Two Metres From You

by Heidi Stephens

  The silence stretched out between them, so Gemma bolted for the door again, just as she had two weeks before. She gave Matthew an awkward smile. ‘Have a good evening.’

  Matthew paused for a half-beat, then lifted his hand a few inches off the wall.

  ‘Gemma, wait. Let’s catch up tomorrow. I’ve been stuck in the workshop all week working on that table, I need human conversation. We can sit in the garden and get the barbecue going.’

  Gemma looked at him, trying to arrange her face into an expression of calm and serenity while her stomach did a double backflip with an aerial cartwheel and a handspring to finish. ‘That would be nice. What can I bring?’

  ‘Can you bring food? I’ve got loads of drink but otherwise my fridge is bare and I haven’t had time to deal with it. About six?’

  Gemma laughed. If it was a choice between friendly neighbour Matthew or no Matthew at all, she’d definitely settle for this version; her only face-to-face conversation in the past two days had been Mabel and Henry the vacuum cleaner.

  ‘Sure. I’ll see you then.’ She walked back into the cottage, suddenly feeling not very tired at all. If she’d had a tail, it would be wagging full speed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, 10 April

  To Do

  Become culinary goddess

  Shave everything

  Gemma lay in bed, gently freeing herself from the final, grasping tendrils of sleep. Morning birdsong had reached its peak, and while she was starting to be able to distinguish the different tunes, she still didn’t know what bird they came from. She should order a British garden bird book from Amazon, but delivery was taking for ever right now. It was unlikely to arrive before she went back to London, where it would be no use whatsoever unless there was a big chapter on pigeons.

  She remembered that today was Good Friday, which in a normal year would be the beginning of a long and lazy weekend with friends and family. Last year she’d spent the day on a date with Fraser, maybe their third or fourth since they’d met a few weeks before. It was the first date that was in the daytime, so they’d strolled hand-in-hand along the South Bank, both of them nervous and feverish in each other’s company. In the afternoon they went back to Fraser’s flat and had sex for the first time – a tangle of sweaty sheets that Gemma abandoned for a pre-arranged night out with Joe that she refused to cancel despite Fraser’s theatrical sulking. She had left at the last possible minute and met Joe at a bar in crumpled clothes and bed hair, reeking of sex and Sauvage by Dior. Joe wouldn’t let her order food until she’d shared every last detail, and they’d ended up drunk and giddy in one of Joe’s favourite clubs until 3 a.m. On Saturday afternoon she had taken the train to Norfolk to visit her parents, the intention being to spend Sunday at the care home with Aunt Laura. Gemma found her agitated and confused, and didn’t stay long. She got the train back to London rather than stay another night with her parents, and spent Easter Monday alone, grieving for a woman who had not yet died, but was already long gone.

  Today Gemma felt in a more positive frame of mind. She had another run to do this afternoon, then the barbecue with Matthew. She found herself grinning stupidly at the thought of it, although it was just some food in the garden with a neighbour. In normal times this would feel like a very ordinary thing, but these were very much not normal times, and any break from the routine felt like something to look forward to. The decision to count themselves as the same household made her feel better about spending time with him – it was bad enough that she was having dirty thoughts without them also being illegal.

  Gemma loved a barbecue. In Cyprus during school holidays it felt like the whole island smelled of chargrilled meat; the smell always made her think of sitting under a woven straw umbrella on the beach with her school-holiday friends, eating souvlaki stuffed into a pitta bread and drinking Sprite out of a glass bottle. During those holidays she almost felt normal, surrounded by other teenagers struggling with the same volatile, itinerant life. Her parents offered her the chance to leave boarding school and attend St John’s, the local British Forces school, but that would mean leaving Aunt Laura and moving schools again before her exams. Even though boarding school was awful, it was at least reliably awful for a full five years.

  She lay in bed and mentally planned her day. Her priority was buying some food for the barbecue, the options being whatever the village shop could provide. Matthew had offered to take her to the supermarket in Chippenham on a couple of occasions, but there wasn’t anything she needed desperately that she couldn’t buy either from the village shop, or online for delivery. She had never been one for overblown, fancy cooking; when you lived alone you learned to treat food like fuel, rather than the foundation of a grand performance. In her experience no dinner ever truly suffered from an absence of Himalayan rock salt or truffle oil.

  So food shopping first, then some marinading and a bit of prep. A run with Mabel after lunch, then a shower and change. I need to shave my legs and tidy up my bikini line, she thought, then immediately felt a squirm of shame about where her mind was going. Yesterday she’d been embracing her lack of female grooming, and now she felt like she was failing Feminism 101 for a barbecue with a neighbour. Maybe just a tiny strim round the edges, nothing dramatic.

  Gemma’s mental list-making was interrupted by the vibration of a WhatsApp video call from Caro. It was a bit early even by her friend’s standards; clearly Caro was up with the kids and needed to vent about something. She swiped to answer but left the camera off – there was rarely enough signal for video even at the back of the house, and a high risk that Dressage Tony was with Caro. He definitely didn’t need to see Gemma in bed at 8 a.m.

  ‘Morning, Caro, what time do you call this?’

  ‘Gem! I’ve already had two coffees and am about to make a third. I needed to see your face and a house that isn’t total chaos. Turn the camera on.’

  ‘It won’t work, there’s not enough signal in this backward hellhole.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Go into the bathroom and hold it up by the skylight. It works there.’

  Gemma rolled her eyes and rolled out of bed, putting on a big T-shirt and padding into the bathroom. She stood on the toilet seat and pressed the camera button, and a fractured shot of her friend’s face appeared. Gemma missed Caro desperately, but wouldn’t swap lifestyles for all the money in the world. Caro and Antonio had two children – five-year-old Bella and three-year-old Luca. The combination of Caro’s Algerian/Irish parentage and Antonio’s Italian roots had without doubt created two of the most beautiful children on the planet, but they were both incredibly hard work. In normal times Caro had the support of a German au pair, but Amelia had gone home to Hanover weeks ago, leaving Caro trying to keep the agency afloat alongside full-time parenting and (to add insult to injury) having to clean her own house. Antonio was some kind of management consultant specialising in IT for the public sector, which apparently required complete seclusion in their home office for at least twelve hours a day. Caro was doing all of the heavy lifting right now, and by any standards looked terrible.

  ‘You look terrible.’

  Caro smiled grimly. ‘I feel terrible. You look amazing. Why do you look amazing?’

  ‘Because I’ve just had a decent night’s sleep, and I’ve been running and stopped eating takeout at eleven p.m. I am also free of the burden of terrible men.’

  ‘I’m still sorry about Fraser, what a total fucking shit. Put that DOWN, Luca. Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘I absolutely don’t ever want to talk about it, but thank you.’

  ‘I totally understand. Let’s talk about Matthew instead.’

  Caro had laid the trap perfectly, and Gemma fell straight in. Her face froze and she paused for just a second too long.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘HAH. I KNEW IT!’

  ‘Caro, stop it. There’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘You LIE, Gem. I can read you like one of your stupid books. Do you l
ike him?’

  Gemma rolled her eyes, feeling thoroughly cornered. Caro was so good at this, and Gemma knew she was beaten.

  ‘OK, fine. I like him. He’s nice. But there’s nothing to tell, I swear. He made me pizza, but that’s it. No body fluids have been exchanged, nothing steamy to report.’

  Caro narrowed her eyes, mollified for now.

  ‘How disappointing. I’d hoped to live vicariously through your village adventures. Bella, don’t hit your brother. TONY. For fuck’s sake, where is he?’ Caro disappeared briefly and the children’s chatter became more muffled as a door closed. ‘That’s better. Tony’s talking about going to Italy to see his parents for a few weeks; apparently it’s about their welfare, but they’re holed up in their fucking holiday home in Amalfi with a swimming pool and a tennis court. They want Tony and his sister there, presumably so they can all play mixed doubles while I stay in London and look after his fucking children. I’m absolutely divorcing him after all this.’

  Gemma smiled; this was something she’d heard from Caro many times. ‘No, you’re not, you love him really. You told me you’d never divorce Tony because he worships you and makes you come like a dog on a whistle.’

  ‘Fine, then I’ll get a vibrator.’

  ‘You don’t already have a vibrator?’

  ‘I’ll get a better one. He’s a shit. All men are shits. Apart from Matthew, he’s lovely. Be nice to Matthew.’

  Gemma laughed. ‘I’ll let you get on. And I’ll send Matthew your love – we’re having a barbecue in your garden later.’ She grinned broadly and gave a thumbs up, ending the call before Caro could respond. The smile stayed on Gemma’s face throughout her shower; a call from Caro felt like a good start to the day.

  At 6 p.m., Gemma picked her way down the path with a tray of meat and vegetable skewers and a bowl of Greek salad. Finding feta cheese and a jar of black olives in the village shop had felt like a major win, although she hadn’t been able to find a red onion. It would be fine without and avoided the horror of potential onion breath. She put the bowls down beside the barbecue, which had already been lit – Gemma could see that Matthew had also moved the small table and chairs back to the deck, and laid the table with two plates and cutlery. A blue cooler sat by the barbecue; Gemma lifted the lid for a peek and found it full of wine and cider.

  She returned to the house, her long skirt swishing around her ankles. It was gauzy white cotton with a pale grey paisley pattern, something she had bought in Greece years ago; today she’d paired it with a pale green T-shirt that fell off one shoulder, and a pair of ancient flip-flops. Gemma’s hair was loose around her shoulders, and the barely-there make-up had been given another outing, this time with the tiniest spritz of Chanel.

  She came back a few minutes later, trailing Mabel and carrying a cardigan and a small jug of salad dressing. The day had been unseasonably hot for early April, and even now it was still in the twenties – no doubt it would get chilly later, but for now the air felt blissfully warm on her skin.

  Matthew appeared on the steps of the barn just as she arrived and waved a pair of barbecue tongs. He was in shorts as usual, but these ones were free from splashes of paint and wood glue. Another plain white T-shirt, and a pair of black Havaianas. His feet were respectable, which was a relief; Gemma couldn’t be doing with poorly maintained man-feet, all hard yellow skin and fungal toenails.

  ‘Hey. Thanks for bringing food. Let’s have a drink and then I’ll do some cooking.’

  Gemma pulled a couple of ciders from the cooler and popped the tops. The bottle opener was tied to the handle with a piece of frayed blue string, which Gemma found rather delightful. She was a million miles from her usual cocktail haunts right now, and it felt quite liberating.

  They both sat in the early-evening sun, drinking and chatting about nothing in particular. Gemma told Matthew about her running, and Matthew updated her on the progress he’d made with the table and benches; everything just needed a final sand and a few coats of oil, then the order could be delivered. His customers weren’t in a huge rush but Matthew was keen to move on to other things; he didn’t like projects hanging around. Gemma mentioned her early-morning call and passed on Caro’s regards, which prompted a discussion about Caro’s wedding to Dressage Tony, which it turned out Matthew had also attended. Gemma didn’t remember him, but there had been over 200 people and it was eight years ago. She idly wondered if he’d taken a date, but didn’t ask. They talked about the current lockdown situation, and how it was supposed to end on Monday but was very clearly going to be extended. Nobody seemed to know how long for, and it felt pointless to speculate.

  After two ciders the barbecue coals were hot and the smoke had died down, so Matthew put the skewers on to cook. The smell of sizzling meat gave Mabel a new lease of life, and she parked herself inches from Matthew’s feet until the meat was cooked and a few cooled pieces had been put on the deck for her to inhale in seconds. Gemma and Matthew ate their food at a much more leisurely pace, switching cider for a bottle of wine from the cooler. Matthew had wrapped a bag of ice around two glasses, so they were frosted with cold and the wine tasted crisp and delicious.

  By 8 p.m. the sky was darkening, so Matthew stumbled over to flick a switch on the side of the barn that lit the gravel area at the bottom of the steps. They were both rosy-cheeked with alcohol and contentment; Gemma couldn’t remember the last time she felt this relaxed and happy drunk, as opposed to the wretched misery-drunk of her first night in Crowthorpe. She leaned back in her chair, her head suddenly a little woozy, and looked up at the barn. The windows were all in darkness; it looked cold and stark from the outside, nothing like the cosiness she’d discovered inside.

  ‘Do you ever find it a bit dark in there, during the day?’ She turned to Matthew, who had his eyes closed and his head tilted to the sky.

  He looked up. ‘What, in the workshop?’

  ‘No, in your apartment. Upstairs. It’s beautiful, but the windows are so tiny. I wondered if it felt dark in there sometimes.’

  Matthew looked confused and didn’t speak for a few seconds. ‘Didn’t . . . didn’t you notice the ceiling on Sunday?’

  Gemma looked blank. What about the ceiling? It was dark. ‘No. What’s special about the ceiling?’

  Matthew jumped out of his chair and grabbed her hand, causing Mabel to leap around in circles in excitement. ‘Come with me, I’ll show you. Stay there, Mabel.’

  Matthew kept hold of Gemma’s hand all the way to the top of the steps, by which time Mabel had settled down on the gravel below, looking resentful. He opened the door and pulled Gemma into the strange half-darkness within; she felt giddy and breathless with wine and anticipation, she had no idea what was happening, but it felt wonderful.

  Matthew moved behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. ‘Look up.’

  Gemma looked up. The gently sloping walls ended in two ridge beams, and the flat ceiling between was made up of two huge glass panels separated by a central tie beam. As the evening sky deepened into night, it was like looking into two pools of glittering purple light; in an hour or two it would be full of stars.

  Gemma sighed happily; it was so ridiculously perfect. She imagined how the room would look in full sunshine, with shafts of light casting beams across the furniture. Mabel could simply inch around the room in a moving sun patch. In winter you could look up and watch the rain beating down on the glass, or feel like you were in the middle of a lightning storm. She imagined lying on the sofa and watching it snow, as flake by flake the heavy grey sky was replaced by a ceiling of the brightest blue-white. ‘I didn’t notice,’ she whispered. ‘I was too busy looking at your books.’

  Matthew didn’t reply. He was still behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, even though only his hands were touching her. She felt the faintest whisper on her neck as he gently moved her hair to one side, his fingers brushing her bare shoulder.

  Gemma closed her eyes, her nerves jangling. She felt a
deep, dull ache in the pit of her stomach, as Matthew traced his fingers along the line of her shoulder and down her bare arm. His breathing became heavier and she resisted the temptation to grab at him with both hands, not wanting to look like she was frisking him at the airport.

  Matthew’s lips touched the curve of her neck, and his hands slid down her back and gently circled her waist. She covered them with her own and giggled nervously.

  ‘My legs won’t hold me up.’ She turned around and he pulled her tighter into his body, resting his chin on her shoulder. ‘Is there any chance you could kiss me?’

  Matthew breathed out slowly, like a sigh. ‘Gemma, you have no idea how much I’d like to kiss you. But if I do, I’m going to take you to bed, and we’re both hammered.’ He released her and pulled away. Gemma turned to look at him, confused and fuzzy-headed. Bed sounded great, what was wrong with bed?

  He gave her a penetrating stare. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I really want to. You have no idea. In fact if you came any closer you’d have a very good idea.’ He gave a short laugh, and Gemma tried to smile. ‘But I don’t want to have drunk sex with you. I want sober, clear-headed, unforgettable sex. Can we do this again? Like, tomorrow?’

  Gemma’s lust-fuelled brain processed his words, and she tried to extinguish her disappointment along with the fire that was still burning through her lower body. The last few minutes had flipped her world upside down, and right now tomorrow seemed like a very long way off. But not seducing drunk women on a first date, however consensual, was definitely a quality she and Caro had attributed to their imaginary perfect man; it had never occurred to her that he might actually exist. Getting in a strop about it was clearly a bad look, so she gave him a smile that she hoped was charmingly flirty, rather than randy and plastered. ‘I can absolutely come back tomorrow. Can we do brunch?’

  Matthew laughed, and opened the door. ‘We can definitely do brunch, although I suspect very little food will be involved. Now go home and sober up, and take your needy dog with you.’ His hand stroked her hair back from her face, and he planted the lightest of kisses on her forehead.