During the days that followed, Rosie kept waiting for her mortification to abate. Surely, if she was patient enough – fully committed to pretending that nothing of note had happened – the feeling would eventually disappear.
More than a week after the Bonfire Night debacle, however, she still felt a rush of embarrassment every time she looked at Aled. Typically, this was closely followed by the dull thump of wanting that the sight of him inspired. She felt like a pining teenager, caught between needing him to leave and never wanting him to go.
On the surface, both she and Aled carried on as normal: making each other tea and coffee, regularly eating together and keeping the cat in the sort of comfort he clearly believed was his due.
Predictably, Rhianne had noticed the change in them both. ‘I have no idea what the bloody hell’s going on between you,’ she said to Rosie, ‘but it’s not working for anyone. Al looks like I felt when the Spice Girls split up, and every time you smile I worry your face is going to crack in half. It’s forced, like a fear grin. It’s not natural.’
Wednesday afternoon saw Rosie home alone in the flat. After doing the early shift at the deli, she fought through the windy walk home to get started on some long-neglected chores. Her concentration was hampered by frequent reminders of how settled Aled had become in a home that no longer felt just hers. At some stage, he’d stopped closing his bedroom door all the time – possibly when Springsteen moved in, so the cat could hop up on the bed and recline in the sunny patch cast by the small sash window. With Rosie’s enthusiastic consent, he’d also started storing books in her antique dresser, and had made use of an old bureau she’d bought for a song some years ago. Rosie had never had need of it herself, and it pleased her to see it stacked with the set texts he taught, hastily scribbled lesson plans and piles of students’ essays.
She sighed as she sorted through a clutch of her own paperwork, starting when she found a piece of thick, embossed card among her bills and bank statements. It was a wedding invitation, addressed to ‘Aled and guest’.
After scanning it for details, Rosie concluded this must be from a colleague – an invitation to the evening reception, which was to be held this Saturday at a boutique hotel in Shoreditch. Determined not to wonder who he might take, or to have any feelings whatsoever about this, Rosie attached it to the front of the fridge with a magnet.
She proceeded to tidy, dust and vacuum – much to the dismay of Springsteen, who took one look at her trigger spray of kitchen cleaner and bolted for the garden. She was hot, sweaty and dishevelled by the time Aled got in, and cursed herself for not planning this better.
‘Hey,’ he said, his eyes sweeping over her too-tight vest top, cropped leggings and bare feet. Her exposed skin shimmered with perspiration, and she wished she’d had time to shower before he got home. It took her a few seconds to realise that he didn’t seem revolted. If anything, he appeared embarrassed – as if he’d been caught looking at something he shouldn’t.
‘D’you want a glass of water?’ he asked, as he moved towards the kitchen.
‘Please,’ Rosie said.
He set the kettle to boil, then went to get the water filter out of the fridge.
‘Oh god, I’d forgotten about this,’ he said, pointing to the invitation. ‘It’s a woman in my department who’s getting married – she wants us all to go. Nice of her to include me, especially since it’s not certain I’ll be there next year – but I’m not sure I can face it.’
Rosie found she was irritated – partly because it seemed he was speaking in riddles again. It wasn’t certain he would be staying at William Morris Academy, but nor was it certain he’d leave. What was she supposed to do with that information?
‘Why wouldn’t you be able to face it?’ she asked him, unable to resist an eye roll. Ordinarily, she was understanding of his reserve – in fact, she found it sexy and compelling in a ‘still waters run deep’ kind of way. However, annoyance prompted her to point out: ‘Won’t you know a good chunk of the people there, if everyone from work’s going?’
‘Some, yes,’ Aled conceded. ‘But … it’s going to be all couples.’ He hassled at his hair, and Rosie realised he was genuinely agitated. ‘I just … I don’t want to go on my own,’ he finally admitted. ‘I’d been planning to ask if you wanted to go – as friends. And then …’
And then I practically begged you to kiss me under a shower of firework sparks, Rosie thought.
The tips of Aled’s ears turned pink, and he shifted from one foot to the other in evident discomfort. He was trying not to look at her, and the pain of witnessing this reluctance snapped her self-control. She could cope with him not fancying her – or maybe with him fancying her, but not wanting a relationship, which was sort of what he’d implied. She couldn’t cope with his pity: with him pulling further away in some misguided attempt to spare her feelings, when what really hurt was his not being close enough in the first place.
‘I’ll go,’ Rosie said, with impressive self-assurance for a woman not currently wearing a bra and reeking of bleach. ‘Why not? Unless there’s any reason why I shouldn’t?’
Aled was fully flushed, now – more flustered than she’d ever seen him. An agonised expression passed over his features, which then settled into a determined look that Rosie couldn’t read.
‘OK, then,’ he said. ‘Saturday. We’ll go. Together. As friends.’
This oddly staccato summary of the decision confused her more, but all she said was: ‘Right. Good. I need a shower, so would you mind feeding His Majesty?’
‘Of course,’ Aled said, recovering himself somewhat. ‘And take your time – I’ll cook dinner.’
As Rosie pulled up the zip on the same red dress she’d worn months before for James’s company party, she asked herself what the hell she was doing. Saying she’d go to this thing with Aled was stupidly hubristic: an act of bravado that could only lead to a thoroughly uncomfortable evening.
In theory, her aim was to save face: to prove she could spend time with him without craving the sort of physical contact that tested, then comprehensively trashed the normal limits of friendship. It wasn’t going to work. She’d set herself up for failure; it was like she’d given up chocolate for Lent the day before touring Willy Wonka’s famous factory.
She sighed, eyeing her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She looked different, now, she decided, and it wasn’t just because her hair was shorter. She stood taller – straighter and prouder – though she was as wobbly as ever in high heels.
Rosie felt like the woman who’d clambered into a cab with James, then let herself be ignored for half the night so he could suck up to his boss, was almost unreal. That Rosie was an out-of-focus phantom: a warning of what might have been ahead. For all the messiness of her current situation, she wasn’t sorry she was no longer her – the person who’d staked her future on trusting and supporting a man who took her entirely for granted, and whose own priority would always be himself.
She applied a coat of vibrant red lipstick, straightened her spine and spritzed her favourite perfume behind her ears. She could do this. She was ready.
Or not, as it turned out. As she emerged from her bedroom into the open-plan living area, the sudden rush and thud of blood in her ears reminded her she wasn’t in full control of her feelings, or her biology.
Aled was leaning against the kitchen worktop, drinking from a tumbler of water. He looked, quite simply, devastating. While his usual, slightly unkempt academic aesthetic worked for him perfectly, the sight of him in a suit was something else. The dark fabric of his jacket hugged his broad shoulders, and for once his tie was properly fastened – neatly Windsor-knotted at the apex of his throat. Rosie felt her own go dry.
He was all long lines and easy grace; large, but never lumbering. The sight of his capable-looking fingers splayed against cold glass made her heart thump. How had Rosie not foreseen this?
‘You look …’ he began – but whatever words he’d been reaching for deserted him before he could utter them.
‘So do you,’ Rosie said, wishing she could see around whatever obstacle lay between them – wishing she understood what it was, and why it was there.
‘Are you ready to go?’ he asked. He sounded hoarse, like his throat was sore.
‘Yep. Are we Uber-ing?’
‘Yes. I’ll sort that while you grab your coat. It’s cold out there.’
Rosie nodded and busied herself with checking her handbag for essentials, then wrapping up warm.
‘Cab’s here,’ Aled soon said, and they headed outside.
Seemingly without thought, he opened the door of the taxi and helped Rosie inside. At their destination, he was similarly gentlemanly, leaping from his own side of the car to offer her a hand out before she could exit the vehicle herself.
Maybe, she thought, my previous form has him on high alert. She guessed it wouldn’t do for her to trip over and skin her knees immediately before meeting his work colleagues.
The hotel was an old industrial complex, lavishly refurbished. Inside, it was modern and sleek: exposed brick and metro tiles were offset by polished metal light fittings and functional hardwood furniture. The wedding reception – for Cora, Aled’s workmate, and her new husband Ed – was on the basement level. This, Rosie discovered as they descended the stairs into the space, was now a cavernous function room with vaulted ceilings, a marble floor and a bar twinkling with filled champagne flutes.
‘This place is incredible,’ Rosie breathed, unable to stop the interiors obsessive in her from gushing.
‘Is it the sort of hotel you and James would have got married in?’ Aled asked.
The question took Rosie aback. ‘I never thought that far ahead, to be honest,’ she admitted. ‘I guess I was more focused on the idea of him proposing than on what a wedding, or even a marriage, might look like. Which might have been part of the problem.’
They made their way to the bar and each picked up a drink.
‘Do you think you’ll ever get married?’ Rosie asked, deciding that the mood between them tonight was already so awkward, nothing she said could make it any weirder.
‘I used to think I’d marry Ceri,’ he said. ‘Then, for a long time, I thought I wouldn’t settle down at all.’
‘Too much fun sowing wild oats?’ Rosie said, sipping her drink and doing her best to sound nonchalant.
‘Hardly,’ he snorted. ‘I just didn’t think I’d meet the right person. Someone who’d feel like the other, better half of me.’
‘Hmmm. As in, “you complete me”,’ Rosie murmured, quoting the end of Jerry Maguire. Aled’s eyebrows shot up, and she realised he was desperately waiting for some sort of explanation.
‘You’re not the only one with a memory for a good line,’ she said, cutting through the tension. ‘It’s what Tom Cruise says to Renée Zellweger right before she tells him, “you had me at hello”.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Oh my god, have you not seen Jerry Maguire?’ Rosie cried. ‘How many other cinematic triumphs are you ignorant of?’
‘No end, I should think. That sounds like one I might like, though I’ve never recovered from seeing Tom jump up and down on Oprah’s sofa.’
‘Eek,’ Rosie said, shuddering. ‘Fair point.’
‘We should go and say hi to Cora,’ Aled said, pointing at her. She and her new husband were on the other side of the room, welcoming newly arrived guests. Her wedding dress was made from layers of lace, all slightly different shades in a palette of blush, cream and gold. The bodice was long-sleeved and belted at the waist, from which tiers of delicate fabric flowed. It was lovely – and unlike any wedding gown Rosie had ever seen before.
Up close, Cora was glowy and smiling – tightly clutching the hand of her new husband as she turned to greet them.
‘You came! I’m so glad,’ she said sincerely.
‘I’m Ed,’ said her husband, ‘it’s nice to meet you. Cora says they’re trying to persuade you to stick around permanently.’
‘That’s right,’ Aled said, a little uncomfortably. ‘I’m just trying to work a few things out.’
‘You must be Rosie,’ Cora said, reaching over to peck her on the cheek. ‘Please help us persuade him to stay. I’m sure you wield far more influence than the rest of us put together.’ She smiled at Rosie warmly, yet somehow pointedly – her gaze skimming Rosie from head to toe in a way that implied said ‘influence’ was more to do with feminine wiles than wit.
‘I’m not sure I have that kind of power,’ Rosie said, waving the idea away. ‘When you’ve been travelling for as long as Aled has I think it takes something pretty extraordinary to ground you again.’
‘It does,’ Aled interjected, catching Rosie’s eye, ‘but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen.’
‘Keep trying!’ Cora mouthed at Rosie, winking as she and Ed disappeared into the crowd to mingle.
‘Another drink?’ Aled said, inclining his head towards the bar, which had rapidly run out of complimentary bubbles.
Rosie nodded her agreement and walked with him, then found herself unable to resist asking: ‘So why would it happen? You choosing to stick around somewhere, I mean. What sort of … extraordinary thing would need to occur?’
She’d been aiming for jocular, but her tone came off anxious – too eager for the information.
‘I’ll know it when I see it,’ he said, evasive under pressure.
‘Surely there’s a poem for such a moment,’ Rosie teased, a little giddier than she’d realised from quaffing champagne on an empty stomach. ‘Some line you can quote.’
‘There is,’ Aled said, mock-scowling at her. ‘But I’m not going to tell you if you’re taking the piss.’
‘Oh, go on, I promise not to be an arsehole about it. Pretty please? I’ll buy the drinks!’
‘Fine.’
After giving the bartender their order, she looked back at him expectantly. ‘Hit me.’
He rolled his eyes, then cleared his throat. ‘The poem you’re looking for is “The Confirmation” by Edwin Muir.’
Rosie frowned up at him, eyes lit with outrage and amusement. ‘You massive cheat! You’re not going to recite it for me?’
‘Absolutely not – not here, anyway.’ His cheeks had turned pink. ‘You can google it.’
Grumbling, Rosie fished her phone out of her clutch and did as he suggested. A lump formed in her throat as she took in the opening line: Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face. It was a poem about finding a home after seemingly endless travel – about stumbling upon a soulmate.
‘Aled! Aled and guest! Get your arses over here!’ a voice boomed from the nearby dance floor. Trying to swallow away the emotion that was making it difficult to breathe, Rosie looked up to see a gaggle of semi-inebriated teachers, none of whom looked likely to take no for an answer.
‘I do love this song …’ Rosie said, feigning composure and shimmying her shoulders to Arctic Monkeys’ ‘Fluorescent Adolescent’. ‘Come on. A bit of bopping won’t kill you.’
Seemingly unable to resist her enthusiasm, Aled allowed himself to be pulled onto the dance floor. Within seconds the song changed, and the opening bars of ‘Sea of Love’ by Cat Power filtered softly through the overhead speakers.
Rosie prepared herself to step away, but before she could move Aled had pulled her closer, his hands soft against the smooth fabric at her waist. One slid up her back, meeting the bare skin of her shoulder and settling there. Holding her. ‘I thought you wanted to dance.’
After a second’s deliberation, Rosie let her body go loose in the way it had been longing to. She allowed him to turn her in slow circles, to sway with her. She revelled in the sensation of being pressed against him – her soft flesh against his broad, muscular frame. Her blood felt hot, like it was moving through her too fast, kindling fires in all the places where she wasn’t supposed to need him. It was intolerable, and she never wanted it to end.
She didn’t know she’d laid her head against his chest until, with infinite tenderness, he nestled a hand in her hair. She breathed deep, pulling air that smelled of him, of home, down into the bottom of her lungs. She wanted to drown in it.
Rosie had never felt like this – never been so aware of another body, another soul. She’d never felt like that other was some missing part of herself: fundamental, undeniable, necessary.
She remembered what Rhianne had said about her cousin, her eyes rolling in indulgent amusement as she iced a freshly made carrot cake. She’d called him intensely romantic – and she’d meant that he was someone for whom love was all-consuming, a riot in the heart, the reason for existing. Wrapped in his arms, Rosie found she felt the same. With James, she’d obsessed about the milestones they should have been reaching: the boxes they should have been ticking, the events and experiences that signified successful adulting. Now, she saw that none of it mattered. What were rigid life plans and her parents’ expectations, set against the profound, unruly joy of feeling known and whole?
The song ended, and they drifted apart as if awaking from a dream.
Rosie knew Aled wouldn’t kiss her, so she didn’t gaze up at him, lean forward or part her lips in readiness, even though everything in her wanted to. She kept her eyes down until the roaring inside her had quieted, until she’d swallowed away words like ‘I want you’ and ‘kiss me’ and ‘take me home’.
As the glow between them faded, they resumed talking, drinking and socialising – chatted as though it had never been. But Rosie could see it now: the shining, delicate thread that joined them. She could hear the refrain that powered her steadying heartbeat. It’s us. We fit. We’re right.
She knew what this was, and she wasn’t afraid of it.
Because for the first time, she felt sure that Aled knew it, too.