‘I’ll manage,’ Aled said, grinning. ‘I’d like to help. You’ve been amazing to me all week – why not let me do something nice for you in return?’
Rosie writhed internally, her instinct to say yes at war with the knowledge that it would only complicate things. She couldn’t deny it would be tremendously satisfying to show up for a family occasion with Aled in tow, but it would inspire speculation – and it would be a one-time only deal. When he never came to another christening, wedding or funeral, she’d be sympathy-trolled worse than ever:he was a looker, though, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t have expected him to commit, really. It was always going to be hard for Rosie to hang onto a man like that.
Rosie cringed, then told herself to knock it off. She knew she looked good today, in the floral midi dress Rhianne and Niamh had helped her pick out. It was bold but classy, with bracelet-length sleeves and a square neckline that showed a hint of bosom. She’d paired it with thick black tights because bare legs, November weather and draughty English churches didn’t mix.
Aled, meanwhile, was still in a pair of pyjama bottoms and an old grey t-shirt that did wonderful things for his broad shoulders.Gah. He could come dressed in those and still be deemed too attractive for her. Her entire family would take one look at him and wonder what on earth he was doing with her. God, what if they thought he was anescort? That she’d paid for a fake date? That would be mortifying.
‘Earth to Rosie …?’ Aled said, waving his arms to get her attention.
‘Sorry. I was …’
‘Spiralling? Catastrophising?’
‘Both,’ Rosie admitted. ‘Honestly, this isn’t going to be enjoyable. You don’t have to do this.’
‘I want to, though,’ he said, with such sincerity that Rosie couldn’t find the words to rebuff him. ‘I can be ready to go in fifteen minutes. Does that work?’
Rosie nodded, mute, unable to resist – and not at all sure whether spending this afternoon with Aled would make it better or worse.
When Rosie pulled her VW Polo into the car park of St Catherine’s C of E Church and Community Centre, her heart sank. Her mother was standing outside the old arched door, lying in wait for her daughter and surrounded by a cloud of what Rosie identified as vape smoke.
Up close, it was a cloyingly sweet steam that smelled powerfully – and synthetically – of peach. It reminded Rosie of the scented disinfectant she sometimes bought for cleaning out the wheelie bin, but she decided to keep this to herself.
Julie was wearing a satin sheath dress in deep navy, cut just below the knee and so tight it looked like it could have been sprayed on. Her feet were in heels that might have doubled as stilts, and Rosie wondered how on earth she could stand in them, let alone walk. Her mother’s face was flawlessly made-up, presumably with her own TrueYOU products; shimmery taupe eyeshadow highlighted her hazel eyes, and her lips were glossed bright red. She looked amazing – though arguably her outfit said ‘off to collect a BAFTA’ more than ‘suburban church service followed by finger sandwiches’.
‘Rosie!’ she cried, through a final plume of fruity air. ‘And who isthis?’
Rosie felt her soul wilt at her mother’s tone, which managed to sound simultaneously surprised, intrigued and somewhat lascivious.
‘This is Aled,’ Rosie explained. ‘My … erm. My … He’s staying in the spare room.’
God, she was an idiot. Why couldn’t she just have said friend, like he did earlier?Because the word’s too small for him, a voice inside her said.It doesn’t contain enough. She instructed it to shut up, then realised her mother was frowning at her.
‘So, he’s your flatmate?’ Julie said, like she was a foreign language student testing the correct application of a word she’d recently learned.
‘Yes.Flatmate,’ Rosie repeated, trying to pack as much meaning as possible into two syllables.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Butler,’ Aled said, offering her a very large hand to shake. Julie visibly thrilled at this deference, looking up at him coquettishly from beneath lowered lashes and purring, ‘Likewise.’
Rosie rolled her eyes. ‘Shouldn’t we be going in?’ she said, before Julie could start asking questions or – god forbid – flirting heavily.
Her mother looked at her shiny, gold-plated wristwatch. ‘Oh. Yes. I just came out for a quick not-ciggy break, ha ha. Aren’t I good?’
‘You do know vaping isn’t that great for you, either?’ Rosie said in a low voice, as they entered the building and found seats on the same row as Michael and Colin.
‘Rubbish,’ Julie hissed. ‘It keeps me slim. And it tastes nice.’
Rosie’s eyes found Aled’s in the dim light, and they exchanged the sort of nonplussed looks that couples sometimes share in the presence of eccentric extended family. It made her chest hurt.
Soon the vicar – a surprisingly young, hapless-looking fellow who genially invited the congregation to call him Father Simon – was at the front of the church. The service unfolded in the usual way, with Mandy, her husband Karl and a gaggle of godparents all swearing to reject a devil that Rosie was fairly sure none of them believed in.
When they got to the part where Father Simon sprinkled water on the baby’s head, Rosie realised she’d forgotten to warn Aled about her name. She winced as the vicar’s voice rang out: ‘Crystal Khaleesi Turner, I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’ To the celebrant’s credit, he managed not to laugh.
Beside her in the church pew, Rosie felt Aled stiffen and knew that he was holding in considerable mirth. If they looked at one another, they’d corpse.
With great difficulty, she resisted glancing at him and instead focused on a man two rows in front of them – one of Karl’s uncles, she thought. He appeared to have dyed his greying hair a sort of orangey-brown colour that resisted definition. The closest descriptor Rosie could land on was that it resembled one of Rhianne’s signature soups: curried sweet potato and coconut.
The christening came to an end, and a low murmur of voices began as people filed out of the church and into the community centre next door.
