Matthew kissed the hair above Gemma’s ear. ‘I quite like this version of normal.’
Gemma smiled. ‘Do you have a TV? I can’t remember seeing one in your place.’
‘I never got round to it. If I want to watch something I’ll do it on my laptop or my phone. I don’t need paid-for stuff, I’m not really into sport and big movies and stuff. Would rather read a book.’
‘Ah yes, your famous book collection. Tell me more.’
‘You ask a lot of questions for someone who has a naked man in her bathtub.’ Matthew shifted into a more upright position so his legs were submerged, sliding Gemma up with him. ‘OK, if you must know. My mum was the school librarian when I was a kid. She got into interior design later, but for years books were her job. I was an only child and horrendously shy and awkward, so I got into reading really young. Even when I was older I was never that fussed about video games or bands or football; I used to cycle to Chippenham library on my BMX during school holidays like a massive nerd.’ He sounded embarrassed, but Gemma was delighted. She told him about the library in Beckett’s Chapel, and reading at her aunt’s house at weekends during term time, and how English Language and Literature at university seemed like the obvious next step.
‘I thought about uni,’ said Matthew, ‘but by then I’d been working weekends and school holidays with my dad for years and really enjoyed it, so I just cracked on with work and kept reading in my spare time.’ Gemma could hear the smile in Matthew’s voice as he recounted the memory. ‘When I renovated the barn the bookshelf was something I’d imagined in my head for years. I’d been in there loads of times. Caroline’s mum and dad used it as a garage and a tool store. I kept drawing pictures on napkins and envelopes of how the place could look, and eventually Dad went over to talk to them about me buying and renovating it. I was scared they’d say no, so refused to ask. That way I could keep the dream alive.’ He shrugged, and the water rippled over Gemma’s shoulders.
Gemma tried to imagine how it would feel to create your own home, to your own perfect design. It felt like something from a fairy story.
‘How did it feel to unpack your books on to those shelves?’
‘Honestly, it was the best feeling ever. I had loads of empty space, but that was OK. It just meant I was going to stay for a long time.’
Gemma pulled Matthew’s arms tighter around her, resting her chin on his bicep. She imagined her books lined up alongside his, occupying her own little corner of his shelf. Clearly this was the kind of thought you had in a state of post-orgasmic delirium, but in that moment staying for a long time felt like a really nice idea.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Saturday, 18 April
To Do
Actually do the mad Swap Shop thing
Sleeeeeeep
At 7.30 a.m., Gemma lay on her front and gently slithered down to the end of the bed, making an undignified reverse exit from under the duvet on to the floor. She’d been awake for a while trying to work out how to manage it – her side of the bed was wedged under the eaves of the roof, and Matthew was too big to climb over. She’d had no dinner, four hours’ sleep and felt like she’d been thoroughly manhandled, and now she was getting out of bed like a burglar backing out of a ventilation pipe.
A croaky voice piped up from the other end. ‘You could have asked me to move over, you know.’
‘I thought you were asleep. Why didn’t you say something?’
‘It was too much fun watching you pretend to be a caterpillar.’
Gemma crawled up on to the duvet and pinched Matthew’s foot. ‘You’re a git. I need to get up, I’ve got to sort Mabel out and be at the village hall by nine.’
Matthew yawned. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come. I need to get to Bath and deliver this table. Do you want me to come and help later?’
‘It’s fine, we’ve got loads of volunteers, and to be honest I can do without the gossip and the knowing looks.’
‘Too late for that. I bought the condoms in the BP garage at the crossroads yesterday; the guy who owns it lives next door to Ruth. The village will have known my seduction plans before you did.’ He laughed to himself. ‘Still, at least they’ll stop nagging me to find a good woman.’
Gemma felt that jittery feeling again. Matthew was talking like this was more than just getting through tough times with great sex and good company. Last night had been a revelation, but they needed to be realistic. She rationalised that now was probably not the time to bring up reality; she was enjoying his cheerful mood.
Matthew shifted down the bed, took Gemma’s hand and kissed her palm gently. She felt the warmth that flowed through her body every time he touched her; it was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure. He moved his lips to the tips of her fingers and looked up at her. ‘Can I come over again tonight?’
Gemma fought to control her breathing and got a grip on herself. Follow your heart, but bring your brain. ‘I’d love to, but I’m going to get back late. I’m already shattered, someone kept me up half the night.’ She grinned and prodded his arm. ‘Can we do tomorrow instead? I’ll be fully recovered and I have no plans whatsoever.’
‘Works for me. How about you come over for the brunch we never had last week? I promise not to be in Bristol.’
Gemma smiled, already wishing she didn’t have to leave. She gave him a quick kiss and headed for the shower, very aware that everything south of her collarbone was going to ache for the rest of the day.
It was raining hard by the time Gemma arrived at the village hall, the first of the volunteers to arrive. Ruth was busy opening up the village shop, so Gemma headed there first – they had agreed that Mabel could stay in the office again so she could have a walk at lunchtime. Gemma rubbed her down with a towel and settled her in with her blanket and a carrot from the hessian sack. She gave her a belly scratch and a kiss between the ears and returned to the shop for a quick cup of tea; Ruth eyed Gemma beadily, clearly in possession of knowledge that she couldn’t confess to.
‘You look tired, dear.’ And so it begins, thought Gemma.
She smiled sweetly. ‘I didn’t sleep well.’
‘No, I’m sure you didn’t.’
Gemma wondered what Ruth would say if she just blurted out the details. To be honest, Ruth, I spent the night being shagged into next week by your village handyman. I can barely walk. Gemma realised that she was grinning like an idiot at this thought, and Ruth was still watching her. She rearranged her face into an impassive smile and sipped her tea.
By 10 a.m. the tables were laid out with donations, the volunteers were all wearing gloves and masks and everyone was ready, albeit looking like a ragtag band of renegade surgeons. Erica was on the door checking the booking list and managing the flow of one household at a time, making sure they all had a squirt of hand sanitiser in each direction. Barry was taking inbound donations on one side of the hall, explaining patiently that these items weren’t available to take today, but they’d be cleaned and quarantined in time for Monday so please book again. The crates for books, old tools and kitchen bits and bobs were already filling up; Gemma had also spotted a book of knitting patterns and an assortment of different coloured wools that made her think of Joan; she would ask Ruth to call her later, once she’d worked out how on earth you sanitised balls of wool.
Gemma was on the opposite side of the hall, manning the outbound donations with Gareth, the shop volunteer who Gemma had met last week. Over small talk she’d discovered he was recently retired from the Royal Navy, which explained the military aura she’d sniffed out during their shop encounter. He reminded Gemma so much of her father, forced to retire at the peak of his career, going from hero to zero in a matter of weeks. They chatted a bit about his background, and Gemma discovered that he spoke five languages fluently, had published several papers on mathematical physics, and was widely regarded as one of the UK’s leading experts on nuclear submarines. And now he was describing books, board games and tools to curious customers in a rural village hall.
Gemma tried not to laugh as he read out the blurb on a Danielle Steel hardback as if he was briefing the crew of a navy destroyer. She made a mental note to call her dad later, she hadn’t spoken to him in weeks.
The first family was a couple with two children under five who relished the opportunity to run around the village hall like whirling birds; the mums didn’t seem terribly bothered about their fly-by proximity to other people so Gemma didn’t make a fuss. Her experience with Bella and Luca had taught her that you couldn’t reason with children this age, so there was no point trying to enforce a two-metre rule. They dropped off a few puzzles and games and a yellow scooter, and picked up a couple of new toys, a skipping rope and some books for the kids, along with a cocktail shaker and recipe book for themselves. You’re going to need it, thought Gemma, watching the youngest child scale a precarious stack of chairs.
The flow of households was slow and steady over the three-hour session, giving Gemma a fascinating snapshot of the make-up of the village. There were several more well-to-do couples with big-eyed children named Florence or Hugo who inspected the tables solemnly and whispered questions to their parents, tugging gently on their clothing. Older people in couples or visiting alone, handsome dads carrying little ones on their shoulders, dive-bombing siblings to shrieks of childish delight. Mums on a mission, focussed on getting the most out of their ten-minute slot.
Gemma was gratified to note that even the glossiest of thirty-somethings had dreadful split ends and needed a manicure – in this regard lockdown was definitely a leveller.
Other families were less easy to categorise – worn-looking mums herding kids while Dad smoked in the car park. Mums on their own, their children crusted with snot that they’d long given up trying to manage, looking for anything that might expand their universe beyond finger food, CBeebies and colouring books. Dads on their own with bored-looking older children, wearing that haunted, exhausted look that screams ‘weekend parent’. Older parents who could have been grandparents. Mums who were barely out of their teens. Parents who crouched down to their child’s level and explained things quietly, others who ignored them until the noise echoed off the old schoolhouse walls, then told them to ‘shut the fuck up’.
Gemma watched and smiled and offered as much help and support as she could from a safe distance. Nothing about this tableau of village life was tugging on her ovaries, but it was nice to do something positive. People seemed pleased with their new finds, and proud that Crowthorpe had taken the initiative – several people told Gemma this was a ‘lovely thing’ and expressed their thanks to the volunteers, or tried to leave donations. Gemma directed them into the shop, which had a collection tin for Wiltshire Air Ambulance on the counter; hopefully they’d buy a jar of Bernard’s honey while they were in there and Ruth would remember not to be a complete bitch.
Two other things kept worming their way into Gemma’s consciousness today. The first was Matthew, whose hands and lips she could still feel roaming her body like he was trying to commit every square inch of her to memory. Whenever she relived the highlights from last night, her stomach did another backflip; it had felt like they’d both come to the table hungry and eaten like the food could be taken away at any moment, and for the first time Gemma had experienced what real sexual chemistry tasted like. Whichever way she looked at it, she was still famished and really wanted seconds, ideally followed by dessert. Her head told her this spelled trouble, but her newly unleashed sex drive didn’t have the strength to resist. Now she thought about it, she felt the same way about sticky toffee pudding, and she could definitely eat one of those right now as well.
The second thing needling at her was the women in the village – the ones she’d noticed since she’d arrived, and those she’d seen today. In particular she’d been thinking about the single mums, the working mums and the older women, who somehow seemed to be bearing the emotional burden of this lockdown in a way that felt draining to watch, never mind deal with every day. For them social distancing wasn’t about being two metres away; it was about being disconnected from their whole support network. The Swap Shop was a fun and uplifting change of scenery for the whole village, but what about these women specifically? What more could she do to help them? She parked it in the corner of her brain where problems were left to unravel, and hoped she’d get a flash of inspiration at some point.
By 1.30 p.m. all the stragglers were gone and the hall was empty. Gemma took Mabel for a damp walk in the churchyard while the other volunteers packed up and stored the leftover donations from today, and by the time she’d put her back in the office, everyone was armed with Dettol spray and cloths to start cleaning the new batch. The pile was smaller than Thursday, so between the four of them they had it finished within a couple of hours, including scrubbing down the hall and all the tables. It had been a successful inaugural day, and the committee seemed delighted by the feedback. The shop had done a good trade too, which forced Ruth’s face into an unnatural muscular arrangement that vaguely resembled a smile.
Gemma listened to their enthused chat and thought about how far it all was from her previous life in London; her usual articles took her a couple of hours to write, and had a readership of thousands. Here she had invested DAYS of time in an event that would, at best, make an impact on a few hundred people in a tiny village that nobody had ever heard of. Yet it still felt like one of the most satisfying things she had ever done. Aunt Laura would have approved.
Before Gemma headed home, she took Mabel into the shelter of the lychgate to call her dad. The proper phone signal meant she could call her parents’ landline rather than using WhatsApp, so there was a better chance that Dad would answer. She pulled out her phone and searched for the number, noting with shame that the last time she’d called it had been nearly a month ago. It rang four times before a gruff voice shouted at her.
‘Lockwood. Who is it?’
Gemma smiled. Dad had left the RAF Police nine years ago, but he would remain Group Captain Peter Lockwood until the day he died. He’d joined up at eighteen and served the full thirty-seven years before he reluctantly retired at the age of fifty-five on a full pension; the retirement age was set by the RAF, so he had absolutely no say in the matter. Civilian life was turning out to be a colossal waste of his time and talent, and he’d been bitter about it ever since.
‘Hello, Dad, it’s Gemma.’
‘Oh, hello, darling. Hang on, I’ll get your mother.’
‘No, it’s fine, Dad. I actually called to talk to you.’
There was a brief silence, and her father’s voice softened. ‘Well, that’s very nice. Is everything OK?’
‘Yes, of course. I just haven’t talked to you for a while. I wanted to see how you are.’
‘Well. I’m perfectly fine, apart from all this bloody virus nonsense. Nobody seems to know what they’re doing; the whole thing is an absolute bloody disgrace.’ Gemma could imagine him reading his Daily Telegraph over breakfast, getting more and more furious at the varying levels of competence being shown by the government. ‘Your mother has me working like a navvy in the garden every day, apparently there’s now a plan to grow bloody vegetables.’ Poor Dad, thought Gemma. He hates gardening more than he hates vegetables.
She heard her father’s muffled voice as he covered the handset. ‘It’s Gemma. No, she wants to talk to me. For God’s sake, I’ll let you know.’ His voice returned.
‘I’m back. Your mother tells me you’re living in Wiltshire. Nice part of the world, we were stationed there for a while in the eighties, before you were born, I think. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, Dad. Keeping busy. I’ll be going back to London soon.’
He gave a disapproving grumble. ‘Hmpf. What’s the hurry? London’s full of bloody sick people. You’re better off staying out of the way for as long as you can.’
Gemma smiled. Despite his brusque exterior, her father worried about her just as much as her mother did. He’d been an imposing but inaccessible presence in her childh
ood – always working, and away on RAF Police business for months at a time. Unlike other parents who came home from trips bearing airport gifts and stories of their adventures, Gemma’s father brought a canvas bag full of dirty clothes, acres of paperwork and silence on all work matters – it was an unspoken rule in the Lockwood family that they didn’t talk about Daddy’s work. During family holidays he took charge of directing operations, from pitching tents to planning the optimum driving route from campsite to campsite along the Rhine, and spent any downtime reading books. Not the kind that Gemma liked – Peter’s literary tastes were limited to military history and spy fiction. If the author made even the tiniest of errors in operational procedure or uniform protocol, her father would write to the author and provide corrections. Gemma wouldn’t be surprised if he still did; he had to fill the retirement void somehow.
‘Have you heard from Louise?’
‘I think your mother spoke to her the other day. No idea what she’s doing. Army nonsense.’ Louise’s decision to take a commission in the Army rather than the Air Force was a sore point – she had graduated from Sandhurst within weeks of his retirement and he took it as a deeply personal insult. Louise had recently been promoted to Major, at a time when women could genuinely strive for the highest ranks of the Army. Gemma felt like she could have been a four-star general and their father would still think Louise had made the inferior choice.
‘I’ll call her tomorrow, will send your love.’
‘Hmm. Well, I need to get on. Do you want to speak to your mother? She’s hovering like a fart in a helicopter.’ Gemma heard her mother exclaim ‘PETER!’ in the background.
‘I won’t, not today. I’m standing in a doorway in the rain so I’ll call her tomorrow.’
Two Metres From You Page 17