Even if Gerald is a cultural snob and creeps about like a wraith, I still prefer having him skulking around over having no one. Perhaps his non-existent dogisa wraith.
“Did you ever watch thatWolf Hallthing the BBC did?” I ask Luke.
Luke is used to my random questions. “I started to, then gave up. Dreary as fuck.”
Yes! I knew it. “Needed a few actual wolves to spice it up, yeah?”
He huffs a laugh. “Probably.”
I take a long, satisfied drag on my vape. “I’m only living with Gerald until I’ve banked some money. Or if Stefan falls out with Marcus.”
More of awhenthan anif. It’s simply a matter of biding my time until the blinkers come off. “And then I’ll be back in the thick of it. Drinking, dancing, Ubers at five a.m., and falling into work at eight.” I throw him a radiant smile because everyone expects cheeriness from me. I even do a finger-clicking seated rave with my skinny arms above my head, as if vibing to a tune only I can hear.
“Great.” Luke smirks. “Lucky Gerald.”
“Oh, Gerald’s cool.” If I say it enough times it might come true. “Quiet, weird, reclusive, but cool. It’s all good.”
Perceptive as ever, Luke picks up on my lack of conviction, but oddly, not the right part. “Do you really want to be back in the thick of it? Haven’t you got that out of your system by now?”
“Well…yeah, obvs.” Now I sound even more forced. “But since I turned thirty, there’s no law saying I’ve got to stay in watching Strictly on Saturday nights, is there? I enjoy going out and meeting people. I need to. I haven’t had sex for, like, over a fortnight.”
Luke nods, pondering my answer. Sucking on my vape, I scroll through my phone. The first night I was in Sutton Common, I swiped through Grindr; I had to download three updates before the app allowed me on, indicating how little I’d needed to rely on it before.
Anyhow, I shouldn’t have bothered. No one within a couple of miles or so grabbed me. Inconveniently, despite being horny 24/7, I’m not one of those gays for whom a transactional dick pic is enough. Even though I position myself at thevery relaxedendof the fussiness scale, I still need a presentable face and a vague personality to go with my manhandling, even for a quick one-nighter.
“I haven’t had sex for over two years,” says Luke. “Except with myself.”
Oh my god, how is he still alive?
“And that’s super, super cool, too.” It absolutely is. As is the image of Luke giving himself a desperate hand shandy. Which I absolutely erase from my mental wank bank the second I picture it. As sharply as I erase the second image too, of me giving him a helping hand. I don’t think he’s gay anyhow. Isaac isn’t so sure, but then Isaac didn’t clock that his own brother was gay, so he’s no reliable barometer.
“It’s healthy that you’re wanking regularly.” No wonder I have a diminishing circle of friends. “Though the research linking masturbation to a reduced prostate cancer risk is actually more controversial than popular media would have you believe. Men probably need to ejaculate over twenty times a month for it to make a significant difference.”
Safe to say, based on that data, my bespoke cancer risk is subterranean. “Do you keep a record?” As if maintaining a wanking spreadsheet is normal. Mind you, I know a urologist who charts his daily urine output. “One of the most extensive studies published in 2016 inEuropean Urologyfollowed more than 31,000 men for nineteen years and showed a reduced incidence, but more recently a study inUrologic Oncologyshowed a?—”
“I don’t count how many times. I just do it to make me feel better. Or when I’m bored. Like most blokes, I guess.” Luke stands, brushing sandwich crumbs from his shirt. “Sutton Common might be good for you, Alaric. Calm you down a bit.”
CHAPTER 8
GERALD
Once every couple of weeks, usually on a Wednesday evening, my dad swings by the flat on his way back from badminton club. He lives in Putney, in the house I grew up in, so it’s not too much of a detour. I ought to drop in on him and Sandra once in a while, or perhaps go out for a drink or a bite to eat with them, but as I’ve turned him down so often, he’s stopped asking.
The entrance buzzer chimes.
“I’ll get it!”
Before my sliders even hit the hallway, Alaric’s at the front door. Fuck. I thought he was asleep in his room.
By the time I’ve rounded the corner, he’s already chatting, relaxed, casual, chirpy. Everything I’m not. “Your dad’s here, Gerald,” he announces, as if we’re friends. “Nice to meet you, Alan. I’m Alaric. The new housemate. Let me take your lovely coat and hang it up. Is it cashmere? Ooh, very nice. Maybe I’ll accidentally forget to give it back.”
My dad laughs, a hearty, strong sound. I haven’t heard him properly laugh in years. “Alaric. That’s unusual. Is it Scottish?”
“Och, no,” Alaric answers in a really shit Glaswegian accent. “My mum had a man mending the tumble dryer when she was pregnant with me—called Alaric—and she liked it. It’s actually from the old German meaning…”
And he’s off, waffling away as if him and my dad are mates sharing a pint down the pub whilst I’m stood like a lemon in the hallway, too fucking edgy to step forward and welcome my old man with a hug. Of course, Alaric makes newcomers feel comfortable; he must use those skills to put people at ease all day at work. After all, within minutes of a handshake, most of his patients have to whip out their privates for him.
I’d be a useless urologist.
