Instead, she looked at her mother. Julie’s crimson-lipsticked mouth had fallen open and her false-lashed eyes were wide. ‘I think it’s time we were going,’ Rosie said. ‘We can say goodbye to Mandy and Karl on the way out.’
‘Whatever you want,’ Aled said, letting her shift their position, orienting them towards the exit.
They walked on together, his hand at her back all the way.
Chapter 21
Rosie’s heart fluttered erratically in her chest the entire way home. Neither she nor Aled said much, and it seemed easier simply to listen to Taylor Swift and watch the evening draw in. She had no idea how to bring up what Aled had said without embarrassing both of them – particularly as she suspected he’d oversold his affection for her in seeking to shut Michael down.
Somehow, though, she needed to tell Aled how much it had meant that he stood up for her – that nobody had ever spoken out for her that way. James had always shrugged off Michael’s gibes in the same way Julie did – gladly accepting this tacit permission not to defend the woman he supposedly loved, and thus avoiding conflict. This was especially convenient during their Sunday lunch visits to Braintree, when James’s friendly relationship with Michael assured him a seat at his usual table in the White Horse, the pub they typically decamped to while Rosie took responsibility for the cooking.
As she parked the Polo, a crackling sound overhead reminded her it was Bonfire Night. Through the windscreen, she saw a smattering of pink and yellow sparks lighting up the night sky above the town hall.
‘I’d forgotten there’d be fireworks tonight,’ Aled said.
‘Me too. D’you think Springsteen will cope all right?’
‘Cats tend to just hide from stuff they dislike – a habit I empathise with, to be honest. He’ll probably slink under the sofa until it all stops.’
Another bang sounded above them, followed by a powerful burst of lilac, blue and green light.
‘So pretty,’ Rosie said softly.
‘D’you want to go and take a proper look?’ Aled asked. ‘We can pop in and check on Springsteen, lock the cat flap and then walk over, if you like.’
‘Oh. I don’t know … I mean – it’s pretty cold, and we should probably have something to eat. I’m not sure three tiny sandwiches are going to see me through.’
‘You won’t be cold when you’re stood next to a roaring bonfire,’ Aled argued. ‘And I’ll buy you a toffee apple. Come on,’ he pleaded, his face young, hopeful and open in a way that made Rosie’s insides ache. ‘It’s years since I’ve had a proper Bonfire Night. Nowhere else in the world celebrates it, if that’s even the right word.’
‘It is a bit grim,’ Rosie laughed. ‘Literally burning a likeness of some bloke who tried to blow up the king. Celebrating his grisly execution.’
‘Let’s be honest, though, that’s less important these days than the high-quality snacks involved. There might be baked potatoes,’ Aled said, knowing the promise of piping-hot, buttery carbs would almost certainly convince her. ‘Maybe hot cider. Mulled wine …’
‘You had me at toffee apples,’ Rosie admitted, shaking her head fondly. ‘You check on Springsteen and I’ll lock the car.’
The large field behind the town hall was busy; a sea of local people either huddled together to watch the sky, queuing at stalls for food and drink or playing fairground games. There was hook-a-duck, a tombola and a tin can bowling alley, as well as the opportunity to guess the name of the guy.
By the time Rosie and Aled got there, said effigy was already half burned on his pyre – but a photograph showed what he’d looked like before he was set alight.
‘Hmmm,’ Aled said. ‘He has the air of a Quentin, I reckon. Or maybe an Arnold.’
Rosie laughed. ‘Not a Crystal Khaleesi?’
‘Ha! No. Nor a Khal Drogo. Doesn’t have the requisite biceps.’
After a brief debate, they settled on Tarquin, duly paid £1 for their guess and moved on.
Rosie found her resolution to tread carefully around Aled weakening in direct proportion to the number of warm, boozy drinks she imbibed. The hot cider was spiced with cinnamon and spiked with rum, while the mulled wine hummed with clove, star anise and nutmeg.
After they’d both eaten baked potatoes so hot they burned their mouths, Aled procured the promised toffee apples. As he passed Rosie hers, their fingers brushed – the contact lasting just a second longer than was necessary. His dark eyes seemed to glow like hot coals, and as she looked at him through the smoke-heavy air her heart throbbed with a feeling she didn’t want to name.
‘Rosie!’ a voice rang out from behind them, and she turned to see Tobi, Marcus and Becky emerging from the crowd.
‘Hey!’ Rosie said. ‘You all having fun?’
‘Absolutely,’ Becky said, chugging what was left of her cup of cider. Since the weather had turned cooler, she’d swapped her slogan t-shirts for printed hoodies and jumpers. Peeping out from inside her parka were the words: ‘IF YOU LISTEN CLOSELY, YOU CAN HEAR ME NOT CARING’. The black upper-case caption contrasted somewhat with the tight lilac sweatshirt it was printed on, but that was Becky all over: her petite size and sweet prettiness belied a steely core as well as a deceptively sharp tongue.
Realising she’d finished her drink, Marcus seized Becky’s empty cup and immediately offered to get her a refill. Becky blushed and linked arms with him, and they ducked into the cider queue. Rosie raised an eyebrow at Tobi.
