And for a few hours, I can pretend to myself again that he’s my man.
With a piercing squeal of delight, he lunges across the table to plant a big ‘mwah’ on the top of my head. “You’re the best. And I’m so going to be the best wingman.”
As if he hasn’t just caused my heart to stutter, he goes back to devouring the platter of picky bits lying between us. “OMG,OMG, OMG,” he rattles on, or a version of that anyhow. “This is going to be so cool. I’m going to…”
During the conversational pauses—mostly when he’s swallowing food—I bask in the warm spotlight of his undivided attention. Yet again, we could be boyfriends, not housemates, sitting here together, sharing food and planning our trip. Especially when one glass of Burgundy slides into two. The lunch is only marred when a rental agent sends a text message about two flats available for viewing later. Alaric sacks off the first one, citing the glorious sunshine radiating down on us. He claims he’d rather sit here with me awhile longer to celebrate the new shirt and for him to grow some more freckles.
Sipping my Burgundy, I imagine leaning across the table and dotting kisses over his nose.
The second flat is on the west side of Hammersmith; we detour to view it on our way home. Not far from the hospital, Alaric observes he could walk to work on dry days, and the financial saving would partially offset the higher rent. The owners, two female marketing execs—newly married—seem nice, too. They instantly warm to Alaric, exactly like the shop assistant, the waitress in the café, and my dad. When they hear he’s a surgeon to boot, they’re practically drooling. Most weekends, they explain over perfectly prepared cups of coffee, ground in their top-notch coffee machine, they spend at their holiday cottage in the New Forest. Hence the desire for someone to occupy and keep an eye on the London place.
As they chat up Alaric, my gaze drifts around the sitting room. Like mine, it’s clean and tidy, but in a more relaxed, unfussy style. The windows are floor length, giving the room an airy, bright feel, and the matching sofas are big and sloppy. It’s easy to picture Alaric curled up on one, all snug in his baggy home hoodie, munching Pringles. His room here would be quite small, but has a new double bed, its own tiny ensuite, and a viewoverlooking a park. Apparently, the neighbours are elderly and very quiet.
The moment Alaric promises the women he’ll give them his decision by the end of the day, the still, calm happiness floating around me during the shopping trip and through our late lunch is dowsed with cold mop water. Thrilled, they shake his hand and agree not to accept any more viewings until they hear from him.
“That was great,” I feel obliged to say as we travel back to Sutton Common on the train.
“Yeah,” he says, not looking up. “Super great.”
His shoulder brushes against mine as he scrolls through his phone. He doesn’t have to sit so close. He’s quite narrow, and train seats are plenty wide enough to cater for even two strangers to sit adjacent without touching.
Maybe he’s so near because the train’s packed and noisy.
“Nice women, too,” he adds. Our knees are also touching. “And amazing coffee.”
My heart sinks even lower. He’ll be out of my place and ensconced in that flat by the end of the week. And, having seen it, and met them, who could blame him?
I’ll miss hearing him sing to the kettle and preparing toast so it’s slightly burned, but not, in his words, ‘tragically so’. Nearly as much as I’ll miss his work shoes sitting by the front door, waiting for me to trip over. And book club will never be the same without his idiotic commentary. The next one up for discussion isMoon Tiger, by Penelope Lively. Within the pages, there’s not a single tiger to be found. I swear we don’t do it on purpose.
“Really good,” I agree. “Very bougie coffee machine.”
At least we might stay friends, I suppose. Not that Alaric will be desperate to make frequent trips out to Sutton Common. Perhaps I’ll start going to Ezra’s club more regularly, in the hope I bump into him. Perhaps if I do, he’ll dance with me again.
“Yeah.” Alaric gives a disinterested nod. “Those Jura ones cost a bollock and a half.”
Except I might have to endure watching him dance with someone else. Watch him leave with them.
“The rent they’re asking isn’t too bad, though, is it?” I offer magnanimously.
Perhaps I’ll occasionally meet him for coffee. I could suggest the nice café we ate at earlier. The wine was good value for the price, and he wolfed down the charcuterie board.
“Nah. Quite reasonable. Especially considering the location.”
“I think finding the right person is more important to them than how much money they can screw out of someone.”
“Yeah.” Alaric nods. “Super nice people.”
He’s still scrolling. When I peek over his shoulder, he’s playingWords With Friends. Winning, naturally. In his shoes, I’d be already emailing the estate agent or filling out rental forms.
This is torture. If he’s going to leave me, I need to know now, this minute. I need as much time as possible to prepare, to distance myself from him.
“What time did you tell the ladies you’d be in touch by?”
“Seven.” He plays the letterszaxon a double word score. I didn’t even knowzaxwas a word.
“It’s a type of hatchet,” he explains without looking up. He nudges my knee with his. “I thought you were supposed to be the literary one.” Two letter boards are open, and he’s juggling between both games. “I’ll phone the agent when I get in, back at the flat where it’s a bit quieter.”
“Sutton Common is certainly that.” Even to me, my accompanying laugh sounds forced and hollow.
