“Furniture’s a bit bland for my tastes, but it came with the flat, so I cannae complain. Sometimes I still do, though,” Garen added with a melodic titter. “Sorry, I tend to babble when I’m nervous. But also when I’m not nervous, so…” His voice trailed off as he twirled the feather duster by the cord at the end of its handle.
Simon noticed that the built-in bookshelf against the far wall was half empty. “Your flatmate’s already gone?”
“Mm-hmm. My best friend and I lived together five years—four years elsewhere and a year in this place. He moved in with his boyfriend yesterday.”
Simon detected a wistful note. “Will it be odd, living with a stranger?”
“Nah, I’m adaptable.” Garen tucked the duster under his arm. “Besides, you’ll not be a stranger for long, Simon.”
The cadence of Garen’s words reminded Simon he’d always had a weakness for Scots. He tried to return the warm smile but felt his own mouth form an awkward contortion.
Garen didn’t seem to notice. “There’s much more!” he said as he swept by into the hallway. “Here’s the master bedroom, which’ll be yours,” he said, flourishing to the left. “It’s got a walk-in wardrobe.”
Simon stepped inside, noting the queen-size bed that would easily accommodate his long legs. “You’re not moving into this room?”
“Too much bother to shift all my stuff. By the way, there’s no designated parking, but Luca usually found a space on the street.”
“Haven’t got a car.” Simon opened the wardrobe, chuffed at the wide, empty space. He could install a breathtaking custom organizational system in there. “Will I need one in Glasgow?”
“I’ve not got one,” Garen said. “There’s plenty of public transport, plus we’ve got Uber now.”
Simon crossed the hallway into the bathroom. “This is massive.”
“The building’s original owner used a wheelchair and lived in this flat. That’s why there’s a lift. Those grab rails next to the toilet come in handy when one is hammered or hungover, by the way.”
Simon made a polite noise, wondering whether Garen was a heavy drinker. He himself was a lightweight when it came to alcohol, thanks to his strict training regimen.
“Do you cook?” Garen asked as they continued down the corridor to the kitchen. “I’m useless at most dishes, but I can absolutely smash a stir fry. I hope you like them spicy.”
“I’m more of a baker,” Simon said, wishing this man would stop assuming they were to be flatmates. He needed to weigh the pros and cons of all five flats before deciding.
“I’d love to bake.” Garen stood beside the kitchen doorway and swept his duster in a dramatic arc, beckoning Simon to precede him. “But it takes too much concentration. I cannae measure three cups of flour without losing count.” He kept talking as Simon examined the kitchen. “And with baking you’ve gotta get everything perfect before it goes in the oven, or else you’re gubbed. At least with a stir fry I can keep adjusting till it’s edible.” He set the duster on the worktop—to Simon’s horror—then opened the refrigerator. “You sure you don’t want a drink? Luca left some kombucha.”
“No, really, I’m fine.” Simon stopped at the sink, which held several unwashed dishes as well as a smattering of dried food stuck to its stainless-steel sides.
“I was set to clean that when you showed up early,” Garen said. “Swear.” He tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear and side-eyed the worktop, where bread crumbs surrounded the toaster. “The dishwasher’s brand new.”
The mention of appliances made Simon realize what was missing. “Where’s the washer-dryer?”
“In the basement,” Garen said. “We share a launderette with the other tenants, but it’s almost always empty, except on a weekend, and there’s no charge.”
“But your ad showed a picture of a washer-dryer in the kitchen.” Simon pointed to one of the lower cupboards. “Right there.”
Garen cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t recall Luca stealing any major appliances when he moved.”
“Obviously not,” Simon said, trying not to snap. “I’m just confused because I distinctly remember the ad saying there was a washer-dryer—and that the flat was…on the middle floor.” He took in a sharp breath as all the incongruities added up. “And that it was on Royal Terrace.”
Garen burst out laughing. “You accidentally clicked on the wrong flat?”
“That’s impossible.” Simon pulled out his phone and brought up the Gumtree app.
“There’s no shame. Everyone does things like that.”
“Not me.” He examined his saved list of flats and tapped the one on Royal Terrace. “So you’re not a doctor?”
“Maybe one day, if I ever finish my dissertation—which, to be honest, isn’t likely.”
“The flat I wanted,” Simon said with rising impatience, “its ad said the current occupant was a urologist.”
“I’m a zoologist, if that helps.”
What an absolute loon. Simon saw his mistake on his phone screen: The two flats had identical rents and similar thumbnail photos. He tapped the ad for the one he was standing in.
Slobby gay curler seeking flatmate who’s not fussed about any of those things.
Simon’s face heated. This was the one flat on his list he’d intended not to visit. “I’m definitely in the wrong place.”
“Are you, though?”
“Sorry?”
“If this was an accident,” Garen said, “it can still be a happy one.”
Simon shook his head. A mistake was a mistake, and best undone as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.” He took a step back. “I need to see if the other flat’s available. My train leaves in a few hours, so—”
“That’s bags of time. And you’re here now, so you may as well—”
“Look, I never meant to contact you. I didn’t want this place.”
“Oh.” Garen blinked up at him like a scolded puppy. Simon felt a right dick for being so blunt.
The hurt in Garen’s eyes turned to defiance. “Something in my ad put you off? Do you not like gays?”
“For your information, I am gay.”
Simon couldn’t believe he’d just said that aloud. He never came out to people after only a few minutes—sometimes not even after a few years. Maybe this lad’s motormouth was contagious.
Garen looked pleasantly surprised. “It’s the curling, then?”
“Of course not.” Simon edged toward the kitchen door. “I just need to live with someone tidy.”
“Need to or prefer to?”
“What’s the difference?”
Garen lifted his hands, palms up. “Often what one prefers is not what one truly needs.”
Simon paused on the threshold for a moment. “I’ll show myself out.”
He hurried down the hallway and had just reached the flat’s entrance when he heard Garen’s voice behind him.
“Before you leave…”
Simon stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “What is it?”
“Just have a wee look at this view. It’ll improve your day no matter what.” Garen entered the lounge, then peeked at him round the doorpost. “’Mon, then.”
Simon sighed but followed him anyway. As he passed the bookshelf, he noticed a cheesy-looking statue of a snowman holding a small blackboard in one red mitten and a piece of white chalk in the other. The board read Days Until Christmas, with the numeral 70 scrawled at the top.
He rounded the dining table and joined Garen in front of the enormous window. Afternoon sunlight streamed through cream-colored, floor-length curtains. Garen swept them aside.
The park stretched out in front of them in all its autumnal glory: green grass, golden leaves, and red stone. On its far side rose the grand buildings of the ancient University of Glasgow, their towering spires forming majestic silhouettes against the racing clouds.
Simon took what felt like the first full breath since he’d arrived at this flat. “I’d never been to G
lasgow before I came for the job interview. It’s much lovelier than I imagined.”
“Everyone says that. I suppose they’re all expecting a broken-down wasteland.” Garen gazed out over the park, his eyes now a vivid blue in the natural light. “They forget what was here before the Industrial Revolution, before the shipyards and factories. They forget it had a life before the smoke and grime, and they’re amazed it’s found a new life after.”
Simon looked at him. Maybe there was more depth to this man than he’d thought. “Have you always lived in the city?”
“Only since I can remember.”
He didn’t explain, so Simon didn’t pry.
Then Garen clapped his hands together once. “Solution! Email the urologist over in Royal Terrace, and I’ll order us a takeaway while you’re waiting for a response.”
A warning bell went off in Simon’s head. If he ate a meal here, this place might start to feel like home, and Garen might start to feel…well, normal.
But he wasn’t normal. This guy was the very incarnation of chaos. Anyone who’d freely admit to being “slobby” wasn’t likely to change. If Simon lived here, there’d be no end to the battles over tidying up and keeping the place free of cockroaches.
It was then that Simon’s stomach betrayed him by offering an audible growl.
“Sounds like a yes,” Garen said, “or at least a strong maybe.”
Simon put a self-conscious hand over his belly. He’d not eaten since he’d stepped off the train at half past nine this morning. None of the other prospective flatmates had offered him so much as a snack, much less a meal, and they weren’t nearly so friendly as Garen. Perhaps he should give this flat and its occupant a second glance.
Also, he was rather dying to see Garen with his hair down.
Simon turned to him. “When you wrote, ‘pets welcome,’ did you mean any sort of pet?”
Garen stared with dismay at his image in the bedroom mirror. Had he really answered the door looking like this?
“Och, the absolute state of you,” he whispered. His topknot was sagging to one side, with strands of hair sticking out in all directions, making him look like a deranged Dr. Seuss character. His forehead held a layer of dust, and his left cheek was smudged with…God only knew what. Simon must think him a complete bampot.
Garen pulled off his shirt and flung it across the room, giving a whispered “Yas!” when it landed in the laundry basket. Then he fished a forest-green pullover jumper and a pair of jeans from the clean-washing pile.
After dressing, he yanked the elastic out of his hair and let the unruly mane fall to frame his face, the ends dancing just above his collar. A few brush strokes later, he was decidedly VOP (verging on presentable).
Before Simon’s arrival, Garen had planned to display his real self, warts and all. There was no point pretending to be someone he wasn’t, especially as that required a lot of energy.
But planning to meet Simon-in-the-Abstract was one thing. Actually meeting Simon-in-the-Flesh had turned Garen’s strategy upside down. Now he desperately wanted to win this man over. So Garen would still be himself, just a more appealing version thereof.
He slipped his wallet into his pocket and headed down the hall to the lounge, where he propped his hands on either side of the door frame and leaned in. “Ready?”
Simon turned from the window and stopped short, staring at Garen—which was the desired effect. “You look…different.”
“I scrub up all right.” Garen slid a hand through his hair and tucked it behind his ear. “The Indian place is just two streets over. We’ll go and pick it up so you can have a look at the area.”
As they reached the pavement outside his block of flats, Garen said, “I would apologize for being a mess earlier, but if I said sorry every time it happened, you’d never hear any other words from my mouth.”
“It’s all right. Cleaning is a messy job.” Simon shivered at the wind, which stirred only the short dark hair near his temple, leaving the rest of the thoroughly pomaded strands in perfect formation. He zipped his black leather jacket and slid his hands into the pockets.
They walked side by side up the pavement toward the restaurant. Despite Simon’s long legs, his gait was measured and even, allowing Garen to keep up with him without breaking into a jog.
It wasn’t obvious how old Simon was. His olive-complexioned, clean-shaven face was youthful, but he carried himself with that combination of caution and self-assurance that seemed to pervade those in their thirties. And unlike most men Garen’s age, he seemed at home in a dress shirt and tie.
As they headed across the wide and bustling Sauchiehall Street, Garen noticed Simon scanning the shops and pubs with what seemed like approval. Garen was grateful for the early evening sun, which shone at a flattering angle over the buildings, lending a golden hue to their tawny stones.
“So what’s your deal with Christmas?” Simon asked as they neared the restaurant. “I saw your countdown snowman.”
“That was my gran’s. A lot of my decorations used to be hers. I mentioned Christmas in the ad because I’m kind of bonkers about it.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“But what do you love about Christmas?” Simon mounted the slate steps outside the restaurant two at a time. “Why’s it such a big deal to you?”
“Dunno. I’ve never really analyzed it.” Garen lowered his voice as they entered the quiet establishment, which at half past five had yet to fill with diners. “I like how every year it’s the same, but slightly different. I like the predictability. And also the parties.”
Garen paid for their food while Simon bought a bottle of pinot noir to accompany it. As they exited the restaurant, Garen remembered his recurring resolution not to dominate every conversation. “What about you? Are you a fan of Christmas?”
“I like it well enough,” Simon said. “Not as much as when I was a lad.”
“Have you got a big family with all sorts of traditions?”
“I’m an only child, but I’ve loads of cousins who live nearby in Liverpool. This Christmas I’m going with my parents and my nan to Greece to visit family. We do it every five years.”
“That sounds amazing.” Garen felt triumphant at having extracted three sentences in a row. Simon seemed the sort of man who was hard to get to know, and Garen relished the challenge of drawing him out of his shell.
Not only was he curious about Simon, but he also enjoyed his Liverpool accent, though it wasn’t heavy. Maybe he was modulating the unique, musical “Scouse” for Garen’s ears, or maybe he’d learned to suppress it to appeal to the wider UK job market, which notoriously favored those with southern accents.
“To be honest,” Simon said, “lately it seems Christmas is more trouble than it’s worth.”
“I get that.” Garen cradled the takeaway bag as they hurried across the street. “Crowded shops, credit card bills, family expectations. But that’s all the more reason to make Christmas merry in your own way.”
When they reached the pavement on the other side, Simon stopped and turned to Garen, his face soft and thoughtful. “What if I haven’t got my own way?”
Garen grinned up at him. “Then you can share mine.”
Despite his mistake in choosing the wrong flat, Simon decided to proceed with the interview. He told himself it was just to be polite, but he couldn’t deny Garen was starting to grow on him, in the way an offbeat TV program started to make sense after two or three episodes.
“How do you handle the common space?” he asked as they ate their takeaway at the dining table. “Like this living room here, or the bathroom, or the kitchen?”
Garen looked up from his plate of aloo gobi, eyes wide and seemingly guileless. “‘Handle’?”
“Have you got a schedule for when each flatmate uses these rooms, or is it just squatters’ rights, like whoever’s there gets to stay?”
Garen tapped his fingertips against the pale wooden tabletop, clearly never having consi
dered the matter. “Luca and I just hung out together. Not in the bathroom, obviously, but in the living room and kitchen.” A thought seemed to strike him. “We had a system for the telly, if we wanted to watch different things at the same time. Priority was given to programs needing a big screen—like, sports or a film with special effects and all—and the other person could just watch their own thing on their computer or tablet.” He nodded proudly. “It was a good system.”
Simon picked up the bottle of wine and refilled their glasses, though only Garen’s was empty. “What other systems did you have to keep the peace?”
“For me, the big one is food. My leftovers go in the red plastic containers. Red means stop, as in never, ever steal my food.” He pointed his scrap of paratha bread at Simon. “You can have any other color container.”
“Sound,” Simon said approvingly. Perhaps Garen wasn’t as disorganized as he’d first seemed to be. “It’s good to set boundaries.”
“Anything else I’m happy to share. Like, if you run short of shampoo or soap or whatever, you can use mine.”
Simon had an unbidden image of Garen in the shower, his hair and body covered in suds. “Erm…thanks.” He cleared his throat and picked up his phone to peek at the “30 Questions to Ask a Flatmate” article he’d downloaded yesterday. “Are you a morning person or a night person?”
“I’m a five-forty-five person. Which happens to be right now, so congrats on that.” Garen gave him a thumbs-up.
Simon’s brief attraction was morphing back into annoyance. “It’s important to know whether our schedules mesh. I’m a morning person—”
“There’s a surprise,” Garen murmured.
“—so if you’re making noise late at night, that could be a problem.”
Garen laughed. “‘Making noise’? Are you worried I’m a secret midnight trombonist?”
“Are you?”
“I’m quieter than you might imagine. And my job starts at nine a.m., so I’m a reluctant morning person.” He used the segment of bread to scoop up a piece of bright-yellow cauliflower. “How many more questions are on this list?”
Simon froze. “What list?”
Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice) Page 2
