better timing.” Bethan chuckles. “Whether you’re sixteen or sixty, the urge to wing it hits the same.”
“Lame,” says the girl.
“You off on a trip?” Bethan looks at the loaded boot.
“Back home. Malta.”
“Safe travels,” says Bethan.
The girl lifts her hand for a casual goodbye, but it turns into a small, shy fluttering of loose fingers and soft wrist. Then two fingers rise in a salute.
Bethan throws her hand up high, fingers spread, and swings her whole arm. Her grin is wide enough that it carries down the street.
When she reaches her front door, she pauses with the keys half-raised. A soft sigh mingles with her breath and escapes through her nose. She turns on her heel and heads for the car, as if momentum can bulldoze a tiff out of the way.
Rhys’ car is parked outside Harry’s.
She manoeuvres around the neatly labelled boxes in the hallway. In the living room, Rhys is crouched in a corner sorting through books.
“Where did this come from?” Bethan picks up a dress off the back of the couch. “It looks like it’s never been worn.”
“Oh, I didn’t hear you.” Rhys looks up. “In a briefcase. I assumed it was another of Harry’s antics for his relatives.”
“It has pockets!” She exclaims. “Do you know how rare it is to find a dress with pockets?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“I hope you filed it under EMOTIONAL VALUE.” She grins.
Rhys doesn’t bristle. Nor does he laugh. But he doesn’t tell her to stop.
He holds out a pen, handle-first. “The notebook is on the coffee table.” His eyes meet hers.