“Shame.”
His eyes cloud over a little, and I stifle a smirk. Wait until he finds out the second in the series is calledDead Lions. “Sometimes,” I offer, “book titles containing animals are often chosen as a metaphor. Or the animal could be symbolic of what the story entails.”
“Really? Very cool.” He snaps the lid back onto the Pringles, then gives me a bump with his elbow and points to the computer screen. “It’s eight o’clock. Your reading buddies are waiting.”
Hurriedly, I apologise for being tardy and launch into my prepared intro, acutely aware of Alaric hanging on my every word. He prises open the Pringles again.Crunch, crunch.
The assorted folk staring back at me from the screen are not my buddies exactly. I started this online book club during the COVID pandemic, via an ad on the Sutton Common social media pages. There’s been mixed membership over the years, but now we’ve settled into a core group of twelve, all from varied walks of life but with similar reading interests. Even though we’re not in the same place, I find quiet joy in gathering with a group ofpeople who’ve all read the same words but walked away with different feelings and opinions about it. Which is a flowery way of admitting book club is the highlight of my very limited social calendar.
As I summarise the author’s bio, the Pringles lid snaps back on. A minute later, Alaric peels it off again. His hip nudges mine. With a series of soft wet pops, he suckson his salty fingers. Followed by more crunching and more lid fiddling. As the club member tasked with outlining the plot begins, I mute my microphone. “Why don’t you just admit you’re chugging the whole lot and leave the lid off?”
“Nah, I’m edging myself. It’s way more fun.”
Images vastly inappropriate for book club flood my brain as he chomps down on another Pringle. He’s glued to the laptop as if we’re at the cinema. “Wow!” he whispers, “Look at that guy!”
With a soggy, salty finger, Alaric points to the top corner of the screen where a retired teacher called Edward (most definitely not Ed, or Eddie) has three copies of the book laid out and a second laptop open at his extensive notes page. “He thinks he’s the main character!”
“Like someone else around here.”
Trying to maintain a serious expression, I unmute myself. We’re at the point where Edward habitually reframes my opening observations, lifted from the publisher’s notes, as if they’re his original incisive thoughts. He expects the rest of us to chime in with a few appreciative hmms, tricky when I’m trying not to laugh.
After a minute or so, Alaric whispers, “I know his sort. Always trying to one-up everyone. If you’ve been to Tenerife for your holidays, he’s been to bloody Elevenerife, and brought back the T-shirt to prove it.”
“Shhh!” Still unmuted, I bite my lip. “But yes,” I murmur. Exactly.”
Alaric prods me, pointing to an affable chap named Gary in the bottom right corner. “And that guy,” he whispers back, “how do you get your face so close to the screen? Bro, you’re not FaceTiming the dentist. Big G here doesn’t want to check out those pubes you’ve got stuck in your molars!”
“You…” I smack down on the mute again before my snort reaches the others. I even shut off my face for a few seconds too, as if I’m suffering a minor tech malfunction. I’m suffering from something, that’s for sure. “Shhh!” I glare at him. “This is a serious club! If you haven’t anything constructive to add, then don’t add anything at all.”
Trying to look stern, I unmute myself. All is quiet for the next ten minutes. Claire gives an impassioned, if not a little wordy, endorsement of the book’s insightful and sensitive portrayal of terrorism. Predictably, Debs disagrees (they have a mutual dislike) with a lengthy discourse, citing the plotline perpetuates negative stereotypes. With Alaric fidgeting next to me, it’s difficult to concentrate.
“Do you want a Pringle?” he whispers. “There are four left.”
“No, thank you,” I return out of the corner of my mouth.
“They’re the paprika-flavoured ones. Not as good as the sour cream flavour but still good. And I can’t manage the last few. Go on, just have one. You know it makes sense.”
“No. Thank you. Too salty. Too processed. And shut the fuck up!”
His blue eyes dance. Too late, I realise he enjoys me being firm. It eggs him on. “Do you know how hot you are when you’re angry, Big G? Maybe you should check out joining a debating society. Your Mr Right could be ready and waiting for you, with articulate opinions on why you should approve of fox hunting or some such shit.” He spreads an arm wide as Debs and Claire bicker about fuck knows what; it’s all faded to a blur. “Outthere somewhere. Perhaps you should rock up to one with some extreme views about–”
“Shhh!”
“All right, all right. It was only a suggestion. No need to get shirty!”
After around an hour, during which crunching turns into even more distracting salty finger sucking, we’re reaching the end. It feels like the longest book club ever. Having managed the last few Pringles, Alaric is now trying to balance the empty tube on the tip of his finger, then flick it up and roll it down his arm. Twice someone’s commented I seem unfocussed tonight. Angela even had the nerve to query whether I’ve actually read the book.
“No one’s discussed the most important bit of it yet,” Alaric murmurs. I turn to him frowning. If he makes another comment about the paucity of horses, I’ll push him off the sofa.
“And what’s that?” I enquire through gritted teeth.
He treats me to his gap-toothed smile, the one that makes my belly muscles burn in an altogether different way to the appendix operation, despite him being the most aggravating person ever to set foot in my house.
“I want to hear people’s views on the depiction of MI5 personnel as inept and easily outmanoeuvred by the Slough House team, and how the story satirizes the opaque, self-serving nature of bureaucratic power and, as a consequence, the human cost of institutional failure.”
I slam my hand down on theend for allbutton. Everyone will think I’m drunk or high or have been replaced by my subversive, twitchy twin. But I don’t care. Alaric bloody Alvin has been winding me up all along. “How did you… how?—“
He’s chortling next to me like a kid whose biology topic for the term is reproduction and the teacher has just asked him to spell penis. “Apple TV, mate,” he declares smugly whenhe finally manages to stop laughing. “Binge-watched all four seasons.”
