But he’s been so nice.
“I also looked up galoshes for you,” I admit. “It comes from the old French for clogs, via the Latingallica sole,which is something to do with shoes.”
“Oh wow! That is so cool! I love that!” Alaric’s face blooms with delight. God knows he’s easy to look at, but I also find myself drinking in how he sees the world sideways. We view life through very different lenses and, strangely, I’m thirsty for more of it. “Thanks for looking it up. Galoshes! Such a splashy, stomping-through-puddles kind of word!” He slips from the bed to march on the spot. His yoghurt spoon clings to the bowl by a thread. “Galosh, galosh, galosh. See?”
I see and hear plenty, and I’m unsure what to make of it. What to make of him and the effect he has on me. “Yeah. And…um…I’m going to tell my dad later about me having my appendix out. He doesn’t need to trek over here and see me, I’ll be fine. But you were right. It’s the sort of thing he would want to know.”
“Oh, okay. Cool. Whatever you think.”
I think he’s going then, but hand on the door handle, he stops and turns.
“Gerald? I’ve been chewing things over, how we argued and everything. And…it’s me who should be apologising to you. I overstepped, asking you about your relationship with your dad. You were right. It’s none of my business.”
“Okay.” Internally scrambling, I force a weak smile. I don’t do emotional vulnerability. On a scale of one to please-stop-talking, he’s teetering off the far end.
“But it’s more than that,” he babbles on. “Like I said at the hospital, I thought I could hack it in the ‘burbs, but it’s not right for me. I don’t think I’m ready yet, you know? I was thirty earlier this year. That’s not old, is it? I mean, I’ve only given Sutton Common a few weeks, but sometimes, you can just tell when a place is right, can’t you? I know lots of people settle at this age—nearly all of my mates have—and you seem happy enoughhere. Don’t get me wrong. It isn’t a criticism of everyone else, nor you—God, not you, it’s a reflection on me. And all of my imperfections. I’m an immature dick who talks too much. No one except Stefan puts up with me for very long. His fiancé hates my guts, even though he likes the smell of my pants.” He shakes his blond head. “But going back to the settling-down thing. Isaac and Ez, my mate Luke, Stefan, and… and you… you’re doing great. It’s me who’s the odd one out.”
These words tumble out of him like he’s racing to shut his mouth before anything else slips through. A pause signals he’s reached the end.
“Right,” I respond.
The door closes behind him, and I’m finally alone. And though it was uncomfortable as hell, I’m relieved we’ve cleared the air and made our peace. He’s right; he’s not cut out for dull suburban living, and maybe I’m not cut out for Hurricane Alaric blowing through my house. At last, we’re on the same page about something. Both of us can chalk this “living together” thing down as a mistake and amicably go our separate ways.
So why does him walking back into the kitchen, balancing our bowls and cups and telling the floor it’s suffered a near miss when the crockery rattles alarmingly, make me feel like a guilty kid skirting around the edge of something?
CHAPTER 13
ALARIC
Over the next few days, Gerald is a model patient. As far as I know, anyhow. I’m mostly at work. The evidence around the flat points to him sleeping a lot, binge-watching a super-worthy series about Eleanor of Aquitaine on the History Channel, and eating disgustingly healthy quantities of organic fruit and salad and a brand of muesli a famished goat might decline. He’s no longer rude to me or shutting me out. Our quarrels are well and truly in the rear-view mirror. He’s simply comfortable in his own steady rhythm. And a wired, needy housemate, for whom spewing out every microscopic detail of his day is on a par with a requirement for oxygen, unfortunately, dances to a different beat. Each time Gerald’s door closes gently behind him, when he needs his own space, only to emerge hours later with a softer, calmer expression, I try not to take it personally.
I sleep badly, mulling over my housing situation and why everyone around me except for Gerald (I swear he was born aged forty-seven) views hitting thirty as a deadline to reassess. Everyone knows what they’re doing with their lives, even Stefan and Marcus, in between throwing things at each other. It’s asif they’re avidly following some cosmic checklist, ticking off the tedious essentials like making wills, carparking apps, airline loyalty points, applying daily sunscreen moisturisers. Whereas I’m lying wide-awake, night after night, wondering whether I’ve actually already met the love of my life but got distracted by a rack of cinnamon swirls in a baker’s window, apologised for bumping into them, then moved on.
And also why no one else has realised that the sign at the end of our hospital’s east corridor sayingif you’re looking for the Sexual Health Clinic then you’ve gone too faris funny as fuck.
I mull over a few of the rubbish flats I’ve viewed this week. Flat hunting in central London is essentially speed dating, but with next to zero chance of a drink and a shag afterwards. The similarities don’t stop there; anything that’s been on the market for yonks is a red flag, ditto quirky layouts and strange smells. Anyhow, I viewed a handful, and they were all shite. One owner bragged about original features (meaning the mould on the ceilings was from circa 1972), and another demanded the financial equivalent of my left kidney as a deposit. I have three lined up next week. Flats, not kidneys. Otherwise, I’m so desperate I’d hand one over.
Some days, I feel like I’m digging through shit for a jewel.
At 2.30 a.m., I’ve got the munchies. A biscuit or two might settle me down. Ninja-like, so as not to wake Gerald, I tiptoe across the hallway into the kitchen, only to find him there already, bent over the fridge. His tartan jim-jams are doing their warm and comfy thing, and his fluffy hair be fluffing. For a moment, I’m afflicted by contradictory urges to snuggle against the former and smooth down the latter. Perhaps it’s simply relief at no longer being alone in the middle of the night with my mad brain.
From his colour, and the way he holds himself less stiffly, Gerald’s much improved.
“Just getting a glass of iced water,” he says guiltily, as if I’ve caught him nicking condoms in Tesco. “I wonder if the painkillers make me thirsty.”
“Opioid-based ones often give people a dry mouth.”
At least I’m wearing briefs and a T-shirt this time, leaving only my pasty, pipe-cleaner legs on show. On the ends of them, my feet look like two blue ice pops. Gerald’s big feet are very cosy in his sheepskin-lined suede slippers. I squeeze past him to get to the food cupboard. Are his brown eyes following my cotton-covered little tush as I stand on tippy toes to reach into it? Why, yes they are. I don’t need to turn and verify; I canfeelthem.
“What are you doing up?” Gerald leans against the sink.
“Can’t sleep.”
“No?”
With a thickgluck,he swallows a gulp of water and then another. Gerald’s Adam’s apple juts out like a knuckle under the skin of his throat.
“No.”
