At six, I manage to keep half a glass of water down.
At seven, I swear to God I’m dying.
It’s the strangest of dreams. I’m in the middle aisle of an underground supermarket, dimly lit by glowing spotty toadstools. Pushing the shopping trolley—barefoot and cheerful, despite humming along to the requiem inWolf Hall—is a hobbit, shouldering a shiny red rucksack. His trolley is piled high with Pringles and crumpets.
“Gerald? You all right, mate? What’s with the sick bowl?”
The hobbit shakes my arm. When he calls my name again, I return to reality, to bright sunlight streaming through the open sitting room blinds. Alaric peers down at me, still dressed in the beautiful shirt he wore last night, the top few buttons open and gaping.
He’s totally smooth down there.Ever since we collided in the dark, I’ve tried not to picture the dip below his ribs, the shadowy hint of definition shaping his thin, pale belly. And lower still, hispale, neat dick, and how he wrapped it up in his palm, teasingly fondling it.He’s totally smooth down there. Pushing that image away is like trying to hold back a sneeze.
My limbs feel heavy in a vague, all-over way, as if stuffed with wet laundry, and my head pulses with a peculiar fuzzy throb.
“Big night out?” He gives me a conspiratorial smile I really don’t deserve after being such a shit to him. “Know the feeling. I had way too many mai-tais, and then Ezra decided it would be a good idea to go for a curry. So we all ended up in this dodgy curry house on the Kentish Town Road. God, I love London, but I swear my tikka masala was?—“
“I’m ill.” I blink hard, realising the panicky truth at about the same time as Alaric.
“Yeah.” He scrutinizes me as if I’m some sort of science experiment. “I think you are. You look like a dirty sock.”
“Thanks.” My voice is raspy. “Feel like one, too.”
My skin prickles, like something is crawling beneath it. I can’t tell if I’m sweating or shivering. At some point during the night, I kicked off my duvet. Or wrestled with it. I try to sit up. “Shit. My stomach hurts.”
The back of Alaric’s blessedly cool hand lands against my clammy forehead. I want to grab and hold on to it. “Crikey. You’re cooking on gas, Big G. Lie down again.”
“I’m also freezing.” As if to prove it, a shiver rolls through me like a rogue wave.
“How long have you been feeling unwell?” Alaric’s shift into doctor mode is subtle but immediate.
“Uh… since yesterday.”
I hesitate. Despite sharing this small flat with Alaric for nearly a month, I hardly know the guy, a situation for which I’m entirely to blame. Moreover, after our squabble, we’re not exactly on speaking terms.
“I can handle it. This isn’t your problem.”
I try to get up again, thinking I’ll shuffle off to bed, maybe phone the NHS help line for advice. But a sharp pain in my belly steals my breath.
At the same time, Alaric’s firm hand presses on my shoulder. “Hey, simmer down. Stay right where you are. Anyone can see you’re not well. You look bloody awful. Only since yesterday?”
“I woke up with a stomach-ache a couple of nights last week. I was going to make an appointment at the doctor’s, but then it settled.”
“Any vomiting? Any nasty bugs going around at work?”
“I’ve been sick twice,” I admit. “I feel a bit sick now.”
Lips pursed, his blue eyes search mine. “Bowels? Urgency? Diarrhoea?”
A wildfire of heat scorches my ears. “Yeah. On and off.”
“Any burning when you wee?”
I shake my head. “Listen. I should get up, maybe shower and put on some clothes.”
It must be gone midday. I’m still in pyjamas. If I’m going to make an emergency appointment at the doctors, I need to get dressed. And drink some water, grab a couple of paracetamols.
“A shower will do me good.” For the third time, I make to move from the sofa. The room tilts with me.
“No.” Again, Alaric pushes me down. “Stay where you are. Where exactly is the pain in your tummy?”
