“Excellent. We’ll try it on,” he informs the assistant hovering behind us. “Draculahere will also try it in green.” He turns back to me, a gappy smile tugging at his lips. “I know we originally said we’d go for blue, but sometimes, colours surprise you.”
“That’s green?” I point to the other shirt he’s holding up. “I thought it was burgundy.”
He smiles. “See? Colours surprise you. It’s green. Burgundy is a wine, and I have a feeling I’m going to need some. Soon.”
Firmly, I return the green shirt to the peg. “It’s too light a colour. It will show me sweating.”
“Hmm. I hadn’t considered that.”
At this point, the assistant wanders off, thank fuck. I hate it when they stand around. This one has begun smiling at me like he’s trying to be my mate. I don’t have mates. Except perhaps Alaric Alvin, the elf, his shrewd gaze assessing me, my armpits, and the retreating assistant.
“We’ll concentrate on the navy.”
Alaric follows me into the changing room. Most people would sit outside on the stool provided expressly for that purpose. Especially as it’s a tiny cubicle suited for one person, not two. Glancing at us in the mirror, snug in the confines of the cubicle as if scrunched together for a passport photo, I unbutton my comfy, checked shirt. The bright overhead light makes the skin of my face look haunted and ghoulish. In contrast, it bounces off Alaric like he’s fabricated from a totally different, luminous substance.
Thankfully, we’ve agreed to stick with my plain black ballet trousers; I don’t think I could strip off my lower half in here without Alaric noticing how his closeness affects me. As it is, he’s as good as helping me undress. If I step three inches to my left, I could reach down and kiss him.
With a jolt, it occurs to me—nothing would give me more pleasure.
“Go on,” he encourages, holding the shirt out, swapping it for mine. It looks marginally less shiny in here than on the peg. It’s still fuckingout there, but Alaric’s right by suggesting I should wear something with the wow factor. There’s a reason the Fabulous Fabrizios of this world mince off with the prized rosettes. Their performances aren’t easily forgotten.
Still, as I slip my arms into the tight sleeves, I’m so far from my comfort zone I’m going to need Google maps to find my way back. The top button fastens around the level of my nipples. “I’m showing more chest than a convention of pirates.”
“You’re giving ‘lumberjack meets lounge lizard’ vibes.” Alaric throws me an approving smile. “It’s majestic. Masculine.” His lips brush my ear as he reaches up onto his toes to whisper, “And very, very gay.”
I’ve never worn a shirt without buttons fastening up to the collar. I’m not sure I even realised they existed. I’ve never worn satin before, either. The fabric clings and slides off me at the same time, as if I’m simultaneously trying to hold onto and shed a second skin. If I had a pimple on my shoulder, you’d see the outline. When I twist to examine my side profile, I can count every single fucking rib. I raise both arms up in the air and then across my chest, testing the stretch between my shoulder blades, half expecting a ripping noise. Bizarrely, despite the shirt adhering to me more tightly than a Tupperware lid, it doesn’t restrict my movement. I repeat the actions, more purposefully. Still no wrenching of the seams, simply more shimmery rippling.
Alaric has gone awfully quiet. For the last two minutes, his mouth has been shut tight. That never happens. It must be bad. I turn a full 360, finishing up by staring at us both through the mirror again and self-consciously fingering the exposed inverted triangle of my unfashionably thick chest hair.
“I look like a gift-wrapped gigolo, don’t I?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, slowly. “Like a disco ball and a lava lamp had a glittery baby.”
“A fucking big, hairy baby.”
“Yeah.”
His fingers touch the fabric, stroking a line down from my shoulder, across the bulge of my bicep, and to my elbow. Then up again, only this time the fingers travel across the mound of my pec. Through the mirror, I spot my nipple tighten and hope Alaric doesn’t.
I give the shirt a little tug. He’s not raving over it; I should take it off. Perhaps I should go with the plain black one at home. Get Elsa a black kerchief to match. Maybe I could experiment with a different coloured belt to give myself somezhuzh. Except… I’m strangely reluctant to let go of the thing. For these short few minutes, I’ve stepped into being someone different. I could be a winner in a shirt like this.
Maybe I could even win Alaric.
“I’ll change back.” I reach for the buttons. “We’ll find something else.”
Alaric’s hand closes over mine in a bone-shattering grip. “Not in this lifetime, sweetheart.” He prises mine away, not letting go. “You and that shirt, my friend, have just invented a new religion, and I’m naming myself the first of a long list of disciples.”
“You like it then.” His cool fingers remain tangled over mine. I can still feel on my skin where they lingered over the satin fabric. I imagine walking out of the cubicle with his hand still in mine.
“You, my friend, are going to slay and sparkle in that shirt. And, if you do that sideways-on rib manoeuvre thingy, maybe start an international incident. Trust me on this, Big G; Sutton Common, the regional finals, Fabulous Fabrizio, and Crufts, have never seen anything like it.”
Shopping mission accomplished, we sit outside a busy pavement café. The shirt’s tucked away in a bag on the ground between my feet, along with a belt boasting an intricate silver buckle. Alaric insists this willzhuzhup my black ballet trousers perfectly.
A glass of wine during daylight hours feels awfully, embarrassingly decadent, which suggests I need to get out more. But, today, I’ve earned it. Absorbing Alaric’s effortlessly stylish ensemble, I wonder if he could wave his fairy wand andzhuzhme up. Ever hungry, he orders a charcuterie board, but only after a lengthy discourse on the merits of salami versus chorizo, how breadsticks are manufactured and why they don’t make them more robust, and whether olives are superior to gherkins as an accompaniment. Undecided, we have both.
“I don’t…ah… suppose I could come and…um… watch you in the regional final, could I?” He clasps his hands together like a supplicant. He doesn’t need to. His big blue eyes do the work quite capably on their own. “I could hold the stuff for you, like dog leads and snacks and your super cool new shirt and Elsa’s water and… and tonnes more stuff. I mean, I totally get it if you don’t want me there or would rather have someone else come along to support you, and, anyhow, I don’t know if there are tickets available and, if there are, then whether there are any left going spare, but if some are?—”
“Sure,” I interrupt, mostly because he needs to take a breath. Having him with me will be good. His chatter will distract me from nerves, and we can navigate the whole thing together.
