Over the following week, Rosie saw less of Aled than she’d become used to. She couldn’t help thinking this was a likely side-effect of his encounter with Ceri, though he’d shared precious little about what they’d discussed.
All Rosie knew was that she’d appeared in London – newly divorced and keen to catch up. Rhianne had grumbled darkly about Ceri attempting to ‘get her claws back in’, bemoaning Aled’s ‘intensely romantic’ nature as just the sort that might let her.
To Rosie’s relief, Ceri’s stay in the capital had been short-lived. Rhianne reported that she’d gone back to their home town within a week – though she couldn’t say what promises, if any, Ceri had extracted from Aled before she left. Though it killed her not to ask him herself, Rosie couldn’t face questioning Aled about his affections for the woman who broke his heart. Ignorance wasn’t bliss, but it was preferable to hearing a potentially painful truth.
Upon starting back at school after half-term, Aled had also been informed that an Ofsted inspection was imminent. The late nights and early starts this necessitated meant that, at most, he and Rosie crossed paths in the kitchen while waiting for the kettle to boil.
In a show of support, Rosie continued making dinners for two and left large portions in neatly labelled Tupperware containers so he could eat on the go. She also made several batches of her favourite chocolate-chip cookies for him to take and share with his over-caffeinated, sleep-deprived colleagues.
This was nothing more than she’d have done for a close friend, but it was a far cry from what common sense informed her was appropriate for a short-term flatmate. The voice of reason, however, was drowned out by the low, insistent hum that reminded her, very inconveniently: you miss him.
Since the ‘accidental best date in history’, which – in the privacy of her own head – was what she’d begun to call their afternoon of roller skating, she’d felt the pull of him more powerfully than ever. On the days when he was absent, she felt the loss of him keenly. The bathroom smelled of his shower gel in the mornings, his book sat unread on the coffee table and more than once she made two morning cups of tea, forgetting that he’d already have left for work.
She’d said nothing to Niamh about the mess of her feelings, and felt grateful that a run of high-profile projects was keeping her best friend so busy they’d cancelled their last couple of meet-ups. As soon as Niamh saw her in person, Rosie knew it would be game over. It would be useless to deny that her feelings for Aled had progressed from ‘noteworthy but manageable crush’ territory to take up residence in a dangerous place that might be labelled ‘sexually spellbound and emotionally invested’. She was in no rush to admit this to herself, let alone anyone else.
It annoyed her that, on the Saturday after the school inspectors departed, Rosie was unable to take Aled up on his offer of a ‘thanks for looking after me’ lunch. ‘I’ve got to drive out to Essex,’ she moaned. ‘I have a christening to go to, my cousin Mandy’s baby.’
‘Oh, nice.’
‘Not really,’ Rosie grimaced. ‘I RSVP’d months ago, when James and I were still together. I’ll be on the receiving end of some major sympathy-trolling when I turn up alone.’
‘Sympathy-trolling?’ Aled raised a single dark eyebrow, which did strange things to Rosie’s stomach.
‘Yeah. You know, where people say things like: “So how are you, really? I mean, honestly? Are you managing since the split?”’
Aled simply stared at her, so she ploughed on. ‘What people really mean when they lay it on like that is, you look like shit, it’s no wonder you got chucked and good luck finding another partner – you’ll definitely need it. The crappier your situation, and the more they backhandedly reinforce its crapness, the better they feel about themselves.’
‘Ouch,’ Aled murmured. ‘Will your parents not have prepared the ground for you at all? Warned people that James won’t be there, that it’s a sore subject?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Rosie said, barking a laugh. ‘Not in a million years. My mother would rather eat full-fat cheese than admit her daughter’s been dumped by the man they all hoped she would marry.’
‘That’s rough.’
‘Yep. Wish me luck. If I’m not back by six, assume I’ve pulled into a lay-by on the M11 to rock slowly back and forth while contemplating my lonely, loveless future.’
Oof. She wished she hadn’t said loveless. She could feel her face heating.
Aled smiled softly, his soulful eyes thoughtful. Then they lit with a glint that could almost be described as mischievous. ‘I could … come with you, if you like? I mean, no pressure, I just have nothing else on today. If you could use a friend …?’
Rosie felt her mouth drop open. His garbled thoughtfulness made her heart squeeze, even as the word ‘friend’ echoed unpleasantly in her ears. She told herself it was an improvement on ‘flatmate’.
‘Er – isn’t this sort of thing your worst nightmare?’ she asked him. ‘Like, tons of people you don’t know – most of whom, I won’t lie, are pretty awful … Not to mention a church service, during which the baby will cry and my uncle Jim’s mobile will go off at least five times. He gets a lot of Betfair notifications.’
‘I’ll manage,’ Aled said, grinning. ‘I’d like to help. You’ve been amazing to me all week – why not let me do something nice for you in return?’
Rosie writhed internally, her instinct to say yes at war with the knowledge that it would only complicate things. She couldn’t deny it would be tremendously satisfying to show up for a family occasion with Aled in tow, but it would inspire speculation – and it would be a one-time only deal. When he never came to another christening, wedding or funeral, she’d be sympathy-trolled worse than ever: he was a looker, though, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t have expected him to commit, really. It was always going to be hard for Rosie to hang onto a man like that.
Rosie cringed, then told herself to knock it off. She knew she looked good today, in the floral midi dress Rhianne and Niamh had helped her pick out. It was bold but classy, with bracelet-length sleeves and a square neckline that showed a hint of bosom. She’d paired it with thick black tights because bare legs, November weather and draughty English churches didn’t mix.
Aled, meanwhile, was still in a pair of pyjama bottoms and an old grey t-shirt that did wonderful things for his broad shoulders. Gah. He could come dressed in those and still be deemed too attractive for her. Her entire family would take one look at him and wonder what on earth he was doing with her. God, what if they thought he was an escort? That she’d paid for a fake date? That would be mortifying.
‘Earth to Rosie …?’ Aled said, waving his arms to get her attention.
‘Sorry. I was …’
‘Spiralling? Catastrophising?’
‘Both,’ Rosie admitted. ‘Honestly, this isn’t going to be enjoyable. You don’t have to do this.’
‘I want to, though,’ he said, with such sincerity that Rosie couldn’t find the words to rebuff him. ‘I can be ready to go in fifteen minutes. Does that work?’
Rosie nodded, mute, unable to resist – and not at all sure whether spending this afternoon with Aled would make it better or worse.
When Rosie pulled her VW Polo into the car park of St Catherine’s C of E Church and Community Centre, her heart sank. Her mother was standing outside the old arched door, lying in wait for her daughter and surrounded by a cloud of what Rosie identified as vape smoke.
Up close, it was a cloyingly sweet steam that smelled powerfully – and synthetically – of peach. It reminded Rosie of the scented disinfectant she sometimes bought for cleaning out the wheelie bin, but she decided to keep this to herself.
Julie was wearing a satin sheath dress in deep navy, cut just below the knee and so tight it looked like it could have been sprayed on. Her feet were in heels that might have doubled as stilts, and Rosie wondered how on earth she could stand in them, let alone walk. Her mother’s face was flawlessly made-up, presumably with her own TrueYOU products; shimmery taupe eyeshadow highlighted her hazel eyes, and her lips were glossed bright red. She looked amazing – though arguably her outfit said ‘off to collect a BAFTA’ more than ‘suburban church service followed by finger sandwiches’.
‘Rosie!’ she cried, through a final plume of fruity air. ‘And who is this?’
Rosie felt her soul wilt at her mother’s tone, which managed to sound simultaneously surprised, intrigued and somewhat lascivious.
‘This is Aled,’ Rosie explained. ‘My … erm. My … He’s staying in the spare room.’
God, she was an idiot. Why couldn’t she just have said friend, like he did earlier? Because the word’s too small for him, a voice inside her said. It doesn’t contain enough. She instructed it to shut up, then realised her mother was frowning at her.
‘So, he’s your flatmate?’ Julie said, like she was a foreign language student testing the correct application of a word she’d recently learned.
‘Yes. Flatmate,’ Rosie repeated, trying to pack as much meaning as possible into two syllables.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Butler,’ Aled said, offering her a very large hand to shake. Julie visibly thrilled at this deference, looking up at him coquettishly from beneath lowered lashes and purring, ‘Likewise.’
Rosie rolled her eyes. ‘Shouldn’t we be going in?’ she said, before Julie could start asking questions or – god forbid – flirting heavily.
Her mother looked at her shiny, gold-plated wristwatch. ‘Oh. Yes. I just came out for a quick not-ciggy break, ha ha. Aren’t I good?’
‘You do know vaping isn’t that great for you, either?’ Rosie said in a low voice, as they entered the building and found seats on the same row as Michael and Colin.
‘Rubbish,’ Julie hissed. ‘It keeps me slim. And it tastes nice.’
Rosie’s eyes found Aled’s in the dim light, and they exchanged the sort of nonplussed looks that couples sometimes share in the presence of eccentric extended family. It made her chest hurt.
Soon the vicar – a surprisingly young, hapless-looking fellow who genially invited the congregation to call him Father Simon – was at the front of the church. The service unfolded in the usual way, with Mandy, her husband Karl and a gaggle of godparents all swearing to reject a devil that Rosie was fairly sure none of them believed in.
When they got to the part where Father Simon sprinkled water on the baby’s head, Rosie realised she’d forgotten to warn Aled about her name. She winced as the vicar’s voice rang out: ‘Crystal Khaleesi Turner, I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’ To the celebrant’s credit, he managed not to laugh.
Beside her in the church pew, Rosie felt Aled stiffen and knew that he was holding in considerable mirth. If they looked at one another, they’d corpse.
With great difficulty, she resisted glancing at him and instead focused on a man two rows in front of them – one of Karl’s uncles, she thought. He appeared to have dyed his greying hair a sort of orangey-brown colour that resisted definition. The closest descriptor Rosie could land on was that it resembled one of Rhianne’s signature soups: curried sweet potato and coconut.
The christening came to an end, and a low murmur of voices began as people filed out of the church and into the community centre next door.
‘Khaleesi?’ Aled said in Rosie’s ear, and the feel of his warm breath on her skin sparked thoughts that were definitely not church-appropriate.
‘Yes,’ Rosie whispered back. ‘Sorry, I should have said. Mandy and Karl are big GoT fans.’
‘Not big enough that they’ve watched the final season, it seems. Daenerys burns a city to the ground with dragon fire. She goes mad AF, as Year Eight’s Umair Ansari might say.’
‘Oh, they’ve seen it,’ Rosie assured him. ‘Mandy’s take is that, although slaying civilians isn’t cool, Dany’s look is on fleek right up to the end. She has – and I quote – mad respect for a woman who can win a war and never have a hair out of place.’
Aled shook with silent laughter as they made their way to the after-party.
‘Don’t say you weren’t warned,’ Rosie said as they reached the bright green door of the outbuilding. ‘Once we’re inside, there’s no turning back – and I seem to remember you claiming that bravery was not your speciality.’
‘You’re worth manning up for,’ he told her, and she glowed. She should be satisfied that he considered her a friend, she told herself; it was enough. It would have to be enough.
‘Rosie!’ called an imperious voice from a plastic chair in the corner. It had been strategically positioned next to the vol-au-vents.
‘Oh god, it’s Great-Auntie Maud,’ Rosie groaned under her breath. ‘Hide. Seriously. Get behind that display of kids’ Easter drawings – she’ll never see you. I’ll take this one for the team.’
Aled glanced at the months-old display of crayoned crucifixions, several of which were alarmingly graphic.
‘Forget it, Spartacus,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m with you. “Once more unto the breach, dear friend”.’
‘Poetry, at a time like this?’ Rosie smirked, trying to ignore the word ‘friend’. ‘Really?’
‘Shakespeare,’ he whispered. ‘Sorry.’
‘Rosie AND BOYFRIEND!’ Great-Auntie Maud shouted, as if to confirm that they had both been spotted and neither would be suffered to escape. Maud was the sole northerner in Rosie’s family – a migrant from Rotherham who’d come south but had clung to her accent like Japanese knotweed to a building site.
‘Hello, Auntie Maud,’ Rosie said when they reached her. ‘This is Aled. He’s my, er—’
‘Friend,’ Aled put in. Every time he said it, something inside Rosie shrivelled. He was like the children in Peter Pan, inadvertently killing fairies by saying they didn’t believe. She stifled the urge to clap her hands.
‘HA!’ Auntie Maud huffed. She turned to Rosie. ‘I never had a friend who looked like that when I was young. If I had, there’s no way I’d have married your great-uncle Gerald. AWFUL man.’
Aled valiantly turned a burst of laughter into a coughing fit, and Rosie looked around the room in the hope that someone – anyone – would rescue them. No such luck. The only person who caught her eye was Michael, and he merely saw fit to smirk at her before stuffing a sausage roll into his mouth.
‘They reckon you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,’ Auntie Maud went on loudly, in the manner of elderly people who might be hard of hearing but, on the other hand, perhaps just have no more shits to give. ‘To which I say, POOH,’ Maud continued. ‘He was a miserable sod, wasn’t he, Rosie?’
‘Erm … I don’t really remember, Auntie Maud,’ she said, round-eyed. Maud threw her a withering, disappointed glare, as though it were Rosie’s fault she hadn’t been born until two years after Uncle Gerald’s stroke.
‘Don’t say much, do you?’ Maud barked at Aled, changing the subject entirely and gesturing at him with her walking stick. ‘Good job you’re pretty. Where are you from, lad?’
‘Wales,’ he told her. ‘The north coast.’
‘Hmm,’ she grunted. ‘At least it’s north of here, I suppose. I don’t understand these flashy southerners, with their fake tans and false eyelashes and breast augmentations.’
‘I don’t think every woman who lives south of the Watford Gap has had a boob job, Auntie Maud,’ Rosie said reasonably.
‘Perhaps not,’ Maud conceded. ‘Some of them are still saving up. You can go on holiday and have it done now, you know. Fly to Turkey and come home with new tits as well as a tan.’
Rosie wanted to die. Aled was staring fixedly at a spot on the ceiling, his huge shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
‘Well, it’s been lovely to see you, Auntie Maud,’ Rosie began, not quite able to believe she’d just witnessed an eighty-seven-year-old woman utter the word ‘tits’ in a community centre maintained by the Church of England.
‘Not so fast, young lady,’ Maud interrupted. ‘I’ve not finished with you yet. What about that lad you brought to your brother’s thirtieth? Jonathon, was it?’
‘James,’ Rosie said. Michael’s thirtieth was a sore point; her parents had organised a big family get-together for him earlier in the year, having done precisely nothing to celebrate Rosie’s big birthday two years earlier.
‘Didn’t like the look of that one,’ Maud continued. ‘Superior sort. You’re better off with Andrew, here.’
‘Aled,’ Rosie said. ‘And we’re not … we aren’t … It isn’t like that.’ It hurt her to admit it, and Maud could apparently read the scowl on her face with alarming accuracy.
‘That’s what they all say,’ Maud declared. ‘That’s what David Tomkinson told his wife, Gladys, when she accused him of throwing one up the woman who worked in the betting shop. Load of horseshit, as it turned out, but Gladys had the last laugh.’
‘How d’you mean?’ Aled asked, as Rosie desperately prayed for this conversation to end.
‘Well,’ Maud said with relish, ‘after that fall he had, it was all up to Gladys.’
‘What was?’
‘The decision to turn off the oxygen,’ Maud said, smiling sweetly.
It wasn’t often that Rosie could say she felt relief at the sight of her mother. However, as Julie beckoned her from across the room, she was intensely grateful for the excuse to leave Auntie Maud with a fresh cup of tea, a plateful of snacks and her fond memories of Gladys Tomkinson’s revenge.
‘You had your hair done, love?’ Julie said, immediately zooming in on the all-important matter of her daughter’s new look.
‘Oh. Yeah,’ Rosie said, patting her bob self-consciously. It had been a big change, but she had zero regrets; her shorter cut felt good – bolder, somehow.
‘It’s quite nice,’ was her mother’s verdict. Rosie almost choked on her cream cheese and cucumber sandwich; faint praise it might be, but this was hands-down the nicest thing Julie had said about her appearance in years.
She felt her mother’s eyes slowly scan her outfit – an act which yielded no comment. Again, in the context of previous assessments, Rosie could consider this a win.
‘So, how did you meet this new flatmate of yours?’ Julie asked. She gestured at Aled, then said to Colin and Michael: ‘This young man is living in Rosie’s spare room, if you can believe it.’
Rosie cringed, wondering why Julie was referring to Aled as though he were a new pet or a piece of furniture.
‘Ah,’ Michael smirked, his eyes roving from Rosie to Aled and then back again. ‘That makes more sense.’
Rosie was too needled to resist demanding an explanation for what was obviously a barb, even though this was precisely what Michael wanted. ‘More sense than what?’ she asked.
‘Than you two being an item, obviously,’ Michael said. ‘I know you’re back on the market, but – as I always say to my clients – when you’re on a budget, there’s no use looking at penthouse apartments in Spitalfields. Shop for what you can afford.’
Rosie experienced a rush of anger that, for once, she didn’t feel like quelling. Perhaps unwittingly, Michael had hit an already raw nerve. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ she demanded.
Michael grinned, gleeful that he’d riled her so easily. ‘Ooh, does Roly Poly Rosie have a thing for – what’s your name again?’
‘Michael,’ Julie cooed indulgently, ‘be nice to your sister. Don’t start an argument and ruin Mandy’s day – she’s put this lovely spread on.’
‘What about his impact on my day?’ Rosie said, growing steadily redder and more furious. She wondered how many of her days, in the three decades since he’d been born, Michael had been permitted to ruin with no fear of reprisals. Even one more felt like too many.
‘Oh, calm down, Rosie,’ Julie said. ‘There’s nothing to ruin – you’re not the one with a beautiful new baby to show off, more’s the pity.’
‘Jim says he’s going over the road for a pint,’ Colin interjected. ‘Only booze Mandy’s got here is fizzy wine. I’ll be back in a bit.’
Utterly mortified, Rosie found herself wishing for a rogue meteor to land precisely where she stood and put her out of her misery. Then she changed her mind: far better for it to hit the rest of her family, leaving her free to live out her days in peace. At the very least, the universe could oblige her by obliterating her rancid little brother with a giant space boulder.
She took a deep breath, as if she were working up to something – though she had no idea what she could say. Arguing with Michael was like throwing petrol on an already out of control fire – while Julie, as always, was indifferent to any damage it might do so long as it didn’t burn her.
As Rosie arrived at the realisation that angry tears were pricking her eyes, she felt a large, warm hand at her back. It was bracing her, almost – supporting her stance and stiffening her resolve. She let Aled’s touch ground her and blinked the moisture away.
Before she could say or do anything else, Aled had turned to Michael. He leaned forward a little, as if to make sure Rosie’s brother noted the difference in their height and bulk; at least five inches, and probably a couple of stone.
‘Since you ask, my name is Aled,’ he said. ‘Your sister and I are friends.’
That word again. It went through her like a knife.
‘However,’ Aled went on, ‘I’d consider myself lucky if she did have a “thing” for me. Don’t make the mistake of assuming that just because you don’t recognise her value, other people won’t see it. Plenty of us do, myself included.’
His hand was still hot, comforting and solid at the base of Rosie’s spine. She wanted to turn ninety degrees, press herself against him, bury her face in his broad chest. She wanted to breathe in his clean, soapy smell until everything else in the world disappeared entirely.
Instead, she looked at her mother. Julie’s crimson-lipsticked mouth had fallen open and her false-lashed eyes were wide. ‘I think it’s time we were going,’ Rosie said. ‘We can say goodbye to Mandy and Karl on the way out.’
‘Whatever you want,’ Aled said, letting her shift their position, orienting them towards the exit.
They walked on together, his hand at her back all the way.