ALARIC
The potential house share with the two lads working in finance is a bomb. Don’t get me wrong. They’re nice boys, but one of them is rolling a joint when I arrive at my allotted appointment time, and it’s only four in the afternoon. For sure, it’s a Friday, and he’s probably had a full-on week gambling with other people’s hard-earned dosh, but the pungent, herby general aroma hints that it’s not his first. Empty beer cans litter the coffee table, and I can’t see the kitchen sink for dirty crockery and flattened pizza boxes. I’m not in the business of marshalling how other folks conduct their lives, but if I lived there, the temptation to party every night would be way too strong. I’ve got to have a steady pair of hands most mornings. Maybe five years ago, when burning the candle at both ends was second nature and I didn’t carry so much responsibility at work, but not now.
After that blast from the past, alighting from the slow train to Sutton Common is almost a relief. Like a weary soldier returning from battle, I let myself into Gerald’s pristine, tranquil flat. My scruffy home hoodie envelops me, a warm hug, as does the familiar calm of Gerald’s sonorous voice.
His dad’s popped in to visit. From the way the conversation reluctantly limps along, you’d think he was holding Gerald hostage. I’ve overheard these little paternaltête à tête’s three times now, and they’re not improving. As usual, Alan plucks banal topics from the ether in the hope Gerald will alight on one and run with it (he won’t). Meanwhile, Gerald performs his level best impression of a person always happy to receive an expected visitor (he isn’t).
It's time I put both out of their misery.
“Hi, Alan! How are you? Nice silk tie! Very dapper! Oh, I see Gerald’s already brought you a lemon tea! I’m out of a job! Hi, Gerald. OMG, the flat was awful. Don’t ask me about it. Suffice to say I’m still digging through shit for that elusive jewel, and if I smell of weed and look spaced out, it’s because I spent half an hour experiencing a second-hand high in the flat’s sitting room. Excuse my swearing, Alan.”
The tension drains from Gerald’s shoulders, his face softens, and his mouth relaxes into a thankful smile. Or maybe it’s more of an exasperated one, because he knows, given half the chance, I’ll narrate my entire day.
Though, judging from his relieved expression, now would be an excellent time to launch into it.
“And you wouldn’t believe the carnage on the ward when I got in this morning. One sweet confused old chap had climbed into bed with another, mistaking him for his dead wife, and was using his catheter bag tubing as a lasso to…”
“Your dad doesn’t know about you and Elsa, does he?”
When Alan left a little earlier than usual to take Sandra to the theatre, Gerald mooched into the kitchen. He was dismayed I’m contemplating tinned pasta mixed with pesto sauce from a jar, for the third evening on the bounce. He’s now preparingsufficient prawn and vegetable stir-fry for two. So far, all he’s done is slice a thumb of fresh ginger and the pak choi, and I’m already drooling. Perhaps he could teach me a few recipes before I leave.
“No.”
“Can I ask why not?”
I’m testing the edge of his prickly patience; the last time I queried Gerald’s fucked-up relationship with his dad, he stomped off, and I signed up toSparerooms-R-Usquicker than you can type the wordsLondonshort tenancy agreementinto the search engine.But we’re getting on so much better now. While I’m no family relations counsellor, I do have a modicum of emotional intelligence.
“You can, yes.” One side of Gerald’s mouth curls into the faintest almost-smirk. “You can, and frequently do, ask whatever you like. Just like I can, and may, choose not to answer.”
Smart arse, but at least he’s humouring me. Usually after his dad visits, Gerald disappears into his room with a face like thunder and I don’t see him again for several hours.
I try again, flirting one step past the safety buffer. “It’s just that your dad—Alan—seems like a nice guy, and a reasonable one, too, which is why I’m struggling to believe that whatever he’s done to upset you is so heinous you have to skirt around each other like you’re both avoiding a landmine.”
Most people, seeing the narrowing of Gerald’s eyes and the whitening of his knuckles on the paring knife, would have shut up around about now. However, I’m like a human sprinkler system. My unsolicited opinion on the matter, bottled up since I first met Alan, pours from me. “And,” I blithely carry on, “you let him into the flat and make him tea, so him doing something super heinous doesn’t add up. Which means your issues must be surmountable, in which case you should be able to work them out between the two of you. He’s funny and kind, and he’s alwaystrying to do and say the right thing. Not to mention that he regularly treks across half of London to see you. Sutton Common must be well out of his way. It’s well out of everyone’s way unless your job is being a postman for the Sutton Common area postcode. Most dads would have given up by now, what with the chilly reception he gets.” A thought strikes me. “Is it Sandra? Is she the problem? He doesn’t talk about her very much. Is she?—?”
“No.” The knife hits the cutting board with a crispthunk, thunk, thunk, as if he’s trying to chop away his frustrations along with the salad onions. I hold my breath, steeling for the onslaught.
“It’s not Sandra. Sandra’s fine. My dad’s fine. They’re not the problem. It’s… it’s me. I’m the unreasonable one.” He sweeps the macerated onions into an oiled-up pan, then glares at me. “Just drop it, Alaric. Okay?”
Several acerbic remarks hover at the tip of my tongue. Wisely, I bite my lip; I’m hungry, and his prawn stir-fry is going to be amazing. “Fine. Yes. You’re right. Sorry, again, it’s none of my business.”
“Good. Glad we’ve got that settled.”
Surprisingly at this juncture, Gerald doesn’t spit in my dinner or flounce out. Though the kitchen feels more cramped than ever. Determined to ride this one through, I fill two glasses with water, lay the cutlery, and comment on the delicious scent of the dinner and the improving weather. Nonetheless, by the time he dishes the food onto two plates, even I’ve descended into silence. And still, he doesn’t take his dinner elsewhere.
“I’m sorry the lads’ flat didn’t work out.” He addresses his noodles. “On paper, it sounded perfect.” Briefly, his brown gaze flicks up to mine.He’s trying,I think to myself.Fighting the urge to retreat.
Pleased he’s not abandoned me, I smile back at him. “On paper, Gerald, I’m a smart, solvent, and emotionally stableurological surgeon. Which is why you always, always should insist on seeing a live demo before you commit.”
“So that’s where I went wrong.” With a chuckle, he shovels down a heaped forkful of stir-fry. It tastes as wonderful as it smells. “And I’m not so sure about the smart. Which idiot told you that?”
“My grandma,” I deadpan. “She thinks I’m awesome. Hey, I’m going back into town, later. To Earth Bar, you know, the place in Camden that Ezra and his mate bought? A few of us are going. One of my colleagues from work will be there, too. Luke. I believe you’ve met him a few times. He’s quiet, lets people get a word in edgeways. It’s not going to be a really late one; we could get an Uber back together afterwards.”
“You’re inviting me so you can share the cost of the Uber, is that it?”
One of the slugbrows climbs his forehead, and I pull a face. “Obviously. I’m planning on inviting Mrs Gregson too, so we can split it three ways.”
“And if you hook up with someone” the slugbrows don’t seem too keen on that idea “and I have to make my own way back?”
