Two Metres From You

by Heidi Stephens

  Here’s something else that might come as a surprise. All those weekends you stayed with us so you could visit Laura in the care home, I wonder if you knew that I went to see her every weekday? Her long-term memory remained for some time, and we shared a lot of happy stories from our childhood. In the final months she often confused me with you; she must have thought you were visiting seven days a week. How happy that must have made her.

  I was also with her the day she died, although by then of course she was heavily medicated and I don’t suppose she knew I was there. I saw the painting you did for her all those years ago, the one that said ‘you feel like home’. I saved it for you, along with a few other things I thought you might like. Now feels like a good time to send them to you, since it’s impossible to know when we might see you again.

  I regret the life we gave you, Gemma. It suited Louise, but it never suited you. Your sister was happy to drift, but you needed an anchor. I hoped Norfolk might come to feel like home, like it was for me; your father wanted you to go to a military school, but I wanted you to be near Laura. She was the only member of our family who knew how to stay in one place.

  My sister and I were very different people, but she adored you and gave you the stability you so desperately needed. I admit the strength of your relationship caused me pain at the time, and I said and did things I’m not proud of. I wish I could have my time again, but I’ve left it too late to make my peace with Laura. I hope it’s not too late for you and me.

  So first of all I’d like to ask for your forgiveness, for not taking the time to understand you better. Not everyone is suited to the travelling life; in that respect perhaps we’re not so different.

  Secondly, I would like to share some motherly advice, which you can take or ignore as you wish. Stop trying to find home; home is a place that finds you. Home is wherever you are safe, respected, loved and cared for, a place where you can truly be yourself. It’s a place where you can hang that painting, and you’ll know when you’ve found it. Perhaps you already have.

  And finally, I would like to tell you that I love you. It has been far too long since I told you that.

  With love,

  Mum x

  Gemma wiped away her tears with the sleeve of Aunt Laura’s jumper and put the letter on the table. She hadn’t realised it was possible to feel so many emotions at once – happiness, sadness, shame. She felt like her heart had broken into tiny pieces and then been stitched back together again, stronger and more knowing than before.

  At no point in her selfish, narrow life had Gemma considered what military life must have been like for her mother. Barbara Lockwood had spent twenty-five years in the shadow of her husband, following wherever his job sent him, then being left alone for months at a time. No life outside the base, no career, no friends who weren’t the wives of her husband’s colleagues, no opportunity to be anything other than Group Captain Peter Lockwood’s wife. What a lonely existence that must have been; no wonder they had sent Gemma and Louise to boarding school for some kind of steadiness. Her mother had apologised, but Gemma owed her an even bigger one in return. She resolved to go to Norfolk as soon as lockdown ended for a long walk with her mum. To talk about her life, her dreams, those final months with Aunt Laura, ask her to add to her collection of memories. There was so much Gemma had never thought to ask, because she was only thinking about herself.

  She blew her nose and turned her attention to the pile of parcels, all carefully wrapped in brown paper. The first was Gemma’s painting – she recognised the shape of the frame and opened it first. She remembered how confident she’d felt when she’d lined up the paints and brushes on the small wooden table, pinning the photograph to the edge of the easel like a proper artist, swirling paints with youthful enthusiasm and determination. Capturing 22 Church Street had felt like such a good idea, but of course it had been much harder than she expected, and Gemma remembered that she’d started to feel embarrassed by it long before it was finished. The message was an afterthought; a way to turn the primitive rendering of the house from the main event to an illustration of a bigger, more important thought. The sentiment was real, she just hadn’t realised she was going to write it when she started.

  The second parcel was Aunt Laura’s recipe book, its pages stiff and heavy with memories. Gemma flicked through slowly and carefully, revisiting meals they’d had together, biscuits they’d baked together, the time Gemma had attempted to make Aunt Laura a birthday cake but forgotten to put eggs in, so ended up with two chocolate frisbees. Aunt Laura had called it a cow pat cake, and helped Gemma make icing that was twice as thick as the sponge. They’d eaten the lot and giggled about it all weekend.

  The third parcel was a small pile of books, with a slip of paper that read ‘These were the books that Laura took into the care home, thought you might want them. Mum x’. The first was Aunt Laura’s battered Penguin Classics version of The Count of Monte Cristo, which felt so familiar in Gemma’s hands. Two more were novels by Isabel Allende, one of Aunt Laura’s favourite writers. The final book was her tiny copy of the Collins Gem Guide to Garden Birds; Gemma riffled through the pages and spotted the tiny pencil notations where Aunt Laura had written the date every year when she’d spotted each bird for the first time. There was a robin and a blue tit in January 2019, but nothing after that. The handwriting looked unfamiliar – perhaps one of her carers had written the date for her.

  The final parcel felt like a small picture frame, and Gemma unwrapped the brown paper and tissue layers to discover a photograph of her and Aunt Laura together. It had been taken at the theatre in Norwich; Gemma remembered it was an opening night, but she couldn’t remember what the play was. Aunt Laura was laughing at something or someone, her head half turned away from the camera. Gemma was sixteen or seventeen, looking up at her with flushed cheeks and a smile of pure happiness. She’d been so excited to be invited, and Aunt Laura had let her try champagne for the first time. She hadn’t liked it much but drank it anyway.

  Gemma took the two frames – the drawing of Aunt Laura’s house and the picture of them both together – and put them on top of the mantelpiece. She stood back and looked at them for a while, wondering what Aunt Laura would say about the plan she had made. Gemma laughed wryly to herself. You know exactly what she’d say.

  Am all packed. Just wanted to say I’m glad I was your lockdown romance. Might write a book about it one day. Gx

  Me too. Can you make the book version of me rich, good with horses and maybe the most handsome man in England? Mx

  OMG are you reading Riders? Gx

  MAYBE. Mx

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Thursday, 30 April

  To Do

  Taxi 11.00

  Train 11.26

  Don’t look back

  Gemma slept badly again, her mind a jumble of stern lectures from the women in her life who mattered most – her mother, Caro,

  Louise and the ever-present ghost of Aunt Laura.

  In the early hours, she forced herself to acknowledge some painful truths. She wasn’t leaving because she desperately wanted to, she was leaving because she was terrified to stay. Her happiness here was inextricably linked to some kind of relationship with Matthew, and at no point in the past week had he actually said he wanted her to stay, or indicated that his feelings in any way matched hers. Matthew had told her himself that he’d never met anyone worth changing his life for. To assume that she had swept into the village and transformed his world in the space of a few weeks was ridiculous. Men didn’t turn their lives upside down for women like Gemma.

  She thought about all the relationship advice she’d ever read, in articles in Psychologies or problem pages in fashion magazines. The advice was always to communicate more – to tell the other person how you feel, to be open and honest. It was easy advice to give, but much harder to do in real life. How could she tell Matthew that she’d fallen in love with him, but had already done a risk assessment on the likelihood that she’d end up
broken-hearted, and decided it was safer to quit while she was ahead? He’d think she was off her head.

  Gemma showered and dressed, then let Mabel out into the garden while she worked her way down from the top of the cottage; pulling curtains and blinds, closing windows and doors, and checking drawers and cupboards for stray belongings. Compared to the night she left London, Gemma had packed in a much more orderly way, freeing up plenty of space in the rucksack for the books and photos her mother had sent her. She had kept a hessian bag to one side, lined with Aunt Laura’s rainbow jumper, to take the two picture frames – for now, both were still on the mantelpiece.

  By 10 a.m. Mabel had had her final walk along the lane and Gemma was ready to go, wishing she’d booked a ticket on an earlier train. She hadn’t been able to resist looking at the barn as she’d passed the entrance, but everything was still and silent. She couldn’t blame Matthew; if the situation was reversed she’d be keeping her head down too. Real life wasn’t like the films; there was no last-minute dash to Chippenham station to declare undying love and share a passionate kiss on Platform 2.

  She sat at the dining-room table, browsing the news, Twitter and Instagram aimlessly. The headlines were depressing – recession in France and Italy, spiralling unemployment in Germany, the creeping spectre of the virus in Africa. What positivity there was felt contrived – people doing silly dances on TikTok, charity singles, sponsored events. Gemma knew she wasn’t being fair, but she felt spiky and sour, suspended in this emotional hinterland between Crowthorpe and London where time seemed to have stopped entirely. She stared out of the dining-room window at the empty road, willing something to happen.

  Matthew walked past, making Gemma jump out of her chair so suddenly she knocked it over, which prompted Mabel to start barking. She moved towards the door, waiting for the knock. But it didn’t come, so she rushed back to the window in time to see Matthew open the door to the porch and slip a note on to the mat inside. He caught her eye and gave a half-hearted wave, his face pale and unreadable. Then he hurried around the corner and disappeared down the lane.

  Gemma hadn’t moved so fast since one of her classmates set fire to her lab coat in GCSE Chemistry. She was back in the house with the envelope in her hand in world record time, pulling at the seal frantically, her heart pounding. There was a letter and a small, sealed package that felt like it had folded paper inside – she put it aside for a second and scanned Matthew’s note. It was considerably less legible than the note he’d written when he’d had to go to Bristol, suggesting he’d written it in a hurry.

  Dear Gemma

  Forgive me if I make a mess of this, I’ve never done it before and it’s actually kind of terrifying. The thing is I seem to have fallen for the woman next door, and now you’re going to leave and I’m worried that if I don’t say how I feel, I might regret it for the rest of my life.

  I think you’re running away, because that’s what you’ve been doing your whole life. So I want to tell you that you don’t need to, that I can help you make a home here. I can’t promise to save you, since in some ways I’m as messed up as you are, but maybe we can save each other a bit? You’re a good person and I think I’m a good person too, even though I don’t pay nearly enough attention to things like clothes and haircuts.

  But here’s the thing: since you arrived, everything feels better. The sun came out 39 days ago and hasn’t gone back in, and yours is the only dog I’ve ever liked in 31 years. Surely that’s a good omen? Although just to be clear your dog is nothing like the dogs in The Omen.

  Tomorrow a new month of lockdown starts, and I’d really like you and me and Mabel to spend it locked down together. I honestly can’t think of anything nicer. So I’m asking you to stay, even if it’s just for another week, then maybe I can ask you to stay a bit longer. Maybe eventually you’ll want to stay without me asking.

  Was this the right thing for me to do, or should I have just let you go? I’ve made some notes on the attached, maybe that might help?

  M.

  Gemma scrambled to open the enclosed package, and almost threw up when she saw the ‘reasons not to fancy Matthew’ notes she’d scribbled on the back of an old envelope. Her brain whirred back to the night they first slept together, when Matthew had come downstairs while she was running the bath, and returned with a bottle of wine and Mabel. He must have taken it off the rusty nail above the fireplace, he’d have seen it as soon as he came down the stairs. Her stomach turned inside out with horror and embarrassment, as she forced herself to flatten out the envelope and read the additional annotations he’d made in red pen.

  Reasons not to fancy Matthew

  Social distancing – bit late for that Couldn’t stay away if I wanted to, which I don’t.

  He’s not your type (local man for local people) – no longer applies OK, we need to talk about this. What on earth did you think of me?

  He’s Caro’s friend (awks) – she seems OK with it She is, but I wouldn’t care if she wasn’t. She’s not the boss of me.

  He might not fancy you – indications are positive I love you, you massive idiot.

  He could be gay – he’s definitely not gay Can verify. Love gay people, but ideally not in my bed.

  You’ll make an idiot of yourself – guaranteed I’m OK with that. See point 4.

  You’re moving back to London soon – still true and problematic Please don’t. See point 4.

  You’re on the rebound – still true, less problematic Think of me as man rehab.

  You’re crap at relationships – still true, can’t be helped SAME. Let’s be crap together.

  Men are shits – Possibly not all men, tbc. Can confirm, as can my mum.

  You are 32 and don’t look great naked Can’t believe you wrote this, behave yourself Can confirm you look great naked, although also hot in country boots and/or Spice Girls T-shirt.

  Reasons to fancy Matthew

  He’s kind and nice (underrated qualities, tbc if sexy) – can confirm v. sexy Thanks, I do my best.

  He’s literally next door – sore point right now Did you write this while I was in Bristol? I came back!

  He might fancy you too – see above, indications positive See point 4 above. Don’t make me say it again.

  He probably looks great naked (also: good with hands) – still tbc I await your verdict with stomach pulled in and pecs flexed.

  You’re trapped in a small village in a global pandemic, normal rules have gone out the window – still true I agree. It’s a mad world right now. Can I refer you back to Point 4? . . .

  Whole minutes passed before Gemma moved. She read the two pages again, slower this time, just to check they still said the same thing. She put them down on the table and looked at Mabel, then at the pile of bags by the door, then picked the notes up and read them again. She stared at the two frames on the mantelpiece, still waiting to be packed. Mabel loped over and put her head on Gemma’s lap, and Gemma stroked her head. She suddenly remembered what Matthew had said when he’d found Mabel in the garden after she’d run away from the shop. ‘It’s OK, she’s home now.’ Gemma had been too upset to register it at the time, but now it rang in her ears. He’d known then, and Mabel knew it too. But it had taken her until now to realise it.

  She stroked Mabel for a while longer before reaching into the bag and putting Aunt Laura’s rainbow jumper on. It felt warm and safe and familiar, like the knitted essence of happiness. She took a deep breath and walked out of the back door towards the barn, Mabel following at her heels.

  Matthew opened the door as soon as Gemma knocked, like he’d been pacing the room on the other side. He looked bleak and exhausted, his eyes searching her face for any indication of what she was thinking. He managed to squeak out a ‘Hi’ before he had to clutch the door frame for support.

  Gemma took a step towards him, her hands fidgeting with nerves inside the sleeves of the jumper. ‘Your bed makes my back hurt, it’s awful. So maybe you could come home with me, and then we can pay off my p
oor taxi driver, get into bed and talk about what happens next.’

  Matthew broke into a huge smile, searching Gemma’s eyes for any trace of doubt. He saw nothing but a fiery certainty in her eyes as he reached out for her. ‘I think that’s a really nice idea.’

  Gemma took Matthew’s hand, feeling the solid warmth of his fingers as they intertwined with hers. As he reached down to give Mabel a scratch between the ears, she looked across the garden at the open door of the cottage, then turned back to look at Matthew. You feel like home, she thought, as the three of them walked down the steps and into the dappled sunlight of the apple trees.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing your first novel is a strange thing, and writing a novel in 2020 was even stranger. I was furloughed from my proper job in marketing on 1 April, and on 2 April I fired up a Word document and started to write. Incidentally later I switched to a medium more suited to writing a book but (to quote the Book of John) in the beginning was the Word. So I suppose I ought to thank Rishi Sunak for facilitating a few months of dedicated writing time, without which this book would probably never have happened. I’m reasonably confident this is the only time I’ll ever put Rishi Sunak in my list of acknowledgements, but these are weird times and nothing is impossible.

  My next thanks must go to my boyfriend Pip, who never once asked ‘why?’ Thank you for the coffees, the breakfasts, the words of support, the times you took Mabel for a walk in the rain so I could unravel a thorny chapter, and the unwavering encouragement. Likewise my children, Sam and Emma, who returned home for the early weeks of lockdown and didn’t bat an eyelid at mum tapping away at the kitchen table. Everybody with a dream needs champions, and you three have always been mine.