Chapter 8
GERALD
Once every couple of weeks, usually on a Wednesday evening, my dad swings by the flat on his way back from badminton club.
He lives in Putney, in the house I grew up in, so it’s not too much of a detour.
I ought to drop in on him and Sandra once in a while, or perhaps go out for a drink or a bite to eat with them, but as I’ve turned him down so often, he’s stopped asking.
The entrance buzzer chimes.
“I’ll get it!”
Before my sliders even hit the hallway, Alaric’s at the front door. Fuck. I thought he was asleep in his room.
By the time I’ve rounded the corner, he’s already chatting, relaxed, casual, chirpy.
Everything I’m not. “Your dad’s here, Gerald,” he announces, as if we’re friends.
“Nice to meet you, Alan. I’m Alaric. The new housemate.
Let me take your lovely coat and hang it up.
Is it cashmere? Ooh, very nice. Maybe I’ll accidentally forget to give it back. ”
My dad laughs, a hearty, strong sound. I haven’t heard him properly laugh in years. “Alaric. That’s unusual. Is it Scottish?”
“Och, no,” Alaric answers in a really shit Glaswegian accent. “My mum had a man mending the tumble dryer when she was pregnant with me—called Alaric—and she liked it. It’s actually from the old German meaning…”
And he’s off, waffling away as if him and my dad are mates sharing a pint down the pub whilst I’m stood like a lemon in the hallway, too fucking edgy to step forward and welcome my old man with a hug.
Of course, Alaric makes newcomers feel comfortable; he must use those skills to put people at ease all day at work.
After all, within minutes of a handshake, most of his patients have to whip out their privates for him.
I’d be a useless urologist.
“Hi,” I say when he finally runs out of steam and he and my dad have remembered who he’s really here to see.
My dad returns the greeting, his own soft and cautious. Who can blame him? The way I treat him, I’m surprised he still bothers.
Coat folded over his arm, Alaric’s gaze darts between the two of us, smiling and expecting…
more. If I hadn’t inherited his height and nose, my dad and I do an awfully convincing impression of complete strangers.
These opening five minutes are always the worst. For the first time since he’s moved in, I’m begrudgingly glad Alaric’s here to take the initiative.
“Great timing, Alan. I was about to put the kettle on. Do you both want something? Tea? Coffee?” He beams. “Oooh, I bought some lovely lemon tea this week. Someone at work recommended a new, organic brand to me. It’s awesome—you should try it. Good for your karma.”
Is that remark directed at me? Fruit teas are like drinking perfume.
“I’m game to try a lemon tea,” offers my dad, and I nearly fall over backwards.
“I had camomile for the first time the other day. One of the new secretaries, Sally, brought it into the office. Felt like a nice change in the middle of the afternoon. You know how it is; you’ve already drunk three cups of coffee, but it’s still too early for a glass of wine? ”
I’d kill for a glass of wine, right now.
Again, Alaric beams at my dad. “OMG! That’s exactly what tea was invented for! I tell that to the coffee drinkers at work all the time! And fruit teas are so good for you! Full of antioxidants.”
Hah! From the man who has a slab of cherry Cokes in the fridge. Alaric chirrups a laugh, an easy, joyful sound. “Mind you, I tend to ruin that good work by dipping a choccie biscuit in it, but, hey, the thought was there, right?”
“Now you’re talking!”
My dad chuckles. I didn’t know my dad drank anything but builders’ tea. Just like I didn’t know he had a new secretary called Sally or that his coat was cashmere.
“Gerald?” Alaric turns to me. “Are you in?”
I’m still standing around like a spare part. “Um, no. I’ll stick to coffee, thanks.”
“Two lemon teas and a coffee with no sugar and a splash it is then. Coming right up.”
Alaric’s noted how I like my coffee. I don’t know what to make of that.
“He seems nice,” Dad observes as Alaric bustles off. We take up our usual positions in the lounge, me on the sofa and him in the armchair. “I’m glad you’ve got some company.”
His gaze travels around the room, searching for something to talk about. He picks up a surgical textbook Alaric has left lying around, next to a pen and a crumpled empty crisp packet. My fingers itch to tidy them both up.
“It’s only temporary,” I answer. “For both of us. He’s a friend of a friend, here in between leaving one rental and trying to find another. He’d much rather be back in central London, really, but he needs to save some money. And—“
“And you’re fine for money, but you thought the company might be good.” Dad leafs through the book at random. He doesn’t know about Elsa, our routine, and the associated costs. I have no intention of telling him; he already thinks I’m odd enough. “I’m pleased. Sandra will be too.”
“Yeah.”
At mention of Sandra, I clear my throat, a nervous, half-hearted sound, building up to ask after his wife.
They married about six months ago, on holiday abroad.
Afterwards, they said it was a spontaneous thing, so fortunately I wasn’t obliged to attend.
Sandra is a part-time community midwife.
Like my dad, she’s only ever been nice to me.
“Work going okay?” Dad says, to fill the gap.
“Fine,” I answer. “It’s fine.”
I’ve been doing the same job in the same private eye surgery clinic for the last ten years.
All day, I sit in a dark room, surrounded by fancy technology, making up specialist lenses and prescriptions for people who’ve undergone invasive eye operations.
My junior colleague in the next room does exactly the same.
I’m not saying I don’t enjoy it. It’s solitary, predictable, poses occasional intellectual challenges, and the pay’s decent.
Some days, though, I feel like just another one of the complex machines on the laser centre’s conveyer belt.
“Good,” he responds. “That’s good.”
I follow up with, “And how’s the office?” because that’s how our conversations work.
“Great.” My dad is a conveyancing solicitor in a partnership of four. He only works three days per week now, given he’s over sixty. “Barbara retired last week. She had a leaving do.”
“How many years was that?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Awesome.”
“Listen.” My Dad’s eyes flick to the black-and-white family photo on the sideboard. “Sandra and I are off to Cornwall next weekend for a few days. We’ll probably take some flowers and stop on the way and visit the spot where–“
“Good. Lovely. Cornwall’s nice this time of year. Less busy.” My stomach flips. Not going there. Not going there. “Have a…a good trip.”
Alaric breezes back, thank fuck, balancing three mugs and a little plate of biscuits. “May I present you two gentlemen with some zesty orange puffs, courtesy of the peculiar little shop across the road from the hospital staff carpark.”
He deposits the biscuits with a flourish and a wiggle of those damned narrow hips.
“A little mid-afternoon treat for everyone. Flaky on the outside, but so, so super sweet on the inside.” As he sets them down, he actually bloody winks, making my dad snort.
“People have been known to say the same about me.”
I roll my eyes.
“I doubt you’re that flaky, what with being a surgeon.” My dad holds the textbook aloft. “I can’t understand half of these words.”
“Me neither,” Alaric titters, waving his compliment away.
“But don’t tell the patients. And definitely not my boss.
” His pink tongue licks a delicate stripe along the seam of his orange puff.
My eyes are glued to it. “All I can say, Alan, is my ducks might not be in a perfect row, but at least they’re having fun. ”
Is it my imagination, or is that another comment intended for me? Whatever. The fact my patience is balancing on the edge must be written all over my face. After another needless, lascivious lick, he then adds smoothly, “I’ll let you get on. Lovely to meet you, Alan. No doubt I’ll see you again.”
I generally feel a little out of sorts after my dad visits, like he’s nudged something loose inside me.
Memories of my mother mostly—happy, family times.
Of other holidays, for instance. How she was always the first to try a new local drink or taste a new food- razor clams on a French beach, a weird aperitif in Holland.
Dad and I were a united front, shying away.
Today, with mention of Cornwall, it’s ten times worse, more than the usual anger, grief, and plain sadness.
Guilt, probably. That I’m still such an arsehole to him.
For someone who rarely imbibes, I really need that glass of wine.
The one thing I don’t need is my busybody housemate sticking his oar in.
“You’re the spit of your dad,” Alaric ventures as he sidles into the kitchen. For a small guy, he always manages to fill it up. “He’s nice. I wish my parents were more local. They buggered off to Spain to escape me.”
Because you never bloody shut up. “Yeah.”
“I mean, it probably had a little bit of something to do with the endless sunshine, cheap tapas to die for, and the fact that my auntie and uncle were already out there, but, you know, how to make a boy feel unwanted.
“Anyway.” He sloppily spreads marmalade over a slice of bread, then folds the bread in two.
Who the fuck (except for that bloody ubiquitous fictional bear) eats marmalade fucking sandwiches?
“I’m not prying, but your parents…um… aren’t together?
I only say that ‘cos I heard your dad mention someone called Sandra while I was making the tea. His new partner, yeah?”
As he drops his unsolicited enquiry about something he knows fucking nothing about, Alaric sucks a blob of marmalade from his finger, utterly oblivious to my emotional turmoil.
“Yes,” I bite out. “His second wife.”
Putting two and two together and coming up with seventeen, he then says in a sympathetic voice, “Fairly recent, is it? Seeing as my folks have been married for, like, a millennium, I don’t really know much about blended families, but I imagine it’s tough when one of your parents gets a new partner.
Takes some getting used to. Though it explains why you and your dad are a bit stiff around each other. ”
Already frayed like an old carpet, my nerves snap. “It’s astonishing how confidently you assumed I needed to hear that.” I glare down at him. I’m being totally out of order and don’t give a flying fuck. “I didn’t realise I was taking random commentary on my familial relationships today.”
Alaric opens his shiny little mouth to respond, then wisely thinks better of it.
For a moment, I think he’s going to take his sloppy sandwich elsewhere.
Instead, he edges closer to the door so I can’t leave the kitchen without pushing past him.
The air between us shifts. Watching me, he takes a bite and chews carefully.
After the Wolf Hall episode, I should have realised he doesn’t back down easily.
“Have I done something to upset you, Gerald?”
“Not especially. I just don’t appreciate you interfering in family business that has nothing to do with you.”
“Hardly interfering,” he observes amiably. “Merely making conversation. Although with you, it’s less of a conversation and more a dramatic monologue with occasional grunting.”
We glare some more at each other. Or, rather, I glare, and he takes another calm bite of sandwich. Crumbs fall to the floor.
Hell is other people. Occasionally, friends, family, and acquaintances helpfully point out I’m antisocial.
I daresay Alaric will do the same any minute now.
They observe it like it’s a flaw, like I’m totally ignorant.
It’s not that I don’t want to connect, but being warm and open, like Alaric, doesn’t come easy to me.
Small talk? Exhausting. Big talk? Horrifying.
The thing is, though, I don’t care. I’m not broken.
Neither am I wishing I was more like them.
I just recharge differently, don’t suffer fools, and I’m… fine with that.
“I’m sorry,” I retort finally, in the most passive-aggressive way ever. “I was unaware enjoying my own company wasn’t permitted.”
“And I was unaware our verbal tenancy agreement included a vow of silence.”
“Then I was unaware,” I snap back, righteous anger burning hotly in my chest, “that tenancy agreements included a requirement to be best pals with my tenant.”
Alaric takes a step closer to me. He might be small in stature, but in attitude he’s towering.
Without the streak of marmalade on his chin, him crowding me would be vaguely menacing.
“Listen, pal,” he says in an icy voice. “You’re the one who fucking advertised for a tenant.
If you don’t want me here, then say the word and I’ll look for somewhere else.
I can be packed and gone in ten minutes. ”
Off you trot, then.
Hanging on the tip of my tongue, those words wouldn’t come, despite him filling up my kitchen and making my dad laugh.
I hate how easily he unlocked that sound.
The sticky marmalade knife taunts me from the sink.
I hate how Alaric leaves his rubbish lying around, too.
Irritatingly, I don’t hate his glossy, lush lips.
“I’m going out,” I say instead. This time I do shoulder barge him out of the way. I don’t know where the fuck I’m going, probably pointlessly around the block for half an hour, in the sodding rain without a coat.
That’s the trouble with grand gestures; you end up having to follow through.
“Good idea, why don’t you?” Alaric calls after me as I open the front door. Yep, fucking pissing it down again. “And don’t forget to take your fucking imaginary dog with you.”