He switches off the light.
“All yours,” he mutters, pushing past me. “And make sure you flush.”
Marcus once smugly informed me that if you can’t name the irritating housemate in your shared accommodation, the culprit is probably you. I have no idea why he felt I had to be on the receiving end of this pearl of wisdom. If Gerald wasn’t my landlord, I would pass it on to him.
I don’t see him for the next couple of days. It’s one hundred percent deliberate on my part; I’ve learned his routines by now, so avoiding him isn’t difficult. I take my run whilst he slurps down his super-healthy breakfast, and then he’s in the shower whilst I munch on my Coco Pops. In the evening, I time my return from the hospital at around the time he takes the imaginary dog out for a walk. Still no idea where he fucking goes. Not sure I really care any longer. I’m moving out. ASAP.
Friday night finally rolls around, so I doll myself up and head north to take the town out for a spin. Not for a proper sesh, because none of my mates are up for that anymore, unless it’sa special celebration. But if I don’t escape Sutton Common and the oppressive nothingness of the flat soon, I’m either going to start my own kinky suburban Only Fans page purely for the entertainment value or teach the toaster how to play cards.
As Gerald, the flat, and the quiet streets of Sutton Common fade in the train’s rear view, like a Bat-signal, the London skyline sharpens. My heart gives a responding little kick. Damn it feels good. The city remembers my name. When I change to the Northern line, I catch my reflection in a window—eyes lit, body thrumming with anticipation. I don’t know how the night will pan out, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? The thrill of the big smoke. Anything, everything could happen.
Like a proper grown-up, I have a little rucksack for an overnighter at Luke’s if I don’t strike lucky. No way am I schlepping back to Sutton Common at four in the morning, pissed. Two gin and tonic cans guzzled on route means that by the time we reach Earth Bar, I’m getting my groove on and ready to party.
While Luke and I chew the cud with Isaac and Ezra, I wait for that buzz I felt on the train to return, for the fizzy, just-poured vibe full of possibility and promise. Like London rail, it’s running late. Perhaps being surrounded by so much love is holding it at bay. Isaac and Ez are as good as married and Stefan and Marcus have made up, if the last few slushy texts with pics of their gurning faces smooshed together are any yardstick. None of my friends– straight or gay– have tied the knot, though it won’t be long before the invites start slipping through the letterbox. If the mail reaches as far out as Sutton Common. And where will that leave me?
After ten minutes or so, Ezra turns away from us to chat to someone at the bar, thus giving me opportunity to admire his arse. His and Isaac’s regular presence here—dancing, drinking, partying—is uplifting, a thought I clutch onto whenever I’mfeeling low. A living, breathing, loving demonstration that settling down doesn’t automatically mean goodbye fun times.
Whereas… Gerald…
“You should have brought your landlord along,” Isaac suggests. “For some housemate bonding. He’d probably not mind it in here for an hour or two. The music’s good—obviously. Even I might be persuaded to hit the floor later. And Neil’s introduced a couple of decent real ales.”
I was hoping for a night off from my Sutton Common and Gerald saga. “I’ll take your word for it.” I sip my third mai-tai. “And he’s more cell mate than housemate. I’ve only been there a fortnight. It feels like a life sentence.”
I picture Gerald doing an awkward dance, like a robot overdue a firmware update. They rarely play music on Radio Four—perhaps he taps his foot along to the shipping forecast. He’s already told me he mostly eschews alcohol for health reasons, but I reckon if anything could tempt him, real ale would be it. He’d sniff it suspiciously, then trot out an impassioned soliloquy as to why hops served below twelve degrees is basically treason.
“What’s he up to tonight?” Isaac asks.
“No idea. Don’t care.” I shrug. “At home I expect, dusting the skirting boards, or out doing whatever he does when he says he’s taking the dog for a walk.”
“He’s got a dog?” Isaac seems pleased. “That’s nice. He’s always said he’d like one someday.”
“No, he just pretends.” I give him a hopeless look. “Seriously. He’s fucking weird, Isaac. I’ve made up my mind to find somewhere else to live, to be honest. I’ve got a flat viewing lined up tomorrow afternoon. I reckoned I’d be able to make a go of it when I moved in, but we’re not exactly hitting it off.”
“That’s a shame. For both of you. I thought you might lure him out of his shell a bit.”
Someone’s got to work out how to prise it open first. “I accept it’s probably my fault as much as his,” I confess, rather charitably, all things considered. “I’m aware I can be needy and annoying sometimes, but trying to strike up a cordial relationship with a person whose pronouns are brooding, bitter, and belligerent, is just...barren.” I throw Isaac a helpless expression. “I feel like I’m wading through a mountain of gravel every time I interact with him, even if it’s just to ask him to pass me the bloody milk.” I blow out a long breath. If I keep dwelling on Gerald, that party buzz will never turn up. “We rub each other up the wrong way. I suspect he’s fine with someone like you, Iz, who’s a bit more reserved.”
Isaac sighs. “Can’t you find any common ground?”
“Hmm.” I wrack my brain. Nothing jumps out, and then I recall the shocking sensation of banging into Gerald’s solid chest and his big warm hands landing on my bare shoulders. “Oh, he sleeps almost as badly as me.” Three times now I’ve heard him flushing the toilet during the night. If he was any older, I’d be suggesting he gets his prostate checked out. “We have more conversations on the way to the bog at four a.m. than we do over dinner. And about as civil. Does that count?”
CHAPTER 10
GERALD
My belly hurts. It’s ached on and off for a couple of weeks now, but this time it won’t settle. Hence my urgent trips to the bathroom in the small hours (not that purging in either direction seems to help). Normally, I have an iron stomach and sleep like I’ve been hit with a tranquiliser dart. Something is wrong; I can’t ignore it any longer.
At least Alaric’s out of the flat. He left just after seven, but not before noisily champing through a couple of slices of last night’s pizza. He brought his Bluetooth speaker into the kitchen, and throbbing dance music filled every corner. A flowing cream shirt peeked out from under his jacket, with blue flowers and blue crocodiles dotted all over it. Tucked into tight black jeans, he accessorised with a couple of heavy silver chains, layered at his neck and his wrists, and used another as a belt. Everything about him screamed effortlessly stylish, like he’d accidentally thrown together an outfit that could land him a ‘gay London’ magazine cover.
And me? It’s Friday night, and I’m alone in my little kitchen, aged thirty-four, trying not to retch while picking over thecontents of the fridge and dressed in a generic polo shirt and the kind of blue jeans my dad would borrow. When Alaric left, his pointlessly glitzy rucksack he usually dumps in the hallway for me to trip over went too, so hopefully he’s disappeared until tomorrow.
Feeling sorry for myself, I phone Mrs Gregson to apologise I won’t be picking up Elsa tonight and take my duvet and my aching belly to the sofa.
At midnight, I vomit up my chicken salad. Perhaps the lettuce wasn’t washed properly.
Drenched in sweat at three, I throw off the duvet. At four, I pull it back on, plus an extra blanket.
At five, I regurgitate two paracetamols for my bellyache, then thunderously destroy the toilet. Thank fuck Alaric isn’t around.
