She checked her phone again since she was in the garden and had better internet. Caro had sent two messages, the first asking if Gemma fancied a Sunday-morning chat, and the second asking if she was OK. The short answer to both those questions was ‘no’, but she couldn’t get into it with Caro now. She claimed terrible period pains and promised faithfully to call in the morning.
She wandered back into the cottage and made a cup of tea. She’d told Reverend Alex that she’d pop into his online service this morning, mostly as technical support although she could tell he was hopeful she might join his congregation on a longer-term basis. Gemma had mumbled something non-committal, not wanting to disappoint him. Her church attendance was strictly weddings and funerals and she wasn’t a huge fan of either. She had very limited patience for standing about making polite conversation, and that seemed to be a major feature of both. A couple of years ago she’d stood around for nearly two hours in a shade-free stately home garden in 30-degree heat, while the bride and groom had about two thousand photos taken. By the time the guests were allowed into the marquee Gemma had a scarlet face from too much sun and champagne, and feet that were so swollen from the heat she didn’t dare take her heels off in case she couldn’t get them back on again. She vowed never to go to another wedding unless it was someone who would genuinely give a shit if she was there or not, and that list was very short indeed.
Just before 10.30 she took her laptop to the bottom of the garden and climbed to the top of Matthew’s steps, sitting cross-legged on the small wooden balcony outside the door to his apartment. She needed decent internet but couldn’t face walking to the village shop after yesterday; no doubt everybody would know about Fraser’s visit by now and she didn’t have the energy for even more knowing looks. This was as close as she could get to Matthew’s WiFi without letting herself in, and even though the door would undoubtedly be unlocked it felt bad-mannered, particularly under the circumstances.
The signal was strong here, so she logged on to Zoom and joined a parish turnout of twenty or so, which seemed like a lot to Gemma until she reminded herself that about five hundred people lived in Crowthorpe. Most of the parishioners were older residents, but there were a couple of families too. The biggest and most welcome surprise for Gemma was that the Reverend Alex Morton was black; this wasn’t exactly the most diverse community she’d ever lived in, and she’d expected somebody pasty and weak-chinned like Mr Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Instead she discovered the local vicar had an outstanding jawline and a wonderfully soothing voice for a Sunday morning.
She provided direction to those who struggled with turning on cameras and turning off microphones, thinking that Zoom really needed to introduce a beginners’ version as soon as possible, then settled down to listen to the opening prayers and Alex’s sermon. He talked about the importance of acknowledging the big picture and praying for those suffering around the world, but also focussing closer to home, on the small things you could do to support your neighbours and yourselves. He also talked about kindness, and how it was an infinite resource that we held within ourselves, but that we should remember to be kind to ourselves as well as others. It felt oddly personal on Zoom, like he was talking directly to Gemma without the echoing vastness and gloom of the church.
With Gemma’s support the congregation turned their microphones back on and sang a hymn, led a cappella by Alex, who turned out to have a lovely baritone. Gemma thought ‘Be still for the presence of the Lord’ was an appropriate choice – Alex had kindly emailed over the words for her the previous day, so she read them off her phone and fumbled through it with everyone else. The session wrapped up with a few final prayers, then Alex confirmed that he’d be around for the next hour or so if anyone wanted to message or call for a chat about spiritual matters. Gemma was tempted just for the soothing voice, but was pretty sure her domestic dramas were unworthy of his time, or God’s for that matter.
After the service she closed her laptop and wandered around the cottage at a bit of a loss. She lay on the sofa and tried to read for a while, but the story began with a tragic death and she couldn’t make it past page four. She contemplated ringing her parents, but they observed a rigid Sunday brunch schedule and wouldn’t appreciate the interruption. Right now her mother would be serving up poached eggs on toast with coffee and juice, with a small bowl of freshly chopped seasonal fruit to follow. Her father would slowly eat everything while reading the Sunday Telegraph and the Mail on Sunday, entirely ignoring his wife until he’d finished eating and retired to the conservatory to continue tackling the papers until Barbara brought him a cup of tea and half a sandwich at around 1.30 p.m. Then he’d take a walk for an hour before pottering aimlessly in the garden or shed until Barbara served a roast dinner at 5 p.m. – they rotated between beef, chicken and pork all year round, other than during spring when lamb was occasionally thrown into the mix. After years of life’s schedule being dictated by the Royal Air Force, Peter Lockwood found comfort and order in these little rituals; Gemma occasionally wondered if her mother felt the same, or whether she ever had days when she wanted to leave her apron on the back of the door and eat a massive pie and chips in the pub on her own.
Gemma slid on to the lounge floor and scratched between Mabel’s ears, her book tossed aside on the sofa. This was where she had first met Matthew a month ago; what a shambles she must have looked. She cringed at the memory, wishing she could turn back the clock and present a less unhinged version of herself. With hindsight the idea that she would only stay a few days was laughable. Where were you going to go, Gemma?
She thought about Fraser, and his ridiculous performance outside the cottage yesterday. Something had clearly happened to make him decide to get Gemma back – perhaps the Mystery Brunette had dumped him, or he’d realised he couldn’t stay afloat without Gemma’s half of the mortgage and bills. Perhaps he was just furious that Gemma had left, and wanted to prove to himself that he still had some level of control over her. Or perhaps he was simply a narcissistic, deluded arsehole who genuinely didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. After he’d left she’d thought of a thousand things she wished she’d said to him, most of them extremely clever and particularly withering. Now she’d never get the chance, but it was enough to know that he would have spent the two-hour drive back to London in a savage fury, blaming everyone but himself for Gemma not being in the car with him. Hopefully he’d got a speeding ticket for good measure.
After slapping some cheese and chilli jam in a sandwich and not bothering with the soup, Gemma took Mabel out for a run. She’d been gradually increasing her distances over the weeks, and was now running for an hour, albeit still looking like her ankles were chained together. It felt good to play some mindless dance music and plod through the lanes with Mabel at her side, emptying her mind of everything but the music and the rhythm of her feet.
Today she went further, retracing the route she and Matthew had walked exactly a week before to the meadow by the river in Oldford Brook. She took a couple of wrong turns and at one point had to take a short detour to avoid a field of cows, but eventually she found the wooded path that descended to the village and headed towards the sunny glint of the river. By the time she arrived she was hot and exhausted, so she stripped off her trainers and socks and stood knee-deep in the water, her toes sinking into the water plants and stirring up the sediment. Mabel skipped and splashed around her, waiting on the island for Gemma to throw a stick into the deep pool, then retrieving it and returning to the bank to shake vigorously.
Once Gemma had caught her breath, she sat on the bank and let the water dapple over her feet, just as she had the week before. She knew it would feel like a cruel punishment to come here without Matthew, but somehow she needed today to be as awful and miserable as she could make it. It was a tactic she deployed at boarding school too – if she was lonely or depressed or being bullied by the other girls, she’d go and stand in the rain or the snow, the theory being that if things couldn’t be any worse,
they would have to start getting better. Some girls self-harmed by starving themselves or carving their arms up with the pointy end of a compass; Gemma just made herself feel as terrible as possible until her emotions hit rock bottom and had nowhere else to go but up.
Today she just wanted a hug – from Louise or Caro or Joe ideally, although she’d even take one from her mother since these were desperate times. The irony was that even if these people were here, Gemma wouldn’t be able to hug them; right now that felt like one of the cruellest consequences of this awful situation. The only person she could hug was Matthew, and that would be the most selfish act of all.
After half an hour of literal and metaphorical wallowing, Gemma summoned Mabel from her watery playground and started to walk back to the village. She had intended to run, but her legs felt like lead; instead she trudged, replaying yesterday’s conversation in the field with Matthew and the encounter with Fraser like a looped film in her brain. How had she wasted a year of her life on someone so worthless?
It was almost 5 p.m. by the time Gemma got back to the cottage, the dust from the fields clinging to the sweat on her legs. She felt gritty and tired, in need of a soak in the bath and a glass of wine. Mabel immediately emptied half her water bowl then settled down on her bed with a dramatic yawn, ready for a huge nap after a four-hour walk.
Gemma poured a large glass of wine and recovered her abandoned book from the sofa – she’d give it another go in the bath; perhaps it would feel less bleak if she was immersed in soapy bubbles. She was halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rang, so she put her book and her wine on the stairs and walked back through the dining room, assuming it was a delivery driver. As usual Mabel hadn’t moved; doorbells were not a matter she needed to concern herself with at this time. Gemma opened the front door and was surprised and horrified in equal measure to see Matthew’s mother standing by the front gate.
Gemma’s immediate response was panic – why did she only ever meet this woman when she looked like shit? Annoyance quickly followed – why did people in this village just turn up? Nobody in London would consider just rocking up at your house without messaging first unless it was part of an elaborate birthday surprise involving balloons and champagne and an impromptu picnic.
Once she’d processed the fact that she was here, curiosity kicked in – as far as she knew Matthew’s mum hadn’t visited him at all during lockdown, so what was she doing on Gemma’s doorstep? She arranged her features into something resembling a polite welcome and opened the door to the porch. Christine stayed where she was, leaning on the gate.
‘Hello, Christine. How lovely.’
Christine smiled. She bore very little resemblance to Matthew – her nose was more aquiline and her eyes were brown rather than Matthew’s green. Today her hair was pulled back into a half ponytail, and she looked stylishly nautical in navy leggings, a striped jersey tunic and white canvas shoes. Gemma guessed she was in her late fifties, but she looked a good decade younger. Aunt Laura had always said that women had to make a choice in mid life between face and figure – staying slim came at the cost of looking older. Christine seemed to have managed to achieve both, which Gemma put down to either good genes or an exceptional facelift.
‘Hello, Gemma. Have you been out? You look a little hot and bothered.’ It was clearly a mild observation rather than a snarky dig, so Gemma tried not to take it personally.
‘I’m just back from a run. I was just on my way up for a shower.’ A shower sounded functional, whereas a bath might make her look like the kind of woman who drank wine in the bath at 5 p.m. on a Sunday. She smiled politely. ‘Were you looking for Matthew? I think he’s in his workshop.’
Christine stepped back from the gate a little, looking mildly uncomfortable. ‘Actually, no, I was looking for you. I was passing by for a walk and thought I’d say hello.’
Gemma folded her arms and leaned against the door frame, suddenly feeling apprehensive. Had Matthew talked to her? Visiting other people’s houses wasn’t technically allowed, so she must have good reason.
Christine gave a nervous laugh. ‘Actually that’s not entirely true. I heard on the village grapevine that you had a bit of an altercation with a man in a black car, so I wanted to check you were OK.’
Gemma stayed silent, processing Christine’s words. It seemed unlikely that she was fishing for gossip, even less likely that she actually cared about Gemma’s welfare. So why was she here?
‘Did . . . did Matthew send you?’ Gemma unfolded her arms and stepped out of the porch. Christine’s position at the bottom of the steps put her on a level below Gemma, even though she was several inches taller. Just like Fraser yesterday, Gemma had the height advantage.
Christine stepped back, looking flustered. ‘No, of course not. I spoke to him earlier and he seemed upset, but wouldn’t say why. I just thought . . .’
Gemma could feel her anger rising. Was there anyone in this village who didn’t know her business? Was there some kind of gossip network, or had Matthew said something during his lock-in last night? It would have been tempting to share the story about the wanky cashmere Londoner in his fancy car, and how Gemma had sent him packing with a flea in his ear. The village guys would have loved it. Matthew’s dad was probably on the call. No. Matthew wouldn’t have done that. Would he?
Gemma’s head was buzzing again. She locked into Christine’s distressed look and kept her voice as tight and polite as she could. ‘Christine, I appreciate your concern, but with the greatest respect none of this is your business. You’ll be glad to hear I’m going back to London on Thursday and taking my drama with me. Could you perhaps share that with a couple of locals, so everybody knows?’ Gemma wafted her arm in the general direction of the village, then turned on her heel and walked back into the house. She shut the door quietly, despite the urge to slam it like a teenager.
She stood in the dining room, taking deep breaths. Mabel hadn’t moved an inch; in her world the last five minutes hadn’t happened. Giving her head a small shake, Gemma headed back up the stairs, pausing halfway to pick up her wine glass and down the contents. She walked back to the kitchen to grab the bottle out of the fridge, then went to get pissed in the bath.
Sorry I missed your message, have been working. Lock-In was good fun. How was your day? Mx
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Monday, 27 April
To Do
Call Caro
Dear Gemma
I wanted to apologise for yesterday. I shouldn’t have just turned up like that, it was rude of me. I hope you’ll give me the chance to explain, then you can go back to being angry with me.
Matthew came over yesterday, I suppose while you were out for your run. He sat by the gate and we chatted for a while, but when I asked after you he said you were going back to London soon, then changed the subject. I heard about the man in the car from Margaret who lives in one of the bungalows along from you. Nothing much gets past her. For what it’s worth, she said you (and I quote) ‘kicked his backside from here to Swindon’.
So I suppose my main reason for coming to see you was curiosity; to see if it was true that you were leaving. I’d got quite hopeful, you see – my son is 31 years old, but I’ve never known him talk about a woman the way he talked about you. He’s had girlfriends, of course, but none of them ever quite made the grade. Every time he went off on his travels I crossed my fingers that he’d come back with the girl of his dreams (or guy, I live in the modern world), but he never did. By the time he went on his final trip I’d quite given up hope; on that occasion he took his cousin on her gap year travels around Europe. We told him not to, said it would spoil his trip, but he did it as a favour to my younger brother, who was worried about Claire travelling alone. It’s the kind of person Matthew is, but I’m sure you already know that.
I hope you can see why I was hopeful when I heard about you. You sounded funny and smart and interesting and kind, and Matthew told me you love books. In truth you’ve done more for this village
in a month than some people have done in a lifetime. But I’m sure you have good reasons for going back to London, and it’s not for me, Matthew or anyone else to tell you where you belong.
Mostly I’m writing to tell you that he never said a word about your situation yesterday, and he also didn’t know I was coming to see you. No doubt he’ll be furious with me when he finds out. He’s a good man, Gemma. Please don’t judge him for the bad behaviour of his mother.
Best wishes for the future,
Christine Thorpe
Gemma sat on the sofa with Christine’s note, her heart heavy with sadness.
Christine had beautiful handwriting, full of elegant loops and flourishes. She had taken some time over it, clearly happier to express herself in writing than she was in person. Gemma knew exactly how that felt – a pen in her hand gave her a style and an eloquence that she could never match in a face-to-face conversation.
She squirmed a little over Claire, acknowledging that her imagination had got the better of her there. Claire was just a young girl who found a chaperone in her kind and patient older cousin. At any point Gemma could have asked, ‘Did you go on your travels alone, or with other people?’ and Matthew would have told her, but instead she chose to find a narrative to fit her own insecurities and her preconception of the kind of man Matthew must be, because all men were like that. Gemma remembered the dedication in the front of the photo album – Can’t think of anyone I would have wanted to share it with more than you. Love you, Claire. Gemma had assumed it was romantic love, but of course there were other kinds that she’d chosen not to consider.
And obviously Matthew hadn’t said a word about Fraser to his mother or anyone else, because he wasn’t that type of person. But he’d clearly talked about her a lot; Christine seemed pretty well informed on what Gemma liked, and what she’d been doing in the village. It gave her a momentary warm feeling to think that Christine had wondered if Gemma was ‘the one’ – how disappointed she must be right now. She’d never met Johannes’ parents, and her only experience of Fraser’s mother had been the ill-fated trip to Clydebank the previous year, the one she had to cut short because of Aunt Laura’s death. She was a beady-eyed, tight-lipped woman who seemed to find Gemma very disappointing; but Fraser was her blue-eyed boy who could do no wrong, and Gemma assumed he could have brought home a duchess and she still wouldn’t have made the grade.
Two Metres From You Page 25