Chapter 6
GERALD
I’m cohabiting with a hobbit, not an elf.
Alaric Alvin is about five feet six inches tall, has dark blond hair itching to curl up at the edges, and a relentlessly cheerful attitude despite interacting with me.
He hardly ever wears shoes, either inside or when he slips out into my tiny back yard for a smoke.
Literally, he sleeps on the floor; when I crept past his room late last night, his door was ajar and there he was, curled up on his side in what can only be explained as a nest of clothing and towels.
His soft lisp and his teeth and the shine around his pink mouth—a regular application of lip gloss or lip balm—are too much.
They do strange things to my insides. Now I’ve got to watch his gappy front teeth bite down on buttery baked potato while he licks his glossy lips and the lispy voice witters on about the wonders of living in his last flat with his beloved oldest friend Stefan and how it was situated a stone’s throw from the beating pulse of London.
Politicians should hire him for filibustering; one sentence segues into the next without so much as a pause for breath.
Book club can’t come quick enough.
In general, the hobbit’s dietary regime leaves a lot to be required, although credit where it’s due, he’s nailed cheesy tuna melt over baked potato.
Coco Pops, crisps, sugary full fat yoghurts, and takeaway pizzas are surprising nutritional choices for a surgeon who should know better.
If I pigged out on that lot, I’d be shapeless, greasy, and spotty.
Dr Alaric Alvin, cross-legged on the sofa with no intention of retreating to his room whilst I chair book club, is none of those things.
Mind you, it must be a rocket-fuel concoction; he views silence as a personal affront.
“What’s the book this month?” he enquires as I set up my laptop on the coffee table. Shifting the heavy table away from him to a different position in front of the armchair would be excessively rude, so I’m forced to join him on the sofa. I sit at the far end.
“Wolf Hall.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Here.” I wave my thick hardback copy at him.
“Wow,” he exclaims, “that’s not a book, it’s an upper-body workout.”
“It’s by Hilary Mantel.”
“Nope, none the wiser. Never heard of him, either.”
In the nick of time, I stop my mouth from hanging open. “He’s a she.”
Alaric studies the plain red book cover. “Wolf Hall. Is it a paranormal, like with supernatural creatures or something?”
Oh my, I’m living with a Philistine. “Not even close. It won the Booker Prize in 2009. The BBC serialisation, one of the greatest programmes they’ve ever produced, won a BAFTA.”
“Very cool. But really? No wolves? Or, even better, vampires and wolves? Werewolves? Gotta love a good werewolf story. Ghosts?”
“No. It’s a fictionalised version of the life of Thomas Cromwell.
The title alludes to the Latin phrase 'Man is wolf to man,' signifying the scheming political world of the Reformation Cromwell negotiated daily, rather than the actual bricks and mortar place, which is a medieval hall in Wiltshire. I’m astonished someone like you hasn’t come across it. ”
My derision hangs awkwardly between us. As Alaric’s ever-ready smile falters, a flicker of guilt twists in my chest. I don’t mean to sound contemptuous or highhanded, but when a supposedly highly educated person displays that level of ignorance, it’s difficult not to be.
For heaven’s sake. Who, with an ounce of intelligence, hasn’t heard of Wolf Hall?
Don’t you have to be clever to be a doctor?
Alaric’s probably too nice to call me a pretentious wanker and, after all, he only moved in yesterday. “Oh, okay. Cool. No werewolves, no vampires, no ghosts. Got it. Loud and clear. It’s a famous book, and I’m an idiot.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Whatever.” Shrugging, he gives me a brief smile. “No drama.”
“As I said, it’s based on the life of Thomas Cromwell.” I can’t stop myself; this priggishness is probably one of the fundamental reasons I’m still single at thirty-four. “Homo homini lupus est is the original Latin.”
Alaric chews on his glossy bottom lip. It’s…distracting. “And Cromwell didn’t have pet wolves.”
God give me strength. “Cromwell was an English statesman and lived in England, so no.”
“When?”
“What do you mean, when?”
“I mean, when was Cromwell alive? Roughly?” Alaric’s blue eyes are innocent and round. At least he’ll go to bed tonight a little less uninformed. “History isn’t my forte.” No shit. “Was it the 1600s or something?”
“Close,” I concede. “Cromwell was executed in 1540.”
“Oh. Interesting.”
Like a whir of scurrying mice, Alaric’s thumbs tap over his phone screen.
Maybe he’s going to educate himself by reading up on the early modern period of British history.
His phone case is ridiculous: a cartoon raccoon wearing rainbow sunglasses and the words gay and trashy scrawled underneath.
Tilting my body away from him—as I said, he’s distracting—I log into my Zoom account and check the settings with only a couple of minutes to spare.
When my finger is poised over the meeting link, he brandishes his phone at me.
“Hey! Gerald! Listen to this: ‘The wolf is generally thought to have become extinct in England sometime during the reign of Henry VII (1485–1509), or at least very rare’.” He grins.
“So, theoretically, Cromwell could have had a pet wolf. He could have had the very last one in England as a pet and kept it a massive secret.”
On that note, he uncurls from the sofa, flashing me a strip of thin white belly as his tee rides up.
Good, he’s going to his room, and taking his ignorant comments with him, saving me the bother of trying to bite back a chilly put-down.
With his hand on the door, he turns to look at me.
The gappy smile is still there, though not quite as fulsome as before.
“Oh, and by the way,” he says sweetly, “can you list the International Society of Urological Pathology’s prostate cancer grading system and reference it to a Gleason score?
No? Really, Gerald? I’m astonished someone like you hasn’t come across it. ”
The grin turns grim. “Everyone’s got their strengths, mate. Mine are good manners and a fuck-tonne of medical know-how. Yours seem to be pissing people off.”