Chapter 3
ALARIC
Sternly, I tell myself I’m living the best of times.
Big G boasts a jawline you could lose a Wifi signal behind and shoulders built for posing in doorways.
Whopping great hands, too, and feet to match.
Moreover, my new double bed will be almost as comfortable as my king-size at Stefan’s.
(I know because I tested it by bouncing on it several times).
Perhaps I’ll even get a few consecutive hours kip.
Nonetheless, it’s also the worst of times.
After five years at med school and several stints as a hard-up junior doctor, I’ve had my fair share of housemates.
Already, I have a bad feeling about this move.
My new landlord is a flat tyre personified: no energy, no air, and no path to anywhere fun.
I so should have placed a bet on the anime thing.
And don’t get me started on the flat. At Stefan’s, we cleaned once a fortnight under duress, or if ever his folks dropped by.
Gerald’s is a veritable shrine to the God of Pristinity. Even dust is too intimidated to settle.
Dutifully, I follow my new landlord’s broad back as he shows me around.
It doesn’t take long. We cover his room (a mystery behind a closed door) and a shared bathroom (a small shower, bog, and sink, all clean enough to lick).
The sitting room flaunts a sofa, an armchair, and a coffee table picked efficiently from the first aisle of IKEA.
An open archway at one end leads to a small square kitchen.
In my room, the furniture was efficiently chosen from the second aisle in IKEA.
To end the tour, Gerald points out my shelves in the fridge and my allotted space in the grocery cupboard.
I praise his bland, neutral decor, I coo over the three framed prints in the hallway, and I even admire his extensive collection of well-manicured, lush herbs lined up with military precision on the kitchen windowsill.
Gerald mutters barely three words back. His reluctance to be in my presence is palpable.
He's shy, that’s all. Give him time and maybe he’ll chill out a bit.
According to Luke, he’s never had a housemate before.
Perhaps he doesn’t know how these things work.
Nonetheless, I won’t be surprised (or terribly disappointed) if the last stop on the tour is back at the front door with my bags following on behind.
As if I haven’t already got the hint, when we complete a circuit of the flat, he suggests, rather emphatically, I might want to spend some alone time in my room, settling in.
Fuck that. Two minutes tossing my clothes into the wardrobe and drawers, followed by twenty-eight minutes of starfishing on the bed, staring at a plain white ceiling with only my own head for company, is plenty.
“So,” I tiptoe into the kitchen as if by placing my clean bare feet fully down I’ll somehow damage the spotless floor tiles, “you’re an optometrist, eh?”
“Um...yeah.”
Very shy, I decide. But probably harmless. Hopping up onto a bar stool, I park myself for a good old natter. I’ll have him warmed up in no time. “Cool. That must be an interesting career.”
Gerald has his broad back to me, creating something complicated with salad ingredients.
Biceps bulging tastily through his long-sleeved tee, he chops up a carrot.
He must work out. Luke never mentioned it; perhaps it’s a new thing.
In my head, I’d pictured Gerald as tall and stringy.
Turns out he’s more of a long, strong rope. “Yeah.”
My first conversational gambit elicits barely more than a grunt, but I make small talk to members of the general public for a living, sometimes with a gloved finger shoved up their arses. Dr Alaric Alvin is not so easily deterred.
“How many optometrists does it take to change a lightbulb?” I persist in the same cheery vein. “One…or two? One or two?”
Gerald doesn’t answer. In the ensuing awkward silence, disturbed only by the dicing of carrots into identical batons, even the clean bare walls judge me.
“Heard that one before, yeah?”
“Yes. And all the rest.” Still, he doesn’t turn around.
I try again. “Oh, okay. Cool. There are a lot of urology jokes out there, too, as you can probably imagine. What with, you know, the specialty being all about willies and stuff.” I huff a laugh. “But who doesn’t enjoy a good willy joke, right?”
Gerald, apparently. The next stretch of silence commands the room like a stale fart.
“Luke told you I was a surgeon, didn’t he?
Training to be one, anyhow. I’ve passed all the exams, thank fuck.
Now it’s just doing the time, learning new techniques, gaining experience.
I haven’t yet chosen a subspecialty. I quite enjoy urodynamics and uro-oncology, though I’ll probably steer clear of women’s urodynamics ‘cos, hello, homosexual man, right? I think I can offer other men a lot more. I understand them better, you know? I mean, I do possess a mother and some female friends, but I can’t say I’m an expert on—“
Gerald’s phone buzzes from the worktop, cutting me off. He seizes it like it’s a lifebelt. In two swift strides, he’s through the door and into the sitting room adjacent. I try not to listen, but I’m a nosey bugger and it’s a small flat. Swiping a carrot baton, I crunch down on it and tune in.
If I think the call might afford me insight into Big G’s personality, I’m wrong.
If anything, he sounds even more unnatural conversing with the unknown caller than enduring my cheesy optometry jokes.
There’s a polite reference to the weather, a few yesses and nos, and then a super polite thanks for calling, before he rings off.
His pained sigh travels with him back into the kitchen.
There, I hastily gulp down a second carrot baton, pretending to be super fascinated by a flyer advertising tickets for a ‘fun’ local ukulele gig. Fucking Sutton Common.
“Cold callers, huh?” I say. “I think there’s a screening thing you can do with your phone so they can’t get through. I remember my mum telling me about it. I think you have to—“
“It was my father.” He gives the carrots and then me a suspicious glare.
“Oh. That’s cool. My folks moved out to Spain six years ago.
I miss them, although they phone every week and I manage to get out there once a year or more, if I can—actually, it’s more like twice, and they come over to the UK at least a couple of times too, to see me and my granny, who’s in a home. And then—“
“I’m going out with the dog.”
Gerald shovels his salad into a Tupperware. Grabbing his travel mug, he shoulders on his coat. Before I can say anything else, he’s out onto the street, the door slamming resolutely behind him. It’s still pissing down.
Crucially, he doesn’t own a dog.