Chapter 4
LUKE
I don’t know why Alaric hangs around with me at work, just that he does and I’m grateful. On Thursday afternoons, his urology clinic takes place a few doors down from Dermatology, guaranteeing he’ll wander across and park his skinny bum on my desk for a chinwag.
“Can I interest you in rubbing one of your special dermatological creams on my growth down there, Dr S? It’s getting bigger.”
Alaric says down there with a coquettish flutter of his lashes as if it’s a secret location on a treasure map. Until he cosied up with Gerald, half the gays of London had found it. These days, he’s all mature and sensible (mostly) and a high flyer, not that his ego needs to know that.
What can I say? We share an unlikely friendship.
“Sure,” I answer, straight-faced. “But let me wash my hands first, I’ve been taking scrapings from fungal warts all morning. Would hate to spread it around.”
Alaric shudders, pulling a face. “Ugh. Maybe it can wait.”
“Perhaps you should ask Gerald to check it out for you.”
“He just texted me a dick pic. He’s the reason I’ve got it.”
Way, way too much information, though I’ve heard so much about Gerald’s dick, I reckon I could pick it out from a line-up.
“Anyhow.” Alaric crosses one stylishly clad leg over the other. “Ezra said you were the handsome hero of the hour at the weekend, after I left. Why am I not surprised?”
Alaric flirts with me a lot, but Alaric flirts with everybody.
“Slight exaggeration. Neil fell off the stage again.”
“Again! What’s the bloody matter with him?”
I shrug. “He says he was drunk. But it sounds as if he briefly knocked himself out. I kept an eye on him back at his flat for a few hours, that’s all. He seemed fine.”
“Hard to tell with Neil.” Naughty mouth twisting into a smile, he leans towards me conspiratorially. “Did he try to jump you?”
“No. Obviously.”
Alaric sits back. “Why obviously?”
“Because…” I search for a reason from a lengthy list, starting with my patchy hair and encompassing my fragile mental health.
Neil’s way out of my orbit. Pluto to my random, unnamed piece of moon rubble.
“Why would he? He can have anyone, and he’d just smacked his head.
At that point, I don’t think getting a bloke into bed was on his mind. ”
Alaric huffs a laugh. “Trust me, it’s always on his mind. There’s barely room for anything else. I love Neil to bits, but he’s a walking, talking, falling catastrofuck. Keep well away.”
“No problem. He didn’t exactly endear himself to me. I only hung around because Ezra was worried.”
“Ezra worries about everyone. But they’re going to have to think about putting safety rails around that stage if he carries on like this. That or Neil needs to get his eyes tested.”
I work at the hospital part time, not because I’m lazy, have a side hustle, or because I have endless pots of money, but because I found out the hard way: dermatology two days a week is the sweet spot between professional intellectual fulfilment and voluntary admission to a psychiatric ward.
I’m much healthier than I was, but only because I work at it.
When people ask how are you, I usually answer I’m okay, because it’s the basic truth.
I’m neither euphoric nor spiralling. I’m not avoiding life; I’m protecting it.
I enjoy my job, and I enjoy the company of my friends and family.
If I come across as steady and boring, well, I’ll take that as a win.
Mental illness and me are lifelong friends without benefits and forever destined to cross paths.
Though I’m far better at reading the signs these days.
I’ve developed workarounds, too. I’m wildly self-aware, battle-hardened.
I still spiral; a run of rainy afternoons, for example, and my whole being decides my joy should short circuit.
Or stuffing a mountain of laundry into the machine can overwhelm me with the sudden conviction that I’m failing at being a capable person.
But at least I’m aware I’m spiralling. And if there’s still room for doubt, I only need to search my reflection for confirmation.
Which was why the interlude with Neil disproportionately stressed me out. Too many unexpected dramas like that and I sink faster than cheap crumbly NHS biscuits into a hot cup of tea.
When work finishes, I head for my daily swim in the local pool.
Lap by lap, stroke by stroke, the underwater hush clears all the noise from my brain.
I go nowhere, but I always feel rinsed afterwards, not simply clean but recalibrated.
Aside from the hospital, where my colleagues are used to my hair situation and my patients have too many of their own vulnerabilities to pay much attention to mine, it’s the only place I don’t cover up with a hat or a hoodie.
If I swim at roughly the same time every day, then most faces (or rather blurry body shapes and swimsuits) are nothing but familiar, simple scenery.
People pay their four quid to plough down a few lanes and then be on their busy way, not gawp.
Outside my flat, a man paces the pavement. A laptop bag is slung over his shoulder and he’s carrying a large potted plant. As I approach, I step to the side out of his way.
He stops pacing.
“Hey, doc. Hi. It’s me. Neil, Ezra’s friend.”
I freeze, though a little part of me is relieved he appears okay.
I didn’t sleep well after I left him in the middle of the night, uneasy and off kilter every time he’s crossed my mind since.
Mostly with mild anxiety. I shouldn’t have left, even though I’d have heard from one of our mutual friends if something serious happened.
Yes, he was less than charming, but irritability can be a subtle sign of head injury too.
Neil looks much more than okay, actually.
I’ve never seen him outside. His pale skin (skin’s my job; I always register it first) is flawless.
Either he applies sunscreen religiously, rarely leaves the club, or was simply born lucky.
Most people look worse in broad daylight—our imperfections have nowhere to hide.
Annoyingly, Neil doesn’t seem to have any.
Until he opens his mouth.
“Can I come in for a moment, doc?”
“It’s Luke.”
“Luke. Sorry. Nice name. Suits you.”
Whatever. The back of my neck suddenly feels clammy, nothing to do with my damp hair. This is the moment he tells me he suffered a fit after I left, and was blue-lighted to ED. Then he tears a strip off me.
“How do you know where I live?”
He throws me a sheepish grin. “I texted Isaac for it. I told him I wanted to get you something for staying and looking after me all night.” Which we both know I didn’t. He thrusts the plant out. “Here. Have this.”
“A potted plant.” Unthinkingly, I take it from him, slightly stunned. “Why?”
He shrugs. “You look like a potted plant kind of guy.”
I don’t know what to make of that. “No, I mean, why are you thanking me? I didn’t do anything. Why are you really here?”
Neil’s beautiful eyes (which I’m determined to spend the minimum amount of time looking into) flick away, then back. He scratches his arm, casting a glance down the street. “I was…uh…I was going to ask you a little favour.”
“If it’s something medical, then I always suggest people make an appointment with their GP. The other night was more of an…emergency. That’s different.”
“It’s not medical. I need someone to help me with some paperwork, and with Ezra out of the country, I couldn’t think of anyone else.”
He must have hundreds of people he can call on. “Alaric’s around,” I offer.
“Yeah.” His shoulders tense like he’s holding something in. “It’s kind of awkward. Not something I want to share with…uh…close friends.”
“Okayyy.”
“And I bought you a plant as a thank-you in advance.” He smiles again, a charming one. Whatever he wants, he’s anxious I cooperate. “So can I?”
“Can you what?”
“Come in for a few minutes.”
Holding the plant, I can’t reach for my bracelet.
“Listen. Neil. I…um…it depends. I’m trying to…
um…avoid problems at the moment. I don’t want to explain why.
I just don’t think I can handle any…uh…conflict, you know?
Sorry, that’s too strong a word, maybe aggravation or potential disagreement might be better. ”
I’ve got used to saying stuff like this. The first few times were embarrassing. No one likes to face up to facts about their inner makeup others might view as weaknesses, never mind sharing them with someone who’s barely an acquaintance.
“This will only take five minutes. I swear. Then I’ll be out of your hair. And it won’t upset you, I promise. It’s…it’s a nothing, really, just some paperwork I need someone to cast their eyes over. I simply don’t have anyone else right now I can ask.”
If it wasn’t for Neil’s beautiful chestnut eyes, wide and raw and beseeching, I’d decline.
He brushes a lock of dark hair back from his head.
Most of it is tied up in a bun. Neil rocks the romanticised, world-weary look of an angst-ridden Byronic poet even more convincingly than Ezra.
But I’m still unsure. Alaric’s been friends with Neil for years, intimate friends for some of them, and even he advised me to give him a wide berth.
Not that Neil’s interest in me lies in that direction. Despite the clamminess spreading under my arms, I’m intrigued as to what could be the problem. Some of the anxiety and exhaustion looks real.
“Five minutes, you say?”
“Yeah. Maximum. I promise.”
My flat isn’t what people expect. Alaric says it’s decorated like I ran through a Moroccan souk covered in Velcro and brought everything I stole back home with me.
I haven’t—I haven’t been well enough to travel much at all in recent years—but I have spent a lot of time browsing charity shops.
Facebook Marketplace is a goldmine if you know where to look.
Everything is mismatched but works, a little like me, most of the time.