She sighed as she sorted through a clutch of her own paperwork, starting when she found a piece of thick, embossed card among her bills and bank statements. It was a wedding invitation, addressed to ‘Aled and guest’.
After scanning it for details, Rosie concluded this must be from a colleague – an invitation to the evening reception, which was to be held this Saturday at a boutique hotel in Shoreditch. Determined not to wonder who he might take, or to have any feelings whatsoever about this, Rosie attached it to the front of the fridge with a magnet.
She proceeded to tidy, dust and vacuum – much to the dismay of Springsteen, who took one look at her trigger spray of kitchen cleaner and bolted for the garden. She was hot, sweaty and dishevelled by the time Aled got in, and cursed herself for not planning this better.
‘Hey,’ he said, his eyes sweeping over her too-tight vest top, cropped leggings and bare feet. Her exposed skin shimmered with perspiration, and she wished she’d had time to shower before he got home. It took her a few seconds to realise that he didn’t seem revolted. If anything, he appeared embarrassed – as if he’d been caught looking at something he shouldn’t.
‘D’you want a glass of water?’ he asked, as he moved towards the kitchen.
‘Please,’ Rosie said.
He set the kettle to boil, then went to get the water filter out of the fridge.
‘Oh god, I’d forgotten about this,’ he said, pointing to the invitation. ‘It’s a woman in my department who’s getting married – she wants us all to go. Nice of her to include me, especially since it’s not certain I’ll be there next year – but I’m not sure I can face it.’
Rosie found she was irritated – partly because it seemed he was speaking in riddles again. It wasn’t certain hewouldbe staying at William Morris Academy, but nor was it certain he’d leave. What was she supposed to do with that information?
‘Why wouldn’t you be able to face it?’ she asked him, unable to resist an eye roll. Ordinarily, she was understanding of his reserve – in fact, she found it sexy and compelling in a ‘still waters run deep’ kind of way. However, annoyance prompted her to point out: ‘Won’t you know a good chunk of the people there, if everyone from work’s going?’
‘Some, yes,’ Aled conceded. ‘But … it’s going to be all couples.’ He hassled at his hair, and Rosie realised he was genuinely agitated. ‘I just … I don’t want to go on my own,’ he finally admitted. ‘I’d been planning to ask if you wanted to go – as friends. And then …’
And then I practically begged you to kiss me under a shower of firework sparks, Rosie thought.
The tips of Aled’s ears turned pink, and he shifted from one foot to the other in evident discomfort. He was trying not to look at her, and the pain of witnessing this reluctance snapped her self-control. She could cope with him not fancying her – or maybe with him fancying her, but not wanting a relationship, which was sort of what he’d implied. Shecouldn’tcope with his pity: with him pulling further away in some misguided attempt to spare her feelings, when what really hurt was his not being close enough in the first place.
‘I’ll go,’ Rosie said, with impressive self-assurance for a woman not currently wearing a bra and reeking of bleach. ‘Why not? Unless there’s any reason why I shouldn’t?’
Aled was fully flushed, now – more flustered than she’d ever seen him. An agonised expression passed over his features, which then settled into a determined look that Rosie couldn’t read.
‘OK, then,’ he said. ‘Saturday. We’ll go. Together. As friends.’
This oddly staccato summary of the decision confused her more, but all she said was: ‘Right. Good. I need a shower, so would you mind feeding His Majesty?’
‘Of course,’ Aled said, recovering himself somewhat. ‘And take your time – I’ll cook dinner.’
As Rosie pulled up the zip on the same red dress she’d worn months before for James’s company party, she asked herself what the hell she was doing. Saying she’d go to this thing with Aled was stupidly hubristic: an act of bravado that could only lead to a thoroughly uncomfortable evening.
In theory, her aim was to save face: to prove she could spend time with him without craving the sort of physical contact that tested, then comprehensively trashed the normal limits of friendship. It wasn’t going to work. She’d set herself up for failure; it was like she’d given up chocolate for Lent the day before touring Willy Wonka’s famous factory.
She sighed, eyeing her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She looked different, now, she decided, and it wasn’t just because her hair was shorter. She stood taller – straighter and prouder – though she was as wobbly as ever in high heels.
Rosie felt like the woman who’d clambered into a cab with James, then let herself be ignored for half the night so he could suck up to his boss, was almost unreal. That Rosie was an out-of-focus phantom: a warning of what might have been ahead. For all the messiness of her current situation, she wasn’t sorry she was no longerher– the person who’d staked her future on trusting and supporting a man who took her entirely for granted, and whose own priority would always be himself.
She applied a coat of vibrant red lipstick, straightened her spine and spritzed her favourite perfume behind her ears. She could do this. She was ready.
Or not, as it turned out. As she emerged from her bedroom into the open-plan living area, the sudden rush and thud of blood in her ears reminded her she wasn’t in full control of her feelings, or her biology.
Aled was leaning against the kitchen worktop, drinking from a tumbler of water. He looked, quite simply, devastating. While his usual, slightly unkempt academic aesthetic worked for him perfectly, the sight of him in a suit was something else. The dark fabric of his jacket hugged his broad shoulders, and for once his tie was properly fastened – neatly Windsor-knotted at the apex of his throat. Rosie felt her own go dry.
He was all long lines and easy grace; large, but never lumbering. The sight of his capable-looking fingers splayed against cold glass made her heart thump. How had Rosie not foreseen this?
‘You look …’ he began – but whatever words he’d been reaching for deserted him before he could utter them.
‘So do you,’ Rosie said, wishing she could see around whatever obstacle lay between them – wishing she understood what it was, and why it was there.
‘Are you ready to go?’ he asked. He sounded hoarse, like his throat was sore.
‘Yep. Are we Uber-ing?’
