“What did you think?” I repeat more confidently. “Of the dance? Of me and Elsa?”
He pauses, then turns very slowly. “You’re asking me what I think? You’re… you’re not really, really pissed off?”
I shrug. What’s done is done. And someone’s got to be the first critic, Alaric’s as good as anyone.
“We’ve never performed in front of an audience,” I explain. “I just wondered if you thought it was any good. I was worried about the song choice, but the pace of it seems to work for Elsa.”
Alaric’s eyes widen. “Are you… are you for real?”
“Yes. I am. So tell me.” I’m not very good at appearing receptive and welcoming, but I give it a go.
His eyebrows shoot up; he rubs a hand through his short hair again, then shakes himself, not unlike Elsa does, as if trying to get his head straight.
A second later, Alaric’s dived back onto the sofa. He clutches my arm, bouncing up and down. The grin on his face is sparking enough to light fire. “Oh my god, Gerald, it was fucking amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it! How the hell does anyone teach a dog to do that? And how the hell doyoudance like that? You’re like some sort of professional backing dancer—it was like watching Justin fucking Bieber! And great song choice! I used to vibe to that with my mum all the time, except nothing like you! I’d look like a dancing bear strutting my stuff.”
I doubt that. Even the way he leaped onto the sofa was elegant. “I have a very talented partner.” My face flushes. “She’s really easy to teach. Elsa’s six, so still fairly young. She was climbing the walls after Mrs Gregson had a stroke; Mrs Gregsonthought she might have to give her away. So I started walking her after I finished work, and realised maybe we could do more than that. Border collies are clever, quick learners.”
“More like she has a great teacher,” Alaric scoffs. “You can dance, Gerald! You can really fucking dance! How? How did you learn that?”
For once, I’m going to bask in the praise, though it would be far easier to tone the story down. I could even pretend to be embarrassed about being a weirdo who secretly practises a complicated dance routine with my neighbour’s dog. I could beg Alaric not to tell anyone. I could make out like my parents pressured me to do ballet as a child and then, later, felt obliged to return to it so as not to upset my mum. But I don’t, because that would be lying. And Alaric has been honest about spying on me, despite painting himself in a bad light. So instead, I let the pleasure in my voice shine. I show him something I love, how dancing in that village hall with Elsa is the closest thing to joy I’ve experienced in years.
“My mum owned a dance studio,” I begin. “Ballet, tap, and modern. I had regular lessons in all three until I was sixteen. And then, for extra money, I helped with the younger kids’ classes. In my late teens, I stopped for a few years. Then, when I finished uni and came to live and work near home again, I partnered her at the evening salsa club. It was good exercise and kept me fit.”
So nerdy, he’s probably thinking. Sodorky.SonotAlaric with his stylish clothes, his social confidence, his flirty teases. And hissmaller sideof averagedick—which looked pretty perfect too, from the short glimpse I had.
Still grinning at me like he’s uncovered a secret cache of crispy raspberry yoghurts, Alaric hugs his knees. “But there aren’t any dogs in that story, Big G. I need more dogs. Just as I need more wolves and slow horses. I need to know what thefuck made you decide to suddenly start salsa-ing and cha-cha-ing with the neighbour’s cute pooch, instead of your mother.”
A beat passes. “Because my mother died, that’s why.”
For a long moment, it’s as if I’ve hit mute on the entire room. Alaric’s eyes flit to the photo of me and my parents and then down at his hands.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” He swallows. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, because it is, mostly. “It was three years ago now. We always used to watch dog shows on the telly as I was growing up—she loved dogs. Her favourite parts were the dog agility and the heelwork. We had an ancient Jack Russell, and we used to joke we were going to enter him.”
“Is heelwork the correct term for what you do?”
I shake my head. The rules for entering professional dog shows are several pages long; I should know, I’ve studied them enough over the past year. “Not quite. Elsa and I do freestyle. It’s a newer category giving people more creative opportunities. It’s more dance-y than heelwork and less technical. All four of the dog’s paws can leave the floor. The handler can be much showier too. As a pair, you can tell a story. The dog doesn’t have to be glued to your heel, so it plays to our strengths.”
Alaric nods thoughtfully. “When you say ‘category’, do you mean like a dog show category?”
“Yes, the Crufts Kennel Club categories.”
“Crufts?” His blue gaze lights up with the kind of wonder usually reserved for cartoon characters. “Crufts? Oh my god, Gerald, if you tell me that you and Elsa are training for Crufts, I might have to scream. Loudly.”
I cover my ears. “We’re… um… we’re booked into the regional final, three weeks from now. The top two winning pairs get a pass to Crufts.”
Alaric’s giddy, unintelligible squeal breaks the sound barrier. My little flat has never seen an outburst of emotion like it. His hands flap, and he does a weird, excited jiggle, a firework of pure unadulterated joy careening off the walls of my beige sitting room.
“Oh wow, oh wow, triple wow! Gerald! Crufts is like…it’s like the Met Gala or the…the Eurovision Song Contest for dogs! The costumes! OMG, the pampered pooches! I love it! Some of those dogs have better outfits than me, and they certainly strut a runway better. I can’t believe it!”
Leaping off the sofa, he stands before me, holding a pretend microphone to his mouth. In a serious, nature-documentary sort of voice, he declares, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Florence, Italy, please welcome Venetia de Medici Arrivederci, a magnificent two-year-old Papillon with an impeccable pedigree traced all the way back to Julius Caesar himself. This superlative example of the breed is led into the ring today by her breeder and handler, the fabulous Fabrizio Fettuccini. When she’s not strutting her stuff in the world’s biggest dog show arenas, Venetia can be found in the Medici Palace, farting into a pink velvet cushion and venting strong opinions about brutalist architecture.”
My laugh comes out crooked, more like a rusted hinge opening. Neither melodic like Alaric’s nor rich like my dad’s. But every bit as heartfelt. When I finally manage to stop, I say, “Elsa, the border collie from Sutton Common, doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?”
“Nah, but Venetia de Medici Arrivederci can’t do apaso dobleon her hind legs, can she? And fabulous Fabrizio might be brilliant at mincing around an amphitheatre attached to a diamante dog lead, but can he perform an Arabian with a bloody dog reverse-windmilling around his legs? In Sutton Common Methodist Hall, after he’s spent a day making fifteen pairs ofpolarised lenses and picked up and disposed of his own dog’s shit? No. He bloody can’t, can he? Because he’s not Gerald Mason, senior optometrist, book club organiser, and dog dancer extraordinaire. You can do this, Big G. No way is anyone going to beat you to that top spot. No way.”
CHAPTER 17
