“Ah,” says a supercilious voice. “Look, everyone, Gerald’s back with us. And he’s brought his friend along this evening. Perhaps they can share their personal insights into?—“
“Tosser,” Alaric hisses. “Never apologise, never explain. Just smile and wave.”
Alaric demonstrates both, with panache, and when Gary and Claire half-heartedly wave back, he snuffles a laugh into my shoulder. Following his lead, I raise my hand in a cringy, pathetic little wave. He gives me a nudge. “Introduce me.”
“This is Alaric.” I fumble for his T-shirt. I’ve managed to get it back over his head but he’s in no rush to put his arms through the holes and cover himself up. “He’s my housemate—boyfriend. And he… he loves me.”
“I think we’ve all worked that one out, Gerald,” chortles Gary. “He loves something, at any rate. What book are we reading next month?Brokeback Mountain?”
“Ha-ha,” I manage.
“And I love book club,” Alaric chimes in. “I fucking love book club. Best night of the week IMHO, and trust me, I’ve had some good nights out. Not in Sutton Common, obviously, unless you count the night I flattened the daffs crouched outside the church hall while the vicar was in bed. Not my bed, I don’t know whose bed. His own, maybe? Anyhow, that was a top night. I’ve not been clubbing anywhere in the world that could beat that, and I’ve visited some fucking cool clubs. Though I still think you should throw in a werewolf book. Or vampires. You know, for when everything gets a bit heavy going? Chill out, lose yourselves a little. Get your groove on, especially you, top right corner. Drop your shoulders. And Gary, mate, love your insightful commentary but push the screen back a bit, I can count your blocked pores. But, yeah, vampire and werewolf books. There are some pretty good ones out there. Just saying.”
There’s the great-grandmother of stunned pauses, during which nothing happens except that Gary’s face shrinks a fraction.
“Okay, well… um… thanks, Alaric. Nice to meet you and we’ll bear that recommendation in mind. Now, Pat, I believe you were about to summarise…”
EPILOGUE
ALARIC–3 MONTHS LATER
Squashed on the back seat of the Ford Focus between Mrs Gregson and a highly amused Sandra, I’m the sliver of meat in a fragrant, excited, female sandwich, a position I never anticipated enjoying, but here we are. All part of life’s messy patchwork quilt. Another very hairy female, of the four-legged and far less fragrant variety, uses my lap as a doggy basket.
The two long legged man-spreaders—Gerald and Alan—travel in comfort in the front. They’re rattling to each other non-stop, making up for lost time. I’d be learning all sorts of interesting things about Gerald if only I didn’t have Mrs Gregson in one ear asking me if I’ve ever met a leather daddy (I’ve been fucked by two) and Sandra’s rundown of her last shift on the maternity ward (blood, gore, the usual high drama) in the other. Psychologically gearing up herself for the tense day ahead, Elsa’s lightly snoring.
With Birmingham less than an hour away, we hit the dog show traffic and slow to a crawl. It’s only nine in the morning. Before Gerald, I’d either be coming home from a night on the tiles about now or planning the next one, in which case I’d beshaving and waxing, douching and plucking, and stressing about fibre supplements, while lamenting the greasy hotdog I’d wolfed post nightshift two days earlier. Don’t get me wrong. I’m still keeping everything silky smooth down there; Gerald loves it that way. But, nah, if someone loves you just for you, then the rest is bollocks.
From the back of this cramped car, I have an unimpeachable view of my delicious boyfriend behind the wheel. Every now and again, when we stop at traffic lights or a roundabout, he catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and waggles the slugbrows, before throwing me a cute, thrilling little smile. It’s fucking adorable. Gerald himself is fucking adorable.
Over the last few days, he’s massively downplayed his chances of winning, almost as much as he downplays his personal role in his success so far, citing Elsa being a natural, lucking out on the day with a sympathetic judge, the inspired song choice, blah blah. The list goes on. It’s crazy he thinks he’s the background music when he’s the whole fucking song. If modesty was a category at Crufts, he’d storm away with the gold rosette.
Despite being terribly excited about the expedition, Mrs Gregson has never watched Crufts. “Is it likeBritain’s Got Talent? I liked that young man who did seagull impressions last Saturday. He should have won. Are you going to be on that with my Elsa if you win?”
“One hundred percent he is,” I declare, stroking Elsa’s satiny, floppy ears. She’s heavier than she looks. “And then a summer run at the Royal Palladium, winter at the Blackpool Tower Ballroom, and he’ll start Christmas with a bang by putting in a surprise guest appearance at the Royal Variety Show.”
Predictably, Gerald shakes his head, giving me his long suffering, stern look through the rear-view mirror, which isn’tsexy at all. Even though I no longer have blood circulating in my thighs, my soul still feels hugged.
“I don’t suppose you could shift that way a tad, could you, Sandra?” My left calf is a clenched fist of pain. When we arrive, I might need helping out of the car.
“The Royal Variety’s not been the same since the Queen passed, God rest her soul.” Mrs Gregson makes the sign of the cross, nearly taking my eye out. “I might watch it on the telly, though, if my Elsa’s in it.”
“Win or lose today, this is mine and Elsa’s final outing,” Gerald announces to a chorus of gasps, though surprisingly, not from Alan. “Sorry to disappoint.”
What?Is he serious? Clearly, I was joking about BGT and Blackpool. Gerald would rather be abducted by aliens who only communicate through the medium of interpretive mime than be edited into a bunch of three-minute segments of fake TV drama. But…wow. No dog dancing at all? Isn’t that a waste of an awesome dancer? Two awesome dancers? For all Big G has a lot of hidden layers, I did not see that coming.
“I’m hanging up my dog training shoes.” He eyes me uneasily before dropping his gaze back to the traffic. “I’ll still take Elsa for a walk every day,” he adds, “so no need to worry about that, Mrs Gregson.”
Alan, clearly in on it, gives Gerald’s muscly leg a reassuring pat. Which is exactly why I prefer sitting next to him in the front of the car.
“Oh…okay.”
So that’s disappointing. No more limbering up in the kitchen? No more topless planking in front of Question Time? OMG, no more blue satin shirt?
“Sorry,” he says, brown eyes twinkling. “Leave them wanting more, yeah?”
“Absolutely,” I respond like the super supportive boyfriend I’ve become. But I can’t deny inside I’m throwing the world’s tiniest hissy fit.
The eyes, however, are still twinkling as he indicates left to join the queue of cars edging into the arena carparks. Gerald even sends me a wink through the rear-view mirror. Hmm, something’s going on. His explanation is like a movie trailer– eye catching, vague, and hiding the crux of the story. From the way Alan is smiling and Gerald is giving me his full onyou’re going to be on your knees laterlook, I’m getting full on plot twist vibes. But… if it’s a plot he doesn’t want to share with the rest of the car, then that’s fine too. I’ll have to suck the truth out of him later.
