By the time Rosie got home, the thick red mist of her rage had lifted.
As she riffled through her handbag for her keys, she discovered the almost empty Hobnob packet she’d picked up from her desk had split. The few biscuits left inside had disintegrated into a coarse, sweet-smelling powder that now coated everything from her iPhone to her cache of emergency tampons.
She opened the front door of the building and the intoxicated, fizzy feeling that had seized her as she erupted at Martin finally gave way to cold, creeping dread.
What had she just done?
Yes, Martin was completely detestable, and yes – her job was pretty rubbish. But throwing the mother of all tantrums in her boss’s office, however justified, had added ‘unemployment’ to her growing list of problems.
The scant contents of Rosie’s savings account, which housed the last vestiges of the money Grandpa George had left her, would see her through a few weeks at most – and she still wouldn’t have solved the conundrum of having double rent to pay, or a new home to find, if she didn’t sort herself out with a flatmate soon.
She closed her eyes and shook her head, almost tempted to laugh as she remembered her foolish hope that the small sum of money she’d put aside might represent the beginning of her wedding fund. Sighing, she put her key into the flat door, turned it and pushed.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, nudging the bottom of the door with her foot this time to see if she could shift it.
It refused to budge even a millimetre. What the hell?
For a second, Rosie wondered whether she was using the wrong key. But that couldn’t be it; it had slid into the lock the same way it always did, and she’d encountered no resistance when she tried to move it.
She stepped back and looked at the door, as though staring at it might reveal the reason for its intransigence. Surprisingly, within a few moments, it did.
Rosie’s stomach dropped as her eyes caught on the keyhole for the deadlock she and James had almost never used. It was old and prone to sticking, and in the early days of living together they’d had more than one hairy moment of thinking they might need a locksmith to get them back inside the flat. They’d given up on using it after a few weeks, and it had been so long since they’d bothered with it that Rosie no longer carried the key.
James must have been here, she realised – probably to collect more of his things while she was at work. He’d obviously been so keen to shut the door on their life together that he’d double-locked it for good measure – and in typical James fashion, it hadn’t occurred to him that this might present a problem for Rosie.
She felt an angry sob begin working its way up her throat. Chief among the array of things she was feeling right now, she realised, was exhaustion.
Rosie was tired – ground down by the various disappointments and disasters of the past few days. She turned, put her back against the front door of the flat and sank down into a sitting position. Cradling her head in her hands, she decided to allow herself a few minutes of pure, unrestrained misery before – yet again – she would have to pick herself up and work out what to do.
Tears flowed freely down her face, and – too late – she understood that letting herself melt down might have been a mistake. Her chest burned and her throat ached with the effort of trying to regain control. Her nose was running, and when she swiped the sleeve of her jumper across her cheek, it came away grey – stained with mascara.
Then came the unmistakable sound of the old wooden door to the building pushing open; the tread of large feet on the thin corridor carpet.
A. Thomas was level with her in seconds, and he pulled up sharp as he noticed her. He stood, suddenly motionless, one foot still slightly aloft – as if he were playing a game of musical statues and someone had paused the party tune.
Rosie looked up at him.
From this vantage point, he was taller and broader than ever. His expression was wary, with a healthy dose of alarm.
Seeming to decide that he couldn’t simply keep walking, he set both feet on the floor and put down the shopping bag he was holding.
After a beat of silence that felt like it lasted six months, he said: ‘What can I do? Can I help you somehow?’
Rosie felt her mouth drop open in astonishment. Not only was the man talking, he’d come out with something she’d never have predicted. Most men, she thought, would have asked the obvious but fundamentally stupid question, ‘Are you OK?’ when confronted with a sobbing woman they didn’t really know. This guy had skipped straight to offering practical assistance.
‘Probably not,’ she told him, ‘unless you’re skilled in the art of breaking and entering, or know someone who can get me into my flat without bankrupting me.’
‘Are you locked out?’
Rosie nodded her head and swallowed back a fresh wave of tears.
‘Sorry,’ A. Thomas said, cringing. ‘That was a daft thing to say.’
‘No …’ Rosie said, pulling herself back up to stand in front of him. ‘At least you bothered to stop and ask.’
‘Don’t sound so surprised.’
She brushed at the wetness that still lingered under her eyes, then cocked a brow at him. ‘I think I’m allowed to be a bit surprised. You’ve lived upstairs for three months without ever properly speaking to me. I don’t even know your name.’
‘It’s Aled. Aled Thomas.’
‘So that’s what the “A” stands for,’ Rosie said, brightening a little in spite of the mess she was in. ‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘You were … guessing?’ His mouth was doing that thing she’d noticed the other morning: a twitch of the lips that suggested a smile, but didn’t quite stretch to one.
‘Kind of. Sometimes,’ Rosie said. ‘Aled didn’t occur to me, though. It was all, maybe it’s Alex, or Andrew, or Adam … and then sometimes I’d imagine totally outlandish things like Alvin or Anakin.’
Shut up, shut up, shut up. It was bad enough that this preternaturally good-looking, perfectly self-possessed individual only ever saw her tripping over her own feet, scrabbling around for dropped shopping or sobbing and covered in snot. Why, every time she ran into him, did she have to affirm her idiocy by talking?
‘You thought I might be named after a chipmunk or a Sith Lord, but it didn’t occur to you that I might be Welsh?’ Aled asked. His lips were quirking again.
‘Apparently not,’ Rosie admitted.
‘Well. I am.’
‘I see that now,’ she told him. ‘I hear it, in fact. But the funny thing about people never talking to you is that you can’t detect their accent.’
Rosie was properly smiling now, her own facial muscles stretching in a way that felt unfamiliar after days of stress and misery. Ribbing Aled for his reticence felt irresistible, for some reason. It was like his quietness sparked her curiosity; it made her want to see whether she could ruffle his feathers. Dimly, she wondered what it would take to make him laugh so hard he cried – whether that were even possible.
‘I suppose that’s fair,’ he said, squinting at her.
For a few seconds, they simply looked at one another. Then Rosie said: ‘Right. I suppose I’d better ask Google who I can call to come out and get this door open … Then consult my banking app and see how big a dent this is going to leave in my budget.’
She bent to pull her crumb-coated mobile out of her handbag. When she straightened up again, Aled was frowning at her. Biting his bottom lip.
Bemused by his silent scrutiny, Rosie dusted off her phone and swiped to open it.
‘Don’t bother about a locksmith,’ Aled told her, the words seeming to burst out of him after some internal debate. ‘There’s no need. I can get you in.’
Taken aback, Rosie pocketed her phone and turned to him. ‘Hmmm,’ she said, sizing him up. ‘You certainly look as if you could break the door down – and it would definitely save me a few quid – but I don’t think it’d make me very popular with the new landlord, whoever they may be. Thanks, though.’
Aled was gnawing on his lip again. ‘I wasn’t planning to break the door down,’ he muttered.
A little exasperated, Rosie said: ‘OK. So what were you going to do? Stare menacingly at it until it dissolved?’
Another classic. Why the hell was her mouth saying words before her brain had signed them off?
This latest gaffe prompted Aled to make a sound that could almost have passed for a laugh. He regained control of himself and said, ‘No. I have the key you need to get in.’
‘Er …?’ Rosie stared at him, staggered. She remembered James saying once that he thought their neighbour had ‘handsome-but-probably-a-serial-killer’ vibes.
Should she be scared? She was a little scared. What possible explanation could there be for this man having access to her home?
‘Oh my god, no – it’s nothing creepy,’ Aled said in a rush, realising his mistake. ‘You’ve no need to freak out.’
‘Well, then … what? How?’ Rosie asked.
Aled sighed and raked a hand through his dark hair.
‘I’m your new landlord,’ he told her, his voice heavy and reluctant. ‘I own the building. I’ve got keys for every floor.’
Rosie gaped at him. ‘But I thought some property investment group owned the place nowadays? How can that be you?’ she asked.
‘When I found out I’d inherited the building,’ Aled said, ‘I got some financial advice and it was suggested to me that I set up a company.’
Rosie merely stared at him, still struggling to process what he’d told her. Had he just said inherited …?
‘Wait here,’ Aled said. ‘I’ll go and get the key. I’m assuming it’s the deadlock that’s the problem?’
She nodded dumbly and he headed up the stairs, taking two at a time. Rosie eyed his shopping bag, which was stamped with a logo that read ‘Red Fox Deli’. Wondering idly what it contained, she peeped over its thick paper rim and spotted a bottle of what looked like very good olive oil, a loaf of sourdough wrapped in greaseproof paper and a richly fragrant packet of ground coffee. Her stomach rumbled.
A moment later, Aled was back, an elderly-looking key clutched in his hand. It was a huge hand, Rosie noted – probably twice the size of her own – but it was nice: long-fingered and clean, with short, neatly trimmed nails.
He waved the key at her, almost apologetically. ‘Do you want to … or shall I …?’
‘Go ahead,’ Rosie said. ‘The lock’s a bit dodgy, which is why we stopped using it. At least until today …’
She stepped out of the way to give him easier access to the door. After a few seconds and a little energetic jiggling, the key rotated and she heard the lock snap open.
Seeming to sense that it would be presumptuous to open the door himself, Aled moved back and allowed Rosie to do it.
‘OK, then,’ Aled said, reaching for his shopping. ‘I guess I’ll—’
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ Rosie interrupted, cutting him off before he could say ‘go’. The sheer randomness of the day’s events had left her feeling reckless, and far from ready to be on her own. ‘I have questions about this whole “I’m your landlord” revelation. You owe me an explanation. And I’m pretty sure I owe you a cup of tea for helping me open the door.’
‘I … oh. OK, then,’ he agreed, half nervous, half gratified. He followed her inside, past the bedrooms, the bathroom and into the open-plan living and kitchen area. Rosie noted again how tall he was. He seemed to take up more space than James ever had, yet at the same time he was less expansive – in no way overbearing.
‘Wow,’ he said, looking around him at the packed bookshelves, hotchpotch of vintage furniture and gallery walls. ‘This is lovely.’
‘Thanks,’ Rosie said, warmed by the compliment but stung afresh at the thought that she might soon have to move out.
‘How long have you guys lived here?’ Aled asked. His accent really was something else, Rosie thought: lilting and musical, in a way that made even mundane questions sound borderline poetic. His voice was deep and resonant, too – it made her think of stage actors and radio plays, and Richard Burton narrating The War of the Worlds.
‘About six years,’ Rosie said. She filled the kettle and switched it on, then threw two teabags into a pair of mugs. ‘Mr Bettini let me decorate it – it was a bit of a fixer-upper when we first moved in.’
‘You knew him, then?’
‘He lived upstairs. Of course I knew him,’ Rosie said pointedly, softening the barb with a smile. ‘I liked him – he was a bit grumpy but he had a good heart. I used to visit him a few times a week – make sure he wasn’t lonely. Val and Pat did the same. How d’you take your tea?’
‘Just milk, thanks.’
Rosie placed a mug in front of Aled, then gestured at the stools that were tucked beneath the kitchen counter. ‘Have a seat.’
He nodded his thanks and did as he was told.
After taking a sip from her own cup, Rosie said: ‘So … inherited?’
Aled rubbed a hand across his forehead and sighed. ‘It’s not as interesting as it might seem. I was contacted about six months ago by a company that specialises in tracking down the relatives of people who’ve died intestate.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s when people pass away without making a will. When there’s property or a lot of money at stake these firms try to find the people who should get it. In exchange for a fee, naturally.’
Rosie drank some more tea. ‘So … you’re saying you’re related to Mr Bettini?’
Aled took a sip from his mug, then nodded his head. ‘Yes. He was my grandfather. But I didn’t even know he existed until he was already gone.’
Rosie looked across the worktop at him, wide-eyed. She felt shocked, yet somehow not completely surprised by Aled’s story.
Now she thought about it, there was definitely some physical similarity between the man in front of her and the elderly friend she’d lost. Rosie had always thought Mr Bettini must have been a looker in his youth. He’d first come to the UK from Italy in his twenties, and she could imagine he cut quite a dash with the ladies of 1960s London. And there was a deeper resemblance, too, Rosie decided: Aled’s steadfast reserve had a similar flavour to Mr Bettini’s practised grouchiness. Perhaps the standoffishness was genetic.
‘So, that means …’ Rosie said, her mind racing as she considered the possibilities.
‘My father – who I had absolutely no relationship with – was his son.’
‘I see.’
Rosie winced. The word ‘was’ hadn’t been lost on her. Whatever might have happened between Aled’s parents during his childhood, it seemed clear that his dad had been out of the picture – and that he’d predeceased Mr Bettini. Yet the old man had never mentioned a son, much less one who’d died.
Aled looked uncomfortable, and Rosie quickly changed tack. ‘So, why didn’t you say anything when you moved in? Did you not want the residents of the building to know who you were?’
‘It wasn’t so much that,’ Aled said. ‘I’d have felt embarrassed knocking on your doors and telling you all, “Guess what, I own your homes now.” And I didn’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable, either. Like they had to be worried I was watching them – checking to see whether they were knocking holes in the walls or damaging the carpets.’
This made sense. Rosie could certainly imagine that James would have hated the thought of a new, possibly more involved, landlord living just a few metres above them.
‘Your turn,’ Aled said.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I answered your questions, so it’s only fair for you to answer mine,’ he explained, with another almost-smile. ‘What were you upset about just now? I don’t think it was only the lock.’
His words reminded Rosie of the likely state of her face: blotchy and smeared with the remnants of this morning’s makeup. Great.
‘Finding myself locked out was kind of the last straw,’ Rosie admitted. She sighed. ‘I’ve had a pretty shocking few days.’
Aled nodded but stayed quiet, concentrating on his tea. A slight incline of his head signalled that he’d listen if she wanted to say more.
Suddenly, she did. Telling a relative stranger about the mess she was in somehow seemed easier than giving those close to her the gory details.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘in no particular order, I’ve been unceremoniously dumped by the man I thought was about to propose to me, and who I now suspect has been sleeping with someone else. I also had a horrible lunch with my family over the weekend. They already think I’m a total sad case, so I didn’t have the guts to admit to them that James had left me.’
‘Yikes,’ Aled murmured, grimacing.
‘Also,’ Rosie went on, ‘my vile boss picked today to inform me that he thinks I’m “inefficient” – no, wait, “unnecessarily pleasant”. So I informed him that I was quitting, packed up my stuff and left.’
Aled let out a low whistle.
‘Finally, unless I find someone to move into the spare room within the next couple of weeks, I’m going to have to move myself … Which I suppose is pertinent to you, since it turns out you’re the landlord. I love it, but I can’t afford this place on my own, and James – despite having plenty of money – says he’s “not able” to keep paying rent while I sort out a long-term solution. So there you have it. Discovering I was locked out was actually the least of my troubles.’
‘I … er … god,’ Aled said, eventually. ‘That’s quite the catalogue of catastrophes.’
‘You must think I’m a walking disaster,’ Rosie cringed, draining her teacup and setting it back down on the worktop.
‘Not at all,’ Aled told her, a sympathetic half-smile now vying for full possession of his face. ‘Accident prone, perhaps. A tad unlucky.’
‘Let me guess,’ Rosie said. ‘You work in PR. Or you’re some kind of spin doctor for dodgy politicians.’
‘No, nothing like that,’ he said, shaking his head.
This, Rosie thought, was the point at which anyone else might have said, ‘In fact, I do such-and-such for a living.’ Aled, however, chose not to elaborate. She sensed he was trying to rein himself in – that he’d already given away far more than he’d ever intended to.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Rosie willed herself not to break it. To her surprise, the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. Perhaps by sharing the terrible truth about her situation, she’d made it more bearable. And as confidants went, Aled appeared to be the living, breathing equivalent of the lockable diary she’d had as a teenager: apt to hear news of her woes without interrupting, and unlikely to breathe a word of them to anyone else.
‘I’m sorry about James,’ Aled said, apropos of nothing. ‘Had you been together long?’
‘Nearly ten years,’ Rosie said. Then, before she could stop herself, she added: ‘And, after all that time, he was going to dump me by leaving me a note instead of telling me face to face. I just came home early and happened to catch him before he could do a bunk.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Nope. I imagine I’ll be able to see the funny side at some point … I think impending homelessness, to which I’ve now added joblessness, is putting a dampener on my sense of humour.’
‘You’re on the hunt for a flatmate, then?’ Aled asked.
‘I am. I can’t bear the thought of leaving this place, on top of everything else – I’ve made it mine, you know? Even though it’s obviously not.’
‘I get it,’ Aled said. ‘It feels like a proper home, especially compared with upstairs. I don’t think my grandfather was much bothered about decorating or mod cons … I’m actually going to be moving out myself as soon as I find somewhere else to crash. I was planning to speak to you about it – I’ve already apologised in advance to the ladies on the first floor for the disruption it’ll cause. They’ve decided to move out for a while and live on their houseboat.’
Rosie started in surprise, then nodded.
‘It was their own idea – and it goes without saying that I won’t be charging them rent while they’re gone,’ Aled added hastily, keen not to come across as some Dickensian miser.
She smiled at him. ‘You have major plans, then?’
‘It needs a new bathroom, a new kitchen … a total renovation, basically,’ Aled said. ‘It’ll be far easier to sort out if I’m not living there while it’s all done. The builders are waiting for me to vacate.’
Rosie nodded again. Having been up there frequently, she felt pretty confident that Mr Bettini’s flat had last been worked on sometime before she was born.
She wondered where Aled worked – if he worked – as well as what he did. She wondered whether he’d look for somewhere local to rent, or move to a different part of London entirely.
The questions jockeyed for position on the tip of her tongue, but all were swallowed away as an outlandish – but potentially logical – idea occurred to her. She looked up at him and understood immediately that he’d had the same thought.
‘What if …’ he said, speaking slowly – as if the words were leaving his lips at the precise moment he was thinking them. ‘What if I took your spare room? Just for a few months, while things are sorted out upstairs. As you’ve probably guessed, I’m pretty quiet – a good quality in a housemate, I believe. And I don’t have a lot of stuff to store, so it’s no issue if the room is small …’
Rosie found herself nodding. In less than an hour, she’d gone from not knowing this man’s name to contemplating living with him.
She forced herself to stop moving her head up and down. This idea was crazy. Absurd. Completely ridiculous. Yet it made a strange, irrefutable sort of sense; so much so that she and Aled had both come up with it.
‘I …’ Rosie faltered. ‘Well. I was originally looking for a female flatmate. But I’ve got to admit, I haven’t had much luck with that so far.’ Impressed with her own restraint, she resisted the urge to tell him she’d now received several dick pics as a result of advertising the room.
‘I completely understand,’ Aled said, looking abashed. ‘It was just a notion.’
He sounded almost relieved that she hadn’t jumped at his offer – and in a contrary kind of way, this made it more appealing.
‘No,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m going to think about it. It’s a surprisingly decent idea. Can I let you know in a day or two?’
‘Sure,’ Aled said, standing up. ‘That’s fine. And no worries if someone more suitable comes along in the meantime. I’d better get going, anyway. Thanks for the tea.’
‘Thanks for letting me back into my flat,’ Rosie said, following him down the corridor so she could see him out. ‘I appreciate it.’
He regarded her as he stood in the open doorway, his large frame almost filling it. ‘You’re welcome. And it was a pleasure to meet you properly, Rosie Butler.’
‘You too,’ Rosie said, smiling. ‘I’ll see you around, Aled Thomas.’