‘Thirty-two,’ Rosie said, wincing.
‘Positively ancient, then,’ he said. ‘You’re the same age as me. And regardless of when you did your exams, youmusthave heard this one:
‘Do not go gentle into that good night
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light …’
Good god. Was he actually trying to kill her?
Rosie was convinced her heartbeat must be audible; it was hammering as though it thought it could thump itself free of her ribcage. This should have been cheesy and embarrassing, but instead it felt poignant. He was showing her yet another side of himself – sharing something that, somehow, she knew was important to him.
Every word Aled read aloud seemed to land on her skin like autumn rain – or maybe like the last rays of a golden afternoon’s sunshine, wrapping her in early-evening warmth. She had heard the poem before, but she’d neverfeltit. She’d never feltthis. The words were magic, or maybe he was.
Rosie didn’t dare speak in case she broke the spell. It was only when Aled cleared his throat that she realised she’d closed her eyes.
‘Well,’ he said, smiling but sardonic. ‘Perhaps I should rethink this idea. You look half asleep … The last thing I need is my Year Twelves reacting to this the way you just did. Half of them might as well be comatose as it is.’
‘No!’ Rosie cried. ‘I wasn’t – it was – I was just listening. It was …’ She fished around in her brain for a word that would imply ‘mildly enjoyable’ rather than ‘intense and intoxicating’. Failing dismally, she finished, ‘…lovely.’
‘OK, all right,’ he said, colouring slightly. He put the book down and asked, ‘What shall we do for dinner?’
Rosie shrugged and said, ‘I’ll see what’s in the fridge. I reckon some sort of pasta might be possible.’
‘Great. Want me to chop?’
‘No, I’m on it – any chance of a glass of that wine, though?’
As she pulled bell peppers, cherry tomatoes and a slightly sad-looking chilli from the fridge, Aled poured her a good-sized glass of red and set it on the counter next to the chopping board.
‘I’m good,’ she told him, ‘honestly – finish your lesson planning while I cook. You can wash up later.’
As he left the kitchen area, something like relief flooded her chest cavity. Being physically close to him right now felt positively terrifying – like standing on a slowly crumbling ledge with no idea what lay beneath, in the full certainty that eventually she’d tumble into the void.
He was right about one thing, she thought, as she glugged olive oil into a pan and watched it start to simmer. If Aled’s students responded to his reading poetry in the same way she had, the consequences would be disastrous. They’d all be half in love with him by the time the bell rang for break.
Rosie’s cobbled-together pasta dish was satisfyingly tasty: a spicy combination of sweet tomato, rich red pepper, chilli and pan-fried bacon.
After eating and pronouncing it delicious, Aled tidied the kitchen while she relaxed on the sofa. Pleasingly full and a little wine-woozy, she flicked through various TV channels, struggling to find anything that wasn’t depressing, half over or dull.
As she happened upon the opening credits ofWhen Harry Met Sally, Aled sank onto the opposite end of the couch and said, ‘D’you know, I’ve never seen this.’
‘You’ve never seenWhen Harry Met Sally?’ Rosie asked, incredulous. ‘It’s a classic.’
‘So I’m told.’
‘I amshook,’ Rosie said, laughing.
She lifted and pointed the TV remote, keen to change the channel again. She loved this film, but sitting through its romantic ‘friends to lovers’ plot with Aled just inches away was the last thing she needed right now.
‘Whoa, hold your fire,’ he said. ‘Let’s watch it. Assuming it’s not rubbish, of course.’
‘It’s great,’ Rosie admitted, ‘just …’
Justwhat?
Think!
