Two Metres From You

by Heidi Stephens

  The driver grinned and walked back to his car. ‘No worries. It’s a nice village, this. You’ll be right.’

  Right about what?

  Gemma watched him drive away, then turned to unlatch the wooden gate of the cottage. She remembered Caro’s instruction to look for the cast-iron chicken by the door, but there were no street lights in this part of the village and no moonlight anywhere, so Gemma clicked on the torch app on her phone and waved it over the tiny front garden. She spotted the bright red chicken and lifted it up; it was heavier than she expected, but the ring with two door keys was underneath, pressed slightly into the ground by weight and time. Gemma hooked her finger under the keys and levered them out, then jiggled the old mortice key into the lock of the porch. It swung open into a small coat and boot space with a stone-tiled floor, so Gemma transferred all her bags from the pavement before closing the gate and tackling the inner door, which opened with a silver Yale key. Inside was pitch-dark and smelled inexplicably of cheese, but flicking the light switch on the wall yielded nothing.

  Gemma looked at Mabel, suddenly overcome with physical fatigue and mental exhaustion. She vaguely remembered Caro messaging something about the fuse box, but she felt too tired and muddled to work it out now. The only thing that really mattered at this moment was making sure her dog was OK; everything else could wait until morning.

  The village was silent as Gemma stepped back out into the tiny front garden and let go of Mabel’s lead. While she sniffed around the shrubs and did her business, Gemma used her phone torch to empty the contents of the rucksack in search of Mabel’s dog bed, bundling it into the house with the wool picnic blanket Fraser had bought her for Valentine’s Day and the four remaining mini bottles of wine. Once Mabel had finished, Gemma scanned her torch over the shadowy rooms. One had two sofas, so Gemma kicked off her trainers, put the dog bed next to the fireplace and told Mabel to settle. As her dog turned in circles in pursuit of the perfect sleeping position, Gemma padded through to the kitchen in her purple gym socks and found a bowl in a cupboard by torchlight, filling it with water from the tap; she put it next to Mabel’s bed, then returned to the kitchen for a wine glass. Her final mission was to shine her torch up the creaky stairs in search of a bathroom; when she came back downstairs, Mabel’s head was on her paws and her big Labrador eyes were already closing.

  Gemma shuffled under the soft blanket, a gift that had been full of possibilities, a promise of picnics and live music and lazy summer evenings under the stars. Since that had turned out to be colossal bullshit, she would now use it to wallow in wine and self-pity in a dark room. She unscrewed all four wine bottles and lined them up on the wooden floorboards by the sofa, tipping each into the glass and transferring it immediately into her mouth. Gemma felt the pain in her shoulders and hands and heart soften and blur at the edges, and closed her eyes to wait for the benevolent mercy of sleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Monday, 23 March

  Sometime after midnight, Gemma lay on her side on the sofa, her head pickled with wine but refusing to yield to slumber. Her eyes had adjusted to the intense darkness, and she was able to pick out the doughnut shape of Mabel curled up on her bed, and the pale stone casement of the window reflecting the tiniest sliver of moonlight. The blackout felt soothing, but the quiet was strange; after eleven years living in London, she couldn’t remember the last time she had experienced such a fundamental absence of noise. Perhaps if she opened a window or stood outside there would be hooting owls or rustling hedgehogs or the distant hum of the M4, but inside the deadening walls of stone and plaster, there was nothing but silence so profound and heavy it felt like she could hold it in her hand.

  It was crazy to think it was only eight hours since she’d walked in on Fraser and the Mystery Brunette; it felt like days had passed. She picked apart her feelings for a while, compartmentalising the anger from the hurt and the humiliation, and came to the conclusion that she was mostly angry about the cheating, but actually fairly dispassionate about Fraser no longer being her boyfriend. If she was entirely honest with herself, the relationship had been on the wane for a while, and Fraser screwing somebody else simply eliminated the emotional inconvenience of ending it herself. Gemma had left with her dignity and her dog, which were the only two things she really cared about. There were books and kitchen utensils and other domestic detritus to be collected and dealt with at some point (Fraser could definitely keep the Heal’s cushions), but surprisingly little by way of admin. Fraser owned the flat; she had simply paid him her share of the mortgage and bills each month and thrown some money into the pot for food.

  For all his faults, Fraser had always been pretty laid-back about money – not wasteful or frivolous, but not pernickety either. His apparently easy-going nature was one of the things she had liked about him when they’d met at a party a year earlier, along with his mile-wide Scottish grin and the fact that he clearly fancied her rotten. He was only a few inches taller than Gemma’s five foot four, with a slim, runner’s physique and close-cropped hair in a red so dark it was almost brown, but not quite. His boyish face had gained a scattering of freckles that summer, and in those first few heady months Gemma had entertained the idea that he might be The One. But in the six months since she had moved into his flat in Bermondsey, she’d felt more distance than when they had lived on opposite sides of the river.

  It wasn’t a single big thing that changed, more a series of tiny fractures in their relationship that seemed to multiply exponentially, like hairline cracks in a porcelain vase. A new tension in his body, less affection, longer periods of moody silence, being cool or dismissive with her friends. In the space of a couple of months, his usually half-full glass had simply drained away. Fraser worked as a property consultant, which meant he contracted himself to property developers, providing sales and marketing support and helping to launch shiny new apartment complexes that cost a bomb and all looked like they were made from the same box of Lego. He talked about things like ‘dynamic strategy’ a lot, pairing tailored suits with Converse trainers to make him look edgy, and bombing round town in a glossy black convertible Mini that cost a fortune to lease, never mind park. He was a shameless networker, sliding into conferences and seminars and launch parties like he was coated in lube. He was charming, well-connected and, at the height of the London property boom, very much in demand.

  But in the past couple of years everything had changed – the uncertainty around Brexit and changes to buy-to-let rules had caused a slump in Fraser’s business and, more recently, his mood. He’d talked a good game when Gemma had met him, but she’d soon discovered the colossal chip on his shoulder about being a working-class boy from Clydebank who’d grafted his way up the ladder in an industry riddled with English public schoolboys. But Fraser had put the hours in and success was coming his way; things would get better and he’d ride the wave again.

  The previous September he’d gone on a lads’ long weekend to the Algarve with some of his property friends, and later he’d admitted to Gemma in a rare moment of post-sex candour that a fancy villa in Portugal was the game plan – retire early, play tennis, take up golf. Fraser’s hero was Duncan Bannatyne, another Clydebank boy who’d made half a billion or so and now lived in the same resort they’d stayed in; Fraser had seen him having lunch and reading the Telegraph at one of the beach clubs.

  Caro had tolerated him at best; she thought he was arrogant and selfish and didn’t take care of Gemma after Aunt Laura died. But Gemma had stuck with him, smoothing out the stress, cutting him acres of slack and doing her best to be the Understanding Girlfriend while he was clearly going through a tough time. Right now it burned pretty hard to realise that Fraser was simply screwing somebody else behind her back. How endlessly fucking disappointing men are.

  The Mystery Brunette intrigued Gemma too – she’d never seen her before, and had no idea where Fraser had met her. She’d been slimmer, more polished and considerably younger than Gemma, with shoulder-length glossy hair and
immaculate nude pink nails. It suggested her weekday job was a sensible one – law, finance, most likely property. Entirely different from Gemma, who scrubbed up fine for a special occasion but on an average day opted for a more natural look. Fraser had always said he liked that about Gemma, that she was comfortable with her face and her body; he thought overly groomed women looked like dolls. Well, Fraser had definitely managed to get this one’s legs spread to an unrealistically obtuse angle. Presumably she did yoga.

  Whoever she was, she’d been surprisingly unbothered at being interrupted by Fraser’s girlfriend; other than hissing the c-word at

  Gemma on her way out, she’d simply put her lacy knickers, black jeans and shoes back on, smoothed down her hair and slipped out the front door. It suggested that this weekend tryst was a purely sexual arrangement, and she had another, more stable set-up to fall back on. Gemma wondered how long it had been going on; whether yesterday was a one-off, or if he’d been wafting the cushions to remove the smell of sex every Sunday for weeks. She briefly considered the possibility that she was one of many, but soon gave up on that train of thought. That way madness lies.

  In the deepening blackness of her first night in Crowthorpe, Gemma tried to think like a journalist, piecing together the facts to better understand the story. The Mystery Brunette had been wearing flat, baby-blue suede shoes, with no socks – not the kind of thing you’d ever wear on the tube or for a long walk. So she was either local, or keen enough on Fraser to drive south of the river in a global pandemic for an orgasm. No handbag, just a belted cream trenchcoat that she’d draped over a chair, along with her clothes. No coffee mug or water glass, so they hadn’t bothered with pleasantries. Fraser had been fully dressed, but in a slightly dishevelled way that made Gemma wonder if they’d already had sex, got dressed, and then she’d half-undressed again. Either for a second round, or more likely because Fraser hadn’t finished the job properly first time and they still had another hour or two before Gemma was due back. If this was the case then he would have definitely used a condom, because there was no way Fraser would go down on a woman if his own body fluids were already involved. He wouldn’t even kiss Gemma after she’d given him oral sex; it was a weird hang-up of his. Either way Gemma would need to get an STD test as soon as possible, which added another layer of fury and humiliation.

  Talking of humiliation, at some point Gemma would have to call her mother and tell her that she and Fraser were finished. She might gloss over some of the finer details; Barbara Lockwood didn’t really do soap opera-style drama, and sex talk was an absolute no-no. She’d be upset, not because she particularly liked Fraser (she’d only met him once and her only comment had been ‘he’s quite pleased with himself, isn’t he?’), but because he represented a genuine possibility of Gemma settling down and delivering grandchildren before she entered the eternal reproductive desert. Gemma’s sister, Louise, had provided two, but they lived inconveniently abroad.

  As Gemma teetered on the edge of slumber, her brain leaping between Fraser and her parents and Louise and Aunt Laura like moving platforms in a video game, she felt a brief moment of calm. Full and final closure would come later, but for now there was a sense of resolution, a line drawn. This cottage was a transit lounge, a temporary refuge where she could regroup for a few days before getting back to real life.

  Sleep consumed her just as Mabel abandoned her bed and hopped on to Gemma’s legs, like a protector against the return of dark thoughts and night-time torments.

  Hello. Hello. Is anyone home? Why would anyone shout that? Either I’m home, in which case you shouldn’t be in the house uninvited, or I’m not home, in which case you DEFINITELY shouldn’t be in the house uninvited.

  A heartbeat of consciousness, then Gemma’s left eye flew open. The right eye made a similar attempt, but appeared to be crusted shut with some kind of organic glue her body had produced in the night. The same glue appeared to have coated the inside of her mouth and set like concrete in her skull.

  Hello. In the house. The voice of a man. Not a fever dream, but an actual man in the house while she was trapped on the sofa by a crusty right eye, a concrete skull and no feeling in her legs.

  Oh God, she had no feeling in her legs. Do not panic, deep breaths. Gemma lifted her head a few inches from the cushion, her head splitting open with pain. With her right hand firmly clamped under her right eye, she used the left to peel away the crusty eyelid. Everything slowly came into focus, revealing 25 kilos of yellow Labrador flumped on her ankles. Mabel hadn’t even woken up for the shouting, so perhaps it was a fever dream after all. That said, Mabel had a very poor track record of protecting Gemma from terrible men; she could be murdered in her bed and Mabel would probably just snooze through it, then snack on Gemma’s corpse in lieu of breakfast. With a groan of agony, Gemma lowered her head back to the arm of the sofa and tried to suppress the waves of nausea and pain racking her body.

  ‘Hello.’ A voice from above, and a glimpse of a giant upside-down face with green eyes and a thatch of scarecrow hair.

  ‘JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, FUCK,’ yelled Gemma, reflexively hurling Mabel off her dead legs and scrambling to her feet. Hours of restricted blood flow had left her with noodles for limbs, so she floundered back to her knees, her arms flailing to gain some kind of balance and focus on this man, this INTRUDER, who was staring at her with a mix of amusement and confusion. No visible weapons, unless you counted strangler’s hands like massive shovels.

  Hands and knees, deep breaths. In. And Out. In. And Out. Slowly Gemma’s legs stilled and her breathing became more regular. Mabel was now sniffing around the man’s dusty boots, on the off-chance they were hiding a small reservoir of biscuits or perhaps a tiny steak, medium rare. Worst guard dog ever. Gemma lifted her head and glared at both of them.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing in my house?’

  The man gave a short laugh of surprise and folded his arms. ‘Unless Caroline has sold it without telling me, which I doubt, it’s definitely not your house. The porch was open, the front door was open. I thought she’d been burgled. Obviously I’m sorry if I frightened you.’ Gemma gave him a brief once-over. Thirty-ish, well over six foot with rugby player shoulders, paint-spattered shorts and well-worn boots. Clearly cut his own hair and trimmed his beard in the dark. The tiniest trace of a West Country accent. The polar opposite of Fraser, although the last time she’d seen him he’d been wearing someone else’s beard entirely.

  Gemma’s head felt like it was being beaten by stick-wielding toddlers, and she realised she probably looked and sounded a bit unhinged. She sat back on her heels, her hands clamped either side of her nose in some kind of hungover prayer. ‘I’m sorry. I’m Gemma. I needed somewhere to stay and Caro said I could come here, she’s an old friend. I got here late last night; everything was . . . a bit of a mess.’ Her voice cracked, and she realised in horror that she was about to cry.

  The man blushed and fidgeted, clearly unsure how to comfort a stranger in this new world of social distancing rules that he’d already broken several times over. He shifted his gaze to Mabel, who was now sniffing at the debris littering the hearth around the wood burner. She was wearing a red collar, which inexplicably still had a lead attached. Man and dog eyed each other for a few seconds, before reaching a mutual understanding.

  ‘I’m Matthew. You seem to be in a bit of a mess, and your dog needs a walk. Get yourself sorted, I’ll be back in a bit.’

  Before Gemma could organise her muddled thoughts enough to speak, the man picked up Mabel’s lead and headed out of the front door, closing it quietly behind him.

  Gemma sat for a few minutes, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Either a random friend of Caro’s had come in to check on the house, or a huge man had just stolen her dog. Combined with her splitting head and rancid mouth, it all felt like a jumble of jigsaw pieces that didn’t fit together. She needed water, and a bathroom.

  The blood had finally returned to Gemma’s lower limbs, so she tenta
tively wobbled out of the lounge into what in daylight was clearly a dining room. It was easy to see why the man (Martin? No, Matthew) thought she’d been burgled; there was stuff everywhere. Her rucksack was lying on the porch floor, its contents disembowelled into a tangle of clothes and shoes. The hessian shoppers and plastic bags were spewing out toiletries, more crumpled clothes and her laptop; did Matthew say both doors were open? They must have been if he’d just walked in. How could she not have closed them? She was lucky not to have been murdered, never mind burgled.

  The smell of ripe cheese felt stronger here, and for a horrifying moment Gemma wondered if it was her. She lifted her left arm and sniffed hesitantly in the direction of her armpit, discovering an eye-watering combination of stale gym sweat, hot train, red wine and sofa sleep. Awful, but no cheese.

  The heavy linen curtains on the tiny window were still closed, so she opened them in a flurry of dust motes and stale air. Dirt and stink she could deal with, but first she needed to tackle the most critical things – use the bathroom, clean her teeth, drink as much water as she could stomach and, most importantly of all, find a pen and make a list.

  CHAPTER THREE

  To Do

  Make a list

  Discover electricity

  Wash stinky body

  Make contact with civilisation

  Find dog

  Gemma made her way up the narrow, carpeted stairs into the attic, expecting to find some kind of storage space full of whatever stuff Caro didn’t have space for in her flat. Family heirlooms, extreme sports equipment, boxes of school photos showing a serious, dark-skinned girl with untameably fabulous hair. Instead she found it had been converted into a beautiful attic bedroom, with a double bed tucked under the eaves and an en-suite bathroom. In her dishevelled state, the enormous egg-shaped bath and glossy walk-in shower both looked like heaven.