“Come here,” he says after another huge yawn. My balls tighten in response to the instructive, low tone.
“Where?” Perhaps he’s going to offer me his snuggly sweater again. I could sleep in that.
“Here. Now.” He thumbs over his shoulder, then shuffles away. “My room. My bed. My snoring. The regional finals can’t handle Dr Alaric Alvin running on low battery. And nor can I.”
Not long after I moved in, I peeked inside Gerald’s room. I possibly opened a drawer or three, and maybe even rummaged gently through his wardrobe, trying to fathom what made him tick. The answer? Multipacks of long-sleeved plain tees,a meticulously filed collection of bank statements and payslips (dating from a time when online documents weren’t a thing), twenty neat pairs of towelling sports socks, and an old, faded pair of women’s ballet pumps wrapped in delicate pale blue tissue paper. The latter now make perfect sense, and I’m an absolute shit for trespassing on business that’s none of my own.
Instead of being an utter wanker and nosing through his things, I should have skipped them all and simply climbed into his bed. I’d have discovered that what really settles Gerald’s emotional soup, ensuring he’s forever calm and patient and veryGerald, is his mattress. It delivers a horizontal hug directly from the heavens and a duvet so marshmallow-y it violates the laws of physics. And then there’s the smell—don’t get me started on the smell. Clean, unyielding, a steady Gerald-y smell, like the sweater but magnified a gazillion times. Already, the volume inside my head is turning down.
“Are you sure this doesn’t feel too weird?” I’m obliged to ask. “You’re my landlord.”
“Not really.” Amused, Gerald peers down at me. “You’ve already sucked my cock.” He switches off the bedside lamp. “That’s a weird as fuck thing to do to your landlord, when you think about it. Unless you’re after a rent reduction.”
I snigger. “Now my unconscious rationale for not taking up with the lesbians makes perfect sense.”
I take the right-hand side of the bed, curled towards him with a pillow scrunched between my knees. (One knee touching the other makes my teeth ache; don’t ask me why.) Gerald lies on the left side, on his back. Already, just from the warm sturdiness of him a few inches away, I felt sleepier than at any point during the previous three hours. When I start to explain to him, his fingers loosely intertwine with mine.
“Shush,” he says, all low and raspy and whispery. He’s like a scary sergeant major but sexy and clotted creamy at the same time. “Just go the fuck to sleep, Al.”
Waking up cocooned with Gerald in this awesome bed would be amazing. Who knows? Unless this is a once-only offer, I might find out before I move back into town. But not today, because my bed-mate/flatmate/dog-dancer/sleep whisperer is up, dressed, breakfasted, and tapping his foot by the front door. Oh fuck, it’s eleven o’clock. I slept and slept and slept.
“You snored, too,” he informs me, smugly. “I woke dreaming I was trapped in a nature documentary.”
Hah! When he puts his mind to it, Gerald’s quite funny. “Says the man whose own sinuses resurrected half the mortuary at St Helier Hospital the night after you had your appendix out. Why did you let me sleep so late?”
“Because you were tired. And looked pretty.”
Wow, that shuts me up. He grabs the dog lead. “I’ll retrieve Elsa from next door and give her a quick tour of the park while you make yourself even prettier.”
We’re halfway to Colchester before my mind finally stops mentally replaying his comment like it’s a favourite song. He thinks I’m pretty. That’s nice to know. Who doesn’t love a compliment?
Filling the driver’s seat, Gerald’s looking mighty fine himself. In profile, his beaky nose and strong jawline do overtime. One enormous hand rests on the wheel, the other casually dwarfing the gearstick. He glances across at me, probably checking I’ve got my seatbelt appropriately fastened. It’s only for a second or two, but plenty long enough for his eyelashes to sweep over his steady brown eyes in an unhurried blink.
“All good?” he asks.
“Yeah. You?”
“Can’t complain,” he answers with a nod.
Bloody hell, he’s cool. I’d be shitting myself right now, about the prospect of getting my groove on in front of a massive audience and a row of judges, but Gerald oozes confidence. I almost expect the radio to automatically switch to a slow, sultry samba and his hips to start swaying. And he’s only driving a bloody Ford Focus. If the car was sportier and sleeker, sophisticated light jazz would be dribbling through the speakers and I’d have my head in his lap. As it is, Troy Sivan’s seducing me from the shitty sound system, and I’ve got a semi.
Clearly, I haven’t indulged in enough sexing recently.
“You’re wriggling,” Gerald comments, focussing back on the traffic. “And you’re far too quiet. Something must be wrong.”
Anyone but Gerald would let me vape in the car. Asking permission or sneaking it to my mouth behind my hand is futile. “Why aren’t you nervous? What if Elsa gets stage fright from being in a strange place in front of all those strange people and refuses to do her thing? What if the music doesn’t play properly? What if Elsa panics and wees in the middle of the dancefloor? What if you panic and wee in the middle of the dancefloor? What if?—“
Gerald snorts, and the hand on the gearstick slides over to my knee. My semi inflates to three-fifths. I must be the only man alive who can be wracked with anxietyandmaintain an erection. Gerald’s thumb begins its usual soothing repetitive stroking—not helping one bit with the trouser situation, but at least it knocks my fretfulness down a notch. That is until he murmurs an approvinggood boywhile negotiating a double set of traffic lights. Good boy? Now I have daddy issues to worry about, too.
“Stage fright is a real thing, G.” I don’t think he’s properly grasped the enormity of what he’s planning and how, especiallyworking with animals, anything could go wrong. “What if Elsa makes a complete hash of it?”
Gerald shrugs. “Then I’ll lose. And we’ll drive home.”
God, he’s unnaturally calm. When he’s like this, I swear he’s not even human. “Okay.” My knee tries to jiggle; Gerald’s hand stills it. “Just promise me you’ll both visit the toilet before it’s your turn to go on.”
The sports hall is a glorious, anarchic melee of fur and barking and slippery squares of artificial turf, set to a backdrop of flashing lights and bursts of microphone feedback. Flood lighting has been switched for disco balls, monkey bars for water bowls. The unmistakable aroma of doggie excitement mingles with the earthy funk of rubbery gym mats and damp socks. Me, Gerald, and Elsa take a moment to breathe it all in.
The dog agility heats have been and gone, and the best of breed qualifiers are underway right this minute in the marquee next door. The handlers prep their pampered pedigree pooches here in the sports hall, in amongst all the dog dancers with their ordinary retrievers and border collies. Fabrizios zip from task to task, laden with designer labelled bags of chicken treats and bowls of water. A tense-faced woman frantically blow-dries a bichon frisé. Meanwhile, her other dog, a yappy chihuahua with silk ribbons plaited in its fur, makes a bid for freedom. Not giving a shit about any of it, a miserable-looking French bulldog steadily chomps his way through a plastic hairbrush.
