Two Metres From You

by Heidi Stephens

  Caro cleared her throat, a sign that Gemma recognised as a lecture incoming. ‘When you say not your type, what do you mean? Because honestly, Gem, your track record is an absolute shocker.’

  Joe nodded, raising his hands like he was about to launch into a gospel interlude. ‘YES, Caro.’ Gemma realised this was a conversation they’d already had between them, and a dull pain formed in the pit of her stomach. Brace, brace.

  Caro took a deep breath and continued. ‘Let’s see. The guy at uni, the Philosophy student who wrote you poems and read them to you in bed. Grim, and also weird.’

  Joe laughed and waved his hands excitedly. ‘Oh God, that guy you met at Bestival who wore clown trousers. Wouldn’t stop ringing you afterwards. For, like, MONTHS. And then sent a picture of his ugly cock to your work email.’

  Gemma put her head in her hands, dying with embarrassment at the memory. There was no point fighting back, this conversation had been a long time coming.

  Caro continued. ‘The Swedish guy who bred guinea pigs. That guy who tried to move into your house and get you to lend him money. Johannes. God, Johannes was dull. You know he was dull, right?’

  Gemma’s head snapped upright. Johannes deserved a mild defence at least. ‘I accept he was dull, even by Swiss standards. But he was also gifted and interesting.’

  ‘Museums are interesting, Gem. I find seminars about advertising interesting, Joe is fascinated by early nineties rave classics on vinyl. But neither of us want to have sex with them. Honestly, babe, if you set the bar any lower we’d have to limbo under it.’

  ‘You both said Fraser was a catch.’

  ‘It’s all relative. Compared to the other losers you’ve dated, Fraser was Brad Pitt. He had a job and his own teeth and hair. He wore mainstream clothing and didn’t have any weird hobbies. You also told me he licked you out like a dog with an ice cream.’ Joe gasped, his face frozen in horror. ‘Sorry, Joe, girl talk. But he was also a mean bastard and he cheated on you in the flat you shared, which is a lowlife shitty thing to do. So Gem, forgive me for being blunt, but you need to revisit your type.’ The final two words were delivered with bonus air quotes.

  Gemma looked up at the worried faces of her two oldest friends. Caro was right, of course – Gemma had spent her adult life choosing men who were easy to win, and painless to lose. Just like her friendships in childhood – Don’t get too attached to anyone, Gemma, you’ll be moving away soon.

  She took a deep breath and smiled weakly. ‘I like him. Matthew. Even though we’ve spent three evenings together and he hasn’t even kissed me. I slept in his bed last night but nothing happened.’ Caro’s eyebrows shot up and Joe turned the palms of his hands upwards, clearly confused. Gemma wafted them both away. ‘It’s a long story. I like him a lot, and that makes it feel complicated. Caro, your parents’ village is lovely but I can’t stay here; London is home. So if he and I get all attached and in a week or two I leave, then what?’

  Caro and Joe both stayed quiet for a moment, Joe because he didn’t know what to say, and Caro because she was swallowing another lecture. She gave Gemma a hard stare. ‘Gemma, you’re already attached. It’s obvious to me, to Joe, and probably everyone in Crowthorpe, including Matthew. And honestly, he’s the best man I know. If he likes you, you’ve absolutely scored. For once in your life do something that actually makes you happy. If it’s meant to be, it will work out. But you need to stop running away.’

  Caro’s words rattled around in Gemma’s head as she walked Mabel to the village hall. It was still raining, the kind of spring drizzle that lingers in the air and makes you feel like you need three jumpers. Aunt Laura used to say this kind of weather made her bones hurt; when Gemma scattered her ashes at some point in the future, she needed to make sure it wasn’t near water. It was a job she’d been putting off for months.

  Do something that makes you happy. Stop running away. Caro was right, of course, Gemma had just been too stupid and stubborn to see it. She’d been running away all her life – from friendships, from school, from her parents, from exciting career opportunities, from anything that might at some point be taken away from her. She had removed all risk from her life, and in turn the possibility of reward. For Gemma, the marker of a good day was one that managed to be anything more than mediocre. Such dizzy heights to aim for.

  With a sad sigh, she realised that Fraser wasn’t the reason she’d left London; he was just the final straw on the back of a camel made of shit. There was a whole heap of other stuff she wasn’t dealing with – Aunt Laura dying, being furious with her mother for being cold and distant for pretty much Gemma’s entire life, not being able to help Louise, the awful situation in the world right now. It all felt chaotic and unmanageable, like that party game where you put on a pair of oven gloves and try to eat chocolate with a knife and fork.

  Outside the village hall, Gemma lifted her face up to the rain, feeling it settle like a cooling mist on her skin. She couldn’t predict the future, but she could control the now. Do something that makes you happy.

  Mabel nudged her hand with her wet head, thoroughly fed up with all this hanging about outside having Big Thoughts. Gemma smiled and took her into the shop for a carrot and a sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  To Do

  Matthew 7 p.m.

  Do not fuck this up

  By 7 p.m., Gemma was as ready for Matthew as she would ever be. Any kind of subtlety had gone out of the window in favour of come-hither candlelight, a lavish spritzing of perfume and a set of black Myla underwear. It was seductively skimpy, even though the bottom half cleaved her in half like cheese wire, and the top half was very much for display purposes only.

  She’d bought it before Christmas in the hope of adding a bit of festive sauce to her relationship with Fraser; he had been working long hours on the launch of some executive Lego apartments in Greenwich, and Gemma was just coming up for air after Aunt Laura’s death a month before. They’d got back from Christmas at Gemma’s parents in the early hours of Boxing Day, both of them heading straight to bed, feeling exhausted and cranky. Things felt just as bleak between them the following morning, so Gemma made Boxing Day lunch and got dressed up for what she hoped would be a restorative hour or two in bed. As it turned out Fraser didn’t even notice the underwear; he simply yanked down her knickers along with her black skinny jeans and ignored the silk blouse and lacy bra altogether. Foreplay involved him telling her that he only had eight minutes before Hearts vs. Hibs kicked off on Sky Sports Football, so they needed to crack on.

  Gemma had recounted this story to Caro and Joe over pre-New Year cocktails a few days later; they had both been outraged on her behalf, but they’d all ended up screaming with laughter about it. Looking back, Gemma realised that the Mystery Brunette had also retained her blouse and bra; no doubt Fraser was in a hurry to get her out of the flat, or maybe he simply wasn’t a boob man and Gemma had never noticed. What a waste.

  She looked at her watch and drummed her fingers on the kitchen counter. Mabel was walked, fed and settled in her bed. There was chicken in a tomato and basil sauce keeping warm in the oven, and a bottle of English sparkling wine in the fridge. She’d seen it in the village shop and asked Ruth if she could pop it in the chiller; Ruth had given her a knowing look that penetrated Gemma’s very soul, but didn’t ask any questions.

  Gemma assumed the reprieve was down to her hard work this afternoon, preparing the village hall for the first Swap Shop tomorrow. The floors, doorknobs and toilets had been mopped, scrubbed and sanitised, and the tables set up and wiped down. Barry had helped her set up a rope line a metre from each table, and posters had been printed and stuck to the walls with simple instructions – ‘please observe social distancing’, ‘please don’t touch anything, ask a volunteer’. All Gemma had to do was be there an hour before people started to arrive, to lay out all the donations on the correct tables and brief the team.

  All the slots were booked for tomorrow, and at least half of those for Monday.
More rain was forecast, but queueing was the absolute norm these days and everyone would bring an umbrella – in many ways, the British had been preparing for this all their lives. It was still a mad idea, but they were ready.

  By 7.10 p.m. Gemma was unravelling. The jittery backflips in her stomach were a mix of anticipation and terror, and it made her realise just how disconnected her previous sexual encounters had been. At thirty-two Gemma had to admit to herself that nobody had ever truly excited her. Her partners had either been efficient and methodical like Johannes, who banged her in time to his internal metronome, or style over substance like Fraser, who demanded feedback after every fuck. Having sex with Fraser felt like going to a café, ordering the soup of the day, then being pressured into leaving a glowing review on Tripadvisor afterwards. It was filling and tasted perfectly nice, but in the end it was just soup.

  The honest truth was that the few seconds Matthew had spent brushing his fingers along Gemma’s neck a week ago had been the most erotic and sensual experience of her life. What would happen when he touched her properly? She might spontaneously combust. When was going to be the right time to mention that her ex was a cheating shit and she hadn’t had an STD test yet? Would he mind, or have condoms? The village shop didn’t have any, she’d surreptitiously checked. Nobody ever had to deal with all this admin in erotic novels, and it all felt quite stressful.

  Gemma jumped at the light tap on the window and glanced up as the door opened behind her. She caught a brief glimpse of a blue shirt and the scent of something zesty and masculine before Matthew’s hands were on her waist, thrusting her back into the edge of the kitchen counter. Gemma gasped as his body enveloped hers, his groin pressing into her hips as Gemma’s fingers raked through his damp hair. Matthew pulled her closer, his lips tracing an urgent path from her neck to her mouth; he gave a guttural moan as the tip of his tongue met hers, and it was all Gemma could do to whisper ‘Take me to bed’ before her knees threatened to give out entirely.

  They both lay under the eaves of the loft, Gemma gently tracing a line from Matthew’s shoulder to his elbow. She was fascinated by the colour of his hair – it was neither blond nor brown, but a perfect mix of the two. She couldn’t work out if it was the glow from the bedside lamp, or simply that Matthew’s hair was two different shades, but either way it seemed outrageous that she had to pay a fortune six times a year to achieve the same effect. His eyelashes were darker and unfeasibly long – why did men need long eyelashes? Like her pale eyebrows, Gemma’s eyelashes barely existed without mascara.

  Her fingernail carved around the edges of his tattoo – a sun formed by a hollow black circle with gently curving tendrils of flame; heavier and darker at the compass points and more delicate in between. Matthew’s eyes were closed, and a small smile played on his lips. ‘That tickles.’

  ‘Tell me about your tattoo.’

  Matthew turned his head to face her, glancing down at his arm. ‘Not much to tell. I got it in Spain while I was travelling. Payment for fixing the door of a tattoo parlour in Marbella. It’s the only one I’ve got.’

  Gemma smiled. ‘I know.’ She tried to push away thoughts of Claire, who would have been with him that day. Perhaps she had one that matched; a tiny version on her ankle or wrist, or the base of her spine. Ugh.

  ‘My mum cried when I showed it to her. Something about her baby boy disfiguring his body.’

  ‘I think your body looks just fine.’

  Matthew grinned. ‘Perhaps you could tell her that.’

  She propped herself up on one elbow and took in the full measure of the man in her bed. He filled the space with his huge shoulders and strong legs, a smattering of curly hair on his pale chest and his limbs a mass of dents and scars from twenty years of encounters with splinters and power tools and hard, heavy objects. Gemma wondered if in summer he worked with his shirt off; so the brown skin would turn all those tiny flaws to silver and she’d be able to follow them around his body, like one of those dot-to-dot drawings she’d done as a child. Her stomach rumbled.

  ‘We should eat something.’

  Matthew’s eyes had closed again. ‘That would involve one or both of us leaving this bed, and I’m not ready.’ His left hand took hers and slid it slowly under the duvet. She felt the assertive, urgent hardness of him as the same hand slipped between her thighs. Food could wait, apparently.

  Gemma lay with her head on Matthew’s hard stomach, feeling his chest rise and fall as his breathing steadied. ‘You’ve never told me about your old girlfriends.’

  Matthew half sat up, reaching behind his head to fold the pillow in half. ‘What?’

  ‘Women. You know that I was dating a cheating shitbag but you’ve never mentioned any of your other women.’ Gemma smiled playfully and rolled onto her pillow, trying to make it look like she was teasing rather than shamelessly fishing.

  Matthew laughed. ‘There are no other women. There have been in the past, obviously; tonight wasn’t my first time.’ He smiled, shrugging his shoulders and staring off into the middle distance. ‘I don’t know. I’ve had girlfriends here and there. I dated a woman in Bristol on and off for a couple of years, but she was quite a bit older than me and wanted to settle down and have kids. Had a few blind dates set up by friends, some of them went on for a while. I guess I’ve always liked my independence, haven’t met anyone special enough to make me give it up.’ He gave Gemma a challenging look that made her feel jittery. ‘What happened with your ex, anyway? Did you really catch them at it?’

  ‘I did. It was pretty awful, actually. I don’t recommend it.’

  Matthew took Gemma’s hand and stroked his thumb over the back of it. ‘No. I imagine that was a rough day. And then you came here.’

  ‘I did,’ said Gemma, feeling her insides turn to liquid. ‘What about all your travelling? You must have met loads of women. No holiday romances?’ Subtle, Gemma. This isn’t fishing, it’s beating a salmon with a hammer.

  ‘Sure. Thousands of them. Coast-to-coast hot women with backpacks stuffed with tiny bikinis and Daddy’s money.’ Matthew laughed again and swung his legs out of bed, grabbing his clothes and heading into the bathroom.

  Gemma enjoyed the view for a moment, trying not to brood. Why didn’t Matthew want to talk about Claire? Maybe something bad had happened; she could be dead, or missing, or the mother of his tiny, blond, green-eyed children. Maybe the heartbreak was still raw and he just couldn’t talk about it. Gemma shook her head, internally rolling her eyes. Perhaps you’ve read too many novels and the reason he’s not telling you is because it’s none of your fucking business.

  Matthew’s head appeared round the bathroom door. ‘Have you tried this enormous bath yet? It’s amazing.’

  ‘How the fuck would you know?’

  ‘Haha. Nice try. I fitted it.’

  Gemma sank further into the deep water and rested her head against Matthew’s chest. Her hair flowed out into the gaps between them as she sculled her hands to tactically position the piles of white foam; a silly thing in view of the previous hours, but old insecurities died hard. The heat penetrated and soothed every corner and crevice of her body; it felt incredibly decadent and entirely blissful.

  Matthew reached over the side of the bath and picked up a glass of sparkling wine from the wooden chair he’d moved from the bedroom as a makeshift table. He took a sip, then offered the glass to Gemma’s lips before putting it back down next to the bottle. He kept his left hand hanging over the side of the bath, and Mabel sidled over for a scratch between her velvety ears.

  ‘Tell me again why my dog has joined us.’

  Earlier Matthew had left Gemma to run the bath with all the foam and expensive oils she could find, while he threw some clothes on and headed downstairs to see if dinner was salvageable. Sadly after several hours in a low oven it looked like a sun-baked cow pat, so he turned the oven off and abandoned it. He let Mabel into the garden while he retrieved the wine from the fridge, but hadn’t banked on her refusing to go back t
o her bed; instead she parked herself at the bottom of the stairs and gave him full puppy eyes until he let her follow him back to the loft. Gemma was already in the bath when he returned, and she listened for a few minutes as he folded his clothes on to the chair in the bedroom, not realising until he came into the bathroom that they had company.

  ‘She looked lonely and asked so nicely. I thought you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘She’s got you sussed as a soft touch. I thought you weren’t a dog person? I thought they stole your heart, then stole your food?’

  ‘I’ve decided to make an exception for your yellow dog.’

  Matthew’s fingers swirled away the foam and gently brushed Gemma’s nipple. It immediately hardened in the cold air of the bathroom, and she shivered before batting his hand away. ‘Stop it, you’ll corrupt Mabel. She’s led a very sheltered life up to now.’

  ‘I’ll cover her eyes.’

  ‘No, you won’t. You won’t have any spare hands.’ Gemma giggled and intertwined her fingers with his. ‘How did the table go today?’

  ‘It was fine. The guy who ordered it hasn’t been well; he had surgery a couple of months ago so he’s high risk for corona. They’ve asked me to wear a mask and gloves when I deliver tomorrow. I normally spend so much time with my clients but I’ve never even met this family. Everything’s been done by email and video call.’

  Gemma looked at Matthew’s hands. They were huge compared to hers, with calloused palms that seemed incompatible with such a gentle touch. It felt nice, lying together like this and chatting about ordinary things, even though nothing felt ordinary these days.

  ‘I watched the daily government briefing today, using the village hall WiFi. It was the Business Secretary, can’t remember his name. They can’t put a date on the vaccine, it could be years. Sooner or later things are going to have to start getting back to normal.’