FOOL’S GOLD

  MIS-SHAPES

  BOOK 2

  FEARNE HILL

  Copyright © 2025 by Fearne Hill

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Black Jazz Designs

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Fearne Hill

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Canine musical freestyle, otherwise known as dog dancing, is a sport where dogs and their handlers combine dances and tricks to tell a story. Performances are judged on their content, precision, difficulty of the routine, and stepping in time to music.

  Dog safety is paramount. Some of the moves described in this story are not allowed in professional competitions; I have taken a few liberties. Please do not attempt any of these dog tricks with your own beloved pooches!

  Crufts is an international dog show held yearly in the UK since 1891! It is the largest show of its kind in the world.

  Thank you to my lovely readers for sticking with me for so many years. Wow, it’s gone fast. I hope you enjoy Alaric’s story.

  A very, very special thank you to M.A. Hinkle, my editor.

  Any errors are mine alone.

  CHAPTER 1

  ALARIC

  We’re in a very gay cocktail bar near the hospital, enjoying a quick pint after work. At least, my friend and colleague Luke is having a pint. I’m having a mai-tai I can ill afford, garnished with a sprig of rosemary.

  “Still no luck finding a new flat?” he asks.

  “No.” Glumly, I take a small sip in an effort to make it last.

  “How about–“ When Luke opens his mouth—before his lips even shape the word—I’ve guessed whose name is coming out. And, already, I’m shaking my head. “No. Absolutely not. Not Gerald.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Luke points out. “Remind me when you have to move out of Stefan’s flat?”

  “This weekend.” I pull a face. “His boyfriend’s stuff is already piled up in my room.”

  Stefan Henderson is my oldest, bestest, gayest school friend and, thanks to his excessively remunerated job in finance, the owner of a chi-chi, spacious flat in Fulham boasting three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Stefan remembers my mum’s birthday when I don’t. I prompt him the week before his dad’s. When I cried for three days straight after watching Call Me By Your Name, he didn’t laugh. He simply fed me Pringles and refreshed my tissue supply until I felt able to reface the world. When he skateboarded down his grandma’s staircase aged fourteen and shattered the front door glass, I claimed it was me. We share fucking Netflix and Spotify accounts. The same fucking preferred flavour of Pringles (the original gateway drug, sour cream and onion).

  But none of that counts for anything. His boyfriend, Marcus, now his fiancé, has decided a lodger is surplus to requirement and allegedly needs my room as a second work study. Maybe it’s because I shaped a cock and balls with my beard trimmings in the bathroom wash basin, forgetting his parents were visiting. Or it could be repeatedly borrowing his eyebrow pencil and not returning it. More likely, however, it’s because I came home early and caught Marcus wanking with a pair of my used undies scrunched under his nose. We pretended I didn’t spot them, but… he knows I know.

  Though perhaps he just hates me because Stefan laughs at my jokes way more than his.

  “Gerald’s place wouldn’t be that bad,” Luke promises, based on the square root of absolutely fuck all. He’s only met the guy a couple of times, out with our mutual friend, Isaac. “You’ll hardly see each other. He’s a busy boy, like you. He works full time and has lots of hobbies.”

  “Yeah, but what ones?” I sound sulky. I once had a flatmate who whittled miniature dollhouse furniture from soapstone. Turns out he made it to order for a gang smuggling powdered ket in and out of Heathrow. He’s now serving three years at Wormwood.

  Luke purses his lips. “Er… I know he’s big into reading. Heavy stuff, prize-winning fiction. Um…I think he runs a book club? And he talked about getting a dog. I don’t know if he ever went ahead.”

  “Does he abbreviate Gerald to anything?”

  “Er…” Luke frowns. “Not that I’m aware. Why?”

  I shrug. Pervy uncles are called Gerald, not housemates. “No reason. Does he wear a bowtie? Unironically?”

  “He might.” Luke laughs. “If you ask him nicely.” My friend’s blue gaze travels from the top of my calico shirt (admittedly, a brave choice for work) all the way down to the hems of my trousers—a lush grey suede, glued to me like a supple second skin. “That’s rich,” he observes, “coming from a man with silver piping along his trouser seams. Please, don’t tell me you examined thirty patients in the urology clinic dressed like that.”

  What can I say? I like to shake up the hospital ward rounds.

  “Twenty-eight,” I correct. “And one of them complimented not only my choice of shirt but passed me his number, too. Fair play, given that he’s undergoing tests to get to the bottom of his longstanding impotence. Maybe I’m the cure.”

  When I hollow my cheeks and suggestively suck on my straw, Luke crosses his eyes at me, making me laugh. I have no idea if he’s gay or not; he’s either oblivious to the attention he attracts or purposefully ignoring it. All I know is that he’s far more mentally stable than eighteen months ago. Back then he made several attempts to end his life. Now he works in a lower stress job and does normal things, like coming to the pub with me and suggesting shite flatmates. This healthy version of Luke is awesome, making his sexuality neither here nor there. And he doesn’t tell me off when I flirt with him, so I suck on the straw even harder. “I’m dressing for the job I want, not the job I have.”

  “Whatever.” He takes a swig of beer. “But don’t come running to me when you’re in a disciplinary meeting dressed as the Goblin King.”

  I adore my job, despite the mismatch in my income and my lifestyle—these expensive trousers a case in a point. People have an image of London surgeons as posh, rich old farts driving Bentleys and playing golf. Many do; most doctors hail from Luke’s comfy background, whereas I grew up on a council estate in Dagenham. Even my student debts are in debt. Aged thirty and in the thick of training for an unsexy career in urology, I’m years off owning any sort of car, and about as posh as a bowl of cheesy chips in the hospital cafeteria.

  Luke takes another gulp of beer. “And stop trying to divert me with the straw sucking thing. Stay on task: Gerald is looking to rent his spare room, the money he’s asking is reasonable, and you need more affordable accommodation. Win-win.”

  I sigh, knowing he’s right. Stefan has only ever charged me mate’s rates (another of Marcus’s gripes). No way could I have afforded such central London luxury otherwise.

  “Honestly,” Luke continues, “Just do it. He’ll keep out of your way. You’ll be ships passing in the night.”

  He dangles that like it’s a good thing. As if I want to be left to my own devices with nothing but my fervid brain for company.

  “His book club books will be organised via the Dewey decimal system,” I say stubbornly.

  “Quite probably.” Luke rolls his eyes at me. “But so what if they are? At least you’ll be able to lay your hands on the complete works of Nietzsche when you need them. Listen.” He lays his own hand over mine. For a second, I pray he’ll offer to let me lodge with him. I know he’s got a spare room. Alas, no. “As long as you pay the rent on time, don’t nick Gerald’s food from the fridge, and do your share of the cleaning, it will be like living alone.” Obliviously, he ratchets my anxiety up a few rungs. “I expect Gerald is a stickler for stuff like that.”

  For a minute, I say nothing, letting the sugary mai-tai warm through my veins. I suppose no immediate red flags spring out. Apart from Gerald being called Gerald, obviously. If only his name, pastimes, and neckwear situation weren’t the worst of it. “His flat is in Sutton Common. I swear that’s not even a London postcode.”

  “South London,” Luke corrects. “It’s an up-and-coming area. It has well connected transport links, good schools, and green spaces. I considered it when I bought my place. Sutton Common’s really attractive for families.”

  “I’ll be sure to bring my four kids with me, then.” What the fuck do I need with green spaces? Does he think I’m going to take up cricket? “I bet Gerald mines cryptocurren
cy.”

  Panic seeps in, my inevitable fate staring me in the face. “Which means he’ll also watch anime and play epic zillion-hour games of Dungeons and Dragons. He’s called freaking Gerald, Luke! He’ll use a travel mug and have one of those plastic banana cases in his work lunch box shaped like a frigging yellow dildo! He’ll know stuff about pensions and tax codes!”

  Okay, so I might be hyperventilating. It’s unnecessary. No red flags. Except for the Sutton Common thing. Who wants to live in bloody Sutton Common? It doesn’t even have a Tube line.

  “It’s hardly fair to hold his name against him.” Luke isn’t unreasonable. “And isn’t it about time you got to grips with fiscal prudence? You’ve been working for seven years.”

  “Didn’t Fiscal Prudence win Drag Race last season?”

  I’m testing the limits of Luke’s patience. “I’ve visited his flat. It’s in a nice, quiet road at the Morden end of Sutton Common.”

  “That’s like saying Hell is located on the leafier bank of the river Styx. I’d never even heard of Sutton Common until yesterday.”

  One mai-tai isn’t enough. I may need Luke to sub me for another. God, I wish I wasn’t so skint. His warm hand squeezes mine, kindly, even though we both know I’m being an obnoxious dick.

  “Listen. The first time I met Gerald, I wasn’t too keen. But I had a lot going on. Like not wanting to be alive, for instance. And honestly, Gerald really is okay once you get to know him. For all his…rigid routines and quirks, he’s solid. The kind of guy who would turn up if ever you needed him. He’s just a bit odd at first, while he’s getting the measure of you.”

  “How odd? And for how long? I’m an impatient bugger.”

  Luke laughs. “He’s quiet, that’s all, and a bit… he likes things a particular way. But, if it wasn’t for Ezra, I think Isaac and him might have made a go of things.”

  Isaac is our mate, shacked up with his sexy as hell brother-boyfriend, Ezra. He’s about as far from my mental image of Gerald as a man can be.

  “How is the hot goth?” I crunch an ice cube. “Maybe Ezra might be getting bored of Isaac and his gazillions, and needs a third to spice up their love life, I could always⁠—“

  Luke’s mouth twists into a smile. “Stop changing the subject. Gerald’s only asking five hundred and fifty quid a month. Bills included.”

  Five hundred and fifty quid. Even less than what I’m currently coughing up. I repeat the amount in my head, my hyperactive mind already conjuring a virtual spreadsheet and calculating the savings. Halfway across the city, mind, and in the wrong corner of it. But if I can suck up to Gerald and his Nietzsche and his bowties for a year, I’ll pay off a sizeable chunk of my student loan. I’ll be healthier too, what with the sudden death of my social life, which would easily offset the extra travel costs. I could listen to some surgical podcasts on the endless train journey into town, use the time wisely. I could even educate myself about pensions and tax codes. Become part of the sensible, mature grownup brigade, like Stefan and Marcus, Luke, Ezra, and Isaac.

  Who knows? I may even start sleeping properly and transform into less of a perpetually wired pain in the arse.

  Luke’s soft eyes meet mine. “I’ll tell Gerald to expect you bright and early on Saturday morning, shall I?”

  Two mai-tai’s don’t touch the sides after that monumental decision. I need to dance, drink a ton more, and get laid. It might be my last opportunity for a while if I’m moving out to bleeding Sutton Common.

  Luke and I head over to Earth Bar, a club-cum-live music venue. Not a queer spot per se, but it draws us in. Ezra and his mate, Neil—the lead singer of the resident house band—recently took over the lease. Both gay as maypoles and hot as fuck. Isaac and his brother-boyfriend are already here with Neil, who gives me his customary greeting: a careless, open-mouthed kiss.

  “Who’s he?” Luke sounds worried he’ll be next. The way Neil’s eyeing him up, he might well be.

  “Old friend,” I explain. “And occasional partner in mildly regrettable late-night decisions.”

  “Only occasional?”

  “Yeah. Steer well clear. He’s a catastrofuck on legs.”

  Neil’s broken. He’s not a cold man, nor a cruel one, but whatever he’s searching for, to satisfy whatever drives him, he’s not even close to finding. Plenty have tried to fix him over the years; no way will I volunteer for the construction crew. “Stay away; he’s already spotted you as a new face.”

  An hour in and I hit the dance floor. Contently tipsy, Luke watches from the side lines. Ezra and Isaac dance together, half lit under the lights. They move as one, Ezra’s hand knows the shape of Isaac’s waist without having to look. As Isaac’s laugh folds into Ezra’s shoulder, something twists inside me. Grown up and having fun. Is that even possible?

  Neil, for whom employees are a continual source of fresh meat, flirts with a new barman. Which leaves me shimmying alone like no one’s watching. Depressingly close to the truth, seeing as every guy in here’s coupled up with either another bloke or a fit woman. More fucking grown-ups.

  Weaving my body to the beat like I just don’t care is the only way forward—the alternative is drinking to oblivion. As the music wraps around me, I close my eyes, letting the sinuous beat fill up my empty, lonely, tragic spaces. Obviously, my eyes flicker open every now and again to scan the room, in case someone wants to step in and fill me up with something a little more substantial. Except they’re not exactly queuing up.

  Sometime later, the barman goes off shift. Not long after that, Neil’s lithe, sensual body appears alongside me. Within a few minutes, he’s slithering up behind me and then sexily sashaying in front of me. No doubt later on, he’ll find his slinky way inside me. I’m like a stuck record, I reflect, as the tempo lowers and his hands worm their way onto my hips. No matter how hard I try to lift the needle, it always drops back down onto the same worn fucking groove.

  Ezra and Isaac slip away. Home, no doubt, for rampant sex and a night in each other’s arms. I pretend not to see them go. Settling down is for dullards – they’re the exception not the rule. As far as I’ve observed, growing up is mostly about organic food box deliveries and getting to grips with interest rates. One day, maybe, I could learn how to do those things and still drink mai-tais in the middle of the afternoon and still wage a subversive war against bullshitty diktats in the NHS. I’ll become a better version of me, that’s all. One that still performs the moves to “Kungfu Fighting” while balanced on hot men’s shoulders at foam parties, but now also comes armed with healthier night shift snacks and a comprehension of the gazillion settings on the washing machine.

  But not yet.

  CHAPTER 2

  GERALD

  I scrutinize the neat line charts and pictographs in the forlorn hope my electricity provider might have mixed up my miniscule two-bed apartment for the eighty-bedded Premier Inn down the road. They’ve billed me for the sunlight, the divine light, and the light at the end of the tunnel, as well as for four tiny radiators and heating a tank of hot water for two hours every day. With a disgusted click, I close the invoice down, file it away in a folder marked utility bills paid, then perform a last visual check of the flat before my new tenant arrives. Perfect. Not a cushion or a mug out of place.

  Alaric Alvin. Dr Alaric Alvin. Very swish. A million times swisher than dull Gerald Mason. I roll the alliteration over my tongue a few times, liking the feel of it. Being a bibliophile, I’ve already traced the origins. Alaric stems from old German and means ‘all powerful ruler’. Alvin has even older roots, a mix of middle English and Swedish, meaning ‘elf friend’. Put them together and he’s king of the elves.

  I’ve never had a housemate before. Never, ever wanted one. I still don’t; I’m perfectly content living alone. But running a car, saving for a bigger flat, veterinary fees, and the new training regime with Elsa all cost money. The cost of hiring the church hall for a couple of hours three times a week has hiked up. And if I want Elsa’s coat to shine, I need to improve her nutrition. I have the space, and this Alaric guy will be a hardworking, respectable doctor, like Luke and Isaac. They used to work all the hours—I should know, seeing as I tried to date one of them.