She was more than halfway through a plateful of pancakes topped with blueberries – studiously avoiding the gluttonous gaze of Springsteen, who’d perched beside her in the hope of leftovers – before she realised she’d forgotten to add ‘makes amazing breakfasts’ to her list.
Chapter 17
In spite of her determination not to think about Aled’s romantic life, living with him over the past six weeks had led Rosie to the conclusion that – if he had one – he kept it safely under wraps.
He’d never mentioned a girlfriend – or a boyfriend for that matter – and he didn’t seem to be dating. Most of his evenings were spent at home: eating, reading, working or watching TV with Rosie. It struck her as implausible that someone this attractive, intelligent and likeable could be single.
She supposed it had taken her a while to see past his reserve and understand that her flatmate’s cool manner was born of good old-fashioned shyness, rather than a superiority complex of the kind James had always suspected. Perhaps the combination of Aled’s diffidence and other people’s feelings of intimidation explained his not being in a relationship.
Now that she saw what lay behind his reticence, however, Rosie almost wished she couldn’t. Her interest in Aled extended well beyond the bounds of what was normal for a flatmate, and convincingly bypassed what would have been appropriate for a friend. She was burning to know who’d sent the mysterious postcard. He’d taken it into his room, rather than pinning it up in the kitchen as Rosie would have done, so she’d had no chance to sneakily glance at it. Who was it from? Had he written back? Rekindled some sort of romance with the woman who’d reached out to him? The idea made her feel strangely nauseous.
She wondered about his family situation, how he’d grown up, where he’d been to university. She wanted to know more about his travels, where he might go next and (although it made her stomach twist) when he might depart. Every time she met Tim, or a member of his building team, in the corridor, she found herself hoping they’d say ‘slowly’ when asked how the top floor renovation was progressing.
Worst of all, she imagined how Aled’s full, soft-looking lips might feel against her skin – what it would be like to be embraced by someone so much taller andlargerthan herself. Would she feel protected? Impassioned? Overwhelmed? All three, she decided … and no doubt deliciously so.
As if to add to her general sense of confusion, James had been in touch. As Rosie finished her final shift of the week at the deli and prepared to head home for the evening she discovered a missed call and a text from him. His message simply said:
Hey. Just wanted to check in and see how you are. Hope you’re doing OK. X
Fuming, she’d typed and deleted a succession of increasingly snarky responses as she walked home, eventually resolving not to send any of them. She had no idea what his game was, but her best guess was that, almost two months out from finishing with her, he was experiencing an attack of conscience.
In which case, bollocks to him. James hadn’t given a fig for Rosie’s feelings when he’d planned to end their decade-long relationship with a Dear John letter – nor when he’d shacked up with another woman and lied about it. It wasn’t her job to soothe his guilty feelings. On a whim, she blocked his number – and the corresponding high she experienced was the sort she felt sure no drug, legal or illegal, could ever deliver.
To Niamh’s delight, Rosie was more clear-eyed than ever about her tendency to pander to the sensitivities of people who wouldn’t give her the time of day. This included her mum, who had called her several times since their Sunday lunch disagreement to inform her ‘how worried’ the whole family felt about her job/relationship/living situation. Newly impervious to such emotional blackmail, Rosie calmly explained that she was doing well, and that there was no need to be concerned. She also reminded herself that assuaging such concern was not her responsibility.
In what Rosie saw as a bid to raise the stakes, Julie had now changed tack and begun expressing fears for her husband’s health – referencing his high blood pressure, refusal to exercise and enduring love for bacon sandwiches. While Rosie agreed her dad could afford to be more active, she couldn’t bring herself to get wound up about it. Julie’s fatphobia was no doubt at the root of her desire to see Colin take up jogging and shed the (relatively small) spare tyre middle age had bestowed on him – and this fear of excess flesh was something Rosie had no desire to reinforce.
When she got back to the flat Aled was on the sofa, a book on his lap and a glass of red wine in his hand. He was wearing his glasses again, and Rosie berated herself for her immediate, swoony reaction to seeing them.
‘Good day?’ he asked.
‘Busy,’ Rosie said, ‘but fun. It was mostly Tobi and I today. She’s a real sweetheart.’
‘I guess I’ll meet her at the next mandatory karaoke night.’ He rolled his eyes at this affectionate reference to his cousin’s pushiness.
‘I should think so,’ Rosie smiled. ‘I can’t imagine Rhianne letting her skip it, even if she has zero interest in alcohol or singing. What are you reading?’
‘Dylan Thomas – collected poems.’ He held up the book so she could see. It was a battered, well-loved old paperback that Rosie guessed had been all around the world with him. Its cover was faded and wrinkled, and she wondered whether he’d sat by some warm, faraway sea with his dark head bent over it – whether he’d read the verses one balmy night on a balcony beneath the stars. Then her brain supplied the image of the lithe, beautiful woman he might have recited them for, and she felt a little sick.
‘Are you all right there?’ Aled asked. ‘I mean, I know it’s a cliché – Welsh man reads famously Welsh poetry – but you look aghast. Are you that horrified?’
Busted, Rosie thought, as she tried to arrange her face and return his smile.
‘I’m fine!’ she said, her voice tight and shrill. ‘Maybe just hungry. And no, not horrified at all.’
‘I’m thinking of doing some Thomas at school – he’s no relation, by the way.’
‘I didn’t like to ask,’ Rosie said wryly, grateful for the opportunity to lighten the mood.
‘I’m revisiting some favourites and thinking about ways into them that might seem relevant to a bunch of urban sixteen-year-olds,’ Aled explained.
‘Rather you than me,’ Rosie laughed. ‘Though I’m sure it’s great stuff.’
‘It is, and you’ll definitely have heard some of it,’ he assured her.
‘Hmmm, I wouldn’t bank on it,’ Rosie demurred. ‘I love novels but I’m not much of a poetry reader. I think the last time I looked at any was when I studied the stuff in my GCSE anthology, and we both knowthatwasn’t recent.’
Aled sat up straighter and shook his head at her. ‘You talk like you’re some wizened old woman. What are you, twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?’