Beckett’s Chapel became a place of sanctuary and worship for Gemma; lost in the rows of musty shelves that smelled of old paper and damp and furniture polish, she didn’t have to think about the misery of school, or the relentless cycle of packing and unpacking at home. In the library she could be fleeing danger across the Yorkshire moors, or tracking a jewel thief in the French Riviera. She could build her own ranch and tame wild horses, or have steamy, wanton sex with a square-jawed man who could pretty much snap his fingers and make her clothes fall off.
Gemma’s early reading habits seemed indiscriminate to Aunt Laura, who often laughed at the mix of books she hauled home. It was common to find an Agatha Christie or a P. D. James alongside blockbuster sagas by Shirley Conran or Barbara Taylor Bradford; in one weekend Gemma read Catcher in the Rye (kind of tedious, actually), followed by Jilly Cooper’s The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous (much better, lots of bonking). None of the books went back to school with her – Aunt Laura didn’t want them getting lost or forgotten, and anyway it felt important to Gemma that she kept her weekend world separate, for fear her weekday life would creep in and poison it.
She jolted out of her memories, having no idea how she’d drifted from thinking about lockdown cohabitation to Aunt Laura’s local library in the old chapel. She turned back to the job in hand, but thoughts of books had given her another nudge, reminding her about going to Matthew’s on Saturday to borrow some of his reading matter. It obviously wasn’t a date, but the tiny frisson of anticipation in her stomach made it feel like one.
Gemma pushed her laptop aside and grabbed a big envelope from the window seat – a piece of junk mail for replacement windows and guttering that she wouldn’t bother sending on to Caro. In times of doubt or confusion, she always made a list, so now seemed as good a time as any.
Reasons not to fancy Matthew
Social distancing
He’s not your type (local man for local people)
He’s Caro’s friend (awks)
He might not fancy you
He could be gay
You’ll make an idiot of yourself
You’re moving back to London soon
You’re on the rebound
You’re crap at relationships
Men are shits
You are 32 and don’t look great naked
Reasons to fancy Matthew
He’s kind and nice (underrated qualities, tbc if sexy)
He’s literally next door
He might fancy you too
He probably looks great naked (also: good with hands)
You’re trapped in a small village in a global pandemic, normal rules have gone out the window
Gemma rested her forehead on the table, trying to absorb its strength and stability while her world continued to tilt on its axis. Nothing. She screwed the list up and tossed it into the wood burner, then returned to the article. Right now it felt easier to imagine other people’s problems than tackle her own.
CHAPTER TEN
Saturday, 4 April
To Do
Find hairbrush
Find make-up bag
Make self look less like shit
Books/pizza at M’s 8.30 p.m.
Gemma stood in front of the bathroom mirror, paralysed by indecision. If she looked like she had obviously made an effort, Matthew might think she thought this was a date. So in an ideal world she would look great, but also not in any way like she’d tried to look great.
Other women seemed to achieve this with ease – a slick of lip gloss, a zhuzh of the hair and boom – instant let’s-take-selfies loveliness. But alas, Gemma wasn’t one of them. She didn’t dislike her face at all, but it wasn’t naturally Instagram-ready – her jaw was a little heavy, and her nose had a bump in the bridge from headbutting a climbing frame as a child. Her eyes were a muddy brown, with eyebrows so pale they disappeared entirely without vigorous pencilling, and her hair was currently an irredeemable two-tone split-ended shambles. With full make-up and the glow of two gin & tonics she could look, if not a million dollars, then a decent 500 bucks, but to someone like Matthew who had only seen the fifty-dollar version, the difference would be very noticeable indeed.
So this was the big question Gemma was grappling with – between 50 and 500, how many dollars is appropriate for looking at books, eating pizza, and not screaming ‘available for no-strings lockdown sex’?
In the end she settled for about 150 dollars – barely-there make-up, hair washed but in her usual messy bun, jeans and a pale blue shirt that she’d purposely not ironed, slip-on flat pumps, no jewellery or perfume whatsoever. It took the best part of an hour to achieve this lack of effort – more time than she’d spent getting ready for Caro’s wedding, and on that occasion she’d been chief bridesmaid.
Just before 8.30 p.m. she grabbed a six-pack of local cider from the fridge (less date-like than wine), patted a miffed-looking Mabel on the head and walked down the garden path to Matthew’s barn. Even in the gathering darkness of early April, Gemma could see what a difference their gardening efforts had made. The smell of cut grass still lingered in the air, and without the tangle of weeds and dead stems to hold them back, the shrubs and trees felt like they were on the starting blocks of spring, ready to embrace the space. Gemma had never really thought of herself as a gardening person, and was surprised at how satisfying it still felt, even three days later.
Matthew’s barn had originally been a large stone outbuilding, presumably for livestock when West Cottage had been part of a bigger estate. Gemma wasn’t exactly up to speed on nineteenth-century animal husbandry, but it definitely looked like the kind of place where you might keep some cows. At some point in recent years it had been converted to create a workshop underneath and a living space above, while still retaining the general appearance of a barn. A fancy cow hotel, thought Gemma. Boutique accomMOOdation. Or should that be MOOtique? God, you need to get out more.
Not wanting to look over-keen by being bang on time, she did a lap of the barn to get a feel for the place. At the left-hand end was the entrance to the workshop, with a big set of sliding doors that faced out on to the lane. The space between the barn and the road was gravelled, and she could see Matthew’s silver panel van parked between the doors and the five-bar wooden gate.
The entrance to Matthew’s apartment was at the other end of the barn, up a flight of external steps with a wooden handrail to a small decked balcony and an old stable door. Looking up, Gemma could see that the top level was timber-framed, with a gently sloping shingle roof that ended in a central flat section, like a modern take on a Dutch barn. On the far side she could see a flue for a wood burner, but on the side facing the cottage there were only four tiny windows built into the shingle – she imagined it would be cosy up there in the evening, but perhaps a little gloomy in the daytime with so little natural light. Right now the two windows nearest the entrance had the curtains drawn, giving off a rosy glow from within. The other two were in darkness; Gemma assumed these were the bedroom and bathroom.
As she walked towards the steps, she noticed the small table and two chairs that Matthew had carried over to the apple tree two days before. What lay under his T-shirt flickered in her memory, and she quickly batted it aside. For fuck’s sake, Gemma. Behave yourself.
She climbed the steps and knocked gently on the door. She heard brief kitchen clattering from within, then a few seconds of silence before the door opened and Matthew’s shy smile appeared. Gemma was relieved to see that he’d taken a similarly casual approach on the dress code, with jeans and a check shirt with rolled-up sleeves that had also dodged the iron. Blue socks, no holes. But as Matthew moved into the doorway, Gemma also noted that he smelled freshly showered and had given his scruffy beard a trim. His hair needed a cut, but you could say that about pretty much everyone these days.
‘You look nice. Come in.’ He stood back to give Gemma space to step through the door.
She stood on the mat just inside the door, rooted to the spot i
n wonder. This wasn’t a lonely bachelor pad full of mismatched furniture, or a gadget-filled man cave. It was . . . it was beautiful. Gemma’s immediate impression was of a super-stylish Alpine chalet or the hull of a wooden ship, full of warmth and texture. But as her eyes adjusted to the soft light, she started to take in some of the details: the exposed timber frame broken up with soft cream walls and a dark ceiling, the natural sisal carpet, the corner unit of two pale blue sofas occupying the right half of the space, angled invitingly in front of the wood burner. To the left was an open-plan kitchen with soft grey cupboards, fitted around a glossy ceramic hob and a brushed stainless-steel oven that was currently cranked up to full heat. It was beautifully designed to make use of the small space, with every element built to fit under the gently sloping eaves of the roof, from the inset lighting to the curves of the granite worktops. Further along the left-hand wall was a small wooden dining table with two chairs, and a door in the wall at the end of the room that presumably led to the bedroom and bathroom. Gemma gasped and handed over the cider, kicking off her shoes to stride purposefully across the room.
With the exception of the bedroom door, the entire wall from floor to ceiling was taken up with books, slotted into a handmade wooden bookcase that followed the angle of the roof on both sides. Aside from the occasional softly glowing cube light, every inch of every shelf was packed with titles that spanned the literary spectrum from Harry Potter to P. G. Wodehouse. Gemma spotted a full set of Agatha Christies, a section of foreign translations including Marquez, Dumas, Chekhov and Stieg Larsson, a whole shelf of contemporary fiction, a selection of the very best great American novels and another of British classics – the complete works of Jane Austen, George Orwell, Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens. Every shelf was full of treasures; Gemma hadn’t felt this excited by a book collection since the day she had walked into Beckett’s Chapel and asked for a library card.
She ran her finger along a row of well-thumbed Lonely Planet travel guides, organised alphabetically by continent. The first section included Belize, Caribbean Islands, Guatemala, Honduras, Mexico, Nicaragua and Panama. She felt a wave of shame – she had assumed Matthew was a country bumpkin, but he was better read and had seen far more of the world than she had. She gave him a questioning look, and he shrugged. ‘I used to work flat out for a year, then take a year off. Did three separate trips doing odd jobs, you can see quite a lot of the world that way. That was the first year, then I did another in South East Asia and the last one in southern Europe.’ His words tailed off as Gemma’s face reddened with embarrassment. She had entirely underestimated Matthew, based on nothing other than the village where he lived. She squirmed uncomfortably, feeling like she should go home and have a stern word with herself.
The tension hung heavily in the air, so Matthew wafted his hand in the direction of the books and said ‘Help yourself’ before heading over to the kitchen. He took a pizza out of the fridge and slid it on to the hot stone in the oven, then popped the tops off two bottles of cider and poured them into glasses. By the time he wandered back, Gemma had managed to unclench and pick three books from the shelf – a Zadie Smith and a Julian Barnes, neither of which she had read, and a battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. It was Aunt Laura’s favourite book, and Gemma hadn’t read it in twenty years.
‘Good choices. Dumas is my favourite.’ Matthew handed Gemma a cider and playfully clinked her glass with his own. ‘Here’s to great books, decent cider and homemade pizza. Our lockdown could be worse.’
Gemma smiled and relaxed a little, and settled into the corner of the sofa with her cider. Her journalistic instinct kicked in, and by the time the buzzer on the oven went off ten minutes later, she’d established that he was an only child, that his father had been a builder and his mother an interior designer, and he had just turned thirty-one. He’d bought the barn from Caro’s parents about four years ago, just after he’d returned from his Europe trip. Up until then he’d lived with his parents to save money for travelling and his future home. The renovation had taken just short of two years, with a little help and a great deal of guidance from his parents. They were both now semi-retired, but he saw them regularly – he walked to his childhood home for Sunday lunch most weekends, albeit that wasn’t an option at the moment. For now they had to settle for phone calls, and a quick chat on the driveway when Matthew delivered their weekly shopping. By all accounts it was a strong family unit and Matthew had grown up in a loving, supportive home.
Gemma was fascinated by the idea of living in the same place all your life; it was a concept entirely alien to her. She had no sensible answer to the question ‘Where are you from?’ – she was from countless houses and innumerable schools in half a dozen countries. She’d been born in Germany and lived in Cyprus twice, interspersed with occasional tours back in the UK, living in identikit military homes in Yorkshire or Hertfordshire or South Wales. The choice of a boarding school in Norfolk was her mother’s – Barbara Lockwood had grown up in the area, and it was the school she had aspired to but never attended. If the proximity of Aunt Laura’s house in Wymondham was seen as a positive factor, her mother had never mentioned it; but it turned out to be a saving grace for Gemma.
They ate the pizza with their hands at the dining table, one of the many items in the apartment that Matthew had made himself – Gemma was gratified by the absence of candles or flowers or other dinner-date detritus. Matthew had never formally trained as a carpenter or joiner; it was a skill he learned while working for his father’s building firm and discovered he had a talent for. Eventually he moved on from stud walling and roofing timbers to designing and making furniture, and set up his own small business with a homemade website and a card on the noticeboard outside the village shop. Working for his father paid the bills while he was starting out, but eventually the balance tipped so that the majority of his time was spent making bespoke designs. Old cottages are a mess of wonky walls, uneven floors and odd-shaped spaces – it’s often impossible to find a cupboard or table that fits perfectly. So Matthew would work with the customer to design it on 3D software (another self-taught skill) and make it in his workshop. The labour-intensive nature of the work meant it wasn’t nearly as profitable as he would like, so he supplemented his income by being the unofficial handyman for the village, which gave him as much work as he wanted. ‘I can’t do any at the moment though.’ He shrugged.
‘Is that part of the lockdown rules?’
He smiled, his eyes glittering. ‘Kind of. I’m allowed to do emergency repair stuff, but the woman next door breathed her London fumes all over me. So I need to give it a couple of weeks before I go into anyone’s house, just in case. Some of my customers are quite old and vulnerable.’
Gemma looked horrified and covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh fuck. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s fine. It’s already been nearly two weeks, so I’ll give it one more just to be sure. I’ve got loads of furniture work at the moment, and there’s nothing in the village that can’t wait.’
Gemma steered things towards his personal life, intrigued to know what people did for fun around here. In normal times he socialised with old school friends in Chippenham, was part of a local pub quiz team, and regularly volunteered at a homeless charity in Bristol run by an old school friend. When the village started to feel claustrophobic, he ate noodles and worked seven days a week until he’d saved enough to go travelling. Gemma envied him his wanderlust and freedom, then reminded herself that there was absolutely nothing stopping her from doing the same, except perhaps her responsibilities to Mabel.
In turn she told Matthew about her nomadic life growing up, glossing over her dysfunctional family and the year with Fraser. It didn’t escape her notice that neither of them had talked about relationships at all; since it was reasonable to assume that Matthew hadn’t spent his adult life living like a monk, it felt like a significant omission on both sides.
‘And what about Mabel? How long have you had her?’
Gemma took a deep breath, knowing that she was going to have to talk about this eventually. Now seemed like a good time to try saying the words out loud.
‘She belonged to my Aunt Laura. I lived in her house in London, and she lived in Norfolk. But then she got sick and had to move into a care home a few years ago, so she asked if I’d have Mabel. She’s been with me ever since.’
‘And how is your aunt doing?’ Even though Gemma had known the question was coming, the pain flared in her chest again. Would it ever go away?
‘She . . . died. Four months ago.’
‘I’m really sorry.’ Matthew looked at Gemma intently, clearly not knowing what else to say. She noticed his fingers twitch, like he’d instinctively wanted to comfort her but then changed his mind. She held his gaze for a few seconds, wishing she could find the right words, then felt naked under the heat of those green eyes and looked away. Matthew cleared his throat awkwardly and stood up to collect the empty plates and glasses, then put them by the sink and returned with the two final bottles of cider. ‘Come and see my workshop,’ he said, holding out his hand.
Gemma held the handrail tightly as she walked down the outside steps, the imprint of Matthew’s hand still warm on hers, even though he had only held it for a few seconds. She watched him take a swig from his bottle as he weaved round the bistro table and chairs and strode across the gravel to the other end of the building, then rattled a key in the padlock. The door rolled open and light flooded the driveway as Matthew flicked a switch. He adjusted a dimmer so it was less stark, casting a glow over the space within.
Two Metres From You Page 9