He shrugs again. “Anything, there’s no strict code. The fabulous Fabrizios of this world dress in glittery gold with pooch neckerchiefs to match. Whatever works for you, I guess, though I do think the people who put more effort into their outfits stand out a bit more. Like all dances, we’re telling a story with the song, and the right outfit complements that. As does a bit of acting, you know, facial expressions.”
“You’re good at those, actually.” Another revelation. “Have you done much acting?”
Gerald gives a soft, amused laugh. “I acted like I was straight for sixteen years—does that count?” He feeds Elsa another dainty morsel. “But no, not much acting. Only as a kid in school plays and the odd bit of musical theatre my mum persuaded me to audition for.”
I let my gaze roam across him (no hardship), trying to picture him and Elsa taking up their starting pose in the middle of that massive Crufts arena. The Scissor Sisters lyrics tell the story all on their own—a guy (and his dog) dragged out to dance against his will, stealing the show when he gets there. Very Gerald, and, I suspect, exactly how the regionals will play out. He’ll cut a good figure in black as he relates that simple story, sleek and sharp.
Good, but not outstanding. And after all the effort he’s put in, my boy and his dog need to stand out.
“Have you considered any other colours?”
Gerald pulls a face. “Clothing isn’t my forte. You’ve probably guessed. And I’m moderately red/green colour blind, so black is always a safe bet.”
“What? How the fuck are you an optometrist?”
He smiles. “It’s fine. Depth perception is way more important than colours. I didn’t even realise I had it until I began training.”
“I bet that was a bolt from the yellow.”
I like making Gerald laugh. There’s an unguarded sweetness to it, it’s almost shy. Everything his forceful, dominant sexing isn’t.
“My optometry jokes are getting cornea and cornea,” I tag on. As he laughs again, our eyes briefly lock. The curtains over the hall windows are drawn. If he wasn’t so set on sticking to his resolutions, I’d suggest a forceful little something right now.
Lifting the hem of his T-shirt, Gerald wipes the perspiration from his face. His belly skin stretches taut over the edges of his muscles, like a well-fitting suit. No way should this man’s body be draped in plain, boring black. Even Elsa’s wearing a boldsatin scarf. They should match, shouldn’t they? Clothing might not be Gerald’s strength, but after talking and sex, it’s basically my favourite hobby. A satiny fabric would best show off those abs. If that’s not enough, “I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’’ has a very seventies, satiny disco vibe.
Gerald shakes down his T-shirt again, glugs some water, then calls Elsa back over. They take up their positions in the centre of the hall.
“Hey,” I call, just before he presses play. “Fancy a shopping trip tomorrow?”
CHAPTER 20
GERALD
Clothes shopping expeditions make me feel like I’m walking into enemy territory, unarmed. Back to the wall and already planning my exits before I’ve tried anything on. I warn Alaric as we alight from the Tube in Tottenham Court Road. Apparently, I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.
“Absolutely agree regarding the military analogy,” he declares, skirting the tourists like a pro. “But finding the right shirt is a campaign, not an ambush. Comfy shoes are a must, but,” he glances down disapprovingly at my ageless, timeless,gracelessAdidas Gazelles, “you don’t seem to possess any uncomfy ones, so I’m letting that slide. Hydration is a cure for department stores—I have water for both of us—and plenty of sugary snacks. And before you say it, yes, I brought you some of those shitty fruity cereal things.”
With Alaric bouncing along beside me, this shopping expedition is also equipped with a homing device, as he appears to know exactly which shops to attack.
The first store is a no. With a dismissive shake of his head, we’re in and out before I’ve even shielded my eyes from the striplights. The second is a no, too. Not enoughzhuzh, apparently. Undeterred, he drags me into a smaller, boutique-y sort of place, the likes of which I’ve never set foot in before. To be fair, I’ve never ventured into the entire shopping district. Every other street doorway is the entrance to a funky bar or a vegan café or a chic outlet very much like the one we’ve marched into, as if we belong. I’m not hard up, by any means, but I’m not wasting my hard-earned pennies on expensive clothing I’ll hardly ever wear either.
“Cheaper than it looks.” Alaric reads my mind. “This place is a hidden gem.” An assistant, dressed like he’s waiting his turn on the catwalk after Alaric’s opened the show, greets us with an overfamiliar wave. He’s already decided we’re a couple. Proudly standing next to Alaric, I make no attempt to disabuse him, while myboyfriendtouches, coos, and strokes almost every garment in sight.
“You have great taste,” clucks the assistant.
“Yes, he does.” I glower. “That’s my sweater he’s wearing.”And you’re eye fucking my man.
“I was cold,” Alaric explains helpfully, “When we left the house this morning.”
Without warning, he pounces. Selecting a shirt from a long rack full of individual items, Alaric holds it up. “Ooh, this is nice!”
Navy blue and very shiny, the kindest thing I can say about the shirt is that it matches Elsa’s kerchief.
“It won’t fit me.” The sleeves are far too narrow, ditto the shoulders, even though the label proclaims it’s my size.
“It will.” Alaric ignores my lack of enthusiasm. “The texture ’s nice, too. Not too thin. Well made at the seams.”
Obediently, I touch the slippery fabric. “It feels like the inside of a coffin.”
