Mum rolls her eyes. ‘But why?’
‘You bought this house all by yourself, from your hard-earned cash. Dad did the same. I refuse to be some spoiled little rich kid who gets everything he wants because Mummy bought it for him.’ Gemma looks away. ‘That doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the offer though,’ I add.
Belinda looks me in the eyes. ‘Don’t you think you should consult Gemma before you make such a rash decision?’
Gemma’s jaw starts moving up and down without any noise coming out of it. ‘I . . . I . . . yes, it’s very kind of you to offer, there’s no doubt. Thing is, I can see where Dan’s coming from, but—’
‘There, you see? We’re in total agreement,’ I conclude.
Gemma clamps her teeth into her lip.
‘Suit yourself.’ Mum gives up. ‘Right, I’m off to tennis. Have a good afternoon – and let me know if you change your minds.’
‘We won’t,’ I assure her, as Mum grabs her sweater and skips out of the door.
I turn round as flames are licking up behind Gemma’s eyeballs.
‘Sometimes, Dan,’ she says, ‘I find you very, very hard to understand.’
Chapter 25
Gemma
I dream about Pebble Cottage that night. It’s moving-in day. The sun is iridescent, the air fragrant with bread from the little bakery up the road, and the house everything we’d ever wanted and more. The walls are newly-painted and although we’re scruffy and exhausted, happiness fizzes like lemonade through our veins. I put my arms around Dan and start kissing him. And it’s only as I pull away to look in his eyes, waves of desire rising up in me, that I realise it isn’t Dan at all.
It’s Alex.
My eyes ping open and I sit up, my heart thudding. I reach over and fumble for my phone. There are no missed calls, despite the fact that Mum gave Alex my number nearly twenty-four hours ago.
I don’t know why the thought that he might be in touch at any moment is so unsettling. It’s not as though I still have feelings for him after all this time. Yet I can’t deny that the possibility that I might hear his voice again at some point soon puts me on edge.
It’s a feeling that grows throughout the whole of the following week, when I check my phone regularly. It remains resolutely silent.
Meanwhile, for a whole plethora of reasons, life in general is starting to feel like an uphill struggle.
I’m sure 99 per cent of it’s due to the stress of the house purchase: the missing money, the feeling of being trapped at Buddington, the fact that there are arthritic molluscs that are more dynamic than our solicitor.
Everything we do is in sharp contrast to the way Belinda works: having decided she wants an extension to her swimming-pool room, she snaps her fingers and starts to make it happen. When I snap my fingers, I just break a nail.
Despite Dan’s insistence that he is fine with being here now, the reality is that he’s irritated by everything. His mother. His bedroom. Even being asked to fill out another form, which he can’t do without peering at it suspiciously, as if it pries into his very soul, not his credit-card balance.
Meanwhile, he’s working late more and more, which would be fine if Belinda hadn’t roped me into being ‘prepped’ by Bobby the dance teacher for a big finale at Flossie’s birthday party, while I look after all of the increasingly arduous admin for the house purchase.
The thing I’m struggling with the most though is the fact that he continues to turn down any financial help from Belinda, without any discussion with me. She wants to help us out, for the best of reasons – and her paying for the deposit would have solved all our problems. While I can understand his thinking, what’s wrong with taking a
loan
– one we could pay back over a few years?
Despite all these thoughts, I hate the idea of any tension simmering between Dan and me. We’ve never had a relationship like that and, pressures or not, I don’t want it to continue.
So I decide I’m somehow going to step up to the mark: to make a non-sugary gesture of affection to remind him exactly how much I love him.
I’m contemplating what to do as I open a letter from the mortgage company asking for one extra pay-slip from Dan, as proof of his income. He’s out on a run, but I know where he keeps them. So instead of waiting and missing today’s post, I head to our room, to his ‘important stuff’ box.
I take off the lid and feel my jaw drop as I’m confronted by an avalanche of paperwork, although to call it ‘paperwork’ gives the impression of some sort of order.
This is like a stack of Anaglypta wallpaper waiting to go to the tip after someone’s entire hall, stairs and landing has been stripped.
‘What are you doing?’
I spin round and see Dan at the door, still breathless from his run, his chest glistening with sweat.
‘Just looking for another pay-slip – the mortgage company need it,’ I reply, turning back to his box.
But he’s suddenly next to me, snatching the pay-slip from my hand and slamming shut the lid so fast that it’s impossible to conclude anything other than the fact that he’s hiding something in there. I can’t decide if it’s a licence to kill, because he’s actually a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, or the Agent Provocateur Spring-Summer 2015 brochure.
‘Dan, what’s the matter?’ I ask.
‘Gemma,’ his eyes are blazing ‘do
not
go in there.’
I frown. ‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . can’t I have a single, tiny space that’s private?’
‘Dan, I’m sorry. But all I was doing is trying to get this house sale moving,’ I say. ‘I thought you weren’t going to be back for ages and would’ve had to wait for Monday’s post otherwise. I never imagined you’d have a problem with me going in there.’
He rubs his forehead. ‘Fine. Then
I’m
sorry. But I’ll get the pay-slip. Okay?’ He touches my hand. ‘I didn’t mean to over-react.’
My eyes prick with tears as I squeeze him into me and wonder why things suddenly don’t feel as easy as they always have. He lifts up my chin and kisses me on the lips, sending shivers across my skin. And it occurs to me, possibly for the first time, that all these issues and more could be dominating Dan’s thoughts too.
Chapter 26
Dan
I wonder if some WD40 would stop that squeak on the bed?
Chapter 27
Dan
My first few dates with Gemma, and the subsequent weeks that do not cover me with glory, require context. In other words, don’t judge me. (Only, I know you will. I do it myself.)
I was twenty-five. My modus operandi was to go out with a girl, enjoy myself, and move on. While I like to think there was more to me than some vacuous skirt-chaser, the reality was I loved the company of women – though mostly in the plural, rather than singular sense. And I didn’t lose a moment’s sleep about that.
Which might explain why, despite my certainty that the Mythical Perfect Woman would come along one day and blow all the others out of the water, this was not a lifestyle I was ready to give up in a hurry.
It is laughably obvious with hindsight that Gemma was her, the Mythical Perfect Woman. But at the time I failed to see she was right in front of me, quietly blowing my mind.
I think part of me had assumed for so long that The One would come with flashing lights and a big warning sign when she appeared. But that wasn’t how I fell in love with Gemma. I fell in love with her without even realising it.
That wasn’t to say I wasn’t fully aware of how much I
liked
her in that first week. I knew I liked her a lot.
I liked the way her hair swished when she walked through the door of the Shipping Forecast bar for our first date, which happened the very same night as the Buttermere swim. I liked the way that, even in denim and Converse she had this graceful way of holding herself, like Jackie Onassis or Grace Kelly. I liked her confidence. I liked her lips. I liked her taste in music and the fact that, the more she drank, the more convinced she became of her ace pool-playing abilities – something she might have pulled off had she not swaggered over to her cue and chalked up the wrong end.
We ended up in bed on the third date, and without going too far, I’ll simply say this: it was unprecedented.
She was radiant, sensual, gorgeous, soft and skipped back and forth across a line between innocence and
on fire
. The taste of her stayed with me all the following day, her face flashing into my thoughts every time I moved.
So I saw her again the next day, and the day after that. We spent seven days going to museums, picnicking in the park, sitting in my flat watching
Casablanca
(the greatest movie of all time). I was the hero in an atrocious romcom movie and didn’t mind one bit, nor indeed the fact that she effectively moved in for a week while my flatmate Jesse was away.
Then the inevitable boys’ night happened.
I was still working for Emerson Lisbon then, where my former colleagues were all young, pumped, and liked their weekends so primed with Bacchanalian excess it made the average Roman orgy look like a vicarage tea party.
So when Chris Deayton, my old boss and mentor, phoned to remind me that he was picking me up at seven, I felt mildly guilty about wanting to go. Not that Gemma objected. I thought she’d mind more than she did. I kissed her and told her I’d phone the following day.
It was a great night, a messy night, one of those nights when it’s just brilliant to be a man.
I recall little after about 1.30 a.m., but know it involved beer, Jäger Bombs, several women who seemed to think we were rockstars, and the loss of one of my shoes down a ventilation shaft in front of the Town Hall.
I woke up the next morning on Chris’s living-room floor with lipstick on my shirt, vaguely remembering some History student in Concert Square dancing up to me. She’d been sweet and sexy, a Rachael Riley type, yet I’d given her the brush-off without a second thought.
And, as a hangover swam through my alcohol-riddled brain, I can’t deny that part of that sat uneasily with me.
I thought of Gemma, the gorgeous, lovely Gemma with whom I’d spent almost every moment of the last week or so. And I thought of last night. The sheer joy of booze, friends and bad behaviour. When I thought of the two together, it became very apparent that they could not co-exist.
Chapter 28
Gemma
Fact one: Belinda has appointed James Shuttlemore as her architect. Fact two: she has the hots for him. As they sit in the kitchen discussing plans for the pool extension, it could not be more obvious if she was holding up a placard reading
PICK ME!
I’ve been secretly enthralled by them this morning each time I’ve popped downstairs, by the way his eyes twinkle when she makes him laugh, which is surprisingly frequently, and not always for the wrong reasons. Unlike Belinda, James is a reserved sort, soft-spoken and efficient.
‘Just getting a Diet Coke,’ I cough as I enter. They slide away from each other, as if I’ve caught them discussing something significantly racier than the width of her ceiling beams.
I open the fridge and pull out a can, as Flossie walks in. ‘Did I leave my iPad in here last night?’ she asks.
‘Yes, I’ve put it in the hall for you,’ says Belinda.
Flossie freezes. ‘Does that mean you had to . . . touch it?’
Belinda purses her lips. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t press any buttons. Stupid thing made a hell of a racket last time I made that mistake.’
‘Are you going for a swim today, Flossie?’ I ask.
‘Probably. I do most days, though it’s not the same when it’s in a swimming pool. Nothing compares to real water.’
I scrunch up my nose.
‘Not a fan?’ she asks and raises her eyebrows.
‘You could never describe me as a nature enthusiast, put it that way,’ I say, and she laughs.
‘Oh, Gemma,’ Belinda begins, ‘there are some of my Madeleines left in the fridge if you want a treat. Get some for James too.’
Flossie leans into me. ‘For God’s sake, don’t let her feed him,’ she whispers, before heading towards the hall.
‘Oh . . . Dan and I finished those off last night. Sorry. They were absolutely delicious,’ I say, slipping the last of Belinda’s cakes, which resemble the artificial coals on a 1970s electric fire, into the bin. Flossie’s right: one bite and James would run a mile – once he was out of Intensive Care.
‘How are you settling in to the area, James?’ I ask, opening my can.
‘Very well. Buddington’s just as I remember when I was little.’
‘Had you lived in Manchester all your life? After you left here, I mean.’
‘No, I’d been in Edinburgh for years. I moved up as a student, then got married there.’ Belinda freezes. ‘And divorced. We didn’t have children but I decided to stay. I’d joined a tennis club by then,’ he smiles.
‘You should have a game with Belinda,’ I suggest. ‘She’s a brilliant tennis player.’
Belinda flutters her eyelashes. ‘Oh, I’m not quite Steffi Graf.’
James suppresses a smile. ‘I’m not quite Andre Agassi.’
I almost wish I could stay and watch, but I have a pressing phone call to make after a letter arrived this morning announcing that the mortgage company have finally commissioned a survey. Sadly, it’s for the wrong property. It’s an administrative error, literally one digit wrong on the house number, but, clearly I am not interested in the potential for subsidence or rising damp in the place over the road.
Over the next half hour I become convinced that it would be easier to hack into the Pentagon than find an email address on the mortgage lender’s website. So I phone again, and after negotiating the labyrinth of menu messages, I am rewarded by the piercing crackle of a canned version of Aerosmith’s ‘Love in an Elevator’. Then the line goes dead.
‘
Bloody HELL!
’ I want a glass of wine. It is 10.45 a.m.
I take several deep breaths and try again. Finally, after forty-five minutes and half a pedicure (I decided to multi-task), I reach the Golden Fleece, the Ark of the Covenant, a REAL PERSON.