Two Metres From You

by Heidi Stephens

  Life admin complete, Gemma switched back to her work emails. A few commissions for articles, including some bullshit from a fancy food website about top ten middle-class essentials to stockpile, which made her skin itch but she couldn’t afford to turn it down. Likewise ‘Can you write a beginner’s guide to Zoom etiquette?’ from another editor, and something about must-have items for a budget work-from-home wardrobe. She replied and said a weary yes to everything, then dug the notebook and pencil out of her bag to jot down the brief and deadline for each piece. She then dropped an email to each of her editors letting them know about her phone/IT situation; everyone was trying to set up home offices at the moment, so this wouldn’t surprise or bother them. The 4G signal in this part of the village was good, so if necessary she could walk here twice a day to send and receive emails or do a quick video conference in the shelter of the lychgate. It still had the original coffin rest, which would make a nice desk.

  Gemma briefly checked in on the news and was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer number of pandemic-related articles and the scope of the global drama. She downloaded some headline stuff from the Guardian app so she could read it offline later, but couldn’t face it right now. Her family were all safe and well – Mum and Dad in Norwich, her sister and her family on a military base in Cyprus. There was talk of a lockdown coming to the UK like they already had in Italy, France and Spain, but no sign of when that might happen. They wouldn’t do it without notice, and chances were she’d be back in London by the weekend.

  Fifteen minutes later Gemma had a wicker basket of essentials propped on the counter of the shop, and another in her hand as she did a second lap. It was surprisingly well stocked for such a tiny space, particularly at a time when lots of shops seemed to be experiencing panic buying and shortages. There were wooden trays of fresh bread from a local Wiltshire bakery, and judging by the warm, wheaty smell it had been delivered this morning. Meat came from a butcher in Bath; jams and cakes were made locally, and they even stocked jars of Bernard’s Bees honey from the hives of a man in the village, who it was reasonable to assume was called Bernard. The shop also had a decent selection of tins and household goods, including some lovely handmade scented candles in glass jars that smelled a lot like the Jo Malone ones she’d very occasionally blow £48 on, but priced at £8.50. She bought two for the cottage, they’d help to get rid of the cheesy smell.

  Gemma couldn’t help but be impressed – she’d seen much poorer selections in some of her favourite delis, and this was all a fraction of the price. Apparently adding the word ‘artisanal’ was licence to multiply the price threefold, but they didn’t bother with that here, it was just local food. In no time she’d gathered a selection of essentials to keep her going for a few days, including bacon, ketchup and bread for the sandwich she’d been dreaming about since she woke up, and some chicken, rice and fresh vegetables for a stir fry later. She added a pack of ginger biscuits, a small bag of dog kibble and a couple of bottles of wine, then lugged the second basket on to the counter next to the first.

  For the duration of her shop, Gemma’s every move had been tracked by the woman behind the counter. She was probably only late forties but had adopted a permanently sour expression that made her look much older, not helped by the shapeless beige cardigan and aggressively blunt bob. Gemma mentally cancelled her earlier idea about getting a haircut locally and decided to wait until she was back at her usual salon. Other than the barest hint of a dead-eyed smile when Gemma entered the shop, the woman had observed her with an expression of suspicion and dislike. Despite Gemma’s best efforts, eye contact couldn’t be avoided any longer.

  ‘I think that’s everything.’ Gemma grinned triumphantly in the hope of breaking the tension.

  ‘I should think it is. We’ll have nothing left for anyone else.’ The woman’s beady eyes swept disapprovingly over Gemma’s two baskets. Her glare rested on the dog biscuits, as if Mabel was personally responsible for food shortages and world hunger.

  Gemma swallowed a whole list of snarky responses, mostly about being a paying customer in a rural shop that was probably surviving on a financial knife edge. Instead she maintained a slightly manic smile until the woman started tapping the prices of each item into the ancient till and placing them into the shopping bags, huffing and sighing like Gemma was a huge aggravation in her life right now.

  Up until this point it had never occurred to Gemma that they might not take debit cards, so it was a relief to spot the machine tucked in a corner behind the cake stand, which offered homemade coffee and walnut sponge with an inch of butter icing for £1.50 a slice. It was Gemma’s favourite so she asked for two slices, and the woman slid them into a white paper bag with a floral-handled cake slice. She almost cracked a smile, which made Gemma suspect that she might have baked it herself.

  Gemma put her card back in her pocket and reached for the bags, but apparently she wasn’t off the hook yet. ‘Staying long,’ enquired the woman, dispensing with the upward inflection so it sounded like a statement rather than a question. ‘You look like you’re settling in for a bit.’

  ‘Just a few days,’ muttered Gemma. ‘Staying at a friend’s house, just for a short break.’

  The woman raised her eyebrows in interest. ‘Here in the village. Which friend’s house might that be.’ It was unsettlingly monotone, like a five-year-old delivering their lines in the school nativity. The woman held her gaze, her eyes unblinking.

  Gemma felt cornered, like any minute she’d be led into a dark room and this woman would shine a light into her eyes. Margaret with the helmet hair would probably be in charge of thumbscrews and sleep deprivation. She weighed up her options and decided to take the journalistic approach – get the story out, then manage it on her terms.

  She took a deep breath. ‘OK. I’m Gemma Lockwood. I’m a friend of Caroline Merrick’s, and I’ll be staying at West Cottage for the next few days. I’m a journalist from London and I’m here with my dog Mabel, although I’m not sure where she is right now. Thanks for your help.’ Before the woman could react beyond raised eyebrows and a slightly open mouth, Gemma pushed her sunglasses from her head to her nose, grabbed her bags and spun on her heel. She was more than a match for this village.

  Gemma found Matthew perched on the same wall outside the shop that she’d used to check her emails earlier, with Mabel lapping furiously at the dog bowl by the door. Realising her owner hadn’t abandoned her for good, Mabel bounced around in a canine frenzy, almost garrotting herself until Gemma managed to put her shopping down and untangle Mabel’s lead from the metal ring. Gemma mumbled an embarrassed hello to Matthew, blushing at the memory of the state she’d been in when he’d found her earlier. She tore a hole in the bag of kibble and sprinkled a few handfuls on the grass, watching Mabel go at it like a dog whose breakfast should have been hours ago.

  When Mabel had finished eating and calmed down a bit, Gemma turned to reclaim her shopping, only to find Matthew waiting at the bottom of the steps with a bag in each hand. He gave an awkward smile and turned to walk back down the lane towards the main road. Gemma was baffled and annoyed; she’d asked Caro for a place to stay, not a manservant. ‘Wait, why are you being so nice to me? You’ve walked my dog, now you’re carrying my shopping. You don’t even know me.’

  Matthew stopped and turned around. ‘You’re a friend of Caroline’s, and she’s a very old friend of mine. Also, you only have two hands, so . . .’ He gave a casual shrug and strolled on.

  Gemma trotted down the steps to catch up. ‘OK, so why haven’t you asked me why I’m here? I’ve met two people in this village so far apart from you, and they’ve both demanded my life story. Are you not interested, or has Caro already told you?’

  Matthew stopped suddenly and looked Gemma squarely in the eyes, his face full of fierce intent. ‘Do not, under any circumstances, tell ANYONE in this village your name, why you’re here, or anything about yourself. They thrive on gossip, and you’ll keep them fed for days. Ruth in the shop i
s the worst, but they’re all vultures.’

  Gemma opened her mouth, then closed it again. She was dumbstruck and horrified, until Matthew’s face crumpled into a smile. ‘I’m kidding. People here are lovely, and they’ll make you welcome as long as you’re happy to make small talk about the weather, or gardening. You’ll be fine.’

  Gemma laughed with relief, unable to decide if maybe Matthew was OK, or possibly a total arse. She fell into step beside him as they made their way through the village, Mabel trotting at her heels. The footpath was only wide enough for one, so Matthew walked in the road. There were no parked cars on this side, although they lined the pavement opposite.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said Gemma, casually. ‘About whether Caro had told you why I was here.’

  ‘I messaged her after I found you in her house, to check you weren’t a very convincing squatter. She said you were her best friend, and,’ he made air quotes despite having a shopping bag in each hand, ‘“fleeing a cheating shit”.’

  Gemma forced a smile despite a sudden wave of nausea. ‘I’m hiding here for a few days, but I’ll be gone by the end of the week. Thanks for walking Mabel, I wasn’t at my best this morning.’

  ‘Ah, the yellow dog has a name! I’ve been calling her yellow dog, which she didn’t seem to mind. She’s very well behaved.’ He gave Mabel a smile, and the dog swooned at him adoringly, her foamy pink tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. Another one cheating on me, thought Gemma, uncharitably.

  She couldn’t tell Matthew why Mabel was so well trained, because then she’d have to tell him about Aunt Laura, and it was still too painful to say her name out loud. It had been three years since Aunt Laura had moved into a specialist care home and Gemma had taken custody of her dog, and only four months since Aunt Laura had died. The pain flared like a hot poker in Gemma’s chest, but she was learning to manage it, to not let it overwhelm her when other people were around.

  ‘She’s a very good dog unless you have snacks. Then she’s a maniac.’

  Matthew looked at Mabel suspiciously. ‘This is why I’m not a dog person. They steal your heart, then steal your food.’

  Gemma laughed, trying to conceal her horror at him not being a dog person. He might as well have said he collected toy clowns or read the Daily Express. Probably both of these things were true. She decided to change the subject. ‘So I have a question for you. Tell me what you do, why you live here, and how you know Caro.’

  ‘That’s three questions, but OK. My main business is making furniture, and I also do odd jobs for people around the village. I live here because it’s my home, my family have always lived here – my parents live about a mile that way.’ He wafted a shopping bag vaguely in the direction they’d just come. ‘I met Caroline after her parents moved here. I’ve done a lot of work on West Cottage over the years. Caroline and I used to go drinking sometimes during her uni holidays. I don’t see her much now, but she’s a good friend. I miss her, and her parents.’ Matthew’s cheeks coloured and his voice faded away; Gemma suspected he hadn’t talked much about loss and grief either.

  Gemma processed all this new and interesting information. Caro often told stories of people in her parents’ village, but Gemma couldn’t remember if she’d ever mentioned Matthew specifically. He absolutely wasn’t her type. Ever since Gemma had known her, Caro had liked her men sleek and polished; her uni boyfriends had been a parade of immaculate, exotic boys with tiny waists and razor-sharp cheekbones. Nothing had changed since they graduated; Gemma and Joe secretly called Caro’s husband, Antonio, ‘Dressage Tony’ because he was always so well turned out. So if Matthew had been her bit of rough at home, she’d kept it VERY quiet.

  The journalist in Gemma had a hundred follow-up questions, but they were back at the gate of West Cottage so they’d have to wait. She asked Matthew to hang on for a second, then shovelled Mabel up the steps, into the porch and through the front door, making a meal of getting the key into the lock. I bet he’s laughing at me, she thought as she waggled the key furiously; I bet nobody here even locks their door. She pulled it shut behind her and returned to the gate. Matthew was leaning on it, looking amused.

  ‘Thanks for your help. I’m sorry you had to come so far out of your way.’

  Matthew looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said your family lived a mile that way. Now you have to hike back.’

  Matthew laughed. ‘I said my parents lived a mile that way. I live in the barn at the bottom of your garden. Shout if you need anything.’ He handed over the shopping with a broad smile, sidled along the wall to the side gate, and disappeared round the back of the house.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  To Do

  Make world’s best bacon sandwich

  File crappy stockpile article

  Domestic goddess shit

  Investigate WiFi stealing options

  Reward self with excellent dinner and wine

  By 8 p.m., Gemma was glowing from a productive afternoon. She’d mastered the hob and made an outstanding bacon sandwich, then filed one article and drafted another. Then she’d put her hair up into a messy bun and found a hoover and a box of cleaning supplies in the cupboard under the stairs. The cottage got a thorough once-over, including what felt like half a bag of cobwebs from the fireplaces and the exposed beams, as well as a wipe-down of every horizontal surface with a damp cloth and some organic cleaning spray that smelled of clementines. She’d made up the double bed in the loft with fresh linen and put a bundle of dirty clothes she’d stuffed in a bag before she left London in the washing machine. While they buffeted in the breeze on the washing line, Gemma had picked a bunch of tulips from the garden and put them in a ceramic jug on the dining table, then taken Mabel for her afternoon walk.

  They’d headed out of the village in the opposite direction this time, discovering a recreation ground surrounded by blossoming cherry trees. Just inside the gate was a small gravelled area with a picnic table, water tap and a huge brick barbecue, marked with a sign saying this was a space for Crowthorpe villagers to use, and could they please take all their rubbish home. Gemma was reminded of the private community garden that backed on to Aunt Laura’s house in London – the gardener lit the barbecue on a Friday evening in summer and people would wander over with food and drink to eat with their families and neighbours. Gemma felt too self-conscious to go alone, but occasionally Joe came over and they’d take some steaks and a tub of salad and a bottle of wine. He loved the grandeur of it all, swapping the tiny balcony of his flat in Camberwell for a private garden in Pimlico full of hot dads who’d just finished a few sets of tennis. Everyone assumed he and Gemma were a couple, which caused them much amusement. The first and last time Joe had been anywhere near a vagina was when he exited his mother’s womb.

  The picnic area bordered a half-sized football pitch and a small playground, so Gemma had walked to the far end under the trees and thrown sticks for Mabel to fetch, keeping her well away from the harried mothers pushing their children on the swings. Mabel was harmless, but if a child showed her any attention she had a tendency towards slobbery kisses, which weren’t everyone’s cup of tea, particularly at the moment.

  Now Mabel was dozing in her bed, the table lamps were on, the curtains were closed and the scented candles Gemma had bought at the shop were filling the lounge and kitchen with a fresh, citrussy scent. The cottage was chilly after a day expelling stale air through open windows, but Gemma didn’t dare light the wood burner in case the chimney needed cleaning and she set fire to everything. She grabbed an old jumper and put on an extra pair of socks.

  Despite her history of personal relationships being all kinds of messy, Gemma could win medals for cleanliness and domesticity. A military childhood meant her family moved house every couple of years, and the married quarters were never up to her mother’s exacting standards. Before a single box was unpacked Gemma and her sister were handed a pair of yellow rubber gloves each and put to work scrubbing a
nd dusting, and two or three years later the process would be repeated in reverse as they marched out to head for somewhere new. Pocket money was earned by completing weekly chores – her bedroom had to be kept clean and tidy at all times, and dishes washed, dried and put away after every meal. When her father cleaned the car, he called his daughters out to hose down their bicycles so dust and salt and grit from the roads didn’t damage the paintwork. Gemma didn’t remember resenting it; it was just part of her life growing up, and when she visited friends’ houses the messiness and dubious hygiene made her skin itch. Once a school friend had dropped a slice of buttered toast face down on the kitchen floor and it had come up covered in cat hair, but she ate it anyway; it made Gemma heave just thinking about it. So last night’s dumping of stuff and getting drunk in a heap was very out of character, but it had been a challenging day.

  By the time Gemma was thirteen, the number of schools she and Louise had attended was reaching double figures. So when her parents were posted overseas again the decision was taken to send Gemma and her sister to a girls’ boarding school in Norfolk. Louise was two years younger and settled in happily, but Gemma hated the draughty dormitories, militant house mistresses and oppressive rules. It was no place for a dreamy loner with a wandering imagination; after a year Gemma became so miserable that she switched to weekly boarding and spent the weekends and half-terms with their mother’s sister, Laura, in her house nearby, only returning to her parents abroad during the school holidays.

  Aunt Laura’s second husband, Clive, had died of throat cancer when Gemma was eleven; he was twenty years older than his wife and they had never had children of their own. Aunt Laura had worked as an actress in the seventies and eighties and had been a patron of a theatre in Norwich for a number of years, but settled into semi-retirement after Clive died despite only being in her early forties. She was delighted to welcome her teenage niece at weekends, and took particular pleasure in introducing her to all her bohemian theatre and artist friends, much to the disapproval of Gemma’s mother, who was too far away to do a single thing about it.