Chapter 14
GERALD
I’m still processing my feelings for Alaric three nights later in the village hall.
He’s lively and loud, but it’s the kind of loud that makes me feel seen, not silenced.
Principally, because he shuts up and pays attention when it matters, instinctively knowing when to tune out the never-ending streams of consciousness in his own head and tune into someone else’s. It’s a neat, charming trick.
Thank God Elsa remembers what to do. At first, I walk her through the routine without the music and with an encouraging handful of mini treats.
She keeps giving me puzzled looks as if to say come on, faster!
So the second time, we do it properly, with the overhead lifts, the floorwork, the cha-cha.
Everything. We nail it. A huge weight slips from my shoulders.
When I return, Alaric’s in the sitting room, nestled into the sofa cushions and engrossed in something on his laptop that, from where I’m standing, could be a pornographic snuff movie. From the dry commentary, however, and the way he makes no attempt to cover it up, I deduce it’s work related.
“Holmium laser enucleation of the prostate,” he clarifies, as if that totally explains.
“I’m performing one with the boss assisting me tomorrow, so I’m revising a few pointers.
Not laser pointers, obviously. That would just be a really bad pun, and now I’m totally stoked that I came up with it. How’s Elsa?”
“Still real.”
I smile at him, despite my sitting room looking like a minor blizzard swept through.
Mugs, a hoodie, a purple throw, and a crisp packet combine to form a uniquely curated disarray screaming Alaric is still here.
Every time I come home, a stupid buzz of relief envelops me because I half expect to find boxes and bags packed and ready by the door, with him waiting to hand my key over.
So far, he’s had no joy finding somewhere suitable, but it’s only a matter of time.
And then I’ll have my sofa back, all to myself, and my sitting room will return to a neat, ordered blandscape.
And that imagery delivers no sense of satisfaction or relief whatsoever.
“How’s my super-favourite impatient patient?”
I blush, because really, he doesn’t mean it in a flirty way. I’m not his super-favourite anything—it’s just the way he talks. And talks and talks.
“Why are you standing like that?” he adds, furrowing his brow.
When I pull my shoulders back, a taut, achy sensation stings my belly muscles. “Like what?”
Alaric waves a hand encompassing all of me.
“Like you’re slightly hunched. I hope you haven’t overdone it.
You can expect some discomfort the first few times you do anything strenuous, and that’s normal.
But no heavy weights. You don’t ever lift the dog, do you?
Over puddles and gates and muddy ditches and things? ”
“No,” I scoff. Just swirl her above my head three times. “Elsa’s a border collie, not a pampered shih tzu. She can scramble across her own ditches. I’m fine.”
To demonstrate, I make myself stand even straighter and blench. In my eagerness to get back on it, maybe I have exceeded my limits.
Naturally, my surgeon tenant spots my discomfort. “And you’ve got book club tonight!” he tuts. “You’re overdoing things, Gerald!”
“Book club is hardly strenuous.”
Regardless, he insists I sit so he can bring my laptop over to me. Before I know it, I have two cushions behind my back, my feet propped up on a kitchen chair (apparently to reduce the strain on my abdominal muscles), two paracetamols, and a cup of tea.
And a fusspot of a hobbit cross-legged on the sofa next to me.
“Much better.” Critically eyeing his handiwork, he flips open a tube of Pringles. “What book are we discussing tonight?”
We? When did we become a we?
“Er…Slow Horses,” I say, “By a British author called Mick Herron.”
As I navigate to the Zoom meeting, Alaric crunches on a Pringle.
“Slow Horses. Nice title. Is that kind of like a Black Beauty sort of thing? But in reverse, obviously, ‘cos Black Beauty—with a cool name like that—was probably a really fast horse? Though I assume it’s not a children’s book, like Black Beauty, because I saw your book club mates on that last Zoom call.
No way do a bunch of eggs like them read children’s books.
So it’s about some old nags that trot really slow, right? ”
Is he pranking me? His tone is serious and enquiring, but that glint in his eye holds just enough mischief there to baffle me.
Like most conversations with Alaric, it’s mildly stressful for several reasons.
My sofa is only a two-seater. Every time he chomps on a Pringle, it’s like his mouth is breaking a tiny pane of glass right next to my ear.
But it’s also kind of thrilling. His bony hip on the sofa nudges mine every time he reaches for a Pringle. How can that one point of contact– we’re barely touching through layers of clothing– make every other sensation blur?
I decide to play with a straight bat. “The ‘slow horses’ are a group of British intelligence agents who’ve all messed up potential stellar careers and end up working desk jobs at Slough House, a dumping ground for drudge jobs. The whole series of books is called Slough House.”
“Oh.” Crunch, crunch, crunch. “No horses, then. Fast or slow.”
“No.”
“Shame.”
His eyes cloud over a little, and I stifle a smirk. Wait until he finds out the second in the series is called Dead Lions. “Sometimes,” I offer, “book titles containing animals are often chosen as a metaphor. Or the animal could be symbolic of what the story entails.”
“Really? Very cool.” He snaps the lid back onto the Pringles, then gives me a bump with his elbow and points to the computer screen. “It’s eight o’clock. Your reading buddies are waiting.”
Hurriedly, I apologise for being tardy and launch into my prepared intro, acutely aware of Alaric hanging on my every word. He prises open the Pringles again. Crunch, crunch.
The assorted folk staring back at me from the screen are not my buddies exactly.
I started this online book club during the COVID pandemic, via an ad on the Sutton Common social media pages.
There’s been mixed membership over the years, but now we’ve settled into a core group of twelve, all from varied walks of life but with similar reading interests.
Even though we’re not in the same place, I find quiet joy in gathering with a group of people who’ve all read the same words but walked away with different feelings and opinions about it.
Which is a flowery way of admitting book club is the highlight of my very limited social calendar.
As I summarise the author’s bio, the Pringles lid snaps back on.
A minute later, Alaric peels it off again.
His hip nudges mine. With a series of soft wet pops, he sucks on his salty fingers.
Followed by more crunching and more lid fiddling.
As the club member tasked with outlining the plot begins, I mute my microphone.
“Why don’t you just admit you’re chugging the whole lot and leave the lid off? ”
“Nah, I’m edging myself. It’s way more fun.”
Images vastly inappropriate for book club flood my brain as he chomps down on another Pringle. He’s glued to the laptop as if we’re at the cinema. “Wow!” he whispers, “Look at that guy!”
With a soggy, salty finger, Alaric points to the top corner of the screen where a retired teacher called Edward (most definitely not Ed, or Eddie) has three copies of the book laid out and a second laptop open at his extensive notes page. “He thinks he’s the main character!”
“Like someone else around here.”
Trying to maintain a serious expression, I unmute myself.
We’re at the point where Edward habitually reframes my opening observations, lifted from the publisher’s notes, as if they’re his original incisive thoughts.
He expects the rest of us to chime in with a few appreciative hmms, tricky when I’m trying not to laugh.
After a minute or so, Alaric whispers, “I know his sort. Always trying to one-up everyone. If you’ve been to Tenerife for your holidays, he’s been to bloody Elevenerife, and brought back the T-shirt to prove it.”
“Shhh!” Still unmuted, I bite my lip. “But yes,” I murmur. Exactly.”
Alaric prods me, pointing to an affable chap named Gary in the bottom right corner. “And that guy,” he whispers back, “how do you get your face so close to the screen? Bro, you’re not FaceTiming the dentist. Big G here doesn’t want to check out those pubes you’ve got stuck in your molars!”
“You…” I smack down on the mute again before my snort reaches the others.
I even shut off my face for a few seconds too, as if I’m suffering a minor tech malfunction.
I’m suffering from something, that’s for sure.
“Shhh!” I glare at him. “This is a serious club! If you haven’t anything constructive to add, then don’t add anything at all. ”
Trying to look stern, I unmute myself. All is quiet for the next ten minutes.
Claire gives an impassioned, if not a little wordy, endorsement of the book’s insightful and sensitive portrayal of terrorism.
Predictably, Debs disagrees (they have a mutual dislike) with a lengthy discourse, citing the plotline perpetuates negative stereotypes.
With Alaric fidgeting next to me, it’s difficult to concentrate.
“Do you want a Pringle?” he whispers. “There are four left.”
“No, thank you,” I return out of the corner of my mouth.
“They’re the paprika-flavoured ones. Not as good as the sour cream flavour but still good. And I can’t manage the last few. Go on, just have one. You know it makes sense.”
“No. Thank you. Too salty. Too processed. And shut the fuck up!”
His blue eyes dance. Too late, I realise he enjoys me being firm.
It eggs him on. “Do you know how hot you are when you’re angry, Big G?
Maybe you should check out joining a debating society.
Your Mr Right could be ready and waiting for you, with articulate opinions on why you should approve of fox hunting or some such shit.
” He spreads an arm wide as Debs and Claire bicker about fuck knows what; it’s all faded to a blur.
“Out there somewhere. Perhaps you should rock up to one with some extreme views about–”
“Shhh!”
“All right, all right. It was only a suggestion. No need to get shirty!”
After around an hour, during which crunching turns into even more distracting salty finger sucking, we’re reaching the end.
It feels like the longest book club ever.
Having managed the last few Pringles, Alaric is now trying to balance the empty tube on the tip of his finger, then flick it up and roll it down his arm.
Twice someone’s commented I seem unfocussed tonight.
Angela even had the nerve to query whether I’ve actually read the book.
“No one’s discussed the most important bit of it yet,” Alaric murmurs. I turn to him frowning. If he makes another comment about the paucity of horses, I’ll push him off the sofa.
“And what’s that?” I enquire through gritted teeth.
He treats me to his gap-toothed smile, the one that makes my belly muscles burn in an altogether different way to the appendix operation, despite him being the most aggravating person ever to set foot in my house.
“I want to hear people’s views on the depiction of MI5 personnel as inept and easily outmanoeuvred by the Slough House team, and how the story satirizes the opaque, self-serving nature of bureaucratic power and, as a consequence, the human cost of institutional failure.”
I slam my hand down on the end for all button. Everyone will think I’m drunk or high or have been replaced by my subversive, twitchy twin. But I don’t care. Alaric bloody Alvin has been winding me up all along. “How did you… how—“
He’s chortling next to me like a kid whose biology topic for the term is reproduction and the teacher has just asked him to spell penis. “Apple TV, mate,” he declares smugly when he finally manages to stop laughing. “Binge-watched all four seasons.”