Rosie’s heart fluttered erratically in her chest the entire way home. Neither she nor Aled said much, and it seemed easier simply to listen to Taylor Swift and watch the evening draw in. She had no idea how to bring up what Aled had said without embarrassing both of them – particularly as she suspected he’d oversold his affection for her in seeking to shut Michael down.
Somehow, though, she needed to tell Aled how much it had meant that he stood up for her – that nobody had ever spoken out for her that way. James had always shrugged off Michael’s gibes in the same way Julie did – gladly accepting this tacit permission not to defend the woman he supposedly loved, and thus avoiding conflict. This was especially convenient during their Sunday lunch visits to Braintree, when James’s friendly relationship with Michael assured him a seat at his usual table in the White Horse, the pub they typically decamped to while Rosie took responsibility for the cooking.
As she parked the Polo, a crackling sound overhead reminded her it was Bonfire Night. Through the windscreen, she saw a smattering of pink and yellow sparks lighting up the night sky above the town hall.
‘I’d forgotten there’d be fireworks tonight,’ Aled said.
‘Me too. D’you think Springsteen will cope all right?’
‘Cats tend to just hide from stuff they dislike – a habit I empathise with, to be honest. He’ll probably slink under the sofa until it all stops.’
Another bang sounded above them, followed by a powerful burst of lilac, blue and green light.
‘So pretty,’ Rosie said softly.
‘D’you want to go and take a proper look?’ Aled asked. ‘We can pop in and check on Springsteen, lock the cat flap and then walk over, if you like.’
‘Oh. I don’t know … I mean – it’s pretty cold, and we should probably have something to eat. I’m not sure three tiny sandwiches are going to see me through.’
‘You won’t be cold when you’re stood next to a roaring bonfire,’ Aled argued. ‘And I’ll buy you a toffee apple. Come on,’ he pleaded, his face young, hopeful and open in a way that made Rosie’s insides ache. ‘It’s years since I’ve had a proper Bonfire Night. Nowhere else in the world celebrates it, if that’s even the right word.’
‘It is a bit grim,’ Rosie laughed. ‘Literally burning a likeness of some bloke who tried to blow up the king. Celebrating his grisly execution.’
‘Let’s be honest, though, that’s less important these days than the high-quality snacks involved. There might be baked potatoes,’ Aled said, knowing the promise of piping-hot, buttery carbs would almost certainly convince her. ‘Maybe hot cider. Mulled wine …’
‘You had me at toffee apples,’ Rosie admitted, shaking her head fondly. ‘You check on Springsteen and I’ll lock the car.’
The large field behind the town hall was busy; a sea of local people either huddled together to watch the sky, queuing at stalls for food and drink or playing fairground games. There was hook-a-duck, a tombola and a tin can bowling alley, as well as the opportunity to guess the name of the guy.
By the time Rosie and Aled got there, said effigy was already half burned on his pyre – but a photograph showed what he’d looked like before he was set alight.
‘Hmmm,’ Aled said. ‘He has the air of a Quentin, I reckon. Or maybe an Arnold.’
Rosie laughed. ‘Not a Crystal Khaleesi?’
‘Ha! No. Nor a Khal Drogo. Doesn’t have the requisite biceps.’
After a brief debate, they settled on Tarquin, duly paid £1 for their guess and moved on.
Rosie found her resolution to tread carefully around Aled weakening in direct proportion to the number of warm, boozy drinks she imbibed. The hot cider was spiced with cinnamon and spiked with rum, while the mulled wine hummed with clove, star anise and nutmeg.
After they’d both eaten baked potatoes so hot they burned their mouths, Aled procured the promised toffee apples. As he passed Rosie hers, their fingers brushed – the contact lasting just a second longer than was necessary. His dark eyes seemed to glow like hot coals, and as she looked at him through the smoke-heavy air her heart throbbed with a feeling she didn’t want to name.
‘Rosie!’ a voice rang out from behind them, and she turned to see Tobi, Marcus and Becky emerging from the crowd.
‘Hey!’ Rosie said. ‘You all having fun?’
‘Absolutely,’ Becky said, chugging what was left of her cup of cider. Since the weather had turned cooler, she’d swapped her slogan t-shirts for printed hoodies and jumpers. Peeping out from inside her parka were the words: ‘IF YOU LISTEN CLOSELY, YOU CAN HEAR ME NOT CARING’. The black upper-case caption contrasted somewhat with the tight lilac sweatshirt it was printed on, but that was Becky all over: her petite size and sweet prettiness belied a steely core as well as a deceptively sharp tongue.
Realising she’d finished her drink, Marcus seized Becky’s empty cup and immediately offered to get her a refill. Becky blushed and linked arms with him, and they ducked into the cider queue. Rosie raised an eyebrow at Tobi.
‘Oh yeah, that’s definitely happening,’ Tobi said.
‘About time,’ Rosie laughed. ‘Yaz not with you?’
‘She’s here somewhere, I think,’ Tobi said. ‘With a girl she likes. I think she’s trying to avoid us in case we embarrass her. Rhianne’s on a date, too … She’s gone to some Michelin-starred place in Belgravia with Ethan.’
‘Ooh,’ Rosie said, genuinely intrigued. ‘The chap she’s been out with twice already? The one she met the day she took me shopping?’
‘Yep,’ Tobi confirmed. ‘He seems borderline obsessed with her.’
‘He wouldn’t be the first,’ Aled said. ‘Rhi tends to have that effect on people.’
Must run in the family, Rosie thought. Then, as she felt her friends’ eyes swivel in her direction, she realised she’d said it out loud. Shiiit.
‘You must be Aled,’ Tobi said smoothly, smiling at him. ‘Rhianne and Rosie talk about you a lot.’
Embarrassed but abundantly grateful for Tobi’s intervention, Rosie stared at her shoes.
‘I am. And you’re Tobi,’ Aled said, smiling at her warmly. ‘Rosie’s mentioned you, too.’
It struck Rosie that he didn’t seem anxious, despite his usual reluctance to meet new people. It might be the cider, she concluded – or simply the fact that Tobi was roughly the same age as some of his students. He’d told her once that while teaching seemed an odd profession for a self-confessed introvert, it worked very well. Adopting a stern persona wasn’t hard for him; his physical size was an advantage and it was easier to relax with large groups of children and young people once you felt sure they’d stay in line.
‘Rosie has been wonderful to me,’ Tobi said. Rosie immediately blushed, and wondered if Tobi was a little tipsy herself.
‘When I started at the deli,’ she went on, ‘I was pretty down. A bit broken, to tell the truth. Rosie’s helped me put myself back together – get my confidence back. I was going to tell you this next time we were on shift, Rosie, but I’ve gone through all the university websites we’ve been talking about and drawn up a shortlist. I’m going to apply again, for next year.’
‘Yes!’ Rosie shrieked. ‘That is brilliant news!’ She drew Tobi in for a tight hug that almost sent her toffee apple flying.
‘I couldn’t wait to tell you and say thanks,’ Tobi said, grinning, before her attention was caught by someone hollering at her from across the field. ‘Oh, I know her from school – I should go and say hi.’ Tobi quickly hugged Rosie again, then turned to go in search of her old classmate. ‘See you next week!’
When Rosie glanced up at Aled, he was smiling at her softly. It was the sort of smile that turned her hot and cold at the same time, and made every inch of her skin tingle. It was a look that said, I see you. I know you. And she almost couldn’t bear it.
‘Have you given much thought to what you’ll do next?’ he asked, as they ambled past a bunch of teenagers writing their names in the dark with sparklers.
‘How d’you mean?’ Rosie asked, crunching the last shard of toffee from her apple.
‘Well, you’ve convinced Tobi to follow her dream. What’s yours? You know, it strikes me that you’d be an incredible counsellor. You’re a fantastic listener, you’re not judgemental … And based on what I’ve just witnessed, as well as how excited you are about volunteering next year, you’re brilliant with young people.’
‘I did always wonder about going into something like that,’ Rosie said. ‘I started a degree in psychology. Also, my old boss told me I was too nice to the callers – let them talk too much about their troubles when I should have been filling in forms. Feels a bit late to start training for something like that now, though.’
‘“It is never too late to be what you might have been”,’ Aled said, with exaggerated formality.
‘Again with the poetry.’ Rosie elbowed him gently and laughed.
‘It’s not poetry, actually – it’s one of those motivational quotes people put up next to their desks or stick on the fridge. Attributed to George Eliot. In any case, the point stands.’
They’d reached the edge of the field now and it was colder here, further away. They wandered up to an old wooden bench and Rosie sank down on it, deciding to watch the last of the fireworks in relative comfort.
‘You’re lovely,’ she said, before she could stop herself – the words fizzing up to the surface like bubbles in champagne. ‘Really, truly lovely.’
‘And you are extraordinary,’ he said, as another burst of brightness illuminated the sky.
Rosie nudged him again, shaking her head in self-deprecation. ‘You don’t have to say that.’
‘Surely you know by now that, given the choice, I’ll almost always say nothing,’ Aled pointed out. ‘I’m not in the habit of coming out with stuff I don’t mean.’
Rosie nodded. Bit her bottom lip. Heart sinking, she said: ‘I guess I should thank you, then. For earlier. For what you said to Michael.’
‘Rosie, look at me,’ Aled said. ‘Please.’ When she didn’t move, he placed a fingertip under her chin and tilted her face so he could gaze directly into her eyes.
‘I didn’t say anything to your brother that wasn’t true. Every word was sincere.’
Rosie swallowed. Dimly, she remembered reading once that the moment before a kiss could be just as magical as the kiss itself.
This felt like one of those moments. Aled’s focus on her face was total, his pupils blown wide, his breathing rapid. This was promise, potential, suspended in a second. If she were Aled, she’d find a line from literature to encapsulate the feeling.
Rosie wondered if you could die from kissing – or from not being kissed. Surely she wouldn’t survive, wouldn’t be able to function for another second unless he touched his lips to hers.
A heady warmth bloomed through her, and her limbs went deliciously loose. Their faces were so close she could taste his air: sweet and spicy from the cider. Intoxicating. Beneath that there was familiar, clean soapiness – the pleasant, pervasive scent of his laundry, which somehow smelled like home.
She felt her eyes flutter closed. Let her head shift upwards, lifting her lips towards his.
Then, she felt him move away.
Shit. What had happened? What had she just done?
She must have misread the situation totally. Let her own wishful fantasising convince her there was something real here. God. For all she knew Aled and Ceri were back together, or working towards some kind of reconciliation.
Could she style this out? Perhaps, if she pretended to be drunker than she felt. ‘That moment last night?’ she’d say. ‘You know, when I tried to snog you? Forget it. I was off my box.’ The thought of lying like this, trying desperately to save face, made her feel suddenly sick.
‘It’s not you,’ Aled said, after a pause that felt like an ice age. The words sounded strained, like they were costing him something.
He put his head in his hands, seemingly unable to look at her.
Rosie gulped again. ‘Is it Ceri? I know she’s been in touch with you, and Rhianne said—’
His head snapped up. ‘God, no. That’s … that’s not a thing, I promise. Rhianne doesn’t give me enough credit.’ He looked momentarily annoyed.
‘But there’s other stuff,’ he went on. ‘Stuff I’m still sorting out. I like you, Rosie. I want us to stay friends. And I know we won’t if …’
‘Got it,’ Rosie said briskly, her terse tone totally failing to cover her embarrassment. ‘Friends.’
He meant that if they kissed – or did any of the things Rosie’s anatomy was telling her were urgent and necessary – it couldn’t last. He meant he didn’t like her in that way, or at least not enough. How had she ever let herself think otherwise? Stupid, stupid, stupid.
‘Rosie, I—’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, her voice clipped and efficient. ‘We’ve both had a bit to drink. Let’s say no more about it. I think we should probably go home – check that Springsteen’s survived the night.’
‘Right,’ Aled said, uncertainly. ‘OK.’
He stood up and offered Rosie his hand.
She didn’t trust herself to take it, and pulled herself up from the bench as though she hadn’t noticed.
They walked home in silence, only breaking the quiet when they discovered Springsteen lying on top of a basket of clean, folded laundry. Rosie’s favourite jumper now bore a fine layer of silvery fuzz, which she’d have to scrape off in the morning.
They said goodnight and closed their bedroom doors, and it was only when Rosie had climbed into bed that finally she let a tear roll down her cheek. It was the first she’d shed since the night James had left her, and it pained her far more than any she’d cried for him.