“Hi,” I say when he finally runs out of steam and he and my dad have remembered who he’s really here to see.
My dad returns the greeting, his own soft and cautious. Who can blame him? The way I treat him, I’m surprised he still bothers.
Coat folded over his arm, Alaric’s gaze darts between the two of us, smiling and expecting… more. If I hadn’t inherited his height and nose, my dad and I do an awfully convincing impression of complete strangers. These opening five minutes are always the worst. For the first time since he’s moved in, I’m begrudgingly glad Alaric’s here to take the initiative.
“Great timing, Alan. I was about to put the kettle on. Do you both want something? Tea? Coffee?” He beams. “Oooh, I bought some lovely lemon tea this week. Someone at work recommended a new, organic brand to me. It’s awesome—you should try it. Good for your karma.”
Is that remark directed at me? Fruit teas are like drinking perfume.
“I’m game to try a lemon tea,” offers my dad, and I nearly fall over backwards. “I had camomile for the first time the other day. One of the new secretaries, Sally, brought it into the office. Feltlike a nice change in the middle of the afternoon. You know how it is; you’ve already drunk three cups of coffee, but it’s still too early for a glass of wine?”
I’d kill for a glass of wine, right now.
Again, Alaric beams at my dad. “OMG! That’s exactly what tea was invented for! I tell that to the coffee drinkers at work all the time! And fruit teas are so good for you! Full of antioxidants.”
Hah! From the man who has a slab of cherry Cokes in the fridge. Alaric chirrups a laugh, an easy, joyful sound. “Mind you, I tend to ruin that good work by dipping a choccie biscuit in it, but, hey, the thought was there, right?”
“Now you’re talking!”
My dad chuckles. I didn’t know my dad drank anything but builders’ tea. Just like I didn’t know he had a new secretary called Sally or that his coat was cashmere.
“Gerald?” Alaric turns to me. “Are you in?”
I’m still standing around like a spare part. “Um, no. I’ll stick to coffee, thanks.”
“Two lemon teas and a coffee with no sugar and a splash it is then. Coming right up.”
Alaric’s noted how I like my coffee. I don’t know what to make of that.
“He seems nice,” Dad observes as Alaric bustles off. We take up our usual positions in the lounge, me on the sofa and him in the armchair. “I’m glad you’ve got some company.”
His gaze travels around the room, searching for something to talk about. He picks up a surgical textbook Alaric has left lying around, next to a pen and a crumpled empty crisp packet. My fingers itch to tidy them both up.
“It’s only temporary,” I answer. “For both of us. He’s a friend of a friend, here in between leaving one rental and trying to findanother. He’d much rather be back in central London, really, but he needs to save some money. And?—“
“And you’re fine for money, but you thought the company might be good.” Dad leafs through the book at random. He doesn’t know about Elsa, our routine, and the associated costs. I have no intention of telling him; he already thinks I’m odd enough. “I’m pleased. Sandra will be too.”
“Yeah.”
At mention of Sandra, I clear my throat, a nervous, half-hearted sound, building up to ask after his wife. They married about six months ago, on holiday abroad. Afterwards, they said it was a spontaneous thing, so fortunately I wasn’t obliged to attend. Sandra is a part-time community midwife. Like my dad, she’s only ever been nice to me.
“Work going okay?” Dad says, to fill the gap.
“Fine,” I answer. “It’s fine.”
I’ve been doing the same job in the same private eye surgery clinic for the last ten years. All day, I sit in a dark room, surrounded by fancy technology, making up specialist lenses and prescriptions for people who’ve undergone invasive eye operations. My junior colleague in the next room does exactly the same. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy it. It’s solitary, predictable, poses occasional intellectual challenges, and the pay’s decent. Some days, though, I feel like just another one of the complex machines on the laser centre’s conveyer belt.
“Good,” he responds. “That’s good.”
I follow up with, “And how’s the office?” because that’s how our conversations work.
“Great.” My dad is a conveyancing solicitor in a partnership of four. He only works three days per week now, given he’s over sixty. “Barbara retired last week. She had a leaving do.”
“How many years was that?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Awesome.”
