Find an excuse to switch over.
‘Just …?’ Aled asked.
‘I dunno. It’s a romcom.’
‘So? I’m not some kind of cultural snob, if that’s what you’re thinking. In fact, I’m inclined to think there’s a direct line that leads from Austen to Ephron. Now come on, let’s watch.’
With great reluctance, Rosie set the remote control down on the coffee table and scooched as far back into her corner of the sofa as she could. It was small, and there was barely a foot between them – but it would have to be enough.
Before the film was even halfway through, Rosie felt she could confidently label the evening’s viewing the worst cinematic experience of her life. As Meg Ryan gasped and moaned her way through the most famous fake orgasm in history, she found herself wishing the sofa would transform into some flesh-eating monster and swallow her whole.
While the movie was as good as ever, she lacked the capacity to concentrate on it. Her whole body was humming with a powerfulawarenessof the person sitting next to her. Illuminated by the dim light of Rosie’s thrifted, 1970s-style lamp and the flickering images from the TV screen, Aled’s face looked like a work of art.
Its clean lines, smooth skin and almost perfect symmetry made Rosie think of the marble busts she’d seen in museums. She could almost believe it would feel like cool, unyielding stone if she touched it, were it not for the warm, clean scent that drifted through the air each time he moved.
It struck her that Aled possessed gravity in both senses of the word. On the surface, he seemed serious – perhaps even solemn on occasion – but the more time they spent together, the more magnetically she was pulled towards him.
Just as a tearful Sally ranted that her ex-boyfriend’s fiancée was supposed to be ‘his transitional person, not the one!’ everything stopped.
The TV went blank, the light from the lamp disappeared and even the street light outside was extinguished.
‘Argh, power cut,’ Rosie said.
‘Shit,’ Aled murmured, shifting uncomfortably and taking a deep breath.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m not great with pitch darkness.’
‘Oh. Sit tight, then,’ Rosie said, surprised but sympathetic. ‘There are some candles and matches in the kitchen. I’ll go and get them.’
She fumbled her way to the kitchen, located an ancient bag of tealights, and was back in the sitting room a moment later. She set a line of candles out on the coffee table, then struck a match and lit them.
‘There,’ she said, hoping to reassure him, gesturing at the array of orange flames. ‘This could almost be deliberate, now. Romantic, even.’
Why, why,whyhad she said that?
Aled managed a short laugh, which made Rosie feel even worse. Clearly, the notion that there could ever be anything between them was absurd to him.
Through the gloaming, Rosie could see he was tense. The stiff set of his shoulders betrayed a visceral reaction to having been plunged into this sudden blackout, and she understood that he was trying to rationalise some long-held fear.
‘You must think I’m ridiculous,’ he said, feeling her eyes on him.
‘Not at all,’ Rosie promised. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried everything – even had hypnotherapy once. I had a … bad experience when I was a kid,’ he explained. ‘I had the piss taken out of me a lot. I was always a bit different. We were playing a game of hide-and-seek one day – I think I was about nine. The boy who lived next door to us, Robbie … he convinced me to hide in the potting shed on one of the allotments over the road, and they locked me in for a laugh.’
Rosie felt her breath catch in her throat.
‘I was stuck in there for hours,’ Aled continued. ‘It got darker and darker as the day wore on. No windows. I remember freaking out when the last shreds of light disappeared completely. It was pretty melodramatic of me – my overactive imagination, I guess – but I started to feel like I’d never escape. I’ve never quite got over it.’
‘That’s not melodramatic,’ Rosie said hotly. ‘That’sawful. What a bunch of little bastards.’
‘They were just kids,’ Aled said, resigned. ‘And I was an easy target. Scrawny, bespectacled, fatherless … I started reading all the time when I realised that living in my own head was easier than trying to fit in.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ Rosie said. ‘Can I ask … How did you get out of the shed in the end?’
‘Rhianne found me. Heard me yelling, knocked the rusty old padlock off the door with a trowel she found and then threatened to beat the living shit out of Robbie and the others if they crossed me again.’
