Over the next few days, Rosie worked harder than she had in years. Her new job was physically demanding in a way her role at Cover 4 U had never been – but she loved every minute she spent in the stylish yet homely deli, steaming hot milk, slicing freshly made cakes and serving up mouth-watering salads.
It was a smallish space, but it had grace, in Rosie’s eyes. Like its owner, it seemed authentic, unapologetic – justifiably proud of itself. There were exposed brick walls, spaces with dark grey wood panelling and rows of low-hanging pendant lights. If this was the sort of work Rhianne’s preferred builders were capable of, Rosie couldn’t wait to see how they’d transform Mr Bettini’s old flat.
The deli’s furniture was simple and sturdy, with some chairs upholstered in well-worn patterned fabrics and others in leather. None of it matched, but the overall effect was harmonious – and as a self-confessed interiors obsessive, Rosie knew that this required care and judgement.
Bright artwork hung from the walls, and bookshelves dotted here and there displayed dog-eared Penguin Classics. The cups and saucers were handmade, Rosie guessed, and haphazardly glazed in shades of mustard, teal and maroon so they looked like 1970s relics.
It was comfortable here, and Rosie could understand why some of Rhianne’s regulars set up camp for hours, bringing books and laptops with them so they could work in the deli’s cosy, coffee-scented corners. Surrounded by Rhianne’s chatty customers and the rest of the staff team, she felt happier at work than she’d been in … pretty much ever.
Best of all, within a few days of starting at the deli it was clear that Rosie’s bank balance wouldn’t suffer too much for her shift in employment. Rhianne paid her team a decent wage, there were plenty of shifts available and Rosie’s natural friendliness meant she earned extra money in tips. With a little trimming of her budget and perhaps the occasional dip into her savings account, she’d be fine.
She was already popular with her co-workers, too. Marcus, Yaz and Becky had patiently shown her the ropes during her first few days, explaining the various idiosyncrasies of the espresso machine, taking her through the cafe’s opening and closing routines and pointing out which customers were likely to be particular about their orders. She was a quick learner and, as she vaguely remembered writing on several of the job application forms she’d recently filled in, a team player. When Yaz – a shiny-haired twenty-something with an array of arty tattoos – said she was happy Rosie had joined ‘the cafe fam’, Rosie had no trouble believing her.
Rhianne split her time between the kitchen, the counter and the tiny upstairs office, from which she managed ordering, accounts and other necessary paperwork. Within a couple of days of starting at the deli, Rosie had discovered that Aled’s renewed proximity to his cousin was entirely accidental. Rhianne had been living in this part of London for several years, without any inkling there might be a family connection to the area. Aled’s willingness to move into the building he’d inherited was, to some degree, bolstered by the unexpected nearness of someone he considered a close friend as well as a relative.
Rosie could understand this. She liked Rhianne more and more, but also wondered how a single family could have produced two such different people within one generation. She and Aled were like creatures from different planets; his inscrutability was the exact opposite of Rhianne’s plain-speaking openness.
Even though they lived under the same roof and relations between them were cordial, Rosie felt Aled still weighed every word he spoke with precision – either to ensure perfect articulation of meaning, or to avoid giving too much away. On the other hand, Rhianne spoke at a rate even Rosie found hard to keep up with. Words were free and came easily to Rhianne, so she used them in abundance – never afraid of giving an opinion, offering an idea or sharing her thoughts honestly.
To Rosie’s relief, her boss’s frankness never veered into unkindness, and while she was brisk and down-to-earth, Rhianne was also empathetic. Rosie saw this in her warm relationships with several elderly customers who often spent long periods at the deli nursing single cups of tea, which were topped up on the house. She was also insistent that no food should ever be wasted, donating anything that couldn’t be stored overnight to local community groups who shared it with people in need each day.
When Niamh popped into the deli to share a post-shift coffee with her, Rosie admitted that she felt rather inspired by her new friend. To her relief, Niamh didn’t scoff at this. Instead – after Rosie had made brief introductions – she declared she could understand the feeling entirely.
Elsewhere, in a twist that Rosie hadn’t dared dream possible, Ellie’s most recent text message had left her whooping with joy. Martin’s ACE metric had – in Ellie’s words – ‘gone down like a cup of cold sick’ with senior management, and he’d been ‘asked’ to accept some sort of severance package. In his place, and to her colleagues’ satisfaction, Ellie had been elevated to team leader. She’d made it clear that Rosie could have her old job back whenever she wanted, but Rosie had politely declined. As much as she liked Ellie, going backwards felt like the wrong decision now – so instead they made plans for a post-work catch-up sometime soon.
James, and the crushing feeling that accompanied thinking about his betrayal, remained the single dark cloud on Rosie’s horizon. However, after arriving home one evening to find he had taken his final few possessions from the flat, Rosie discovered that she felt more liberated than depressed by their disappearance.
Her clothes now colonised his wardrobe space, and she gloried in having two bedside tables on which she could place books, scented candles and fresh flowers. At Aled’s suggestion – in line with his duties as landlord, given her ex-boyfriend had thoughtlessly hung onto his keys – the locks were also changed less than forty-eight hours later.
When she put her shiny new key into her old front door for the first time, it felt to Rosie like a red line had been drawn through her relationship with James. She’d thought they would last forever, but, little by little, loving and losing him felt less like a tragedy and more like an important life lesson – one she was more than ready to embrace.
‘So how are you finding it? Living with Al?’ Rhianne asked, as the clock ticked towards closing time one Friday afternoon. It was the last day of the month – pay day – and the whole team was in predictably high spirits.
‘It’s … fine. Nice,’ Rosie said, not sure what kind of response was expected. In truth, there was little to comment on; she and Aled had spent barely any time together since the accidental ‘welcome’ dinner she’d made him and their quiet but companionable enjoyment of Emma.
Rhianne snorted. ‘Oh god, is he letting the introvert in him win? Spending lots of time in his room like a surly teenager?’
Rosie groped for a diplomatic response. ‘Erm … I think he’s just really busy.’
‘He’s also a natural recluse in need of a self-esteem injection,’ Rhianne said sagely. ‘He’s not great at making new friends – which is just one of a few reasons why he’s spent so much time among people who can hardly speak English during the past few years.’
Rosie’s eyebrows lifted at this. Aled was definitely the quiet type, but – what with there being several mirrors in the flat – she doubted he had a dearth of self-confidence.
‘I’m serious,’ Rhianne insisted. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous because he looks like North Wales’s very own Aidan Turner’ – Rosie was reminded of Niamh’s ‘love child of Poldark’ comment, as Rhianne grabbed a fresh tea towel – ‘but really, it was not ever thus. He was a gawky thing when we were kids: skinny, rubbish at football, mouth full of braces – the whole works. He didn’t get good-looking until we were about sixteen. I didn’t even notice it because we were together all the time, but when we went back to school for Year Eleven, everyone, even the teachers, kept saying how much he’d grown over the summer. How nicely he’d filled out.’ She made finger quotation marks in the air to emphasise her distaste.
Rosie nodded as if she understood, though she’d never experienced anything like this herself. She’d sometimes wondered whether, one day, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, she’d awake to discover she was the slender, beautiful, un-clumsy woman she was surely meant to be. At thirty-two, however, she’d pretty much given up hoping for such a spontaneous transformation.
‘It takes him a while to open up to people,’ Rhianne continued, ‘and he doesn’t let many people in. But I think he will with you.’ She eyed Rosie shrewdly, and Rosie got the sense that – just this once – Rhianne was choosing not to say out loud whatever was on her mind.
‘We’ll see, I suppose,’ Rosie murmured, not sure what else she could say to this.
‘We will,’ Rhianne agreed. ‘Now,’ she said – louder, so the whole team could hear her – ‘let’s get this place tidied down and cleaned up so we can get to the pub. First round’s on me.’
When Rosie started work that morning, she’d had no intention of finishing the day with an adventure in what Rhianne – and the rest of her staff – called ‘rough pub karaoke’. In fact, she’d never heard of such a thing, only later discovering that it was an end-of-the-month tradition.
A heady combination of peer pressure and genuine fondness for her new colleagues meant that, by 6.30 p.m., she was nevertheless clutching a pint of ice-cold cider. The Dun Cow – the team’s pub of choice – was an establishment that felt like it belonged in a soap opera or kitchen sink drama. Dark and old-fashioned, it had windows that looked painted shut and boasted air that – presumably because little of it was fresh – still smelled faintly of decades-old cigarette smoke.
The place was carpeted throughout, the pile richly decorated not only with its original Wilton pattern, but with stains left behind by the many drinks that had been spilled over the years since it was laid. It was slightly sticky underfoot, and Rosie thanked god – and Rhianne – that the deli had rules about wearing closed-toe footwear.
This was, Rosie mused as she took a tart, refreshing drink from her glass, the sort of place James would have refused to set foot in. It wasn’t a gastro pub – there were no pan-seared scallops or posh pork scratchings in sight – but this didn’t worry her.
‘It’ll all make sense when the singing gets going,’ Marcus said, following Rosie’s gaze as she took in her surroundings. ‘It’s not pretty, but this is the best pub in London – and the drinks are dirt cheap.’
This, Rosie could happily concede, was true. ‘I can’t remember the last time I went anywhere that a round wasn’t almost double that price,’ she agreed. She’d helped Rhianne ferry various glasses to their grateful recipients and done an involuntary double take when she’d seen the bill on the tray.
Marcus was tall and thin, with reddish hair, wire-framed glasses and a ready smile. Rosie had begun to suspect he had a thing for Becky – a dark-eyed, curly-haired northerner with a penchant for slogan t-shirts. Today’s was a hot-pink number with ‘A WOMAN’S PLACE IS WHEREVER SHE BLOODY WELL WANTS’ emblazoned across the bust – a message Rosie could definitely get behind. Marcus’s eyes frequently followed Becky’s progress around a room, though she seemed unaware of his fascination with her. As he looked at her, his features settled into the soft, adoring sort of expression that – now she saw it up close – Rosie had to admit she hadn’t seen on James’s face in some years.
‘Rhianne is a legend in here,’ Yaz said, appearing as if from nowhere and holding a glass that, Rosie guessed, contained some approximation of a pina colada. The drink was fluorescent yellow – so vividly bright that its provenance couldn’t possibly have much to do with real pineapples. Yaz seemed totally unbothered by the likely presence of a raft of e-numbers, however. She sipped the concoction through a pink-striped straw, studiously avoiding the paper umbrella lest it poke her in the eye.
‘A legend how?’ Rosie asked. But before Yaz could answer her, the high-pitched whine of microphones and amps being switched on cut through their conversation.
‘You’re about to find out!’ Yaz shouted over the din.
There was a tiny stage in the far corner of the pub’s central space, which a thick-waisted, shiny-suited man now mounted. He spoke into the microphone directly in front of him.
‘WELCOME, ladies and gentlemen, to the Dun Cow’s monthly music night! With your host, Ian Barker!’
The man gestured at himself expansively, garnering lukewarm applause and several ‘just get on with it’ groans. He reminded Rosie of the cabaret singer from Phoenix Nights.
‘First up tonight is a Dun Cow icon – a favourite from last month, and the month before,’ Ian bellowed. ‘And also, let’s face it, the month before that as well. Please give it up for Rhianne – the Red Fox – Thomas!’
At this, there was genuine, thundering applause – not least from Rosie and her co-workers. A not inconsiderable number of people were chanting, ‘Red Fox, Red Fox, Red Fox’ as Rhianne made her way to the mic.
Seconds later, she began belting out a note-perfect rendition of Cher’s ‘Believe’. Within moments, the atmosphere in the pub had shifted; people were up on their feet, dancing and singing along, as if the woman on stage was fronting an international arena tour rather than doing karaoke in a backstreet east London boozer.
Rosie felt her mouth drop open as Rhianne hit the song’s bridge and pointed directly at her. The sentiment of the track wasn’t lost on her; it was the late-1990s equivalent of ‘I Will Survive’.
‘I see you weren’t given sufficient warning about this place, or what happens here,’ said a deep, sardonic voice from somewhere to her left.
Rosie jumped and – before she could register she was doing it – smiled in sincere delight at the sight of Aled. ‘None whatsoever,’ she told him, ‘although I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for this …’ Rosie waved a hand in Rhianne’s direction as she took a bow and the crowd clapped again. ‘How … how is she not famous? Her voice is insane. How is she not, like, Adele or something?’
Aled shrugged. ‘No idea. But she definitely bears a good chunk of the blame for the “all Welsh people can sing” stereotype. At least around here.’
‘Do another for us, my darling,’ Ian was saying to Rhianne as she turned to leave the stage. ‘Get this crowd properly warmed up for us.’
‘One more,’ she said, as a ripple of applause swept through the room. She whispered something into Ian’s ear and he fiddled with the computer keyboard to the right of the microphones.
‘That last one was for my new friend Rosie. And this one’s for her new friend.’ Aled groaned as the opening bars of ‘You Can Call Me Al’ by Paul Simon started up.
‘Nobody could accuse her of being subtle, could they?’ he said wryly.
Rosie laughed. ‘Absolutely not. I’m guessing you hear this one a lot?’
‘Frequently,’ he nodded. ‘You all right for a drink? You look almost ready for another.’
‘Ah, go on then,’ Rosie said, grinning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a night out like this. It seemed there were surprises round every corner. ‘Thanks. Cider, please.’
‘Coming up.’
She watched him squeeze past rapt patrons as he moved towards the bar. It was a credit to Rhianne’s charismatic performance that the crowd wasn’t parting like the Red Sea around the hot man; people were too distracted by her vocals to notice that a god walked among them.
He had the ‘dishevelled academic’ thing going on again, and Rosie had to admit it was working for him. Where a tie had once been was an unbuttoned shirt collar – cream, with a pale blue stripe. This exposed a tanned neck with a prominent Adam’s apple, which for some reason was weirdly fascinating. His hair had been cut recently, she observed, and the shorter length made it more inclined to stay stuck up and ruffled after he raked a hand through it.
Without actually deciding to, Rosie realised she’d begun cataloguing his physical features and behavioural tics dispassionately – the way a scientist might log the antics of a mouse in a lab. It was almost like working through an equation backwards: she knew the answer was ‘he’s stupidly good-looking’, but she was trying to find the formula that made this true. If this intellectualising was an attempt to swerve the chances of Aled attracting her – sparking the sort of lustful longing he must easily ignite in others – she wasn’t conscious of it.
The notion of being interested in anyone romantically felt anathema after the James disaster. The near-farcical manner of his departure, and her subsequent discovery that he’d likely been playing away, had attached blinkers to Rosie’s eyes. There were more important things to focus on – and Aled’s incredible looks, as well as the way he inhabited the flat without dominating it, always asked if she wanted tea, and was the most considerate bathroom-sharer she’d ever encountered, were merely bonuses in their convenient flat-sharing arrangement.
As Rhianne sang about bodyguards and long-lost pals, Aled reappeared next to her. Yaz – no longer swallowed up in the crowd – side-eyed him, then mouthed ‘Fit, or what?’ at Rosie, whose face immediately heated. Aled handed Rosie her pint, then apologised for missing Yaz out of the round.
‘It’s fine,’ Yaz said. ‘I should slow down, anyway, I can’t take the pace – not built for heavy drinking.’ She gestured at her slight frame, and Rosie felt a wave of loathing for her own lumpen fleshiness threaten to drown her good mood.
No, she told herself, that wasn’t a dig at you. She reminded herself that other people didn’t think or care about her body shape nearly as much as she did – that they were more interested in their own lives than her dress size. It was a refrain she was having to repeat more often than usual after the upheaval of the past few weeks.
‘I didn’t know you’d be coming,’ Rosie said to Aled.
‘Whereas I knew you would be – there was no way Rhianne was going to let you off your first-ever rough pub karaoke.’
‘That was the impression I got when she said, You will come out with us tonight if I have to tie you up with squid ink spaghetti and drag you down the street,’ Rosie laughed. ‘The whole thing feels a bit left-field, though, based on how smart and stylish the deli is. I’d never have picked this place as her choice for Friday night drinks.’
‘I think it’s the vibe she likes,’ Aled said. ‘The singing, the raucousness – the fact everyone talks to, and over, everyone else. I suspect the general sense of drunken goodwill reminds her of home.’
‘Home? As in, Wales?’
‘Yep,’ he nodded, taking a sip of some golden-coloured ale. ‘We grew up in a small town on the north coast. Right by the sea. It’s not the most exciting place, but it’s the sort where people all know one another: a community, I suppose. Living there, you always knew that if someone caught you smoking in an alleyway or whatever, news of what you’d been up to would get home even before you did. You’d arrive back to find your mam already irate, lecture fully loaded and ready for unleashing.’
‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’ Rosie asked, smiling. She was amazed – borderline intoxicated – by the easy way he was chatting to her. Perhaps he felt more comfortable talking about other people than he did about himself? This tallied with his willingness to debate the qualities of various on-screen Knightleys, Rosie supposed.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’ll shock you to hear I was the quiet one.’
Rosie laughed and shook her head.
‘But Rhianne was constantly in bother for one thing or another,’ Aled went on. ‘She was well ready to spread her wings by the time she left. I think she misses the old place more than she lets on, though.’
‘Oh,’ Rosie said. ‘Do you think she’ll ever go back?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Her parents have both passed, now – I think it’d be a different place to her than the one she remembers, so in a sense she’s missing something that doesn’t exist anymore. There’s a word for it in Welsh. Hiraeth. It doesn’t translate properly into English.’
‘Herrr – what, now? What does it mean?’ Rosie asked, on tenterhooks.
‘Hiraeth,’ Aled repeated. ‘It sort of means longing. Wistfulness. Yearning, tinged with nostalgia. It’s like a special, specifically Welsh homesickness, muddled with grief for lost things that can’t ever come back.’
‘Wow,’ Rosie breathed, around the lump that had suddenly risen in her throat. ‘That’s … beautiful. And so sad.’
Before Aled could reply, Rhianne emerged from behind a wall of burly men and threw her arms around him. ‘You’re here!’ she cried. ‘Talking and everything! I knew you’d tag along and be sociable if I got Rosie out.’
‘Hi, Rhi,’ Aled said, disentangling himself from her embrace and looking slightly abashed. ‘Week all right?’
‘Of course, now I have this one on my team,’ Rhianne said, jerking a thumb at Rosie. ‘She’s a marvel, just like you said she’d be. Write this down for posterity, because the chances of me ever saying it again are slim: you – were – right.’
Aled rolled his eyes and Rosie laughed. The banter that ping-ponged between him and Rhianne was witty but warm – the sort of bickering that only close siblings were usually capable of.
It was the kind of dynamic she’d never had with Michael, whose status as their parents’ favourite had made his every gibe at Rosie genuinely hurtful. He could mock her with little fear of retaliation or consequence beyond, ‘Now come on, Michael, play nicely with your sister.’ If Rosie had been given a pound for every time one of his insults had been dismissed as a ‘boys will be boys’ misstep, she wouldn’t have needed a flatmate.
As the night unfolded, Rosie fully relaxed – and gave herself up to chaotic fun in a way she hadn’t for as long as she could remember. Marcus treated the crowd to a surprisingly excellent rendition of ‘Lose Yourself’ by Eminem, while Becky and Yaz tag-teamed an admirable ‘Shallow’ from A Star is Born. Becky yodelled tunelessly through Lady Gaga’s elongated ‘ohhh’s as the song swelled towards its apex, and Rosie genuinely thought she might die laughing.
She and Aled were the sole members of the group who point-blank refused to expose themselves to public humiliation – though Rhianne insisted that Rosie was only being given a pass because she was a rough pub virgin. ‘Al’s a law unto himself – simply not for turning – but I’ve got my eye on you for next month,’ she said.
Predictably, Rhianne performed the night’s final number. She was swept back onto the stage by what Rosie had come to think of as her army of fans, and a still-fawning Ian Barker handed her his microphone as though it was her rightful property.
‘They say it’s not over until the fat lady sings,’ Rhianne quipped, grinning broadly. She was in a scoop-necked, skintight body, leather-look leggings and heeled black boots tonight, with a silk scarf tied around her neck like one of the girls from Grease. ‘Well, here I am,’ she said, shimmying for the crowd so her bosom bounced and her bottle-red hair gleamed in the pub’s yellowish light. ‘Though I prefer the word voluptuous, if I’m honest.’
The audience whooped and cheered, only quietening down as a familiar pattern of echoing, maudlin piano notes signalled the beginning of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’.
‘Oh yes, she’s going there,’ Aled said from right behind Rosie. She felt his warm breath hit the shell of her ear and shivered, then shrugged off the sensation and laughed. ‘She might as well be singing “Bread of Heaven” and waving a flag with a dragon on it,’ Aled quipped.
‘She’s incredible,’ Rosie said, with total sincerity. ‘An absolute force. I wish I could be like her.’
‘Don’t do that,’ Aled said, with the half-smile she’d come to think of as uniquely his. ‘You’re great. Exactly who you’re supposed to be. And more of a force than you know – if a slightly clumsy one.’
Rosie had no idea how to respond to this, so she smiled and threw herself into singing along with the rest of the Dun Cow’s rowdy patrons. Even Aled – predictably tunefully – had now joined in.
Borne aloft by several more drinks than she’d usually imbibe, as well as the uniquely uplifting sound of many voices coming together as one, Rosie felt how far she’d travelled in a few short weeks. Rhianne sweetly sang the gentle plea, ‘Turn around, bright eyes’, and Rosie’s gaze found Aled’s in the semi-darkness.
Understanding bloomed between them, and Rosie felt un upsurge of gratitude that he’d brought her into what she knew, instinctively, was his small circle of friends. It was a generous gesture he needn’t have made, and at this moment it meant the world to her.
Though Rosie was only a mile or so from home, she had no map for the place she was suddenly in. But as a swaying Becky seized her left hand, a whooping Yaz took her right, and Marcus and Aled stood behind her, still singing, she revelled in being there.