But not yet.
CHAPTER 2
GERALD
I scrutinize the neat line charts and pictographs in the forlorn hope my electricity provider might have mixed up my miniscule two-bed apartment for the eighty-bedded Premier Inn down the road. They’ve billed me for the sunlight, the divine light, and the light at the end of the tunnel, as well as for four tiny radiators and heating a tank of hot water for two hours every day. With a disgusted click, I close the invoice down, file it away in a folder markedutility bills paid,then perform a last visual check of the flat before my new tenant arrives. Perfect. Not a cushion or a mug out of place.
Alaric Alvin.Dr Alaric Alvin. Very swish. A million times swisher than dull Gerald Mason. I roll the alliteration over my tongue a few times, liking the feel of it. Being a bibliophile, I’ve already traced the origins. Alaric stems from old German and means ‘all powerful ruler’. Alvin has even older roots, a mix of middle English and Swedish, meaning ‘elf friend’. Put them together and he’s king of the elves.
I’ve never had a housemate before. Never, ever wanted one. I still don’t; I’m perfectly content living alone. But running acar, saving for a bigger flat, veterinary fees, and the new training regime with Elsa all cost money. The cost of hiring the church hall for a couple of hours three times a week has hiked up. And if I want Elsa’s coat to shine, I need to improve her nutrition. I have the space, and this Alaric guy will be a hardworking, respectable doctor, like Luke and Isaac. They used to work all the hours—I should know, seeing as I tried to date one of them.
At ten minutes to eleven, I check myself in the narrow hallway mirror. Muted shirt. Inoffensive chinos, a plain hairstyle, a simple watch. Background noise in human form. With a bit of luck, I’ll appear so dull he’ll keep out of my way.
At five minutes to eleven, I shift the coffee table three inches closer to the television. I knew something was off. Dr Alvin wouldn’t notice, but it would bug me. I chew on a ragged nail and check the time again. My anxiety is misplaced. I’ll barely see him for more than ten minutes a day, and if he’s a friend of Isaac’s then he’ll be quiet, thoughtful, and studious.
We’ll be ships passing in the night.
When Dr Alaric Alvin finally knocks at the door, he’s three minutes late.Not his fault, not his fault, I remind myself. Public transport is a fickle master.
Like a burst tube of glitter, Dr Alaric Alvin explodes into my flat. One second I’m wiping my sweaty right palm down my chinos in preparation for offering it out, and then,bam, there he is—chattering, laughing, plopping his bags down with an exaggerated groan, shaking out his achy fingers, and twirling around. Absorbing the flat. Absorbing my bookshelves. Absorbing me. Already, I’m planning an escape route.
“Hi! Gerald? Gerald Mason? Hi! Hi! I’m Alaric. Or Al, if you prefer. I answer to most things.” He launches into small talk. “Isaac and Luke have told me so much about you, Gerald!You like to be called Gerald? You don’t shorten it to anything? Hey, this flat’s cool. Love this oak flooring. Your email definitely played that down. What finish do you use on the wood to get that shine? Love these sofa cushions, too! So cute! And the books. So many! Is that one over there a history of anime? Nietzsche too! Cool! OMG, you won’t believe the nightmare I had on the train lugging these two suitcases. My fault for having so many bloody clothes. Oh, and isn’t that photo gorgeous? I love, love,loveblack-and-white family photos! Is it you and your parents? Hey, your mum’s so pretty! And your dad’s so tall! I can see where you get your height from. Is that Italy? With the mountains in the background? Looks like Italy. Oh my god, have you ever climbed Vesuvius? It’samazing.”
My head is shattering. He’s asking me a question. Several, in fact. Which generally means responses are required. I make eye contact—briefly—whilst my whiplashed brain flips through a list of socially acceptable replies. Alaric’s eyes are blue. And big. He’s shorter than me by at least six inches and thin, so why does it feel like he’s taking up the entire room? My body curls in on itself, even my toes scrunch up in my socks and sliders, pleading with my brain not to make me do this. Stand here, coming up with suitable chit-chat, having to explain the photo.
Alaric’s mouth stops moving. The room falls silent.
“Yeah, it is,” I say. “Italy. My mum and dad. Four years ago. Vesuvius is great.”
I chance another look at him. Blond hair with dark highlights, messy, a small nose, freckles scattered over it.ElfI think, over and over. Elf.Isaac’s brought me a living, breathing,talkingelf. And this elf beams at me like I’ve just told him there is an entire secret colony of his kind living under a rock in the backyard. The gap between his front teeth is the Grand Canyon of ready smiles and responsible for the lisping manner in which he saidsuitcasesandsofa. The rest of him is way too much tocontemplate all at once, such as the smell he’s carried with him into the flat: the bright mineral scent of petrichor mixed with lemony aftershave. He’s like freshly cut grass.
Cocking his hip, Alaric peers around my bland sitting room. His trousers are tight. It will take days, maybe weeks, for me to process him.
Luke ought to have warned me. Dr Alaric Alvin is a human confetti cannon making himself a home in a funeral parlour. He has no idea what I’m like. Living together will be a fucking disaster.
“I’ll show you to your room.” Sweat breaking out across my brow, I direct the comment to my feet and my scrunched-up toes. “You should spend some time there, settling in.”
CHAPTER 3
ALARIC
Sternly, I tell myself I’m living the best of times. Big G boasts a jawline you could lose a Wifi signal behind and shoulders built for posing in doorways. Whopping great hands, too, and feet to match. Moreover, my new double bed will be almost as comfortable as my king-size at Stefan’s. (I know because I tested it by bouncing on it several times). Perhaps I’ll even get a few consecutive hours kip.
Nonetheless, it’s also the worst of times. After five years at med school and several stints as a hard-up junior doctor, I’ve had my fair share of housemates. Already, I have a bad feeling about this move. My new landlord is a flat tyre personified: no energy, no air, and no path to anywhere fun. Isoshould have placed a bet on the anime thing. And don’t get me started on the flat. At Stefan’s, we cleaned once a fortnight under duress, or if ever his folks dropped by. Gerald’s is a veritable shrine to the God of Pristinity. Even dust is too intimidated to settle.
Dutifully, I follow my new landlord’s broad back as he shows me around. It doesn’t take long. We cover his room (a mystery behind a closed door) and a shared bathroom (a small shower,bog, and sink, all clean enough to lick). The sitting room flaunts a sofa, an armchair, and a coffee table picked efficiently from the first aisle of IKEA. An open archway at one end leads to a small square kitchen. In my room, the furniture was efficiently chosen from the second aisle in IKEA.
To end the tour, Gerald points out my shelves in the fridge and my allotted space in the grocery cupboard. I praise his bland, neutral decor, I coo over the three framed prints in the hallway, and I even admire his extensive collection of well-manicured, lush herbs lined up with military precision on the kitchen windowsill. Gerald mutters barely three words back. His reluctance to be in my presence is palpable.
He's shy, that’s all. Give him time and maybe he’ll chill out a bit. According to Luke, he’s never had a housemate before. Perhaps he doesn’t know how these things work. Nonetheless, I won’t be surprised (or terribly disappointed) if the last stop on the tour is back at the front door with my bags following on behind.
As if I haven’t already got the hint, when we complete a circuit of the flat, he suggests, rather emphatically, I might want to spend some alone time in my room, settling in.
Fuck that. Two minutes tossing my clothes into the wardrobe and drawers, followed by twenty-eight minutes of starfishing on the bed, staring at a plain white ceiling with only my own head for company, is plenty.
“So,” I tiptoe into the kitchen as if by placing my clean bare feet fully down I’ll somehow damage the spotless floor tiles, “you’re an optometrist, eh?”
“Um...yeah.”
