Chapter 12
GERALD
I contemplate an Uber home, to save bothering Alaric.
But on standing to leave the ward, my vision wobbles like a dodgy camera lens.
I have to hurriedly sit back down on the bed and pretend I only stood up to stretch.
The idea of lugging my bag down to the main hospital entrance and then making small talk with a stranger turns my stomach.
So Alaric it is, all spry and chatty and glossy-lipped.
Wafting his cut-grass smell around the interior of the car, he shimmies into the driver’s seat.
“I brought you a throw,” he says, “for your knees, to keep warm. And a cushion from off the sofa to hold against your belly.”
“It’s less than a twenty-minute drive.”
I soon discover the cushion works well, providing support as we judder off. I never checked my housemate held a driver’s licence or insurance cover; I simply assumed. As he crunches the gears at the carpark barrier, I’m still unsure.
“You’ll be quite sore for another day or so,” Alaric witters on.
I’d rather he concentrated on the traffic.
“Have the hospital prescribed you some oral morphine? If not, I can get a few days’ worth for you from the pharmacy in Sutton Common if I call the GP for a script first. I think you’ll need something for tonight, at least. It’s a good thing you live in a ground floor flat, isn’t it?
Stairs would be a bugger right now, wouldn’t they?
Especially those spiral ones—you can’t get anything up and down those, even when you’re hale and hearty.
Mattresses are the worst. I remember when my mum had a hysterectomy and came home from the hospital, which I know is a bigger op than an appendix, but she was… .”
A captive audience on the front seat, I’m ensnared in a never-ending podcast, one with no editing and no clear topic.
Every time I think he’s winding down, Alaric licks his glossy lips, takes another big breath, and launches into something else.
The hazards of soft cheese in pregnancy or a boarded-up shop window or the time he lanced an abscess on someone’s arse and it was under so much pressure that the pus spurted high into the air, hitting the operating theatre lights.
Around the time we pass the golf course, I stop bobbing my head and throwing in the occasional hmm.
He doesn’t appear to mind. I’ve already stopped counting the number of times he says and then.
Instead, with the comforting cushion clutched to my achy belly, I lean my head against the window and let it all wash over me, like soothing white noise. Bizarrely, I nod off.
“Do you want me to phone work for you, to tell them you’re going to be absent for a couple of weeks?”
I jerk awake like I’ve been tasered. “What?”
“Work, you know.” Alaric smiles across at me.
I’d rather he watched the road. “That repetitive chore we’re obliged to turn up to and complete, day after day after bleeding day, in order to pay for incommodious necessities like food and water and electricity.
Otherwise, we’d all grab ourselves a pair of binoculars and some yellow galoshes and become lighthouse keepers in the Outer Hebrides.
I don’t actually know what galoshes are by the way—I just like the word. ”
“Would—“ I’m befuddled. Why the fuck are we talking about lighthouse keepers?
“I…um…run it by me again,” I say. “Not the lighthouse part. The two weeks bit. Surely, I’ll be back to normal by Tuesday or Wednesday, won’t I?”
Alaric smirks. “Well, sweetie, that depends on your definition of normal. And if I’ve learned anything in the last decade spent cruising the London gays, one person’s normal is another person’s very glittery crimson flag.”
Perfectly summing up the difference between the two of us.
“You can say that again.”
“Don’t look at me like that!” Still irritatingly cheerful, Alaric pretends to slap my leg.
“My version of normality is just as valid as yours! But if you think you’re going to be bouncing out of bed and putting in an eight-hour shift at the coalface, then doing whatever it is you do to get those abs so deliciously chiselled, and, after that, popping home to take that imaginary dog for a canter, it ain’t happening any time soon.
Or you’ll find yourself back in the hospital. ”
My head’s reeling from his answer, on so many levels. An intriguing section of which I’ll examine later and at length. For now, my muzzy brain can only concentrate on one thing.
“Two weeks,” I clarify as we pull into our street.
He nods. “If not longer. Honestly, Gerald. You had a nasty sepsis developing there. You’re going to feel whacked. You should take it easy. The giddy world of optometry can manage without its kingpin for a fortnight, can’t it?”
A fortnight. My thoughts jam, and I take a deep breath.
No need for outright panic. We have another six weeks before the show, and this time last week, me and Elsa were already running through the routine faultlessly.
But how good is a dog’s memory? Would she forget her steps after a two-week hiatus?
“I don’t give a stuff about work.” The car comes to a lurching standstill.
“I’ll get sick pay.” Fortunately, I have an allocated space outside the flat.
“It’s the…” I refuse to refer to Elsa as an imaginary dog, though it’s tricky without explaining the whole shebang.
“Did you phone Mrs Gregson like I asked and tell her I wouldn’t be coming? ”
“Yes, of course.” Alaric’s brow wrinkles.
“What’s the big deal? If she’s incapacitated or something, then I’ll exercise the bleeding dog for you.
I grew up with two standard poodles, almost as tall as me.
I do dogs. Anyhow, you’ll be okay for a short walk in the fresh air yourself in a day or so, as long as you take it fairly easy. Gentle exercise will do you good.”
Last time I checked, performing a cha-cha alongside an energetic border collie doesn’t fulfil the criteria.
“And after the two weeks?” Elsa’s a clever dog. Even if we can’t manage the leaps and overheads, I should be able to walk her through it.
“You can build up to your normal exercise routine again.” Alaric’s blue eyes flick down to my T-shirt and exposed arms. The throw he brought was a godsend; putting on a sweater felt like a lot of effort. “Heaven forbid I don’t oversee your return to that.”
After a painful shuffle from the car to the front door, Alaric shouldering my bag and keeping up an endless unnecessary running commentary of watch the step and only another couple of feet and you’re doing really well, I crash into bed.
He’s still talking at me through the closed bedroom door, but I don’t have the energy to respond.
Finally, he gets the message and, retreating to the kitchen, informs the toaster and the food cupboard what he’s going to eat for dinner.
There’s far more to Alaric Alvin than a pretty face and a savage motormouth. A kind soul, for instance. Not many people would have brought a pillow and a throw for such a short journey. Or come back to the hospital last night to check on me.
He looked at my arms and admired my abs.
Gingerly, I run my fingers down my belly, feeling the grooves between my muscles.
My appendix was removed via keyhole surgery; the only souvenirs of the trouble stirred up inside are four small square dressings.
I run a cautious finger over those, too.
The lowest lies below the waistband of my boxers.
And then I half-heartedly fondle my dick (a proper wank would be way too painful), replaying Alaric’s casual comment about my abs in my head.
I know I’ve got a good body. Crafting muscle definition takes time and discipline; I’ve had ample of both.
Alaric’s not the first man to comment, though I don’t dress to show it off.
Nonetheless, I like to think my body makes up for my face, which no one’s ever going to pen any songs about.
My nose is massive, courtesy of my dad, and I’ve never bothered doing anything about my bushy eyebrows.
At rest, my expression is naturally unwelcoming; I don’t know if that’s something I’ve cultivated or simply how my face sits.
My dad’s face, in contrast, is very open.
At least my teeth are good, thanks to years of orthodontic treatment.
Alaric's on the phone now, in the sitting room, gabbling away to someone. His mum, I think, from the sound of it. He’s telling her about our emergency trip to hospital, making it far more dramatic than it was, and then he runs through every hour of the week preceding it and how keen he is to find somewhere back in the city.
She must have the patience of a saint. I picture him curled up on the sofa, no doubt scattering crumbs from his cheese toasty.
I suppose the place will be cleaner and tidier when he moves out. And a lot quieter, too.
"You know, Gerald, most people wake up when someone watches them sleep. But you don't.”
What the fuck? For the second time in three days, I open my eyes to Alaric standing over me, beaming.
The gap between his teeth makes him appear much younger than he is.
He should still have scraped knees and scabby elbows.
If anyone else woke me with an observation that creepy, I’d scope out an escape route.
“That’s the kind of thing people say who collect hair samples from strangers.”
I stretch and then wince, my belly reminding me that, whilst there isn’t much to see on the outside, inside I underwent a proper operation.