Chapter 20
GERALD
Clothes shopping expeditions make me feel like I’m walking into enemy territory, unarmed. Back to the wall and already planning my exits before I’ve tried anything on. I warn Alaric as we alight from the Tube in Tottenham Court Road. Apparently, I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.
“Absolutely agree regarding the military analogy,” he declares, skirting the tourists like a pro.
“But finding the right shirt is a campaign, not an ambush. Comfy shoes are a must, but,” he glances down disapprovingly at my ageless, timeless, graceless Adidas Gazelles, “you don’t seem to possess any uncomfy ones, so I’m letting that slide.
Hydration is a cure for department stores—I have water for both of us—and plenty of sugary snacks.
And before you say it, yes, I brought you some of those shitty fruity cereal things. ”
With Alaric bouncing along beside me, this shopping expedition is also equipped with a homing device, as he appears to know exactly which shops to attack.
The first store is a no. With a dismissive shake of his head, we’re in and out before I’ve even shielded my eyes from the strip lights.
The second is a no, too. Not enough zhuzh, apparently.
Undeterred, he drags me into a smaller, boutique-y sort of place, the likes of which I’ve never set foot in before.
To be fair, I’ve never ventured into the entire shopping district.
Every other street doorway is the entrance to a funky bar or a vegan café or a chic outlet very much like the one we’ve marched into, as if we belong.
I’m not hard up, by any means, but I’m not wasting my hard-earned pennies on expensive clothing I’ll hardly ever wear either.
“Cheaper than it looks.” Alaric reads my mind.
“This place is a hidden gem.” An assistant, dressed like he’s waiting his turn on the catwalk after Alaric’s opened the show, greets us with an overfamiliar wave.
He’s already decided we’re a couple. Proudly standing next to Alaric, I make no attempt to disabuse him, while my boyfriend touches, coos, and strokes almost every garment in sight.
“You have great taste,” clucks the assistant.
“Yes, he does.” I glower. “That’s my sweater he’s wearing.” And you’re eye fucking my man.
“I was cold,” Alaric explains helpfully, “When we left the house this morning.”
Without warning, he pounces. Selecting a shirt from a long rack full of individual items, Alaric holds it up. “Ooh, this is nice!”
Navy blue and very shiny, the kindest thing I can say about the shirt is that it matches Elsa’s kerchief.
“It won’t fit me.” The sleeves are far too narrow, ditto the shoulders, even though the label proclaims it’s my size.
“It will.” Alaric ignores my lack of enthusiasm. “The texture ’s nice, too. Not too thin. Well made at the seams.”
Obediently, I touch the slippery fabric. “It feels like the inside of a coffin.”
“Excellent. We’ll try it on,” he informs the assistant hovering behind us. “Dracula here will also try it in green.” He turns back to me, a gappy smile tugging at his lips. “I know we originally said we’d go for blue, but sometimes, colours surprise you.”
“That’s green?” I point to the other shirt he’s holding up. “I thought it was burgundy.”
He smiles. “See? Colours surprise you. It’s green. Burgundy is a wine, and I have a feeling I’m going to need some. Soon.”
Firmly, I return the green shirt to the peg. “It’s too light a colour. It will show me sweating.”
“Hmm. I hadn’t considered that.”
At this point, the assistant wanders off, thank fuck. I hate it when they stand around. This one has begun smiling at me like he’s trying to be my mate. I don’t have mates. Except perhaps Alaric Alvin, the elf, his shrewd gaze assessing me, my armpits, and the retreating assistant.
“We’ll concentrate on the navy.”
Alaric follows me into the changing room.
Most people would sit outside on the stool provided expressly for that purpose.
Especially as it’s a tiny cubicle suited for one person, not two.
Glancing at us in the mirror, snug in the confines of the cubicle as if scrunched together for a passport photo, I unbutton my comfy, checked shirt.
The bright overhead light makes the skin of my face look haunted and ghoulish.
In contrast, it bounces off Alaric like he’s fabricated from a totally different, luminous substance.
Thankfully, we’ve agreed to stick with my plain black ballet trousers; I don’t think I could strip off my lower half in here without Alaric noticing how his closeness affects me. As it is, he’s as good as helping me undress. If I step three inches to my left, I could reach down and kiss him.
With a jolt, it occurs to me—nothing would give me more pleasure.
“Go on,” he encourages, holding the shirt out, swapping it for mine.
It looks marginally less shiny in here than on the peg.
It’s still fucking out there, but Alaric’s right by suggesting I should wear something with the wow factor.
There’s a reason the Fabulous Fabrizios of this world mince off with the prized rosettes.
Their performances aren’t easily forgotten.
Still, as I slip my arms into the tight sleeves, I’m so far from my comfort zone I’m going to need Google maps to find my way back. The top button fastens around the level of my nipples. “I’m showing more chest than a convention of pirates.”
“You’re giving ‘lumberjack meets lounge lizard’ vibes.” Alaric throws me an approving smile. “It’s majestic. Masculine.” His lips brush my ear as he reaches up onto his toes to whisper, “And very, very gay.”
I’ve never worn a shirt without buttons fastening up to the collar.
I’m not sure I even realised they existed.
I’ve never worn satin before, either. The fabric clings and slides off me at the same time, as if I’m simultaneously trying to hold onto and shed a second skin.
If I had a pimple on my shoulder, you’d see the outline.
When I twist to examine my side profile, I can count every single fucking rib.
I raise both arms up in the air and then across my chest, testing the stretch between my shoulder blades, half expecting a ripping noise.
Bizarrely, despite the shirt adhering to me more tightly than a Tupperware lid, it doesn’t restrict my movement.
I repeat the actions, more purposefully.
Still no wrenching of the seams, simply more shimmery rippling.
Alaric has gone awfully quiet. For the last two minutes, his mouth has been shut tight.
That never happens. It must be bad. I turn a full 360, finishing up by staring at us both through the mirror again and self-consciously fingering the exposed inverted triangle of my unfashionably thick chest hair.
“I look like a gift-wrapped gigolo, don’t I?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, slowly. “Like a disco ball and a lava lamp had a glittery baby.”
“A fucking big, hairy baby.”
“Yeah.”
His fingers touch the fabric, stroking a line down from my shoulder, across the bulge of my bicep, and to my elbow. Then up again, only this time the fingers travel across the mound of my pec. Through the mirror, I spot my nipple tighten and hope Alaric doesn’t.
I give the shirt a little tug. He’s not raving over it; I should take it off.
Perhaps I should go with the plain black one at home.
Get Elsa a black kerchief to match. Maybe I could experiment with a different coloured belt to give myself some zhuzh.
Except… I’m strangely reluctant to let go of the thing.
For these short few minutes, I’ve stepped into being someone different.
I could be a winner in a shirt like this.
Maybe I could even win Alaric.
“I’ll change back.” I reach for the buttons. “We’ll find something else.”
Alaric’s hand closes over mine in a bone-shattering grip. “Not in this lifetime, sweetheart.” He prises mine away, not letting go. “You and that shirt, my friend, have just invented a new religion, and I’m naming myself the first of a long list of disciples.”
“You like it then.” His cool fingers remain tangled over mine. I can still feel on my skin where they lingered over the satin fabric. I imagine walking out of the cubicle with his hand still in mine.
“You, my friend, are going to slay and sparkle in that shirt. And, if you do that sideways-on rib manoeuvre thingy, maybe start an international incident. Trust me on this, Big G; Sutton Common, the regional finals, Fabulous Fabrizio, and Crufts, have never seen anything like it.”
Shopping mission accomplished, we sit outside a busy pavement café. The shirt’s tucked away in a bag on the ground between my feet, along with a belt boasting an intricate silver buckle. Alaric insists this will zhuzh up my black ballet trousers perfectly.
A glass of wine during daylight hours feels awfully, embarrassingly decadent, which suggests I need to get out more.
But, today, I’ve earned it. Absorbing Alaric’s effortlessly stylish ensemble, I wonder if he could wave his fairy wand and zhuzh me up.
Ever hungry, he orders a charcuterie board, but only after a lengthy discourse on the merits of salami versus chorizo, how breadsticks are manufactured and why they don’t make them more robust, and whether olives are superior to gherkins as an accompaniment. Undecided, we have both.