To Rosie’s relief, her boss’s frankness never veered into unkindness, and while she was brisk and down-to-earth, Rhianne was also empathetic. Rosie saw this in her warm relationships with several elderly customers who often spent long periods at the deli nursing single cups of tea, which were topped up on the house. She was also insistent that no food should ever be wasted, donating anything that couldn’t be stored overnight to local community groups who shared it with people in need each day.
When Niamh popped into the deli to share a post-shift coffee with her, Rosie admitted that she felt rather inspired by her new friend. To her relief, Niamh didn’t scoff at this. Instead – after Rosie had made brief introductions – she declared she could understand the feeling entirely.
Elsewhere, in a twist that Rosie hadn’t dared dream possible, Ellie’s most recent text message had left her whooping with joy. Martin’s ACE metric had – in Ellie’s words – ‘gone down like a cup of cold sick’ with senior management, and he’d been ‘asked’ to accept some sort of severance package. In his place, and to her colleagues’ satisfaction, Ellie had been elevated to team leader. She’d made it clear that Rosie could have her old job back whenever she wanted, but Rosie had politely declined. As much as she liked Ellie, going backwards felt like the wrong decision now – so instead they made plans for a post-work catch-up sometime soon.
James, and the crushing feeling that accompanied thinking about his betrayal, remained the single dark cloud on Rosie’s horizon. However, after arriving home one evening to find he had taken his final few possessions from the flat, Rosie discovered that she felt more liberated than depressed by their disappearance.
Her clothes now colonised his wardrobe space, and she gloried in having two bedside tables on which she could place books, scented candles and fresh flowers. At Aled’s suggestion – in line with his duties as landlord, given her ex-boyfriend had thoughtlessly hung onto his keys – the locks were also changed less than forty-eight hours later.
When she put her shiny new key into her old front door for the first time, it felt to Rosie like a red line had been drawn through her relationship with James. She’d thought they would last forever, but, little by little, loving and losing him felt less like a tragedy and more like an important life lesson – one she was more than ready to embrace.
‘So how are you finding it? Living with Al?’ Rhianne asked, as the clock ticked towards closing time one Friday afternoon. It was the last day of the month – pay day – and the whole team was in predictably high spirits.
‘It’s … fine. Nice,’ Rosie said, not sure what kind of response was expected. In truth, there was little to comment on; she and Aled had spent barely any time together since the accidental ‘welcome’ dinner she’d made him and their quiet but companionable enjoyment ofEmma.
Rhianne snorted. ‘Oh god, is he letting the introvert in him win? Spending lots of time in his room like a surly teenager?’
Rosie groped for a diplomatic response. ‘Erm … I think he’s just really busy.’
‘He’s also a natural recluse in need of a self-esteem injection,’ Rhianne said sagely. ‘He’s not great at making new friends – which is just one of a few reasons why he’s spent so much time among people who can hardly speak English during the past few years.’
Rosie’s eyebrows lifted at this. Aled was definitely the quiet type, but – what with there being several mirrors in the flat – she doubted he had a dearth of self-confidence.
‘I’m serious,’ Rhianne insisted. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous because he looks like North Wales’s very own Aidan Turner’ – Rosie was reminded of Niamh’s ‘love child of Poldark’ comment, as Rhianne grabbed a fresh tea towel – ‘but really, it wasnotever thus. He was a gawky thing when we were kids: skinny, rubbish at football, mouth full of braces – the whole works. He didn’t get good-looking until we were about sixteen. I didn’t even notice it because we were together all the time, but when we went back to school for Year Eleven, everyone, even the teachers, kept sayinghow much he’d grownover the summer. How nicely he’dfilled out.’ She made finger quotation marks in the air to emphasise her distaste.
Rosie nodded as if she understood, though she’d never experienced anything like this herself. She’d sometimes wondered whether, one day, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, she’d awake to discover she was the slender, beautiful, un-clumsy woman she was surely meant to be. At thirty-two, however, she’d pretty much given up hoping for such a spontaneous transformation.
‘It takes him a while to open up to people,’ Rhianne continued, ‘and he doesn’t let many people in. But I think he will with you.’ She eyed Rosie shrewdly, and Rosie got the sense that – just this once – Rhianne was choosing not to say out loud whatever was on her mind.
‘We’ll see, I suppose,’ Rosie murmured, not sure what else she could say to this.
‘We will,’ Rhianne agreed. ‘Now,’ she said – louder, so the whole team could hear her – ‘let’s get this place tidied down and cleaned up so we can get to the pub. First round’s on me.’
When Rosie started work that morning, she’d had no intention of finishing the day with an adventure in what Rhianne – and the rest of her staff – called ‘rough pub karaoke’. In fact, she’d never heard of such a thing, only later discovering that it was an end-of-the-month tradition.
A heady combination of peer pressure and genuine fondness for her new colleagues meant that, by 6.30 p.m., she was nevertheless clutching a pint of ice-cold cider. The Dun Cow – the team’s pub of choice – was an establishment that felt like it belonged in a soap opera or kitchen sink drama. Dark and old-fashioned, it had windows that looked painted shut and boasted air that – presumably because little of it was fresh – still smelled faintly of decades-old cigarette smoke.
The place was carpeted throughout, the pile richly decorated not only with its original Wilton pattern, but with stains left behind by the many drinks that had been spilled over the years since it was laid. It was slightly sticky underfoot, and Rosie thanked god – and Rhianne – that the deli had rules about wearing closed-toe footwear.
This was, Rosie mused as she took a tart, refreshing drink from her glass, the sort of place James would have refused to set foot in. It wasn’t a gastro pub – there were no pan-seared scallops or posh pork scratchings in sight – but this didn’t worry her.
‘It’ll all make sense when the singing gets going,’ Marcus said, following Rosie’s gaze as she took in her surroundings. ‘It’s not pretty, but this is the best pub in London – and the drinks are dirt cheap.’
This, Rosie could happily concede, was true. ‘I can’t remember the last time I went anywhere that a round wasn’t almost double that price,’ she agreed. She’d helped Rhianne ferry various glasses to their grateful recipients and done an involuntary double take when she’d seen the bill on the tray.
Marcus was tall and thin, with reddish hair, wire-framed glasses and a ready smile. Rosie had begun to suspect he had a thing for Becky – a dark-eyed, curly-haired northerner with a penchant for slogan t-shirts. Today’s was a hot-pink number with ‘A WOMAN’S PLACE IS WHEREVER SHE BLOODY WELL WANTS’ emblazoned across the bust – a message Rosie could definitely get behind. Marcus’s eyes frequently followed Becky’s progress around a room, though she seemed unaware of his fascination with her. As he looked at her, his features settled into the soft, adoring sort of expression that – now she saw it up close – Rosie had to admit she hadn’t seen on James’s face in some years.
‘Rhianne is a legend in here,’ Yaz said, appearing as if from nowhere and holding a glass that, Rosie guessed, contained some approximation of a pina colada. The drink was fluorescent yellow – so vividly bright that its provenance couldn’t possibly have much to do with real pineapples. Yaz seemed totally unbothered by the likely presence of a raft of e-numbers, however. She sipped the concoction through a pink-striped straw, studiously avoiding the paper umbrella lest it poke her in the eye.
‘A legend how?’ Rosie asked. But before Yaz could answer her, the high-pitched whine of microphones and amps being switched on cut through their conversation.
‘You’re about to find out!’ Yaz shouted over the din.
There was a tiny stage in the far corner of the pub’s central space, which a thick-waisted, shiny-suited man now mounted. He spoke into the microphone directly in front of him.
‘WELCOME, ladies and gentlemen, to the Dun Cow’s monthly music night! Withyour host, Ian Barker!’
The man gestured at himself expansively, garnering lukewarm applause and several ‘just get on with it’ groans. He reminded Rosie of the cabaret singer fromPhoenix Nights.
