As excitement and anticipation surge through my veins, Gerald and I exchange a grin. Can’t lie—the whole thing is a fucking gay wet dream. From the expression on his usually serious face, even Gerald’s not immune. His wide brown eyes dart everywhere, soaking up the atmosphere, drinking it in, yet he’s still so super calm. He’d give the grumpy bulldog a run fornervelessness. More importantly, the new shirt is shirting hard. One of the fabulous Fabrizios fluffing up what Gerald reliably informs me is a Finnish spitz has already glanced over twice.
Naturally, he’s oblivious to the gay and not so gay attention he’s attracting. “My mother would have loved this,” he observes after we’ve registered. “My dad too.”
He’s scheduled to dance ninth out of fifteen entrants in total, all picked from shortlisted videos submitted earlier in the year. “She loved entering the kids into auditions; it didn’t matter what level of ability. Some auditions were for West End shows, some for a village panto.”
“Yeah?” Pride leaks from his pores; it’s the first time he’s volunteered anything personal about her. He sounds like he wishes his dad could be here to see it, too. By now, I know better than to prod. “Did you audition for any?”
Remembering, he smiles. “Yeah, plenty. I was the prototype! I did a few productions; the musical,Annie, was one,Oliveranother. I did that one at the Theatre Royal, playing the Artful Dodger for a summer six months, rotated with another couple of boys. It was great fun.”
“You’re kidding me!That’s hardlythe odd bit of musical theatre! No wonder you’re not shitting bricks.” Honestly, the more I think I know this man, the more there is to uncover. How the hell does he slip wild stuff like that into a conversation, then pet Elsa as if he’d once played fifth shepherd from the left in a school nativity? I’d be beggingplease sir I want some morefrom the rooftops and tapdancing to ‘Consider Yourself’ along the hospital corridors.
“It wasn’t that special. I think they just needed some adolescent lads who were tall and skinny.” He’s blushing. Idiot. Does he really have no idea how bright he shines? I tut at him.
“We all know that’s a lie. Stefan was a tall, skinny teenager with the whole underfed thing going. He couldn’t dance and sing his way out of conga line.”
Nor out of moody Marcus’s clutches.
“Whatever. Mum used to tell us that auditioning isn’t about beating the other kids. It’s about finding out what we’re capable of when we’re giving something our all. About discovering the courage to overcome the fear of making fools of ourselves. To stretch ourselves to the limit. And as long as you do that, she always said you should go home happy, whether you got the part or not.”
“So you’re not nervous one iota.” My own belly has been somersaulting on Gerald’s behalf since we got in the car. “Wow.”
“I am a bit,” he admits. “It would be abnormal not to be. But I’m trying to channel it into good vibes. Panicking productively. Like Elsa here.”
Elsa, thank fuck, is serenely grooming her front paws as if she’s settling in for a night by the fire. When Gerald beams down at her like a proud parent, I’m overcome by an insane urge to kiss him, right there. But that’s something a boyfriend would do, right? Someone Gerald believes special enough to break his high-falutin’, heartfelt resolutions with. Not his jittery, annoying tenant he’s allowing along for the ride only to keep him quiet.
So I make do with kissing Elsa instead.
CHAPTER 22
GERALD
After audition number eight limps to a shaky, unfortunate close (rule number one of dog dancing: steer clear of the slow ballads), it’s mine and Elsa’s turn to trot out into the arena. The applause is muted and polite except for a small section of the audience containing my own personal sunbeam, cheering me on loudly. He’s promised to video me and take a million photos; he won’t disappoint. I don’t need to search for him. His whoops and whistles reach me from the third row back. My mum’s motivational speeches and a killer shirt aren’t my only source of power today. Alaric’s unwavering support and steadfast belief fuel me with the strength of a thousand TED talks.
The next four minutes pass in a blur. A weightless calm I’ve felt since watching Alaric sleep, early this morning, carries through into the routine. The watchers feel surreally distant. I’ll be glad for the video; I’ll remember none of it afterwards.
From the second the thudding of the Scissor Sisters opening bars blasts around the sports hall, muscle memory takes the wheel. As a part of me steps outside myself and lets the real Gerald fly, I show my simple appreciation of this clever dogwho brings me so much pleasure. I embrace my oddities, pay homage to my mother’s life and the abilities she passed down to me. I flaunt my body in this ridiculous satin shirt, like I’m one of the Fabrizios. I’m embodying a gigolo—me, who’s never more comfortable than when I’m nestled amongst the beige joys of a quiet suburban life. This niche I’ve carved, Sutton Common, my solitary job, my dog dancing hobby, and my flat, make me happily who I am.
And no one understands. Except for perhaps the cute, irrepressible hobbit screaming and hollering from the third row back, loud enough to erode the enamel from my teeth.
We head into the final chorus. Elsa hasn’t put a paw wrong, and neither have I. By now, the choreography is stitched into me like second nature. My body makes the moves before I do. Is Elsa the same? Somewhere, hidden deep within that obedient, eager-to-please doggy brain, does she sense we’re killing it? Does she know the cacophonous applause as the final note fades is all for her? For us?
Head buzzing and chest heaving, we exit the dancefloor. Elsa dances on, yipping around my feet as she spins mad circles, barking at nothing. Ready to do it all over again. Sweat clings to my spine. Someone pats my shoulder. Voices belonging to strangers shout lots of nice things, but the praise barely registers. I’m floating on an adrenaline high, the crazy applause muffled by blood rushing through my ears. Blindly, I search for the nearest exit sign.
A warm body careers into mine, almost knocking me off my feet. A body smelling like cut grass and strawberry bubble gum. Of lip gloss and Coco Pops.
“Slayerrrr!”
Scrawny arms wrap themselves around my neck. Wet lips smack against my mouth as Alaric starts kissing me and kissing me and kissing me like he’s never going to stop. Elsa’s alltangled up in our feet and I’m sweaty and shaky; my heart’s about to explode out from behind my rib cage. The claps turn to wolf whistles as we stagger to a less public part of the hall. Somewhere in the distance, music for the next act starts up. Reluctantly, I pull away. Mostly because I need to catch my breath.
“You killed it out there, Big G! That was insane!”
Alaric’s still completely up in my space, tugging at my sleeve and beaming his gappy smile. Somehow, he’s refastened the lead on Elsa. Her snack bag dangles from his wrist. Slung over his back is his rucksack with mine and Alaric’s stuff mixed together in it. It’s another boyfriend-cosplaying moment, like the ones we share at the supermarket planning the week’s meals, and every day in my kitchen, and when we bought the shirt. When his mouth was around my cock.
And every part of me wishes it was for real. I suck in a deep breath.
“We slayed it.” I smile back at him. If it can’t be real forever, at least I can carry on pretending for now.
Behind us, “Viva La Vida” starts up. (Rule number two of dog dancing: avoid Coldplay. Marmite in human form. The judges will be divided.) But at least our audience has moved on to watching the next act. Therefore, I’m perfectly happy to carry on being kissed by Alaric.
