Gerald joins me. He’s invited anyhow, independent of me, so getting dressed up and arriving together at their pad in Shooters Hill doesn’t feel like a date, and we absolutely don’t behave like a couple, whatever it might look like. A joint housewarming gift from the both of us—a prettily potted lemon tree—is simply convenient.
A modest Victorian semi from the outside, the house is Ezra-cool once through the front door. The gazillions Isaac inherited, and which Ezra’s finally allowed him to spend, have been put to good use.
I gulp down my first glass of free bubbles whilst admiring the living room, which has that everything-casually- mismatched-but-all-fucking-expensive vibe. The vintage leather Chesterfield would be big enough for ten or so of us gathered here tonight, if I brushed off the scattered guitar picks. Oversized black-and-white portraits of the happy family hang on deep navy walls, lit by a moody row of Edison bulbs. Sipping at his champers in a much more adult fashion, Gerald carefully studies them. Champagne and smart surroundings are a good look on him; he has an understated poise. Also, that amazing body helps.
Isaac refuses to let me prowl around what is undoubtedly his very sexy bedroom, so I have to make do with nosing around the kitchen, a stylish blend of industrial edge and high-end functionality. I’d expect an unobstructed view of the Empire State Building, not, you know, a patch of lawn decorated with football posts and a trampoline.
Anyhow, I digress. Gerald trails after me into the kitchen, probably because he’s an antisocial bugger and most guests are congregated in the living room. We seem to travel everywhere together these days. We also seem to find any excuse for more celebratory sexing; our non-tenancy-agreement related activities have stretched well beyond that amazing one night. Since Gerald’s Crufts qualifying win, highlights have included coming home from work for a quick celebratory sexing over the arm of the sofa. We’ve also celebrated making a pot of organic lemon tea. Whilst the kettle boiled, we discovered I’m the perfect size to lift onto any convenient kitchen surface. And though Gerald spat out the lemon tea, he swallowed down every last drop of my jizz. Last, but not least, we’ve celebrated book club (my head in his lap with the camera off as Patricia laboriously explained the true meaning ofMoon Tiger—the march of time and fragility of life, blah blah). Who gives a fuck, seeing as no tigers feature in the novel.
Anyhow, the party’s great, full of Ezra’s hot, handsome, eclectic mates. And Neil, being very handsy with one of our doctor pals who acts as camp as a row of tents but whom I know for a fact is straight, seeing as I’ve also chanced my arm with him in the past. At least it’s keeping Neil occupied, though I won’tfind myself hooking up with him or anyone else tonight. Not only am I not in the mood, but it would be rude, seeing as Gerald and I are fucking. Sexing without having to make the effort of leaving the house is super convenient. I might as well make the most of it while I can.
Learn to fly. Fly away.is written in bold comic sans across one kitchen wall with the outline of an eagle daubed underneath. Unexpected, considering this is Ezra’s cool pad, but miles better thanlive, laugh, love.
“They’ve only moved from Chiswick to Shooters Hill,” I comment to Gerald. “Hardly the flight of the condor, is it?”
Seeing as Isaac, Luke, and Ez are at the breakfast bar, I make to lean into him, so they don’t overhear my commentary. I discover I’m leaning into him already. “You literally only need to go ten minutes on the District Line towards Ealing Broadway, then hop on a train in Woolwich.”
“It’s spiritual, babe,” Gerald murmurs back, and my heart absolutely does not do any sort of flip at that casualbabe. The thimbleful of fizz he’s drunk is to blame; he’s a total lightweight. His lack of booze tolerance back when we danced together at Ezra’s club is the reason we’ve ended up where we are. “Have you not read Donna Tartt’sThe Goldfinch?” he then adds, the supercilious fucker.
“No, though I’ve seen it weighing down the shelves in Waterstone’s. It makes War and Peace look like a pamphlet.”
“You should give it a go. It won a Pulitzer.”
Of course it did. “Don’t you ever just grab something quick and easy from the thriller shelf by the supermarket checkout?”
Gerald looks horrified. “No. I support literary diversity and independent bookstores. As should you.”
Consider me told off. “Who cares if it won prizes? I won the 3rdDagenham District Cubs music badge for playing Chopsticks with my feet. Doesn’t make me any good on the piano.”
After a quick glance at the others, his mouth finds my ear. “You suck on the organ, too.”
Gerald is stealth funny; his humour is like a secret superpower he pulls out precisely when he’s becoming too insufferable. Like now. Nonetheless, I refuse to laugh.
“Let me guess.The Goldfinchisn’t about birds.”
“Not really,” Gerald concedes. “Though there is a painting with a goldfinch in it. It’s about finding beauty in normal, everyday things, a commentary on journeying through life.”
We’re still leaning into each other, even though whispering this close is unnecessary. Our friends are having an impassionate debate about global warming, but I’m more interested in Gerald’s warm breath, tickling my hair.
“Learn to fly. Fly away.has a parallel message,” he states. “Isaac and Ezra separated quite early on in life’s journey, then reunited to discover they’re soulmates. And when they finally learned how to let go of their shared past—and also, in Ezra’s case cheap sex and cheap people—they flew to a better spiritual place together.”
With a satisfied nod, he takes another conservative sip. Yep, prod a little, make a flippant throwaway comment, and a hitherto unseen intriguing layer of Gerald slinks to the fore. As well as being an optometrist, a walking public library, a master chef, awesome dog dancer, and a sexing god, Gerald also gives Socrates a run for his money. And whilst he might not be everyone’s cup of cocoa, I’m absolutely here for it.
Obviously, I don’t tell him. He’ll think I really like him or something, or that I’m after more celebratory sex. Which definitely isn’t going to happen ever again. This morning was absolutely the last time. Apart from the quick exchange of hand shandies after I showered and before we came out. But this time I mean it. I’m moving out of Sutton Common ASAP. I’m one of the cheap people who has lots of cheap sex, the sort of personEzra managed to fly away from. And Gerald Mason is anything but cheap.
“Shagging and then shacking up with your brother is hardly leaving the past behind, though, is it?” I point out, mostly because I’m enjoying our private conversation à deux and want to keep it going.
He rolls his eyes. “Do you really have zero ability to recognise allegory? You know Animal Farm is about more than ambitious livestock, don’t you?”
“Allegory?” I tease in a posh accent, pretending to search over his shoulder. “The darling girl! Is she here? Haven’t seen her in years!”
Gerald presses his lips together, but the corners keep twitching upwards. “For that, I’ve a good mind to haul you over my leg-ory when we get home,” he murmurs as if he’s complimenting the décor, “and give you a good spanking.” Very deliberately, brown eyes boring into mine, he brushes his thumb along his lower lip. “Babe.”
Okay. So maybe he might be able to persuade me to have celebratory sex just one more time. For luck.
About now, we realise everyone else’s conversation has drawn to a halt. And also Gerald’s hand has drifted onto my hip.
“Pay him no attention. He’s being a pretentious wanker,” I explain to three identical sets of raised eyebrows. “And if you caught the end of that conversation and thought it sounded in any way sexy, then you are very, very much mistaken. Gerald terrorises me out in Sutton Common. This hand is coercive, not friendly. Trust me. He’s an absolute bloody pest. Some days I’m scared to leave my bedroom.”
