Aled took a sip from his mug, then nodded his head. ‘Yes. He was my grandfather. But I didn’t even know he existed until he was already gone.’
Rosie looked across the worktop at him, wide-eyed. She felt shocked, yet somehow not completely surprised by Aled’s story.
Now she thought about it, there was definitely some physical similarity between the man in front of her and the elderly friend she’d lost. Rosie had always thought Mr Bettini must have been a looker in his youth. He’d first come to the UK from Italy in his twenties, and she could imagine he cut quite a dash with the ladies of 1960s London. And there was a deeper resemblance, too, Rosie decided: Aled’s steadfast reserve had a similar flavour to Mr Bettini’s practised grouchiness. Perhaps the standoffishness was genetic.
‘So, that means …’ Rosie said, her mind racing as she considered the possibilities.
‘My father – who I had absolutely no relationship with – was his son.’
‘I see.’
Rosie winced. The word ‘was’ hadn’t been lost on her. Whatever might have happened between Aled’s parents during his childhood, it seemed clear that his dad had been out of the picture – and that he’d predeceased Mr Bettini. Yet the old man had never mentioned a son, much less one who’d died.
Aled looked uncomfortable, and Rosie quickly changed tack. ‘So, why didn’t you say anything when you moved in? Did you not want the residents of the building to know who you were?’
‘It wasn’t so much that,’ Aled said. ‘I’d have felt embarrassed knocking on your doors and telling you all, “Guess what, I own your homes now.” And I didn’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable, either. Like they had to be worried I was watching them – checking to see whether they were knocking holes in the walls or damaging the carpets.’
This made sense. Rosie could certainly imagine that James would have hated the thought of a new, possibly more involved, landlord living just a few metres above them.
‘Your turn,’ Aled said.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I answered your questions, so it’s only fair for you to answer mine,’ he explained, with another almost-smile. ‘What were you upset about just now? I don’t think it was only the lock.’
His words reminded Rosie of the likely state of her face: blotchy and smeared with the remnants of this morning’s makeup.Great.
‘Finding myself locked out was kind of the last straw,’ Rosie admitted. She sighed. ‘I’ve had a pretty shocking few days.’
Aled nodded but stayed quiet, concentrating on his tea. A slight incline of his head signalled that he’d listen if she wanted to say more.
Suddenly, she did. Telling a relative stranger about the mess she was in somehow seemed easier than giving those close to her the gory details.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘in no particular order, I’ve been unceremoniously dumped by the man I thought was about to propose to me, and who I now suspect has been sleeping with someone else. I also had a horrible lunch with my family over the weekend. They already think I’m a total sad case, so I didn’t have the guts to admit to them that James had left me.’
‘Yikes,’ Aled murmured, grimacing.
‘Also,’ Rosie went on, ‘my vile boss picked today to inform me that he thinks I’m “inefficient” – no, wait, “unnecessarily pleasant”. So I informedhimthat I was quitting, packed up my stuff and left.’
Aled let out a low whistle.
‘Finally, unless I find someone to move into the spare room within the next couple of weeks, I’m going to have to move myself … Which I suppose is pertinent to you, since it turns out you’re the landlord. I love it, but I can’t afford this place on my own, and James – despite having plenty of money – says he’s “not able” to keep paying rent while I sort out a long-term solution. So there you have it. Discovering I was locked out was actually the least of my troubles.’
‘I … er …god,’ Aled said, eventually. ‘That’s quite the catalogue of catastrophes.’
‘You must think I’m a walking disaster,’ Rosie cringed, draining her teacup and setting it back down on the worktop.
‘Not at all,’ Aled told her, a sympathetic half-smile now vying for full possession of his face. ‘Accident prone, perhaps. A tad unlucky.’
‘Let me guess,’ Rosie said. ‘You work in PR. Or you’re some kind of spin doctor for dodgy politicians.’
‘No, nothing like that,’ he said, shaking his head.
This, Rosie thought, was the point at which anyone else might have said, ‘In fact, I do such-and-such for a living.’ Aled, however, chose not to elaborate. She sensed he was trying to rein himself in – that he’d already given away far more than he’d ever intended to.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Rosie willed herself not to break it. To her surprise, the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. Perhaps by sharing the terrible truth about her situation, she’d made it more bearable. And as confidants went, Aled appeared to be the living, breathing equivalent of the lockable diary she’d had as a teenager: apt to hear news of her woes without interrupting, and unlikely to breathe a word of them to anyone else.
‘I’m sorry about James,’ Aled said, apropos of nothing. ‘Had you been together long?’
