Very shy, I decide. But probably harmless. Hopping up onto a bar stool, I park myself for a good old natter. I’ll have him warmed up in no time. “Cool. That must be an interesting career.”
Gerald has his broad back to me, creating something complicated with salad ingredients. Biceps bulging tastily through his long-sleeved tee, he chops up a carrot. He must work out. Luke never mentioned it; perhaps it’s a new thing. In my head, I’d pictured Gerald as tall and stringy. Turns out he’s more of a long, strong rope. “Yeah.”
My first conversational gambit elicits barely more than a grunt, but I make small talk to members of the general public for a living, sometimes with a gloved finger shoved up their arses. Dr Alaric Alvin is not so easily deterred.
“How many optometrists does it take to change a lightbulb?” I persist in the same cheery vein. “One…or two? One or two?”
Gerald doesn’t answer. In the ensuing awkward silence, disturbed only by the dicing of carrots into identical batons, even the clean bare walls judge me.
“Heard that one before, yeah?”
“Yes. And all the rest.” Still, he doesn’t turn around.
I try again. “Oh, okay. Cool. There are a lot of urology jokes out there, too, as you can probably imagine. What with, you know, the specialty being all about willies and stuff.” I huff a laugh. “But who doesn’t enjoy a good willy joke, right?”
Gerald, apparently. The next stretch of silence commands the room like a stale fart.
“Luke told you I was a surgeon, didn’t he? Training to be one, anyhow. I’ve passed all the exams, thank fuck. Now it’s just doing the time, learning new techniques, gaining experience. I haven’t yet chosen a subspecialty. I quite enjoy urodynamics and uro-oncology, though I’ll probably steer clear of women’s urodynamics ‘cos, hello, homosexual man, right? I think I can offer other men a lot more. I understand them better, you know? I mean, I do possess a mother and some female friends, but I can’t say I’m an expert on?—“
Gerald’s phone buzzes from the worktop, cutting me off. He seizes it like it’s a lifebelt. In two swift strides, he’s through the door and into the sitting room adjacent. I try not to listen, but I’m a nosey bugger and it’s a small flat. Swiping a carrot baton, I crunch down on it and tune in.
If I think the call might afford me insight into Big G’s personality, I’m wrong. If anything, he sounds even more unnatural conversing with the unknown caller than enduring my cheesy optometry jokes. There’s a polite reference to the weather, a few yesses and nos, and then a super polite thanks for calling, before he rings off. His pained sigh travels with him back into the kitchen. There, I hastily gulp down a second carrot baton, pretending to be super fascinated by a flyer advertising tickets for a ‘fun’ local ukulele gig. Fucking Sutton Common.
“Cold callers, huh?” I say. “I think there’s a screening thing you can do with your phone so they can’t get through. I remember my mum telling me about it. I think you have to?—“
“It was my father.” He gives the carrots and then me a suspicious glare.
“Oh. That’s cool. My folks moved out to Spain six years ago. I miss them, although they phone every week and I manage to get out there once a year or more, if I can—actually, it’s more like twice, and they come over to the UK at least a couple of times too, to see me and my granny, who’s in a home. And then?—“
“I’m going out with the dog.”
Gerald shovels his salad into a Tupperware. Grabbing his travel mug, he shoulders on his coat. Before I can say anything else, he’s out onto the street, the door slamming resolutely behind him. It’s still pissing down.
Crucially, he doesn’t own a dog.
CHAPTER 4
GERALD
I scoop up Elsa from Mrs Gregson next door, and we head across the park to the church hall. Usually, when Elsa leaps into my arms, for the next couple of hours everything else is swept away—any aggro at work, my dad, my loneliness, and my lack of an intimate partner. It’s just me, the border collie, Jake Shears, and the tricky dance steps.
But not today. Today, I struggle to concentrate.
My new housemate must think I’m a monumental arsehole. Who knows? He might have moved out by the time I get back. I’d be contemplating it, in his shoes. I hadn’t smiled at him enough. Hadn’t made sufficient eye contact. Didn’t laugh at his jokes. A thousand different versions of how that first encounter could have gone better play out in my head. I could have taken his bags from him, commented on the dreadful weather, lied and told him how pleased I was to have some company and how much his rent would help me. Given him more of the fridge, shown him how the TV and the heating system worked. Suggested we watch a film tonight, grab a takeaway, get to know each other. He’d probably have politely declined, because he’s clearly thesort of guy who doesn’t even realise television schedules exist on a Saturday night. Too busy out painting the town red and getting laid.
I don’t want to picture Dr Alaric Alvin getting laid.
The chilly church hall smells like always, a comforting mix of stale biscuits, old lino, and faded cleaning products. I switch on the heater and the overhead strip lights, then draw the flimsy curtains. Already, Elsa’s excited, leaping all over me with her wet tongue hanging out as I swap my damp sliders for cross-training shoes. Fastening my laces takes twice as long, thanks to her. When I tee up our warmup tunes on my portable speaker, she twirls on the spot like we’re already doing the routine. I didn’t expect to smile today, but here I am, grinning like a loon at this daft border collie who doesn’t even belong to me.
I ruffle her ears. “You don’t care, do you, that I’m weird and have the social graces of a truffle pig.” I pat her wiggling behind fondly. Neither does she care that my housemate smells like the best summer I never had.
Time to push thoughts of Alaric aside. “Right then, Elsie.” I click my fingers twice, pointing to the centre of the floor. “Time to show them what we’re made of.” Instantly, Elsa’s there and down on her belly, tail wagging madly. Joining her, I give her a tiny titbit reward, adopt a pose, and press play.
CHAPTER 5
ALARIC
I stir awake at two forty-five a.m. From then on, I’m strung out. Wired. To be fair, I’m always wired. I can’t remember the last time I slept for longer than a five-hour stretch. I’ve tried everything: melatonin, antihistamines, zopiclone. I’ve even tried all the ‘sleep hygiene’ tricks, like a mug of cocoa, a night-time relaxing bath, not having my phone by the bedside. The latter resulted in me being wide awakeandbored. Developing a regular routine is never going to wash—hello night shifts—as is the no booze and no nicotine thing. Mind you, I didn’t spot any alcohol in Gerald’s fridge, so maybe I’ll cut down whether I want to or not.
