Two Metres From You

by Heidi Stephens

  Gemma smiled back and shrugged. ‘I got some from Amazon.’

  After a few minutes they crossed the M4 and started to head north. Every few miles verdant hedgerows and views across open countryside gave way to another impossibly pretty village, tightly packed with wisteria-covered cottages and flourishing gardens. Some were just hamlets – a small farm or a handful of houses; others had a crumbling old pub and a church or a tiny village green scattered with ducks. Some they didn’t drive through at all; Gemma could see a small town nestled in a valley away from the main road, with stands of pink and white horse chestnuts following a ribbon of river glinting in the sunshine. After exactly a month within the confines of Crowthorpe, it made her want to sing ‘Jerusalem’ with the windows down.

  ‘It’s gorgeous. Everything’s so . . . green.’

  ‘You’re seeing it at its best right now, there’s been so little rain. The farmers aren’t happy, but it does look pretty.’

  They drove on, the terrain becoming more undulating as the road weaved through buttercup meadows and fields of sheep trailing newborn lambs. Just past Kemble they joined a bigger road to Cirencester; Matthew ignored the ring road signs and drove through the centre so Gemma could see the ancient market town, the streets lined with ancient Cotswold stone houses, half-timbered pubs and imposing Georgian architecture. Even though most of the shops were closed, Gemma could see the kind of places they were – expensive boutiques, artisanal delis and little tucked-away homeware and antique shops. Aunt Laura would have loved it.

  ‘It looks like an expensive place to live.’

  Matthew shrugged. ‘It is, I guess, compared to other bits of the West Country. But nothing compared to London. You can pick up an old cottage nearer Chippenham for a reasonable amount if you’re prepared to fix it up.’

  Gemma looked at him. ‘Is that what you want?’

  He smiled shyly and glanced at her. ‘Sure. The barn is great but it’s pretty small. It would be nice to have more space, be able to invite friends over. Maybe grow some food, keep some chickens.’ He laughed nervously, like Gemma might mock him, but she could easily imagine it – Matthew hammering away at the roof of a crumbling old house, married to a wholesome English rose who was permanently sexually available despite their clutch of sturdy children and her relentless baking. She brushed the thought aside. Too much Laurie Lee, Gemma.

  Beyond Cirencester they headed north on the straightest road Gemma had ever seen – it pierced the landscape like a silver arrow as far as the eye could see. Matthew explained it was the Fosse Way – an ancient Roman road that connected Exeter and Lincoln via Bath, Cirencester and Leicester. Some bits of it were just farm tracks now, but most of it was overlaid with modern A-roads. The landscape seemed so empty to Gemma compared to London – just miles and miles of grazing farmland, rolling meadows, winding rivers and tiny chocolate-box villages. She noticed that the colour of the cottages was changing – south of Cirencester they were a creamy pale yellow, but here they were darker, more honey-coloured. Everything was so relentlessly, delightfully, ridiculously pretty; Gemma couldn’t quite take it in.

  ‘Where are we going again?’

  ‘Chipping Campden. It’s about half an hour away.’

  ‘Isn’t that where David Cameron lives?’

  ‘Nope, that’s Chipping Norton. That’s a right turn in on-the-Wold, we’re turning left.’

  ‘Of course we are.’ Gemma relaxed into the seat, holding Mabel close. She had climbed on to the seat for a better view once they were on the Fosse Way and the van stopped lurching along windy roads. Gemma had hooked the spare seat belt through her collar to keep her safe, and now Mabel was watching the world go by like she hung out in Matthew’s van every day, the breeze through the window flapping her ears. Gemma felt another tinge of guilt – taking Mabel back to south London would mean no more snoozing under the apple tree, no more chasing squirrels through the woods. She’d make sure her next place was nearer some green space.

  The timber yard was on the outskirts of Chipping Campden, another ridiculously beautiful Cotswold market town packed with honey-stone cottages, boutiques and cosy pubs. Gemma wondered what a place like this would be like on an ordinary sunny day in July when everything was open; probably packed with tourists, so perhaps now was the best time to see it. Matthew parked near the market hall in the town centre so Mabel could stretch her paws and take advantage of the grass – they had twenty minutes before he was expected at the yard. As Mabel chased her tail and rolled around in the buttercups, Gemma was suddenly struck by a long-forgotten memory.

  ‘Fairy gold.’

  Matthew looked up. ‘Fairy what?’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘Sorry. I just remembered a story my aunt once told me. Forget it.’

  ‘I can’t now. You have to tell me.’ Matthew smiled playfully and nudged her shoulder.

  Gemma tried to piece the bits together, but the memory was woolly. She and Aunt Laura had been out for a walk in the sunshine when Gemma was fourteen or fifteen, probably to the farm shop or the post office. They’d passed a field of buttercups with horses grazing in it, and Aunt Laura had asked with a glint in her eye if she knew where buttercups came from.

  ‘OK, I think I’ve got it. There’s a story in fairy lore, about a man who was crossing a field carrying a big sack of gold. The fairies asked him for help, but the miserly old git wouldn’t give them any.’

  ‘What did fairies need gold for?’

  Gemma looked at Matthew, momentarily confounded. ‘Do you know what, I have no idea. Castle repairs? New wings?’

  Matthew laughed. ‘Maybe they needed to melt it down for fairy furniture. Expensive tastes. Sorry, carry on.’

  ‘ANYWAY, the old man was too mean and selfish to give the poor fairies a bit of his gold and walked off. So the fairies poked a hole in his sack and the gold scattered across the field. To hide what they’d done, they turned it into buttercups, which meant everyone could now share his gold for ever.’

  ‘So basically some fairies mugged an old man.’

  ‘No. Yes. There’s a moral about sharing your emotional and physical wealth, but I can’t remember the details.’

  ‘So that’s why buttercups are fairy gold.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Or old man gold, looted by socialist fairies.’

  ‘OK, STOP.’ Gemma punched him playfully as they reached a marker stone laid into the pavement, with a carving of an acorn at the centre and a spiral of place names around the outside, like the rings of a tree.

  Matthew knelt down to look at it more closely. ‘It marks the beginning of the Cotswold Way. If you follow the path for a hundred and two miles, it ends up in Bath.’

  Gemma read the inscription that formed the outermost ring. ‘Now the light falls across the open field, leaving the deep lane shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon.’ She’d never been much on poetry and didn’t recognise the quote. ‘T. S. Eliot, I think,’ said Matthew casually; Gemma suspected he knew exactly which poem it was, and could probably recite the whole thing from memory.

  She looked in the direction of the wooden fingerpost, also inlaid with the tiny acorn symbol. It made her think of the Yellow Brick Road from The Wizard of Oz – there was something quite magical about having the path laid out before you, the destination clear-cut and unambiguous. All you had to do was keep walking and trust the signs, and eventually you would arrive. If only real life was like that. ‘Have you ever walked it?’

  ‘Not the whole thing, but I’ve done bits of it. From here to Broadway is nice, and it passes through Painswick, which isn’t far from the Slad Valley if you like Laurie Lee.’ Gemma blushed at the memory of her earlier thoughts of Matthew and his wholesomely fuckable wife. ‘There’s a section along Cleeve Hill in Cheltenham with the most amazing views. We should take Mabel there when the weather warms up.’ His voice faltered, and Gemma saw that it was Matthew’s turn to blush. He turned away slightly, staring at his feet.

  Gemma’s hea
rt sank. It felt like a cloud had drifted over both of them, casting the carved marker stone beneath her feet into shadow. I won’t spoil today, she thought grimly. But I can’t leave this much longer. I’ll make a plan tomorrow and talk to him on Saturday. Whether I want to or not, it has to be done.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Matthew wandered off to where Mabel was sniffing around and sat down on a stone wall, his feet planted solidly on the grass. Mabel loped over and sniffed him for treats, then sat down against his legs with her head on his knee. Gemma watched them for a moment, suddenly consumed with an overwhelming tiredness. She walked over and sat beside him on the wall; her feet didn’t reach the ground, so she swung her new boots a few times to get his attention. Gemma could see the trace of a smile on his lips.

  ‘I’ve had an email from Erica, they definitely want to continue the Swap Shops. Taking a break for two weeks, then back the week after that. Yesterday went really well.’

  Matthew turned his head to look at her, his face full of pride. ‘That’s really good news, Gem. It’s a great idea. Every three weeks keeps it fresh and takes the pressure off the volunteers.’

  Gemma noted the shortened version of her name, really only ever used by Caro, Joe and Louise. He’d never called her that before, and it felt nice. ‘That’s what Erica said. And we’ve got the first Ladies’ Lock-In tomorrow, so that’s happening too.’

  ‘Does that mean you’d like to come over to use my WiFi?’

  Gemma wrinkled her nose and looked a little sheepish. ‘Yeah, if that’s OK. Sorry. But I also need you to make yourself scarce for an hour or two so you don’t frighten the locals.’

  Matthew laughed. ‘Fine. I’ll go to the workshop and write some dirty jokes for my Lads’ sesh on Saturday or something.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘Tell you what, I’ll do you a deal. You can use my WiFi tomorrow if I can cook you dinner tonight. We’ll stop and get some food on the way home.’

  Gemma stood up and turned to face him, manoeuvring herself between his legs. His seated position made their faces almost level, so she leaned in and kissed him. ‘You drive a very hard bargain, but it’s a deal.’ Matthew pulled her closer, slowly unzipping her gilet so he could slide his hands inside, feeling the heat of her skin through her jumper. She felt him stir against her hip and make that low guttural moan in his throat that made her stomach flip, so she pulled back from the kiss to whisper in his ear.

  ‘I’m not sure this is appropriate behaviour for this part of the Cotswolds.’

  Matthew gave a deep, breathless laugh. ‘Best I get you home as soon as possible then.’

  Gemma waited in the van while Matthew was in the timber yard. Mabel’s head was resting on her lap, so she stroked her gently between her ears until she drifted off into a blissed-out sleep. She remembered the note in her pocket and slipped it out of the envelope – the paper was heavy cream, with an old-fashioned cursive written in black ink from a fountain pen.

  Dear Gemma

  We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, I live in one of the houses over the road from yours and I see you walking past regularly with your dog. I used to have an Airedale Terrier but he sadly passed away last year, he wasn’t as well behaved as yours, although of course I did hear about the dreadful incident in the shop. It’s so important to keep dogs safe if you have to leave them alone.

  I wondered if perhaps once this is over we could go for a drink? Or perhaps you can cook us both dinner, I’m afraid I’m not much use in the kitchen.

  In the interests of full disclosure, I should tell you that I am a few years older than you, although of course I don’t know your age so I’m guessing! But I’m fit and healthy and open to having a woman in my life, particularly when she looks as lovely as you.

  I wouldn’t normally be this forward but these are exceptional times and at our stage of life you need to ‘grasp the nettle’! Since you seem like the kind of woman who likes adventure, I hope you’ll consider me favourably.

  With regards,

  J. Dunn

  By the time she had finished, Gemma’s eyebrows were sky high – if she’d read this right, she was being propositioned by a man in the village who suggested she might like to cook him dinner. She didn’t know whether to be amused or deeply insulted.

  When Matthew had finished loading the timber and climbed back into the van, she handed him the note. ‘Can you shed any light on this?’

  He read it quickly, his face breaking into a smile. ‘Jeremy, you dirty old bugger.’

  ‘Who’s Jeremy?’

  ‘He lives across the road from you, in the house with the red door. He’s a widower, I guess he must be about sixty? He used to hang around with my dad when they were younger, so they must be a similar age. Dad said he used to be something of a player back in the day, but he tried to cop off with my mum at a wedding about ten years ago and Dad has barely spoken to him since.’ Matthew started to laugh, his shoulders shaking. Gemma punched him on the arm.

  ‘Stop it. Am I supposed to be flattered?’

  ‘I hate to disappoint, but he’s propositioned every unmarried woman in the village since his wife died about fifteen years ago, and most of the married ones. He’s playing the numbers game – if he casts the net wide enough eventually someone will take the bait.’

  ‘Wow, how charming. Why is this so funny?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll fight him for you, defend your honour.’

  ‘Fuck OFF, Matthew.’ Gemma folded her arms, pretending to be annoyed.

  He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and started the engine. ‘OK, I’ve stopped laughing. Let’s go home.’ He leaned over and kissed her cheek, then added a bonus kiss to the top of Mabel’s head. ‘You’ve both got forty-five minutes until we get to Cirencester to think about your perfect dinner. Forget the village shop, today we’re going to Waitrose.’

  After a month of only eating food from the limited selection in the village shop, Gemma raided Waitrose like this was her final meal on death row. They gathered the ingredients for pan-fried salmon with asparagus and baby potatoes, along with individual pots of tiramisu and cream and a bottle of English sparkling wine, plus a meaty beef bone for Mabel.

  When they got back to Crowthorpe they put everything in Matthew’s fridge, then agreed to do their own thing for the rest of the day – Matthew needed to unload and stack the timber from the van, and Gemma had some life admin to catch up on. She cancelled a dental appointment, sent a few work emails, had an unproductive but dutiful call with her mother and messaged Louise to say thank you for the chat on Tuesday. She’d missed a couple of calls from Caro but didn’t want to talk to her about her return to London until she’d talked to Matthew, so fobbed her off with excuses about bad internet and a promise to call on Sunday for a proper chat. In the long shadows of late afternoon, she put her boots and gilet back on and took Mabel for a long walk across the fields and around the woods, enjoying the novelty of being appropriately dressed for the environment for the first time in weeks.

  By seven she was showered and changed into jeans and her favourite slouchy jumper, so she walked Mabel back to Matthew’s. He’d also showered and changed into clean jeans and a faded denim shirt, and true to his word he cooked her dinner while she relaxed on the sofa with Mabel and a glass of wine. They washed up together, and as they put the last few dishes away Gemma playfully nudged him with her hip as she asked what he’d like to do next.

  ‘Well, it’s a little early for me to take you to bed,’ said Matthew, blushing a little. ‘But I thought maybe we could lie on the sofa and . . . read?’

  It wasn’t the answer Gemma expected, but the suggestion delighted her. It was her secret idea of a perfect evening, although if anyone asked she’d obviously say cocktails and dancing or something less overtly nerdy. Matthew put some background music on – some kind of Café del Mar Ibiza chillout compilation – and brought the wine over to the coffee table by the sofa.

  By the time darkness fell she was w
ell-fed and warm, lying with her head on Matthew’s lap, reading Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle. It was another book that Laura had first discovered on Aunt Laura’s bookshelf, and it had been her favourite of all the coming-of-age novels she’d read in her late teens. She identified with the book’s narrator Cassandra – another precocious, bookish teenager who was neither effortlessly popular nor a proud misfit, but felt the invisibility and loneliness of the wasteland in between. Despite being younger than Gemma, Louise reminded her of Cassandra’s older sister, Rose – prettier, more confident, more driven. Louise had always had a plan, and she never took her eyes off it for a second. Passing the Army Officer Selection Board, aceing her A-levels, then heading to Sandhurst to begin her Army career. The biggest obstacle was their father, who spent months trying to persuade Louise to join the RAF instead – first with incredulity, and later with bitterness and anger. Gemma was at university by then so couldn’t help her sister stand up to him, but Louise never even blinked. Gemma remembered being so proud of her; come to think of it, she still was.

  Matthew was nestled into the elbow of the corner sofa reading Cider with Rosie, his legs stretched out at 90 degrees to Gemma’s and Mabel flumped across his feet. Apparently today’s trip had reminded him that he hadn’t read Laurie Lee’s autobiography in years, and couldn’t remember much about it. Gemma had studied it for A-level, and had found the tales of Lee’s Cotswold childhood both charming and horrifying in equal measure. Up to that point, all the books she’d read about twenties life in Britain had been about the upper classes – Brideshead Revisited, Mrs Dalloway, Lady Chatterley’s Lover; Gemma had never dipped her toe into rural poverty, disease and feral little boys. She remembered being confounded by the West Country dialect and horrified by the casual way Laurie Lee had talked about the plans the local boys made to gang rape one of the village girls. Her handwritten essays about the juxtaposition of childhood idylls and male violence had been punctuated with tiny holes where she’d stabbed her pen through the paper in teenage feminist outrage.