“All around here.” I indicate with the tips of two fingers. During the last couple of days, it’s been a nebulous ache in the middle. Overnight, it’s shifted to the right corner.
Alaric kneels on the floor next to the sofa. “Would it be okay if I examined you? Sounds like you might have appendicitis.”
“That’s what passed through my mind.”
I’ve never been properly ill before. Over the course of a shocking night spent clutching my side and wailing like a Victorian ghost, I’ve seesawed between convincing myself I’vepulled a muscle lifting my hardback copy ofWolf Hallto believing I only have about four minutes to live. Alaric agreeing with my diagnosis is almost a relief.
“You don’t have to,” I tell him. “Honestly. I’m going to take a shower, then phone for an emergency appointment.” Alaric’s being far too nice, especially after I’ve been such an unwelcoming shit.
“Gerald. Listen.” His voice is firm. “It’s no bother, and it’s kind of my job. I spend half my night shifts examining bellies, trying to differentiate between appendicitis, kidney stones, UTI’s, or just general gut rot. And the gynae stuff of course.” He flashes me a brief, gap-toothed grin. “But I think we can safely rule that out.”
Too weak to protest further, I roll up my pyjama top. Alaric exposes even more of me by easing down my pyjama bottoms an inch or two. My belly feels bloated, but after a cursory glance, he doesn’t look at it. He only watches my face as he palpates each tender quadrant, chewing on his bottom lip in concentration. I conclude I must be very ill indeed. When his soft palm, so deliciously cool, lightly presses its way around my hot, tense belly, unsparing of the lower, sensitive portions, my dick doesn’t so much as twitch.
After he’s finished, Alaric pats down my pyjama top and covers me up with the duvet again. I swallow a lump in my throat, blaming it on feeling so ill. But… perhaps it’s more to do with the way he tucks the duvet around me so fucking compassionately, sonicely. He’s so generous, and I don’t deserve a fucking second of it.
“The good news, Big G, is that you have St Peter’s Hospital number-one urology registrar as your private, personal physician.” He flashes a grin again, the one that’s always ready and waiting. “The bad news is I’m pretty sure your appendix, which has done nothing your entire life except freeload, hasdecided to throw a full-blown tantrum and needs evicting.” He rises to his feet. “I guess St Helier’s is the nearest hospital?”
CHAPTER 11
ALARIC
So, Saturday’s turning out nothing like I’d planned. I had a flat viewing booked for three, over in Stockwell owned by a thirty-two-year-old female tax accountant, new to London, seeking some company. Irritatingly, it sounds perfect: three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a stone’s throw from the Victoria line taking me directly to work, and only one hundred quid a month more than Gerald charges, plus bills. Flats ticking all those boxes are literally rocking-horse shit.
Instead, however, I’ve cancelled, and am driving Gerald’s immaculate three-year-old Ford Focus at a sedate pace towards the nearest hospital’s emergency department, manoeuvring especially carefully around corners and over speed humps. In the seat next to me, my reclining landlord has a washing-up bowl cradled in his lap and a cold flannel over his eyes. He's so pale I could project a movie on his forehead. Now’s not the moment to confess I haven’t sat behind the wheel of a car for at least five years.
“Should we let your dad know?” I suggest boldly, as we idle at a set of traffic lights. Last time I brought up the subject of his parents, I thought he was going to punch me.
Gerald shakes his head. “No. He’ll only worry.”
“Maybe?” I hem and haw. In his place my mum and dad would already be on their way to Alicante airport with the base ingredients for home-made chicken soup stashed in their suitcases. “But isn’t that kind of a dad’s job?”
“I don’t want him to. And Dad doesn’t like hospitals.”
Something about his tone tells me not to push it. “Okay, but can I at least have his mobile number in case something goes wrong? Or can I persuade you to put him down on your hospital paperwork as next of kin? Not that anything will go wrong.” Gerald doesn’t need to know, but I’ve witnessed a young adult die of appendicitis in my relatively short career. I don’t for a minute think he’ll be the second—for sure, he’s sick, but not that sick.
“All right.”
“Is there anyone else you want me to call?”
“No.” He rests his head back. “Except for Mrs Gregson in the flat next door.” I can’t see his eyes because of the cold flannel, but a quick tug flashes at the corner of his waxy lips. “You need to let her know I won’t be walking Elsa, her imaginary dog, for a few days.”
My brain doubles back, replaying the line before it hits. That waswit. Lowkey, camouflagedhumour. FromGerald. Perhaps there is a human hidden inside his irascible shell after all.
“Cool,” I say, concentrating on the road again. I’ve only stalled the car once. “I can do that.”
Is Gerald impressed when an ultrasound scan supports my appendicitis diagnosis? Not especially. He’s too busy heaving into the bowl I hold for him.
“Sheesh, I’m normally paid for this.”
That comment doesn’t go down very well. Rubbing Gerald’s back as he retches—what are tenants for—is like running my hand over a broad damp stone. Under very different circumstances, the smooth planes are a landscape I could very easily lose myself in. He must work out. Maybe he does gym sessions straight after work.
During visits from various members of staff, I stay by Gerald’s side, watching him wince through pain and paperwork. I don’t know for sure if he wants me here, but he stopped suggesting I leave around the time the surgical registrar listed the potential risks and complications on the consent form. The bigger question is—do I want to be here?
Not exactly. Two nights ago, in a room more like a culinary phone booth than a kitchen, we skirted around each other preparing separate meals in stony silence. I ate mine alone, in my bedroom, and Gerald commandeered the sitting room.
By contrast, in the last half hour, not only have we twice been mistaken for a gay couple, but I’ve also learned, courtesy of the anaesthetist’s searching questions, that Gerald had a wisdom tooth extracted under local anaesthetic aged sixteen and, thanks to a tight foreskin, was circumcised, aged six. And that he’s far braver than most young men when having a cannula inserted and blood taken. As fascinating as being on the other side of the fence is, for a change, it feels way, way too intimate. Even for a nosy sod like me.
When a porter finally arrives to push Gerald to the operating theatre, I breathe a sigh of relief.
