The Lock-In chat warmed up once the wine started flowing, and there was lots of talk about when this might all be over, and where they’d all be going once they could hit the pubs and clubs again. It was clear that the Black Crow was well attended in normal times, with a monthly quiz night and a big beer garden out the back where the local netball and five-a-side teams gathered after Tuesday-night practice. Lots of people asked if Charlie and Jess were planning on doing takeaway pub meals, but it appeared their head chef was Lithuanian and was spending a few weeks with his family in Vilnius. When he came back, Jess promised they’d start Friday Fish Night again. Gemma’s mouth watered at the thought of eating vinegar-soaked fish and chips out of a box on her lap; it had been months.
The women on the call ranged from late twenties to early fifties, as far as Gemma could see, but everyone seemed to have similar experiences. Anxiety about the future, worries about money, missing family and friends but also feeling thoroughly fed up with those they lived with. A few people offloaded their specific problems to a chorus of sympathy, and Gemma wondered what they would say if she piped up. I’ve only been here a month but I’ve been screwing your local handyman and now I’ve fallen in love with him. I’m going back to London next week but I haven’t told him yet; it’s all a bit awks, frankly. Gemma laughed bleakly to herself at the thought; perhaps now wasn’t a good time to air her village laundry.
There were small niggles too – having to learn how to cut their children’s hair, disastrous attempts to do their own highlights, no flour or yeast anywhere, queuing in the rain at the post office. But there was also support and solidarity – I’ve got some yeast you can have, I’m going to the post office tomorrow, leave your parcel on my doorstep. It gave Gemma a warm feeling – these women would look out for each other long after she’d gone; they would get through it as a village. Who will do the same for you in London, Gemma? Joe can barely look after himself.
By 10 p.m. everyone was thoroughly well oiled and the session was declared a huge success. They talked about things they could do in the future – maybe a quiz night, or a drinking game, or a watch-along of a film using Netflix Party. As Gemma hoped, a few splinter groups emerged – one woman was a hairdresser and offered to do a session giving tips on cutting children’s hair, and one of the teachers at the village school volunteered to help with home schooling and routines for children. Jess offered to set up a Ladies’ Lock-In WhatsApp group to make it easy for everyone to see what was planned. Gemma waved at all the smiling faces, lying that she’d see them next Friday. It made her feel sad to think that this was the only Crowthorpe Lock-In she’d ever be part of, and she’d have to leave the WhatsApp group before it had barely started.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Saturday, 25 April
To Do
Tell Matthew you’re leaving
Feel like shit
It was early afternoon when Matthew and Gemma headed down the lane in the sunshine, both of them needing to put some distance and space between themselves and the village. After a few minutes Matthew slipped through a gap in the hedgerow and over a stile, into a field with a rough footpath running along the edge. Tiny shoots of wheatgrass were pushing through the hard soil, creating a carpet of green that looked like a snooker table.
Gemma followed closely behind him, unclipping Mabel from her lead as soon as she had belly-crawled safely under the stile. The dog surged ahead, diving into the ditch under the hedge to sniff out the elusive nocturnal hangouts of foxes, rabbits and badgers.
Matthew and Gemma walked side by side for a few minutes, watching Mabel and making small talk about their respective Lock-In events. His was scheduled for tonight, and he was looking forward to it. Gemma gave him the lowdown on hers, without naming any names – most of the male attendees tonight would be married or living with the women she’d spent the evening with yesterday, and she didn’t want to feed them any gossip.
Matthew laughed at her stories and seemed to relax a little. Gemma noticed that he shortened his stride to match hers so they could walk side by side, which struck her as rather sweet, and something she’d never seen her father do when he walked with her mother. Peter Lockwood only had one pace, which was a brisk, purposeful march; Gemma couldn’t remember ever seeing him stroll or saunter or amble. In her memory, her mother was forever scuttling along in his wake, her legs a good eight inches shorter and not in nearly so much of a hurry.
Gemma was lost in family memories when Matthew reached out to hold her hand; when she had time to think about it later, that was the only justification she had for her insane overreaction. She snatched it back like he’d just trapped it in a sandwich toaster, jumping back a step and glaring at him in horror. He looked shocked, turning to face her and holding his hands up in defence.
‘Gem, I’m sorry. I thought . . .’
Gemma tried to clear the buzzing from her head. She felt stupid and embarrassed, but there was no going back now. ‘I’m sorry, you took me by surprise.’
‘I just touched your hand. It’s not the first bit of you I’ve touched, to be fair.’ Matthew’s voice was deadpan, which he was entitled to under the circumstances, but it annoyed Gemma nonetheless. She took a deep breath and plunged in.
‘I’m leaving. On Thursday. I’m going back to London. I made the decision yesterday.’
Matthew put his hands on his hips, looking at his shoes. He breathed in and out slowly, but said nothing. In the absence of any reaction, Gemma kept going.
‘Being here, the village, meeting you, has been amazing. But I can’t stay, I need to go home. And the longer I stay, the harder that’s going to be.’
Matthew looked up at her, his face set into a grim mask. ‘Why?’
She shook her head. ‘Why what? Why is it going to be harder?’ Oh God, please don’t ask me that.
‘No. Why can’t you stay? What are you going back for?’
She wiped a hand across her face. It was a good question, but somehow the crappy list she made yesterday didn’t feel like it was going to cut it. Because I’ve fallen in love with you and my heart isn’t strong enough.
‘Because London is my home, just like Crowthorpe is your home.’ She waved her arms in the direction of the village. ‘I’m just being realistic. It’s been great, but . . .’ Her voice trailed off, having run out of sensible things to say.
Matthew stood up straight, his arms folded. ‘I understand. Being here has been like rehab for you, and now you need to get back to the real world.’ His voice was emotionless, and his face impassive.
‘No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I just know that the longer I stay the harder it’s going to be to leave, and I DO need to leave. I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to apologise, Gemma.’ She noticed with a wince that the full version of her name was back. ‘I’m sorry you’re going, but I understand.’
Gemma hadn’t known how Matthew would react, but somehow this felt like the worst of all the possible options. Of course she didn’t want tears and wailing and declarations of undying love (OK, maybe a bit), but anything would be better than this grim, dead-eyed nothing.
Mabel appeared panting at their feet, her fur dotted with cow parsley and hawthorn blossom. It looked like confetti, which made Gemma want to cry. Her break-up with Fraser had left her furious and panicked, but right now she just felt overwhelmingly sad. Her heart hurt in a way that she hadn’t experienced since Aunt Laura’s funeral.
She looked up and was surprised to find that nothing had changed; they were both still in this field, the sun was still shining, and Matthew was still there with his arms crossed, watching Mabel snuffle in the wheatgrass. The breeze ruffled his hair and made him look like a boy, and it took all of Gemma’s willpower not to reach out for a hug. She breathed deeply and forced out a half-smile. ‘Let’s go back.’
They retraced their steps through the field, over the stile and back along the lane towards the cottage. Both were lost in their thoughts, and neither of them spoke other
than banal observations about the sudden burst of wildlife. As Gemma reached out to open the front gate, Matthew stopped in the road. ‘Gem . . . wait.’
Gemma turned to face him, her hand still on the gate. Realising they weren’t moving, Mabel sat on the step, looking first at Gemma, then at Matthew. He took a step towards her, closer but still out of reach. He looked towards the village and Gemma followed his gaze; she could hear a car approaching, but it was a way off yet. ‘I don’t want to leave things like this. Like the last few weeks have been nothing.’
Gemma sighed and forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘Of course it hasn’t been nothing. But it feels like when you meet someone on holiday, or go travelling with someone.’ She watched him carefully for a glimmer of acknowledgement, but there was nothing. ‘Eventually you have to accept that this isn’t real life. Right now I’m pretending to be a country girl, living in a lovely cottage, being part of the community, wearing fancy fucking boots.’ He cracked the tiniest smile and didn’t interrupt, so she kept going. ‘But it’s not real. It’s not my cottage, I’m not even paying rent. I live in a very non-fancy part of London and have to make sure Mabel doesn’t eat poo in the park in case it came out of the arse of a crack addict.’ Matthew’s eyebrows shot up in horror, and Gemma suspected this may have been an unnecessary level of reality.
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, then Matthew turned his palms upwards, preparing to launch into a speech. At that moment the blare of a car horn interrupted, and Gemma caught a glimpse of a huge black car as it slammed to a halt beside them, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel from the gutter. Matthew stepped on to the pavement and looked questioningly at Gemma as the door opened, but she was momentarily dumbfounded. A man in a pink shirt, a grey cashmere jumper and perfectly ironed jeans emerged with a huge smile on his face, and assumed a wide-legged power stance between them. To Mabel’s eternal credit, she didn’t even move.
‘Hey, Gemma. Did I interrupt something?’
The man turned to Matthew and held out a hand. ‘I’m Fraser. Ah, sorry, we’re not supposed to do hand shaking, are we?’ He took a huge theatrical step back, and in that moment Gemma didn’t think she’d ever despised a human being more.
She looked at Matthew, then at Fraser. What the fuck is he doing here?
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘No need for language like that. I came to bring you home after your little . . .’ he looked Matthew up and down like he’d just shat on his brogues ‘. . . holiday.’
Gemma snorted. ‘I’m sorry, what? Bring me HOME? Are you out of your mind?’ She pulled Mabel tighter to her side, shortening the leash in the unlikely event she tried to rip his throat out. The step gave Gemma the height advantage over Fraser, who wasn’t very tall on the best of days, and she could tell he didn’t like it.
‘Come on, babe, this is stupid. I was stupid, it was a stupid thing to do, OK? If you want me to say sorry, I will. I’ve had time to think about it and I think we should forgive and forget, give things another go.’ He stopped and looked at Matthew. ‘Sorry, pal, are you still here?’
Matthew took a step towards Fraser, his fists clenched. Gemma put her arm out between them. ‘Matthew, it’s fine, I’ll be OK. Go home, I can deal with this. Take Mabel, please.’ She held out the lead, and Matthew unclenched his fists. Gemma was struck by the contrast between them – Matthew a huge scruffy bear of a man, his green eyes full of thunder; Fraser shorter and more delicate, looking like he’d just been dry cleaned. He could have stepped off the terrace of a fancy bar in Italy; only his pale skin and the tinge of red in his dark hair belied his Scottish heritage. She noted that he was using the absence of haircuts to try a longer, more swept-forward style, presumably to hide his receding hairline. It looked ridiculous.
Matthew glared at Fraser and trudged off to the side gate, Mabel at his side. He looked back at Gemma as he passed down the side of the house; she gave him the tiniest nod and he disappeared. She turned back to Fraser, who was chewing the arm of his sunglasses and looking around the village like he was trying to identify the bad smell.
‘Why are you here?’ she spat.
‘I told you. To ask you to come home.’ He turned his palms up in a gesture of openness and took a step towards her. Gemma held her hand up.
‘It’s a fucking lockdown, Fraser. You’re not supposed to travel, and you’re definitely not supposed to bring your fucking germs to this village.’
‘It felt like necessary travel to me. I tried to call, but you seem to have blocked me. And I’m fine, I haven’t been near anyone apart from some old woman in the shop.’
‘You went to the SHOP? Oh, fucking marvellous.’
‘I found out the name of the village, but I didn’t know which house. Apparently it’s this one. Nice.’ He looked up at West Cottage with a discerning eye. I bet he’s thinking about how much it’s worth, the fucker.
‘What do you mean, you found out the name of the village? How?’
‘It was easy. Your dad told me. I pretended to be your editor, said you’d left me a voicemail but I couldn’t hear the name of the place you were staying. He told me where you were.’ Fraser looked hugely pleased with himself, and Gemma could have happily crushed his face into the mailbox. She took a few calming breaths, noting that the curtain on one of the houses opposite was twitching, and another had opened their front door a fraction.
‘OK, so now you’re here, and if I’m hearing you right you want us to get back together. Am I right?’
‘Exactly.’ He grinned like a gameshow host who was about to award the star prize. ‘I’ve missed you, and I’m willing to give things another go.’
Gemma started to laugh. He was such a piece of work. ‘Fraser, last time I saw you, you were muff-deep in some woman. On my Heal’s cushions. Why the fuck would I want to give things another go?’
‘Because we all make mistakes.’ He nodded in the direction that Matthew had just disappeared and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Looks like I’m not the only one, hey, babe?’
It was a low blow, and it hit hard. Gemma gripped the gate behind her and wondered if she could karate-kick him in the face from here without risking him covering her in blood and spit. Breaking his teeth would be great, but it wasn’t worth getting sick over.
‘OK, listen carefully.’ Gemma pointed a finger towards his face. ‘You are a lying, cheating shit. You never loved me, and I know for sure that I definitely didn’t love you. Go back to London, fuck who you like, never give me another thought. Throw away all my stuff, I don’t care. I don’t ever want to see you again.’
Fraser took a step back, his face drained of colour and his bravado gone. He gestured feebly to the car, a black Range Rover Sport that looked brand new. ‘I hired a car and drove all this way to bring you home. Does that not count for anything?’
Gemma glared, fighting the urge to laugh and roll her eyes. He’d decided that a drive to the countryside required him to hire a Range Rover, which was beyond pathetic. ‘Go home, Fraser.’ She folded her arms, her face arranged into the most withering killer death stare she could muster. She’d learned this one from her mother.
Fraser blinked at her for a second, breathing through his nose like a bull with narrowed eyes and his mouth set into a thin snarl. He shook his head slightly, put his sunglasses on and stomped back to the car. He opened the door and climbed in, then leaned out so he could have the final word. ‘You’ll regret this. I made this effort for you, and you’ll regret sending me away. I admit I’m not perfect, Gemma, but I’m the best you’ll ever do.’
Gemma stood on the step, watching his thunderous face while he executed a laborious three-point turn in the lane before gunning the engine and speeding back towards the village in a second cloud of gravel. As the dust settled, a woman’s head appeared in the open doorway opposite; Gemma recognised her from the Lock-In on Thursday but couldn’t remember her name. Pippa, maybe? She shouted, ‘You tell him, girl!’ from across the street wh
ile giving Gemma two thumbs up, then disappeared again as the door closed.
She turned slowly to walk through the gate, her head full of anger and confusion, but stopped as Margaret shuffled around the side of the house from the lane. She’ll be sorry to have missed that, thought Gemma, as Margaret smiled conspiratorially and gave her a wink. ‘You’re worth ten of Mr Fancy Pants, my dear. And for what it’s worth, Matthew is much better looking.’
Hey. Are you OK? Mx
I’m fine, he’s gone. Thanks for putting Mabel in the house. Sorry for . . . well, everything really. Gx
You still don’t have to apologise. You have to do what’s right for you, I totally understand. Mx
Hope the lock-in goes well. Gx
Thanks. Mx
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sunday, 26 April
To Do
Church Godcast 10.30
Wallow in self-pity
How was the lock-in? Gx
By 10 a.m. Matthew hadn’t replied to Gemma’s message, so she took Mabel out into the garden on the pretence of doing her business even though they’d just got back from a walk. Mabel sniffed around the base of the apple tree, clearly hoping that treats might fall out of it. Gemma could see that it was going to produce lots of fruit, although there was no way of knowing what kind of apples they were. She could hear crashing and banging in Matthew’s workshop, so he’d clearly decided to work through Sunday. She couldn’t blame him; if she had any work on her list, she’d be doing the same.
Two Metres From You Page 24
