“Listen.” My Dad’s eyes flick to the black-and-white family photo on the sideboard. “Sandra and I are off to Cornwall next weekend for a few days. We’ll probably take some flowers and stop on the way and visit the spot where–“
“Good. Lovely. Cornwall’s nice this time of year. Less busy.” My stomach flips.Not going there. Not going there.“Have a…a good trip.”
Alaric breezes back, thank fuck, balancing three mugs and a little plate of biscuits. “May I present you two gentlemen with some zesty orange puffs, courtesy of the peculiar little shop across the road from the hospital staff carpark.”
He deposits the biscuits with a flourish and a wiggle of those damned narrow hips. “A little mid-afternoon treat for everyone. Flaky on the outside, but so, so super sweet on the inside.” As he sets them down, he actually bloody winks, making my dad snort. “People have been known to say the same about me.”
I roll my eyes.
“I doubt you’re that flaky, what with being a surgeon.” My dad holds the textbook aloft. “I can’t understand half of these words.”
“Me neither,” Alaric titters, waving his compliment away. “But don’t tell the patients. And definitely not my boss.” His pink tongue licks a delicate stripe along the seam of his orange puff. My eyes are glued to it. “All I can say, Alan, is my ducks might not be in a perfect row, but at least they’re having fun.”
Is it my imagination, or is that another comment intended for me? Whatever. The fact my patience is balancing on the edge must be written all over my face. After another needless, lascivious lick, he then adds smoothly, “I’ll let you get on. Lovely to meet you, Alan. No doubt I’ll see you again.”
I generally feel a little out of sorts after my dad visits, like he’s nudged something loose inside me. Memories of my mother mostly—happy, family times. Of other holidays, for instance. How she was always the first to try a new local drink or taste a new food- razor clams on a French beach, a weird aperitif in Holland. Dad and I were a united front, shying away. Today, with mention of Cornwall, it’s ten times worse, more than the usual anger, grief, and plain sadness. Guilt, probably. That I’m still such an arsehole to him.
For someone who rarely imbibes, I really need that glass of wine.
The one thing Idon’tneed is my busybody housemate sticking his oar in.
“You’re the spit of your dad,” Alaric ventures as he sidles into the kitchen. For a small guy, he always manages to fill it up. “He’s nice. I wish my parents were more local. They buggered off to Spain to escape me.”
Because you never bloody shut up.“Yeah.”
“I mean, it probably had a little bit of something to do with the endless sunshine, cheap tapas to die for, and the fact that my auntie and uncle were already out there, but, you know, how to make a boy feel unwanted.
“Anyway.” He sloppily spreads marmalade over a slice of bread, then folds the bread in two. Who the fuck (except for that bloody ubiquitous fictional bear) eats marmalade fucking sandwiches? “I’m not prying, but your parents…um… aren’t together? I only say that ‘cos I heard your dad mention someone called Sandra while I was making the tea. His new partner, yeah?”
As he drops his unsolicited enquiry about something he knows fucking nothing about, Alaric sucks a blob of marmalade from his finger, utterly oblivious to my emotional turmoil.
“Yes,” I bite out. “His second wife.”
Putting two and two together and coming up with seventeen, he then says in a sympathetic voice, “Fairly recent, is it? Seeing as my folks have been married for, like, a millennium, I don’t really know much about blended families, but I imagine it’s tough when one of your parents gets a new partner. Takes some getting used to. Though it explains why you and your dad are a bit stiff around each other.”
Already frayed like an old carpet, my nerves snap. “It’s astonishing how confidently you assumed I needed to hear that.” I glare down at him. I’m being totally out of order and don’t give a flying fuck. “I didn’t realise I was taking random commentary on my familial relationships today.”
Alaric opens his shiny little mouth to respond, then wisely thinks better of it. For a moment, I think he’s going to take his sloppy sandwich elsewhere. Instead, he edges closer to the door so I can’t leave the kitchen without pushing past him. The air between us shifts. Watching me, he takes a bite and chews carefully. After theWolf Hallepisode, I should have realised he doesn’t back down easily.
“Have I done something to upset you, Gerald?”
“Not especially. I just don’t appreciate you interfering in family business that has nothing to do with you.”
“Hardly interfering,” he observes amiably. “Merely making conversation. Although with you, it’s less of a conversation and more a dramatic monologue with occasional grunting.”
We glare some more at each other. Or, rather, I glare, and he takes another calm bite of sandwich. Crumbs fall to the floor.
Hell is other people. Occasionally, friends, family, and acquaintances helpfully point out I’m antisocial. I daresay Alaric will do the same any minute now. They observe it like it’s a flaw, like I’m totally ignorant. It’s not that I don’t want to connect, but being warm and open, like Alaric, doesn’t come easy to me. Small talk? Exhausting. Big talk? Horrifying. The thing is,though, I don’t care. I’m not broken. Neither am I wishing I was more like them. I just recharge differently, don’t suffer fools, and I’m… fine with that.
“I’m sorry,” I retort finally, in the most passive-aggressive way ever. “I was unaware enjoying my own company wasn’t permitted.”
“And I was unaware our verbal tenancy agreement included a vow of silence.”
“Then I was unaware,” I snap back, righteous anger burning hotly in my chest, “that tenancy agreements included a requirement to be best pals with my tenant.”
Alaric takes a step closer to me. He might be small in stature, but in attitude he’s towering. Without the streak of marmalade on his chin, him crowding me would be vaguely menacing. “Listen,pal,” he says in an icy voice. “You’re the one who fucking advertised for a tenant. If you don’t want me here, then say the word and I’ll look for somewhere else. I can be packed and gone in ten minutes.”
Off you trot, then.
