Chapter 9
ALARIC
Sutton Common will be fine, Luke said. Gerald’s really nice once you get to know him.
What did I do wrong? Why’s Gerald so unreasonable?
His dad seems a perfectly okay kind of guy, in a conventional, middle-class-dad sort of way.
And there’s nothing wrong with having a conventional dad.
Alan’s a bit of a silver fox, to be honest, if older men are your jam.
Gerald’s going to mature very nicely indeed—unless I kill him first.
Twat.
Like an insatiable tourist, my mind wanders, alighting on things that don’t matter, replaying meaningless words and faces.
Such as the cute Filipino nurse in theatres yesterday, laughing but proud about his kid’s school play.
The streak of blue in the last patient’s hair and pondering why she had it.
What led her to choose blue, not purple or any other colour.
A pissy email ordering me to change my password on the painfully outdated blood results system and to choose one with twenty letters, six roman numerals, and three fucking hieroglyphs.
Equally outdated, a 1980’s earworm on the radio in the coffee room still buzzing around my head.
And, on the subject of ears, Gerald’s—big—to match his hands and feet, sticking out like a pair of sentinels and attuned to my every false move.
Misinterpreting genuine interest as a personal slight.
I shouldn’t have got involved. When I joined him in the kitchen, I should have read the room better.
I’ve deduced he’s the world’s biggest introvert, but surely his inability to look people square in the eye and behave cordially doesn’t extend to his own father.
Of course, their relationship is none of my business.
I don’t know either of them, and Gerald clearly has no desire to change that.
Tomorrow, on the endless journey to work, I’ll sign up to a lettings agency and check out some cheap rentals as close to Stefan and the hospital as I can afford.
I examine my chipped nail polish in the phone charger’s faint blue glow.
I used to cover up the light with electrical tape; it made not a jot of difference to my sleep cycle so now I don’t bother.
Giving in, I check the time. 03.52. There’s a text from Stefan, sent at midnight.
Marcus is sulking because Stefan forgot to pick up elderflower cordial on his way home.
I press delete without replying. Thankfully, Marcus’s unpredictable moods are no longer my problem.
I check the time again. 03.54. Hmm. Early enough I might nod off again if I can stop mulling over bloody Gerald.
Five minutes pass spent getting all comfy and dozy.
On the dot of the sixth, my bladder hints it’s going to prevent that from happening.
Bugger. The bed’s warm; the bathroom floor tiles are cold.
I roll over, convincing myself I’ll fall asleep before it becomes an issue, until a more insistent twinge, like a toddler tugging my sleeve, suggests that’s not going to happen.
Heaving an enormous sigh and not bothering with lights, even keeping my eyes shut to cling onto sleepiness as much as I can, I slip out of bed and stumble along the short corridor to the bathroom.
An unyielding wall of muscle slams into me.
“Wah—shit! What the hell?”
“Ow!”
Am I sleepwalking? Doesn’t this only happen to hapless, beautiful young virgins in romance novels?
Seemingly not. A nanosecond before I smack down onto my arse, two warm, strong hands grab my bare shoulders, righting me. Okay, so that definitely only happens in spicy books. In real life I’d skid to the floor and crack my head open.
Regretfully, the solid hands disappear. A male voice curses. “What the fuck are you doing wandering around in the dark?”
“What the fuck are you?”
The bathroom bursts into light, jolting me fully awake, searing my eyeballs.
“Bloody hell, Gerald. Turn that thing off.”
“No. You might trip over something. Or piss on the seat.”
“The only thing I’m going to trip over is your great lubbering body. And I’m a thirty-year-old fucking urologist. I think I’ve got to grips with the mechanics of pissing straight. Even in the fucking dark.”
Just because I’m an old hand at insomnia doesn’t mean I’m always in a great mood at four a.m.
Grumpily, we eye each other. Or rather, I squint at Gerald, all snuggly in his tartan, brushed cotton jim-jams, whereas Gerald’s heavy-lidded gaze is directed…lower.
He blushes—even his big ears turn scarlet—and I make zero effort to cover myself up. His stupid attitude is the reason I’m fucking awake and trying to access the bathroom. In fact, seeing as I’m a provocative twat and half hard anyhow, from needing to piss, I give myself a little squeeze.
A few painful seconds of silence add to our growing stack before Gerald’s eyes cut away. Apart from the bright crimson bits of him, he’s pale, and his dark hair sticks up like he’s been electrocuted. I’m the naked one, but he looks vulnerable.
He switches off the light.
“All yours,” he mutters, pushing past me. “And make sure you flush.”
Marcus once smugly informed me that if you can’t name the irritating housemate in your shared accommodation, the culprit is probably you. I have no idea why he felt I had to be on the receiving end of this pearl of wisdom. If Gerald wasn’t my landlord, I would pass it on to him.
I don’t see him for the next couple of days.
It’s one hundred percent deliberate on my part; I’ve learned his routines by now, so avoiding him isn’t difficult.
I take my run whilst he slurps down his super-healthy breakfast, and then he’s in the shower whilst I munch on my Coco Pops.
In the evening, I time my return from the hospital at around the time he takes the imaginary dog out for a walk.
Still no idea where he fucking goes. Not sure I really care any longer. I’m moving out. ASAP.
Friday night finally rolls around, so I doll myself up and head north to take the town out for a spin.
Not for a proper sesh, because none of my mates are up for that anymore, unless it’s a special celebration.
But if I don’t escape Sutton Common and the oppressive nothingness of the flat soon, I’m either going to start my own kinky suburban Only Fans page purely for the entertainment value or teach the toaster how to play cards.
As Gerald, the flat, and the quiet streets of Sutton Common fade in the train’s rear view, like a Bat-signal, the London skyline sharpens.
My heart gives a responding little kick.
Damn it feels good. The city remembers my name.
When I change to the Northern line, I catch my reflection in a window—eyes lit, body thrumming with anticipation.
I don’t know how the night will pan out, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it?
The thrill of the big smoke. Anything, everything could happen.
Like a proper grown-up, I have a little rucksack for an overnighter at Luke’s if I don’t strike lucky.
No way am I schlepping back to Sutton Common at four in the morning, pissed.
Two gin and tonic cans guzzled on route means that by the time we reach Earth Bar, I’m getting my groove on and ready to party.
While Luke and I chew the cud with Isaac and Ezra, I wait for that buzz I felt on the train to return, for the fizzy, just-poured vibe full of possibility and promise.
Like London rail, it’s running late. Perhaps being surrounded by so much love is holding it at bay.
Isaac and Ez are as good as married and Stefan and Marcus have made up, if the last few slushy texts with pics of their gurning faces smooshed together are any yardstick.
None of my friends– straight or gay– have tied the knot, though it won’t be long before the invites start slipping through the letterbox.
If the mail reaches as far out as Sutton Common. And where will that leave me?
After ten minutes or so, Ezra turns away from us to chat to someone at the bar, thus giving me opportunity to admire his arse.
His and Isaac’s regular presence here—dancing, drinking, partying—is uplifting, a thought I clutch onto whenever I’m feeling low.
A living, breathing, loving demonstration that settling down doesn’t automatically mean goodbye fun times.
Whereas… Gerald…
“You should have brought your landlord along,” Isaac suggests. “For some housemate bonding. He’d probably not mind it in here for an hour or two. The music’s good—obviously. Even I might be persuaded to hit the floor later. And Neil’s introduced a couple of decent real ales.”
I was hoping for a night off from my Sutton Common and Gerald saga. “I’ll take your word for it.” I sip my third mai-tai. “And he’s more cell mate than housemate. I’ve only been there a fortnight. It feels like a life sentence.”
I picture Gerald doing an awkward dance, like a robot overdue a firmware update.
They rarely play music on Radio Four—perhaps he taps his foot along to the shipping forecast. He’s already told me he mostly eschews alcohol for health reasons, but I reckon if anything could tempt him, real ale would be it.
He’d sniff it suspiciously, then trot out an impassioned soliloquy as to why hops served below twelve degrees is basically treason.
“What’s he up to tonight?” Isaac asks.
“No idea. Don’t care.” I shrug. “At home I expect, dusting the skirting boards, or out doing whatever he does when he says he’s taking the dog for a walk.”
“He’s got a dog?” Isaac seems pleased. “That’s nice. He’s always said he’d like one someday.”
“No, he just pretends.” I give him a hopeless look.
“Seriously. He’s fucking weird, Isaac. I’ve made up my mind to find somewhere else to live, to be honest. I’ve got a flat viewing lined up tomorrow afternoon.
I reckoned I’d be able to make a go of it when I moved in, but we’re not exactly hitting it off. ”
“That’s a shame. For both of you. I thought you might lure him out of his shell a bit.”
Someone’s got to work out how to prise it open first. “I accept it’s probably my fault as much as his,” I confess, rather charitably, all things considered.
“I’m aware I can be needy and annoying sometimes, but trying to strike up a cordial relationship with a person whose pronouns are brooding, bitter, and belligerent, is just..
.barren.” I throw Isaac a helpless expression.
“I feel like I’m wading through a mountain of gravel every time I interact with him, even if it’s just to ask him to pass me the bloody milk.
” I blow out a long breath. If I keep dwelling on Gerald, that party buzz will never turn up.
“We rub each other up the wrong way. I suspect he’s fine with someone like you, Iz, who’s a bit more reserved. ”
Isaac sighs. “Can’t you find any common ground?”
“Hmm.” I wrack my brain. Nothing jumps out, and then I recall the shocking sensation of banging into Gerald’s solid chest and his big warm hands landing on my bare shoulders.
“Oh, he sleeps almost as badly as me.” Three times now I’ve heard him flushing the toilet during the night.
If he was any older, I’d be suggesting he gets his prostate checked out.
“We have more conversations on the way to the bog at four a.m. than we do over dinner. And about as civil. Does that count?”