‘First up tonight is a Dun Cow icon – a favourite from last month, and the month before,’ Ian bellowed. ‘And also, let’s face it, the month before that as well. Please give it up for Rhianne –the Red Fox– Thomas!’
At this, there was genuine, thundering applause – not least from Rosie and her co-workers. A not inconsiderable number of people were chanting, ‘Red Fox, Red Fox, Red Fox’ as Rhianne made her way to the mic.
Seconds later, she began belting out a note-perfect rendition of Cher’s ‘Believe’. Within moments, the atmosphere in the pub had shifted; people were up on their feet, dancing and singing along, as if the woman on stage was fronting an international arena tour rather than doing karaoke in a backstreet east London boozer.
Rosie felt her mouth drop open as Rhianne hit the song’s bridge and pointed directly at her. The sentiment of the track wasn’t lost on her; it was the late-1990s equivalent of ‘I Will Survive’.
‘I see you weren’t given sufficient warning about this place, or what happens here,’ said a deep, sardonic voice from somewhere to her left.
Rosie jumped and – before she could register she was doing it – smiled in sincere delight at the sight of Aled. ‘None whatsoever,’ she told him, ‘although I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for this …’ Rosie waved a hand in Rhianne’s direction as she took a bow and the crowd clapped again. ‘How … how is she not famous? Her voice isinsane. How is she not, like, Adele or something?’
Aled shrugged. ‘No idea. But she definitely bears a good chunk of the blame for the “all Welsh people can sing” stereotype. At least around here.’
‘Do another for us, my darling,’ Ian was saying to Rhianne as she turned to leave the stage. ‘Get this crowd properly warmed up for us.’
‘One more,’ she said, as a ripple of applause swept through the room. She whispered something into Ian’s ear and he fiddled with the computer keyboard to the right of the microphones.
‘That last one was for my new friend Rosie. And this one’s forhernew friend.’ Aled groaned as the opening bars of ‘You Can Call Me Al’ by Paul Simon started up.
‘Nobody could accuse her of being subtle, could they?’ he said wryly.
Rosie laughed. ‘Absolutely not. I’m guessing you hear this one a lot?’
‘Frequently,’ he nodded. ‘You all right for a drink? You look almost ready for another.’
‘Ah, go on then,’ Rosie said, grinning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a night out like this. It seemed there were surprises round every corner. ‘Thanks. Cider, please.’
‘Coming up.’
She watched him squeeze past rapt patrons as he moved towards the bar. It was a credit to Rhianne’s charismatic performance that the crowd wasn’t parting like the Red Sea around the hot man; people were too distracted by her vocals to notice that a god walked among them.
He had the ‘dishevelled academic’ thing going on again, and Rosie had to admit it was working for him. Where a tie had once been was an unbuttoned shirt collar – cream, with a pale blue stripe. This exposed a tanned neck with a prominent Adam’s apple, which for some reason was weirdly fascinating. His hair had been cut recently, she observed, and the shorter length made it more inclined to stay stuck up and ruffled after he raked a hand through it.
Without actually deciding to, Rosie realised she’d begun cataloguing his physical features and behavioural tics dispassionately – the way a scientist might log the antics of a mouse in a lab. It was almost like working through an equation backwards: she knew the answer was ‘he’s stupidly good-looking’, but she was trying to find the formula that made this true. If this intellectualising was an attempt to swerve the chances of Aled attractingher– sparking the sort of lustful longing he must easily ignite in others – she wasn’t conscious of it.
The notion of being interested in anyone romantically felt anathema after the James disaster. The near-farcical manner of his departure, and her subsequent discovery that he’d likely been playing away, had attached blinkers to Rosie’s eyes. There were more important things to focus on – and Aled’s incredible looks, as well as the way he inhabited the flat without dominating it, always asked if she wanted tea,andwas the most considerate bathroom-sharer she’d ever encountered, were merely bonuses in their convenient flat-sharing arrangement.
As Rhianne sang about bodyguards and long-lost pals, Aled reappeared next to her. Yaz – no longer swallowed up in the crowd – side-eyed him, then mouthed ‘Fit, or what?’ at Rosie, whose face immediately heated. Aled handed Rosie her pint, then apologised for missing Yaz out of the round.
‘It’s fine,’ Yaz said. ‘I should slow down, anyway, I can’t take the pace – not built for heavy drinking.’ She gestured at her slight frame, and Rosie felt a wave of loathing for her own lumpen fleshiness threaten to drown her good mood.
No, she told herself,that wasn’t a dig at you. She reminded herself that other people didn’t think or care about her body shape nearly as much as she did – that they were more interested in their own lives than her dress size. It was a refrain she was having to repeat more often than usual after the upheaval of the past few weeks.
‘I didn’t know you’d be coming,’ Rosie said to Aled.
‘WhereasIknew you would be – there was no way Rhianne was going to let you off your first-ever rough pub karaoke.’
‘That was the impression I got when she said,You will come out with us tonight if I have to tie you up with squid ink spaghetti and drag you down the street,’ Rosie laughed. ‘The whole thing feels a bit left-field, though, based on how smart and stylish the deli is. I’d never have picked this place as her choice for Friday night drinks.’
‘I think it’s the vibe she likes,’ Aled said. ‘The singing, the raucousness – the fact everyone talks to, and over, everyone else. I suspect the general sense of drunken goodwill reminds her of home.’
‘Home? As in, Wales?’
‘Yep,’ he nodded, taking a sip of some golden-coloured ale. ‘We grew up in a small town on the north coast. Right by the sea. It’s not the most exciting place, but it’s the sort where people all know one another: a community, I suppose. Living there, you always knew that if someone caught you smoking in an alleyway or whatever, news of what you’d been up to would get home even beforeyoudid. You’d arrive back to find your mam already irate, lecture fully loaded and ready for unleashing.’
‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’ Rosie asked, smiling. She was amazed – borderline intoxicated – by the easy way he was chatting to her. Perhaps he felt more comfortable talking about other people than he did about himself? This tallied with his willingness to debate the qualities of various on-screen Knightleys, Rosie supposed.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’ll shock you to hear I was the quiet one.’
