There’s an understatement. Alaric runs on instinct. Where I crave stillness he blows like a storm, but one way or another, we’ve ended up in the same place.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing,” Dad offers. “Giving him the chance to go. He’s got to figure it out for himself; staying because he doesn’t want to upset you, or because it’s perfectly fine but not everything he wants it to be is no basis for anything, going forward.”
Everything he says echoes my own thoughts. “I don’t know if there’s enough for him here in Sutton Common. With me. And when he goes back to Stefan’s, with a visual reminder of what he’s actually missing, he might realise that.”
“He’ll see your value, Gerald, if he’s the right man. And perhaps a bit of a change might do you good. You’re not welded to the flat, are you? If you make a go of things, you could always move closer to town.”
I’ve been pondering the same myself. Although if we go too far it might mean giving up Elsa. Alaric often says life’s a compromise—usually when he’s moaning about his clothing aspirations and how much rent he can afford. He might be right.
“Listen. When your mum started working in the same office as me, she was already engaged to someone else. A slightly older chap from down Brighton way she met performing in a show. His family owned a couple of smart hotels; he used to pick her up from work in an expensive Range Rover and take her to dinner. I’d only just started at my first job. I was still living at home. I didn’t have anything fancy like that to offer. She knew I liked her, and I knew she liked me. We used to eat our packed lunches together. All I could do was carry on being myself. And wait and hope that was enough.” He chuckles. “She came to her senses, eventually, even if we did have to live in her mum’s back bedroom for eighteen months until we saved enough for a deposit.”
Before, I’ve only ever heard this story from my mum’s viewpoint. That she’d been engaged to a clever posh bloke from the coast, all set to marry him and move away, until a shy young man at the office turned her head.
“Listen, Gerald: God knows I’m no expert. But if it fits, it flows. It doesn’t need persuading. And for what it’s worth, your Alaric looks at you the way I reckon I used to stare at your mother across three desks at work. Trust in your own self-worth. I think things are going to work out okay.”
The call ends soon after that. We finish up talking about Crufts and our old Jack Russell. It feels strange at first; familiar voice, unfamiliar warmth. But even though we touch on mum,old pets, and old lives, the past stays behind us, where it belongs. A future full of similar phone calls opens a little wider. Sandra is in the background, she shouts a cheery goodbye when we wrap things up. Next weekend, Sunday dinner is at their place.
Dad’s positivity stays with me right up until I sit myself in front of the laptop and skim through the inadequate notes I’ve prepped for book club.The Deeper The Water The Uglier The Fish.Which ray of fucking sunshine chose this bloody slab of emotional bankruptcy for discussion this evening?
Me. I’m the ray of fucking sunshine. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a fantastic authorial debut, beautifully portraying lives far more layered, complex, and brutal than mine will ever be. But, right now, I could do without an in-depth analysis of fifty-three chapters of misery porn. Nonetheless, here we are, all twelve of us, logging onto Zoom and doing it anyhow.
Edward-not-Ed eagerly kicks off, thank fuck, seeing as my brain’s buffering. The flat is far too empty and way too quiet. I hate it. Every gust of wind, every car door slamming (Alaric hasn’t even got a bloody car), and every footstep in the street has me flinching and my breath catching as if my body believes it’s him. Not one single iota of my mind is focused on the people throwing me odd looks from the screen. My behaviour is ridiculous; I know one of the sounds will be Alaric, sooner or later. He’s been trying to get hold of me all day. He promised he’s coming back this evening, even if only for one night, and he won’t let me down on that. Seems my nerves didn’t get the memo.
Patricia questions the author’s choice of naming the family cat Cronus and whether it symbolizes the inevitability of time and change. I don’t even recall there being a bloody cat, but I do recall every single item of clothing Alaric was hurriedly throwingon when I stormed out of the flat this morning. And how that soft red sweater feels under my fingers and how it contrasts with the shocked hurt in his blue eyes.
At least, I interpreted it as shocked hurt. Why do I never have any idea what Alaric is thinking? Especially as he has zero firewall between his brain and mouth. When we make love, for instance, and my soul’s composing sonnets, is his scrolling memes? When we kiss and my heart’s doing a soft, slow dance, is his wondering what I’m going to cook for dinner? His every waking moment is regurgitated in a never-ending stream of consciousness, and yet here I am, caught in this no-man’s-land of uncertainty.
It’s my fault. I should have made my position clearer, been braver, told him I loved him. When he asked why I’d never bottomed for anyone, that was my chance. For sure, trusting him was part of it. But a bigger part was a complete and utter giving up of myself and my control and my vulnerabilities in a way I’ve never wanted to give myself to anyone before. I should have confessed everything right there and then let the cards land where they fell. Instead, I protected my heart, pretending everything we’ve built together is nothing but an impermanence. His answer might have crushed me, but at least I wouldn’t be crawling the walls like I am now, petrified I’ve been watering something these past few weeks that will never, ever bloom.
Typically, I miss the moment Alaric’s key sounds in the lock, too busy making a monumental effort to appear normal by contributing my learned opinion on the opening few scenes of the book (unsurpassed writing, but gloomy as fuck).
“Hi,” he mouths from the sitting room doorway.
I jump so hard I make a sound I don’t even know I’m capable of—somewhere between a bark and a dying accordion. Very dignified.
His smile is soft and fleeting; he looks anxious and tired. “Hi,” I return, pulse pounding. “I’m on mute.”
“And I’m back, as you can see.” I search his eyes for the part that loves me with the same weight as I love him. Toeing out of his shoes, he pads over to join me on the sofa. It’s been drizzling with rain for the past half hour; his hair’s damp at the edges, and the fresh grass scent of him is stronger than ever.
“What book are you discussing?”
I nudge my paperback copy towards him. Gary is speaking about a fly-fishing trip he once took to Scotland.
“This. It’s…heavy. And depressing as hell. I wish I’d never chosen it.”
Picking it up, he turns the book over, scanning the blurb on the back cover.
“Nothing here about ugly fish,” he says.
“No. Nothing about pretty ones, either. How’s Stefan?”
“Flounder-ing.” He makes a soft snicker. “Carp-ing on about Marcus. Get it?”
On the screen, Claire boldly admits to DNF’ing at chapter six, citing too many personal triggers. If I hadn’t selected the bloody thing, I’d have done the same. Debs, rubbing her hands in glee, extols the outstanding prose in chapters seven and eight.
I open my mouth at the same time as Alaric.
“Al, look, we need to?—“
