Alaric has gone awfully quiet. For the last two minutes, his mouth has been shut tight. That never happens. It must be bad. I turn a full 360, finishing up by staring at us both through the mirror again and self-consciously fingering the exposed inverted triangle of my unfashionably thick chest hair.

  “I look like a gift-wrapped gigolo, don’t I?”

  “Yeah,” he breathes, slowly. “Like a disco ball and a lava lamp had a glittery baby.”

  “A fucking big, hairy baby.”

  “Yeah.”

  His fingers touch the fabric, stroking a line down from my shoulder, across the bulge of my bicep, and to my elbow. Then up again, only this time the fingers travel across the mound of my pec. Through the mirror, I spot my nipple tighten and hope Alaric doesn’t.

  I give the shirt a little tug. He’s not raving over it; I should take it off. Perhaps I should go with the plain black one at home. Get Elsa a black kerchief to match. Maybe I could experiment with a different coloured belt to give myself some zhuzh. Except… I’m strangely reluctant to let go of the thing. For these short few minutes, I’ve stepped into being someone different. I could be a winner in a shirt like this.

  Maybe I could even win Alaric.

  “I’ll change back.” I reach for the buttons. “We’ll find something else.”

  Alaric’s hand closes over mine in a bone-shattering grip. “Not in this lifetime, sweetheart.” He prises mine away, not letting go. “You and that shirt, my friend, have just invented a new religion, and I’m naming myself the first of a long list of disciples.”

  “You like it then.” His cool fingers remain tangled over mine. I can still feel on my skin where they lingered over the satin fabric. I imagine walking out of the cubicle with his hand still in mine.

  “You, my friend, are going to slay and sparkle in that shirt. And, if you do that sideways-on rib manoeuvre thingy, maybe start an international incident. Trust me on this, Big G; Sutton Common, the regional finals, Fabulous Fabrizio, and Crufts, have never seen anything like it.”

  Shopping mission accomplished, we sit outside a busy pavement café. The shirt’s tucked away in a bag on the ground between my feet, along with a belt boasting an intricate silver buckle. Alaric insists this will zhuzh up my black ballet trousers perfectly.

  A glass of wine during daylight hours feels awfully, embarrassingly decadent, which suggests I need to get out more. But, today, I’ve earned it. Absorbing Alaric’s effortlessly stylish ensemble, I wonder if he could wave his fairy wand and zhuzh me up. Ever hungry, he orders a charcuterie board, but only after a lengthy discourse on the merits of salami versus chorizo, how breadsticks are manufactured and why they don’t make them more robust, and whether olives are superior to gherkins as an accompaniment. Undecided, we have both.

  “I don’t…ah… suppose I could come and…um… watch you in the regional final, could I?” He clasps his hands together like a supplicant. He doesn’t need to. His big blue eyes do the work quite capably on their own. “I could hold the stuff for you, like dog leads and snacks and your super cool new shirt and Elsa’s water and… and tonnes more stuff. I mean, I totally get it if you don’t want me there or would rather have someone else come along to support you, and, anyhow, I don’t know if there are tickets available and, if there are, then whether there are any left going spare, but if some are⁠—”

  “Sure,” I interrupt, mostly because he needs to take a breath. Having him with me will be good. His chatter will distract me from nerves, and we can navigate the whole thing together.

  And for a few hours, I can pretend to myself again that he’s my man.

  With a piercing squeal of delight, he lunges across the table to plant a big ‘mwah’ on the top of my head. “You’re the best. And I’m so going to be the best wingman.”

  As if he hasn’t just caused my heart to stutter, he goes back to devouring the platter of picky bits lying between us. “OMG, OMG, OMG,” he rattles on, or a version of that anyhow. “This is going to be so cool. I’m going to…”

  During the conversational pauses—mostly when he’s swallowing food—I bask in the warm spotlight of his undivided attention. Yet again, we could be boyfriends, not housemates, sitting here together, sharing food and planning our trip. Especially when one glass of Burgundy slides into two. The lunch is only marred when a rental agent sends a text message about two flats available for viewing later. Alaric sacks off the first one, citing the glorious sunshine radiating down on us. He claims he’d rather sit here with me awhile longer to celebrate the new shirt and for him to grow some more freckles.

  Sipping my Burgundy, I imagine leaning across the table and dotting kisses over his nose.

  The second flat is on the west side of Hammersmith; we detour to view it on our way home. Not far from the hospital, Alaric observes he could walk to work on dry days, and the financial saving would partially offset the higher rent. The owners, two female marketing execs—newly married—seem nice, too. They instantly warm to Alaric, exactly like the shop assistant, the waitress in the café, and my dad. When they hear he’s a surgeon to boot, they’re practically drooling. Most weekends, they explain over perfectly prepared cups of coffee, ground in their top-notch coffee machine, they spend at their holiday cottage in the New Forest. Hence the desire for someone to occupy and keep an eye on the London place.

  As they chat up Alaric, my gaze drifts around the sitting room. Like mine, it’s clean and tidy, but in a more relaxed, unfussy style. The windows are floor length, giving the room an airy, bright feel, and the matching sofas are big and sloppy. It’s easy to picture Alaric curled up on one, all snug in his baggy home hoodie, munching Pringles. His room here would be quite small, but has a new double bed, its own tiny ensuite, and a view overlooking a park. Apparently, the neighbours are elderly and very quiet.

  The moment Alaric promises the women he’ll give them his decision by the end of the day, the still, calm happiness floating around me during the shopping trip and through our late lunch is dowsed with cold mop water. Thrilled, they shake his hand and agree not to accept any more viewings until they hear from him.

  “That was great,” I feel obliged to say as we travel back to Sutton Common on the train.

  “Yeah,” he says, not looking up. “Super great.”

  His shoulder brushes against mine as he scrolls through his phone. He doesn’t have to sit so close. He’s quite narrow, and train seats are plenty wide enough to cater for even two strangers to sit adjacent without touching.

  Maybe he’s so near because the train’s packed and noisy.

  “Nice women, too,” he adds. Our knees are also touching. “And amazing coffee.”

  My heart sinks even lower. He’ll be out of my place and ensconced in that flat by the end of the week. And, having seen it, and met them, who could blame him?

  I’ll miss hearing him sing to the kettle and preparing toast so it’s slightly burned, but not, in his words, ‘tragically so’. Nearly as much as I’ll miss his work shoes sitting by the front door, waiting for me to trip over. And book club will never be the same without his idiotic commentary. The next one up for discussion is Moon Tiger, by Penelope Lively. Within the pages, there’s not a single tiger to be found. I swear we don’t do it on purpose.

  “Really good,” I agree. “Very bougie coffee machine.”

  At least we might stay friends, I suppose. Not that Alaric will be desperate to make frequent trips out to Sutton Common. Perhaps I’ll start going to Ezra’s club more regularly, in the hope I bump into him. Perhaps if I do, he’ll dance with me again.

  “Yeah.” Alaric gives a disinterested nod. “Those Jura ones cost a bollock and a half.”

  Except I might have to endure watching him dance with someone else. Watch him leave with them.

  “The rent they’re asking isn’t too bad, though, is it?” I offer magnanimously.

  Perhaps I’ll occasionally meet him for coffee. I could suggest the nice café we ate at earlier. The wine was good value for the price, and he wolfed down the charcuterie board.

  “Nah. Quite reasonable. Especially considering the location.”

  “I think finding the right person is more important to them than how much money they can screw out of someone.”

  “Yeah.” Alaric nods. “Super nice people.”

  He’s still scrolling. When I peek over his shoulder, he’s playing Words With Friends. Winning, naturally. In his shoes, I’d be already emailing the estate agent or filling out rental forms.

  This is torture. If he’s going to leave me, I need to know now, this minute. I need as much time as possible to prepare, to distance myself from him.

  “What time did you tell the ladies you’d be in touch by?”

  “Seven.” He plays the letters zax on a double word score. I didn’t even know zax was a word.

  “It’s a type of hatchet,” he explains without looking up. He nudges my knee with his. “I thought you were supposed to be the literary one.” Two letter boards are open, and he’s juggling between both games. “I’ll phone the agent when I get in, back at the flat where it’s a bit quieter.”

  “Sutton Common is certainly that.” Even to me, my accompanying laugh sounds forced and hollow.

  With a sigh, he puts his phone down. “Yeah, but you and quiet Sutton Common are going to have to put up with me for a bit longer.”

  Confused, I pull away slightly to stare at him. “Why?”

  Is he holding out for Stefan? With a shrug, Alaric dips his head to lean across, the better to see out of the smeary window, treating me to a noseful of freshly cut grass. There’s nothing much out there, except scrubby patches of land and the backsides of some dreary Victorian terraces.

  His hand settles on my knee, giving it the slightest of squeezes. “I’m picky, Big G. The ladies were great, and, don’t get me wrong, it was a really nice flat in a super nice location.” He treats me to his sincere, gappy, bone-melting smile. “But not that nice. If I compare it to what I’ve got at the moment, with you, the aggro of moving isn’t worth it.”

  Satisfied with the scenery, his gaze drops back down to the game on his phone, where he’s just put honan on a triple word score. Another word I’m going to have to covertly look up when I recover from my immense sag of relief. The ladies’ flat was perfect so I can only assume Stefan and Marcus have had the mother of all rows. What other explanation could there be?

  This is nothing but a stay of execution. A form of mercy, but in slow motion.

  “Honan is a type of fabric,” Alaric murmurs, the smart-arse fucker. “Made from silkworms.”

  CHAPTER 21

  ALARIC

  Midnight comes and goes. Despite wrapping myself up on the sitting room floor, like a bug in a rug, in Gerald’s lovely, snuggly spare duvet, the circus inside my head is still having open mic night. Stefan took up twenty minutes or so of the earlier show. He’s fallen out with Marcus—again. Half an hour ago, he signed off for the night, so now it’s just wired little old me for company. Over and over, I retrace the tour of the nice ladies’ flat. It’s chic and cool and right next to the bloody hospital. Twenty minutes’ Tube from Luke, ten from Stefan. Five from my favourite pizza place. And the ladies bloody loved me.

  So why the hell didn’t it feel right? Is it because I’d be there on my own most weekends? If so, what cracked decision-making. Having the flat to myself means my weekends will instantly revert to how they used to be: work, dancing, shagging, crashing. I won’t have time to feel lonely.

  Even stickler, pedantic Gerald approved. Speaking of Gerald…

  Lolling in the doorway, not hiding his yawn, Gerald’s all fluffy chaotic bedhead and heavy-lidded eyes. His rumpled pyjamas look soft as clouds. I’ve never been a pyjama person, but Gerald rocks them nearly as well as he rocks the blue satin shirt. “What the hell are you doing still up? It’s nearly two.”

  “Technically speaking, I’m not up. I’m on the floor.”

  “Alaric.” He sighs in that long suffering, nose-pinching way he has. “Tell me why you can’t sleep.”

  Where do I start? With the ladies in the nice flat? Stefan’s woes? Or do I admit a hefty chunk of my anxiety circles around Gerald’s big day tomorrow at the regional finals? He’d think me an idiot if I confess my mind refuses to switch off on his behalf.

  “TikTok won’t scroll itself,” I say instead.

  “That’s displacement activity to pass the time. Not a proper answer.”

  My eyes are on a level with his wide, solid feet. “Don’t dismiss it. I’m culturally enriching myself. I’ve just learned five ways to fold a fitted sheet and how to politely request a blowjob in Japanese.”

  “No Japanese man—or woman—will be giving you a blowjob as long as you’re living under my roof.”

  That sounds more like a declaration of war than an opinion. I squint up at him. “What’s your beef with the Japanese, Big G? Had some dodgy sushi?”

  Gerald’s big foot gives my duvet roll a little kick. “I don’t have beef with the Japanese. And you still haven’t given me a proper answer. Am I going to have to stand here all night?”

  If his voice wasn’t so teacherish and his slugbrows so stern, I’d suggest he lie down all night instead. With me. And put that teacherish voice to better use by ordering me to sleep or fuck or give him a blowjob.

  “Declining the ladies’ flat is bugging me,” I admit at last. “I can’t understand why I didn’t grab it with both hands. But also, I’m nervous and stressed about your performance tomorrow, even though you aren’t, and even though we both know you’re going to smash the competition to smithereens.”

  “We don’t know that,” he says with a hint of a smile. He puts up with such a lot of shit from me, and at all hours, with the patience of a saint.

  “I can’t work out why I turned down the flat. I hate living out in the ‘burbs. I’m usually great at making snap decisions.”

  “I don’t know either.”

  I bet he wishes I hadn’t. If I crawl over to his whopping, solid feet, will he let me circle my arms around his ankles and rest my head on them? This is exactly the type of fucking weird thought that ambushes my brain in the wee small hours when it’s running on nothing but fumes, vape juice, and the dregs of yesterday’s chaotic energy.

  His feet do look solid and comfy, though.

  Gerald blinks a few times, scratches his head, then exhales through his big nose with the force of someone trying their level best not to swear. No wonder, as we sat together on the train, he praised the ladies and their nice flat. I bet he can’t wait until he’s got this place back to himself.

  “Come here,” he says after another huge yawn. My balls tighten in response to the instructive, low tone.

  “Where?” Perhaps he’s going to offer me his snuggly sweater again. I could sleep in that.

  “Here. Now.” He thumbs over his shoulder, then shuffles away. “My room. My bed. My snoring. The regional finals can’t handle Dr Alaric Alvin running on low battery. And nor can I.”

  Not long after I moved in, I peeked inside Gerald’s room. I possibly opened a drawer or three, and maybe even rummaged gently through his wardrobe, trying to fathom what made him tick. The answer? Multipacks of long-sleeved plain tees, a meticulously filed collection of bank statements and payslips (dating from a time when online documents weren’t a thing), twenty neat pairs of towelling sports socks, and an old, faded pair of women’s ballet pumps wrapped in delicate pale blue tissue paper. The latter now make perfect sense, and I’m an absolute shit for trespassing on business that’s none of my own.

  Instead of being an utter wanker and nosing through his things, I should have skipped them all and simply climbed into his bed. I’d have discovered that what really settles Gerald’s emotional soup, ensuring he’s forever calm and patient and very Gerald, is his mattress. It delivers a horizontal hug directly from the heavens and a duvet so marshmallow-y it violates the laws of physics. And then there’s the smell—don’t get me started on the smell. Clean, unyielding, a steady Gerald-y smell, like the sweater but magnified a gazillion times. Already, the volume inside my head is turning down.

  “Are you sure this doesn’t feel too weird?” I’m obliged to ask. “You’re my landlord.”

  “Not really.” Amused, Gerald peers down at me. “You’ve already sucked my cock.” He switches off the bedside lamp. “That’s a weird as fuck thing to do to your landlord, when you think about it. Unless you’re after a rent reduction.”

  I snigger. “Now my unconscious rationale for not taking up with the lesbians makes perfect sense.”

  I take the right-hand side of the bed, curled towards him with a pillow scrunched between my knees. (One knee touching the other makes my teeth ache; don’t ask me why.) Gerald lies on the left side, on his back. Already, just from the warm sturdiness of him a few inches away, I felt sleepier than at any point during the previous three hours. When I start to explain to him, his fingers loosely intertwine with mine.

  “Shush,” he says, all low and raspy and whispery. He’s like a scary sergeant major but sexy and clotted creamy at the same time. “Just go the fuck to sleep, Al.”

  Waking up cocooned with Gerald in this awesome bed would be amazing. Who knows? Unless this is a once-only offer, I might find out before I move back into town. But not today, because my bed-mate/flatmate/dog-dancer/sleep whisperer is up, dressed, breakfasted, and tapping his foot by the front door. Oh fuck, it’s eleven o’clock. I slept and slept and slept.

  “You snored, too,” he informs me, smugly. “I woke dreaming I was trapped in a nature documentary.”

  Hah! When he puts his mind to it, Gerald’s quite funny. “Says the man whose own sinuses resurrected half the mortuary at St Helier Hospital the night after you had your appendix out. Why did you let me sleep so late?”

  “Because you were tired. And looked pretty.”

  Wow, that shuts me up. He grabs the dog lead. “I’ll retrieve Elsa from next door and give her a quick tour of the park while you make yourself even prettier.”