CHAPTER 1
ALARIC
We’re in a very gay cocktail bar near the hospital, enjoying a quick pint after work. At least, my friend and colleague Luke is having a pint. I’m having a mai-tai I can ill afford, garnished with a sprig of rosemary.
“Still no luck finding a new flat?” he asks.
“No.” Glumly, I take a small sip in an effort to make it last.
“How about–“ When Luke opens his mouth—before his lips even shape the word—I’ve guessed whose name is coming out. And, already, I’m shaking my head. “No. Absolutely not. Not Gerald.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Luke points out. “Remind me when you have to move out of Stefan’s flat?”
“This weekend.” I pull a face. “His boyfriend’s stuff is already piled up in my room.”
Stefan Henderson is my oldest, bestest, gayest school friend and, thanks to his excessively remunerated job in finance, the owner of a chi-chi, spacious flat in Fulham boasting three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Stefan remembers my mum’s birthday when I don’t. I prompt him the week before his dad’s.When I cried for three days straight after watchingCall Me By Your Name,he didn’t laugh. He simply fed me Pringles and refreshed my tissue supply until I felt able to reface the world. When he skateboarded down his grandma’s staircase aged fourteen and shattered the front door glass, I claimed it was me. We share fucking Netflix and Spotify accounts. The same fucking preferred flavour of Pringles (the original gateway drug, sour cream and onion).
But none of that counts for anything. His boyfriend, Marcus, now hisfiancé, has decided a lodger is surplus to requirement and allegedly needs my room as a second work study. Maybe it’s because I shaped a cock and balls with my beard trimmings in the bathroom wash basin, forgetting his parents were visiting. Or it could be repeatedly borrowing his eyebrow pencil and not returning it. More likely, however, it’s because I came home early and caught Marcus wanking with a pair of my used undies scrunched under his nose. We pretended I didn’t spot them, but… he knows I know.
Though perhaps he just hates me because Stefan laughs at my jokes way more than his.
“Gerald’s place wouldn’t be that bad,” Luke promises, based on the square root of absolutely fuck all. He’s only met the guy a couple of times, out with our mutual friend, Isaac. “You’ll hardly see each other. He’s a busy boy, like you. He works full time and has lots of hobbies.”
“Yeah, but what ones?” I sound sulky. I once had a flatmate who whittled miniature dollhouse furniture from soapstone. Turns out he made it to order for a gang smuggling powdered ket in and out of Heathrow. He’s now serving three years at Wormwood.
Luke purses his lips. “Er… I know he’s big into reading. Heavy stuff, prize-winning fiction. Um…I think he runs a bookclub? And he talked about getting a dog. I don’t know if he ever went ahead.”
“Does he abbreviate Gerald to anything?”
“Er…” Luke frowns. “Not that I’m aware. Why?”
I shrug. Pervy uncles are called Gerald, not housemates. “No reason. Does he wear a bowtie? Unironically?”
“He might.” Luke laughs. “If you ask him nicely.” My friend’s blue gaze travels from the top of my calico shirt (admittedly, a brave choice for work) all the way down to the hems of my trousers—a lush grey suede, glued to me like a supple second skin. “That’s rich,” he observes, “coming from a man with silver piping along his trouser seams. Please, don’t tell me you examined thirty patients in the urology clinic dressed like that.”
What can I say? I like to shake up the hospital ward rounds.
“Twenty-eight,” I correct. “And one of them complimented not only my choice of shirt but passed me his number, too. Fair play, given that he’s undergoing tests to get to the bottom of his longstanding impotence. Maybe I’m the cure.”
When I hollow my cheeks and suggestively suck on my straw, Luke crosses his eyes at me, making me laugh. I have no idea if he’s gay or not; he’s either oblivious to the attention he attracts or purposefully ignoring it. All I know is that he’s far more mentally stable than eighteen months ago. Back then he made several attempts to end his life. Now he works in a lower stress job and does normal things, like coming to the pub with me and suggesting shite flatmates. This healthy version of Luke is awesome, making his sexuality neither here nor there. And he doesn’t tell me off when I flirt with him, so I suck on the straw even harder. “I’m dressing for the job I want, not the job I have.”
“Whatever.” He takes a swig of beer. “But don’t come running to me when you’re in a disciplinary meeting dressed as the Goblin King.”
I adore my job, despite the mismatch in my income and my lifestyle—these expensive trousers a case in a point. People have an image of London surgeons as posh, rich old farts driving Bentleys and playing golf. Many do; most doctors hail from Luke’s comfy background, whereas I grew up on a council estate in Dagenham. Even my student debts are in debt. Aged thirty and in the thick of training for an unsexy career in urology, I’m years off owning any sort of car, and about as posh as a bowl of cheesy chips in the hospital cafeteria.
Luke takes another gulp of beer. “And stop trying to divert me with the straw sucking thing. Stay on task: Gerald is looking to rent his spare room, the money he’s asking is reasonable, and you need more affordable accommodation. Win-win.”
I sigh, knowing he’s right. Stefan has only ever charged me mate’s rates (another of Marcus’s gripes). No way could I have afforded such central London luxury otherwise.
“Honestly,” Luke continues, “Just do it. He’ll keep out of your way. You’ll be ships passing in the night.”
He dangles that like it’s a good thing. As if I want to be left to my own devices with nothing but my fervid brain for company.
“His book club books will be organised via the Dewey decimal system,” I say stubbornly.
“Quite probably.” Luke rolls his eyes at me. “But so what if they are? At least you’ll be able to lay your hands on the complete works of Nietzsche when you need them. Listen.” He lays his own hand over mine. For a second, I pray he’ll offer to let me lodge with him. I know he’s got a spare room. Alas, no. “As long as you pay the rent on time, don’t nick Gerald’s food from the fridge, and do your share of the cleaning, it will be like living alone.” Obliviously, he ratchets my anxiety up a few rungs. “I expect Gerald is a stickler for stuff like that.”
For a minute, I say nothing, letting the sugary mai-tai warm through my veins. I suppose no immediate red flags spring out.Apart from Gerald being called Gerald, obviously. If only his name, pastimes, and neckwear situation weren’t the worst of it. “His flat is in Sutton Common. I swear that’s not even a London postcode.”
