Chapter 33 #3
Edward-not-Ed is discussing the profound impact of parental mental illness and its lasting fall out on the two major protagonists. The worst sex soundtrack ever invented. Worse than a Nickelback power ballad or even Money Box Live on Radio 4.
“Al.” I push him away urgently. “We have to…”
“Have to what, babe?” Alaric grinds in my lap, urgently pressing his heavy cock up into my belly. “You want these off? You want this dick in your mouth?”
“Yes, but…I…uh… don’t turn around—I said don’t turn around! I forgot to switch the…ah…shit. We’re on fucking camera.”
Alaric’s head whips around. Edward-not-Ed drones on about The Deeper The Ocean The Uglier The Fish having parallels with southern Gothic literature.
For all the attention he’s receiving, he might as well be outlining how paint dries on an oak skirting board.
I’m not sure even he’s aware of what he’s saying.
Staring out of the screen, every single face is frozen in a horrified blend of incredulity, second-hand dismay, and a distinct whiff of suburban moral failure.
Except for Gary’s big round one. He’s chortling like a fucking drain and wiping tears from his eyes.
Above them all, the red camera light pulses with betrayal.
I slam my hand on the button, dowsing it, then attempt to slither under the table.
Tricky with Alaric semi-naked in my lap.
For five seconds, time stands still. Then, as if he hasn’t just had a front row seat for an unsolicited lap dance, Edward-not Ed cites examples of sardonic representations of Mark Twain.
“That’s it. We’re leaving Sutton Common tonight.” I push Alaric off my lap, my whiplashed dick now as shrivelled as if wrapped in ice. “We’re emigrating. Pack your bags.”
“No way! Shush! We’re styling this out.” Snorting a laugh, Alaric snuggles in next to me, pointing to the screen. “Look at them all; still riveted, waiting for the money shot. Membership will treble if this gets around; best book club in Sutton Common.”
I peep though my fingers. Patricia’s having a stab at refuting Edward-not -Ed’s claims that Twain wrote several excellent nuanced female characters, but her heart’s not in it. No one’s paying her any attention. It’s almost as if all eleven of them are waiting for me to turn my video back on.
“Sheesh,” Alaric continues, “have none of them ever seen two guys about to fuck before?”
“Um…probably not?”
“Listen: turn your video back on, turn your mic on, and style it out. This book club is your baby, you love it, and you’re better than all of them put together. I bet Edward-not-Ed can’t cha-cha in time to Jake Shears.”
“Does styling it out include melting into a river of mortification?”
Alaric kisses my forehead. “OMG, I’ve done way more embarrassing things than this.
I once gave an online presentation at a surgical meeting, and when it came to sharing some dull research on my screen, I opened the wrong tab and treated all fifteen of the bosses to three seconds of a very drunk, very naked Stefan doing willy windmills to a background of Shaggy singing ‘It Wasn’t Me. ’ Thank fuck they were all urologists.”
Heaving a few deep breaths, I count to ten, then unmute myself. And restart the video feed.
“Ah,” says a supercilious voice. “Look, everyone, Gerald’s back with us. And he’s brought his friend along this evening. Perhaps they can share their personal insights into—“
“Tosser,” Alaric hisses. “Never apologise, never explain. Just smile and wave.”
Alaric demonstrates both, with panache, and when Gary and Claire half-heartedly wave back, he snuffles a laugh into my shoulder. Following his lead, I raise my hand in a cringy, pathetic little wave. He gives me a nudge. “Introduce me.”
“This is Alaric.” I fumble for his T-shirt. I’ve managed to get it back over his head but he’s in no rush to put his arms through the holes and cover himself up. “He’s my housemate—boyfriend. And he… he loves me.”
“I think we’ve all worked that one out, Gerald,” chortles Gary. “He loves something, at any rate. What book are we reading next month? Brokeback Mountain?”
“Ha-ha,” I manage.
“And I love book club,” Alaric chimes in.
“I fucking love book club. Best night of the week IMHO, and trust me, I’ve had some good nights out.
Not in Sutton Common, obviously, unless you count the night I flattened the daffs crouched outside the church hall while the vicar was in bed.
Not my bed, I don’t know whose bed. His own, maybe?
Anyhow, that was a top night. I’ve not been clubbing anywhere in the world that could beat that, and I’ve visited some fucking cool clubs.
Though I still think you should throw in a werewolf book.
Or vampires. You know, for when everything gets a bit heavy going?
Chill out, lose yourselves a little. Get your groove on, especially you, top right corner.
Drop your shoulders. And Gary, mate, love your insightful commentary but push the screen back a bit, I can count your blocked pores.
But, yeah, vampire and werewolf books. There are some pretty good ones out there. Just saying.”
There’s the great-grandmother of stunned pauses, during which nothing happens except that Gary’s face shrinks a fraction.
“Okay, well… um… thanks, Alaric. Nice to meet you and we’ll bear that recommendation in mind. Now, Pat, I believe you were about to summarise…”