An image of Aled building his bed reminded Rosie justhownot infirm Aled was, and she flushed slightly as Niamh checked on the twins. As she finished her toast, however, she privately resolved to at least find out what he did for a living – in the fervent hope that it had nothing to do with cadavers.
Rosie got home to a quiet, empty and beautifully fragrant flat. The scent she traced to a rustic bunch of sweet peas in a dark green ceramic vase on the table by the window. Definitely not supermarket flowers, she decided. Aside from that there were no signs that Aled had unpacked a thing – let alone spent the morning constructing furniture.
The sheerneatnessof the place was almost enough to convince her that Aled had changed his mind and hightailed it back to the building’s second floor. However, when she knocked on the door of the spare room, waited a beat and then opened it a crack, she saw it was no longer the vacant room James had used as his dumping ground. The large wooden bed was neatly made with crisp white bedding and what looked like a hand-knitted, chunky oatmeal blanket. There were three or four books neatly stacked on the bedside table.
On top of a narrow chest of drawers sat a framed photo of Aled and two young children. Rosie noted, unsurprised, that he was ridiculously photogenic. It was a black and white shot, and he looked like an actor or a model in it – his cheekbones lit by the bright sun streaming in from a window to his left. Maybe hewasa model? That would certainly be a more appealing profession for a flatmate than anything involving formaldehyde.
In the image he had a large, floppy-looking book in his hands. The children – neither of whom could have been more than about five – were staring up at him in awe, transfixed by whatever he was reading.
She felt curiosity alight inside her. Who were the kids? And was the loose-woven blanket that she felt tempted to run her fingers over some faux-authentic purchase from a posh shop, or was there a story behind it?
She caught herself before she stepped inside the room, pulling the door firmly closed so she couldn’t start snooping. She didn’t consider herself especially nosy, but shewasfascinated by other people – and right now Aled was the sort of enigma Rosie found irresistible. She’d never admit it out loud – especially not to Niamh – but respecting his obvious desire to keep their relationship cool and professional might prove challenging for her.
‘Rosie …?’
She jumped at the sound of his voice.
‘Oh dear god. You scared me! I think I’ve just aged about five years.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘Yeah. I got that.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘What are you doing, standing outside my new bedroom?’
Shit. What did she say to that?
‘Oh. I, er … I knocked on the door and then I was waiting to see if you were in there. I was going to make dinner and wondered if you’d like some.’
Damn it. That wasn’t even close to true – and it conflicted completely with what she’d said to Niamh little more than an hour ago.
‘Dinner …?’ Aled asked. ‘It’s’ – he looked at his watch – ‘one forty-five in the afternoon.’
He arched an eyebrow at her, and she wished very powerfully that her mouth would stop saying things without putting them through some sort of brain-sanctioned quality control process.
‘I was planning a slow cook!’ Rosie invented wildly. ‘Chilli, perhaps. You in?’
‘O-K,’ he said, drawing out the two syllables in a way that signalled both surprise and a degree of reluctance. ‘Only if you’re sure. I don’t want you to feel like we have to eat together or anything … I’m pretty used to fending for myself.’
Oh, god. Had she coerced him into being sociable with her, just like Niamh had said she would? And how long had it taken? Easily less than half a day.
But she couldn’t renege on the offer now … that would seem even weirder than offering to make a chilli roughly five hours before any sane person would want to eat it. After what felt like an eternity, she said: ‘Duly noted. Consider it a moving-day treat. Oh, and lovely flowers, by the way!’
‘No problem. It was the least I could do. And thanks, that would be nice,’ Aled said, opening his bedroom door and stepping inside. ‘I’ll see you in a while? Just shout if you want help – or if you need anything picked up from the shops.’
‘Absolutely!’ Rosie cried, so brightly that she feared she sounded unhinged.
As Aled’s door shut behind him, she stealth-ran to the kitchen and began a frantic fumble for ingredients.
Given that she’d thrown it together using store cupboard staples and frozen mince, Rosie thought her chilli wasn’t half bad. Aled’s clean plate implied he felt the same way.
As she mopped up a puddle of soured cream and spicy tomato sauce with a tortilla chip, she wondered what happened now. He’d spent the afternoon in his room, only emerging to use the bathroom or to make himself coffee; would he slink back in there so as to avoid making after-dinner conversation with her? The spare room was such a small space that it couldn’t be comfortable to hang out in. Surely it felt claustrophobic, being boxed into an area that could barely accommodate a double bed?
She wondered if Aled whiled away spare hours scrolling on his phone or browsing the internet on a laptop. That was what James had spent most of his ‘downtime’ doing in the past few months, even when he and Rosie were in the same room. But – while she assumed he must have one – she hadn’t yet seen Aled with any kind of mobile device in his hand.
To Rosie’s surprise, Aled broke the silence that had descended when she served up their food. ‘Thanks so much, that was delicious.’
He stood up to clear their plates and cutlery away, diligently scraping and rinsing everything before placing it carefully into the dishwasher.
