Regarding herself in her bedroom mirror, Rosie couldn’t help thinking that – as ‘revenge looks’ went – hers left a lot to be desired. If she’d had any inkling that James would appear on her doorstep this morning, she’d have been sure to greet him in her tightest, brightest, lowest-cut t-shirt (recently purchased with an insistent Rhianne right behind her).
She’d also have dried and styled her bob, concealed the hormonal zit that had blossomed on her chin overnight and donned a slick of fire-engine red lipstick. That said, she felt she’d achieved impressive hauteur for a woman in a slightly stained waffle robe from Tu at Sainsbury’s. She’d stood her ground, and it had felt fantastic.
An unfortunate side-effect of agreeing to speak to James was the fact that her hair, still in its towel, had now dried in a Mr Whippy-shaped cone on her head. However, with the aid of some leave-in conditioner and her GHDs, this was a punch Rosie decided she could roll with.
She put on a thin cotton vest and rooted in her drawer for a soft knitted pullover that Niamh had bought her two Christmases ago. It was a vivid bottle green and clung to her curves in a way that had distressed her so much she’d barely worn it until now. Today, emboldened and determined not to hide, she pulled it on.
As she instructed herself not to panic about the way the jumper’s wide V-neck confidently announced her breasts, she couldn’t help noticing how its colour complemented her eyes. Niamh had been right when she said it was exactly the right shade for Rosie – but it had taken her until now to see it.
She fastened the button on a pair of high-waisted ‘mom’ jeans – still with no real understanding of why they were called this – and heard the soft rap of knuckles on her door.
‘One sec!’ she cried, urgently trying to flatten her hair. Once she’d reduced its bushy height by a centimetre or two, she opened up.
God, but Aled was massive. He practically filled the doorway, and the glossy, white-painted architrave around it made Rosie think of a picture frame in an art gallery. He was the portrait of a handsome man come to life.
For just a second, she let herself look at him: the shiny mass of dark hair, the expressive eyes and the sharp, stubbled line of his jaw. He had the sort of looks that translated across time and space, Rosie thought; he’d look right depicted on the wall of some eighteenth-century National Trust stately home, but could be just as comfortable on the cover ofGQmagazine. As this occurred to her, she rather wished he wasn’t seeing her with what looked like a haystack on her head.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘I heard the door go a while ago. Thought I’d best check in.’
‘Thanks,’ Rosie said, smiling. ‘I’m fine. And James, despite being an utter twat, remains unmurdered.’
‘What did he want?’
‘To befriends, if you can believe it,’ Rosie said scathingly. ‘I’m pretty sure he was just here to make sure I was falling apart in his absence. You can imagine how happy he was to discover that, in fact, I’m doing fine.’
‘He was ecstatic, I suppose?’
Rosie laughed, but stopped short of telling Aled that it was his presence in the flat that had fanned the flames of James’s indignation. She didn’t want to reference the assumptions her ex-boyfriend had made, or her refusal to deny them.
‘D’you still fancy a walk somewhere when you’re ready?’ he asked. ‘Blow a few cobwebs away?’
‘Definitely,’ Rosie said. ‘But you know, I think we need to up the ante a bit. Do something more exciting? Or else I’ll always remember this as the day I had a confrontation with the man who left me while wearing a dressing gown with ketchup on the sleeve.’
‘We can’t have that,’ Aled laughed. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I dunno. Where have you never been in London that you like the sound of?’
‘God, loads of places,’ he said. ‘I’ve only ever been here and right into the centre – for plays and touristy stuff, when I was a kid. I like the idea of exploring the parks, but never know which one to start with.’
‘OK, so how about Primrose Hill? It’s lovely. The views are gorgeous, there are loads of blue plaques and some excellent pubs.’
‘Sounds great,’ Aled said. ‘But what about you? We should go somewhere you’ve never been, too – or do something you’ve never tried before. Any ideas?’
Rosie thought for a moment, then said: ‘This is stupid, but I’ve always wanted to try roller skating.’
The moment the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could stuff them back in.
‘Roller skating?’ Aled repeated.
‘Yep,’ Rosie nodded, reddening. ‘Told you it was daft, but when I was about twelve, Lucy – the girl next door – had this amazing pair of roller boots. Proper 1980s-style things with four wheels in a square. They were turquoise and pink, with big sparkly stars on the back.’
‘And …?’
‘Well. I was painfully jealous, of course. Desperate for some of my own. Mum was worried I “lacked the physical dexterity” to skate without injuring myself. By which she meant I was too chubby to try it.’
‘That’s shit,’ Aled said. ‘No offence, but your mother sounds like a real piece of work.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ Rosie said. ‘I think she thought she was helping – that I’d lay off the cheese sandwiches and Walkers Smoky Bacon if I believed a pair of roller boots might be on the horizon.’