Chapter 16
GERALD
I get home later than usual. Elsa, overjoyed to be doing what she does best, wanted to play.
Alaric’s still up, which used to set my teeth on edge, but now doesn’t bother me one bit.
The reverse, in fact; his incessant chatter has mutated into soothing background noise, like having talk radio on, but not really listening or being expected to engage.
He doesn’t bear a grudge if I disappear into my room mid-soliloquy, or sulk when I re-emerge and don’t pick up where we left off.
I think he understands my need to dip out every now and again.
He's FaceTiming his parents on speakerphone—both of them. I’ve already worked out from which parent he’s inherited his loquaciousness: his mother.
She’s rabbiting on about the two sets of neighbours with whom they share a pool in Alicante.
They’re not rich expats by any stretch, but their small apartment block near the beach sounds a hell of a lot better than a council estate in Dagenham.
They’re always laughing and gossiping and teasing.
I can’t deny a pang of jealousy. We—my family—we used to be like that.
I throw Alaric a wave. Less enthusiastically than normal, he waves back. “Gotta go, mum, Big G’s home. See ya.”
Surprisingly, I don’t mind ‘Big G’ either.
Noisy kisses all round and they sign off until tomorrow. As soon as they do, Alaric’s bright smile fades. “Good walk?”
“Yeah.” I mean it. “Really good.”
My surgical scars feel fine. When Elsa wandered outside for a sniff and a widdle, I did some cautious planking exercises. I’ll probably ache a little tomorrow, but my fitness is bouncing back.
“Cool.” Alaric pats the sofa next to him. “Have you got a minute?”
“Sure.”
He’s going to tell me he’s found somewhere else to live, sooner than expected.
Like he said, a young surgeon is exactly the type of solid, professional housemate other professionals seek out.
He only ended up here with me because he’s trying to reduce his student loans and I was a cheap option.
As he shuffles his belongings onto the floor to make room, I take the seat next to him.
It feels terribly close. A fortnight ago, I’d have been more comfortable in the chair, but I’m starting to get used to sharing the sofa with him.
Ah well, it’s going to happen anyway. Telling me now is a kindness of sorts. I might find myself becoming attached to him if he stays any longer.
“Something wrong?” I ask, bracing for the words.
“Kind of.”
His gaze darts away. He fidgets with the baggy sleeve of his oversized hoodie, worrying at a loose thread. “I… um…I followed you tonight. After you picked up Elsa and went to the park and then the church hall. And then I…”
As time stutters, I experience a flicker of disbelief. Did I hear correctly? Why on earth would anyone bother following me?
He pulls his sleeves over his hands and takes a precise breath in. “I went around the back of the hall where the curtains weren’t closed properly and spied on you. You and Elsa. But mostly you.
“And I’m so sorry,” he continues. “I had no right to do that. To invade your privacy. I don’t know why I did, except that I was bored and restless and you always seem to have stuff going on, and you also seem to have all the answers.
You’re so solidly content, Gerald, when I’m so solidly uncontent, except with no good reason.
Whilst you’re running a book club and cooking healthy dinners and looking after your elderly neighbour’s dog, I…
I…I’m sitting here figuring out what I’m supposed to do with the next decade and whether I could squeeze a nervous breakdown into my unpredictable work schedule.
“Anyhow, I followed you because I’m a dick, the biggest dick that ever lived, which is ironic given that my actual dick is on the smaller side of average.
And now I’m apologising. Massively. Unreservedly and wholeheartedly.
To you. Sorry, sorry, sorry, Gerald. Stalking someone else is no solution to my own issues, nor is it a benign way of passing the time.
In retrospect, I don’t know why I thought it was an okay thing to do.
It’s an abuse of your trust in me, someone you have to live with.
And so, from tomorrow, I’ll double my efforts to find somewhere else to live and keep out of your way until I have. ”
When he runs out of steam, Alaric stares down at his feet, and I stare at mine.
It's a good apology. The kind of apology that takes courage. The kind that’s about repairing what he’s done wrong at the expense of his own pride.
Why am I’m not surprised? Alaric’s a good guy.
Jittery, chaotic, and currently unsure of his place alongside everyone else, but, fundamentally, a good guy.
He unwinds from the sofa, running his hand through his short hair. “I’ll…um…it’s probably best if I go to bed.”
He gets as far as the door.
“What did you think?” I’m not sure I want to know, but certain I’m not ready for our tentative friendship to end this way. If he takes the piss, then I’ll probably knock the whole routine on the head.
“What?”
“What did you think?” I repeat more confidently. “Of the dance? Of me and Elsa?”
He pauses, then turns very slowly. “You’re asking me what I think? You’re… you’re not really, really pissed off?”
I shrug. What’s done is done. And someone’s got to be the first critic, Alaric’s as good as anyone.
“We’ve never performed in front of an audience,” I explain. “I just wondered if you thought it was any good. I was worried about the song choice, but the pace of it seems to work for Elsa.”
Alaric’s eyes widen. “Are you… are you for real?”
“Yes. I am. So tell me.” I’m not very good at appearing receptive and welcoming, but I give it a go.
His eyebrows shoot up; he rubs a hand through his short hair again, then shakes himself, not unlike Elsa does, as if trying to get his head straight.
A second later, Alaric’s dived back onto the sofa.
He clutches my arm, bouncing up and down.
The grin on his face is sparking enough to light fire.
“Oh my god, Gerald, it was fucking amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it!
How the hell does anyone teach a dog to do that?
And how the hell do you dance like that?
You’re like some sort of professional backing dancer—it was like watching Justin fucking Bieber!
And great song choice! I used to vibe to that with my mum all the time, except nothing like you!
I’d look like a dancing bear strutting my stuff. ”
I doubt that. Even the way he leaped onto the sofa was elegant.
“I have a very talented partner.” My face flushes.
“She’s really easy to teach. Elsa’s six, so still fairly young.
She was climbing the walls after Mrs Gregson had a stroke; Mrs Gregson thought she might have to give her away.
So I started walking her after I finished work, and realised maybe we could do more than that.
Border collies are clever, quick learners. ”
“More like she has a great teacher,” Alaric scoffs. “You can dance, Gerald! You can really fucking dance! How? How did you learn that?”
For once, I’m going to bask in the praise, though it would be far easier to tone the story down.
I could even pretend to be embarrassed about being a weirdo who secretly practises a complicated dance routine with my neighbour’s dog.
I could beg Alaric not to tell anyone. I could make out like my parents pressured me to do ballet as a child and then, later, felt obliged to return to it so as not to upset my mum.
But I don’t, because that would be lying.
And Alaric has been honest about spying on me, despite painting himself in a bad light.
So instead, I let the pleasure in my voice shine.
I show him something I love, how dancing in that village hall with Elsa is the closest thing to joy I’ve experienced in years.
“My mum owned a dance studio,” I begin. “Ballet, tap, and modern. I had regular lessons in all three until I was sixteen. And then, for extra money, I helped with the younger kids’ classes.
In my late teens, I stopped for a few years.
Then, when I finished uni and came to live and work near home again, I partnered her at the evening salsa club. It was good exercise and kept me fit.”
So nerdy, he’s probably thinking. So dorky. So not Alaric with his stylish clothes, his social confidence, his flirty teases. And his smaller side of average dick—which looked pretty perfect too, from the short glimpse I had.
Still grinning at me like he’s uncovered a secret cache of crispy raspberry yoghurts, Alaric hugs his knees.
“But there aren’t any dogs in that story, Big G.
I need more dogs. Just as I need more wolves and slow horses.
I need to know what the fuck made you decide to suddenly start salsa-ing and cha-cha-ing with the neighbour’s cute pooch, instead of your mother. ”
A beat passes. “Because my mother died, that’s why.”
For a long moment, it’s as if I’ve hit mute on the entire room. Alaric’s eyes flit to the photo of me and my parents and then down at his hands.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” He swallows. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, because it is, mostly. “It was three years ago now. We always used to watch dog shows on the telly as I was growing up—she loved dogs. Her favourite parts were the dog agility and the heelwork. We had an ancient Jack Russell, and we used to joke we were going to enter him.”
“Is heelwork the correct term for what you do?”
I shake my head. The rules for entering professional dog shows are several pages long; I should know, I’ve studied them enough over the past year.
“Not quite. Elsa and I do freestyle. It’s a newer category giving people more creative opportunities.
It’s more dance-y than heelwork and less technical.
All four of the dog’s paws can leave the floor.
The handler can be much showier too. As a pair, you can tell a story.
The dog doesn’t have to be glued to your heel, so it plays to our strengths. ”
Alaric nods thoughtfully. “When you say ‘category’, do you mean like a dog show category?”
“Yes, the Crufts Kennel Club categories.”
“Crufts?” His blue gaze lights up with the kind of wonder usually reserved for cartoon characters. “Crufts? Oh my god, Gerald, if you tell me that you and Elsa are training for Crufts, I might have to scream. Loudly.”
I cover my ears. “We’re… um… we’re booked into the regional final, three weeks from now. The top two winning pairs get a pass to Crufts.”
Alaric’s giddy, unintelligible squeal breaks the sound barrier. My little flat has never seen an outburst of emotion like it. His hands flap, and he does a weird, excited jiggle, a firework of pure unadulterated joy careening off the walls of my beige sitting room.
“Oh wow, oh wow, triple wow! Gerald! Crufts is like…it’s like the Met Gala or the…the Eurovision Song Contest for dogs! The costumes! OMG, the pampered pooches! I love it! Some of those dogs have better outfits than me, and they certainly strut a runway better. I can’t believe it!”
Leaping off the sofa, he stands before me, holding a pretend microphone to his mouth.
In a serious, nature-documentary sort of voice, he declares, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Florence, Italy, please welcome Venetia de Medici Arrivederci, a magnificent two-year-old Papillon with an impeccable pedigree traced all the way back to Julius Caesar himself. This superlative example of the breed is led into the ring today by her breeder and handler, the fabulous Fabrizio Fettuccini. When she’s not strutting her stuff in the world’s biggest dog show arenas, Venetia can be found in the Medici Palace, farting into a pink velvet cushion and venting strong opinions about brutalist architecture. ”
My laugh comes out crooked, more like a rusted hinge opening. Neither melodic like Alaric’s nor rich like my dad’s. But every bit as heartfelt. When I finally manage to stop, I say, “Elsa, the border collie from Sutton Common, doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?”
“Nah, but Venetia de Medici Arrivederci can’t do a paso doble on her hind legs, can she?
And fabulous Fabrizio might be brilliant at mincing around an amphitheatre attached to a diamante dog lead, but can he perform an Arabian with a bloody dog reverse-windmilling around his legs?
In Sutton Common Methodist Hall, after he’s spent a day making fifteen pairs of polarised lenses and picked up and disposed of his own dog’s shit?
No. He bloody can’t, can he? Because he’s not Gerald Mason, senior optometrist, book club organiser, and dog dancer extraordinaire.
You can do this, Big G. No way is anyone going to beat you to that top spot. No way.”