I will fast forward the month of October because it can be summed up with the grim efficiency you might employ to recap a failed military operation. Dad and I fell out on day four when he took me to lunch with some fruitcake whose views were slightly to the right of Vlad the Impaler, but who also – apparently – was
Someone Important
.
I listened as he spouted his repellent views about blacks and gays and single mothers, while glugging 200-dollar wine. Then I expressed an alternative view. Fairly forcefully. I did so with a smile, in the pretence that this was ‘healthy debate’ but in truth I’d been itching to tear a strip or two off him and that’s exactly what I did.
I was angry with the world, reeling from a text sent by Gemma that morning saying she was deleting my number and never wanted to hear from me again. And I can’t deny I took a perverse pleasure in Dad watching me do it, even (or perhaps especially) when he was slapped on the back and told, ‘Not exactly a chip off the old block, is he?’
Dad went berserk when we returned to the office, but by then I was in combative mood. He yelled. I yelled back. None of it was pretty. His poor secretary (a surprisingly dumpy woman who he can only have employed to resist the temptation to sleep with) was so stressed you’d think she’d been plugged into a 100-amp fusebox and turned on full.
I apologised later that day and he accepted.
But it had lit the touch-paper to a dozen or more clashes, even when both of us were actively trying to make a go of things. My birthday, in week three of my stay, was a case in point. Dad had forgotten all about it, until he walked in from the office and saw the card from Mum.
He responded by writing me a cheque for $1,000, which was obviously totally over the top and – as I told him – unnecessary. He replied that it came with a condition: I couldn’t spend it. I had to
invest
it – in any company I liked. He couldn’t even just give me a birthday present without challenging me to prove myself.
I was tempted to invest the lot in the woman who wanted to market a brand of upmarket eyelash-curlers for dogs. Or the guy who’d written a pre-school book called
Billy the Badass
, about a convicted felon’s adventures in an Alabama correctional facility.
But the ridiculous thing is, over the next few days, I put serious research into it. I didn’t want a faceless multinational concern, I wanted something small, run by passionate people – the sort of thing I could really get behind. So I chose 45 Music, a hard-working independent record label that had signed a variety of up-and-coming bands, the sort of stuff I loved listening to.
While it wasn’t quite
Billy the Badass
, there’s little doubt I was basically giving it to them as a gift; there was no chance I’d get a return. But it felt like a sound decision, to give an honest break to a bunch of guys who genuinely deserved it.
Dad failed to share my enthusiasm. He put his head in his hands, shook it in despair and told me he might as well have just set fire to the money.
I won’t go on about the profusion of other matters over which we fell out, except to say that the whole débâcle ended six weeks after I arrived when I announced, to everyone’s abject relief, that I belonged in the UK.
Going back was bittersweet.
On the positive side, I landed a full-time job, one they actually paid me for, at the Chapterhouse Centre. I also persuaded Jesse to let me back, after his typically relaxed attitude to finding a replacement flatmate meant he’d never got round to doing so.
Despite all this, there was a Gemma-shaped hole in my life, one that ripped me in two every time I thought about her.
Occasionally, out of nowhere, I’ll think about that time, when I nearly lost her, and the reminder of it grabs me by the throat. I’ve always felt ashamed of choosing my father over her. And even more ashamed that I wasn’t big enough to find the words to phone and explain, even when I thought I’d never see her again.
My hangover is better than I deserve the following morning, though Gemma is making the sort of noises you’d hear in a vet’s waiting room. I can only conclude she’s suffering.
I blink open my eyes as I’m overcome by the effect this physical state has had on my sex-drive. There’s no poetic way of saying this so I’ll come straight out with it: I am raging.
I glance at Gemma and cuddle up to her, wondering optimistically if Mum might have gone out. My answer comes in the form of a rousing version of Maroon 5’s ‘Moves Like Jagger’, as usual with her unique interpretation of the lyrics.
‘
OOH I GOTTA MOVE MY JACKET, GOTTA MOVE MY JACKET
. . . I GOTTA
MOO-OO-OO-OO-OO-OO-OO-OO, MOVE MY JACK-ET.’
Gemma opens her eyes and smiles. ‘You’d better go and have a cold shower.’
‘I can’t wait to get out of this place,’ I sigh, pulling her into me. ‘What’s the latest on the repairs? Shall I phone Rich today?’
‘I spoke to him on Friday,’ she replies. ‘They’re almost done. The dampproofing’s completed and they’re just waiting for the plaster to dry before repainting it.’
‘It should be all systems go then, shouldn’t it? I mean, the budget is largely on track – with the exception of last night. Surely we should be in within a month?’
She suddenly looks a bit green.
‘You okay?’ I ask.
She sits up. ‘I can’t handle drinking any more, that’s all.’
‘You were an absolute disgrace,’ I grin, leaning over to her and sinking into a kiss.
But after a moment, she pulls away and throws off the covers to get out of bed.
I study her for a second. ‘You are still a hundred per cent certain about Pebble Cottage, aren’t you?’
She freezes, just for a heartbeat, but long enough to make it look as though she has to think about her answer.
‘Of course! It’s the hangover making me feel funny, that’s all.’
Then she grabs her dressing gown and dives out of the room before I get a chance to work out why I’m not sure I believe her.
Chapter 42
Gemma
I’ve never been a burying-my-head-in-the-sand sort. I’ve always prided myself on my pragmatism, my ability to grab an issue and grapple it to the ground through a combination of cognitive effort and colour-coded Post-it notes.
Yet my inner turmoil is at boiling point on two big issues I put behind me last night, thanks to the fuzzy optimism of freshly quaffed alcohol in my system.
One: Why Alex keeps pushing into my head, even when he’s not texting me any longer, at least not as much as he was.
Two: How we’re going to pay for half of the house repairs, an agreement I made privately with the vendors to spare Dan the worry.
Now that they’re almost done, I literally have no plan of action except to watch the bills trickle in and secretly pay them with the money in our house fund which, short of a golden unicorn leading me to a pot of cash at the bottom of the rainbow, will leave a significant shortfall when the full amount is due on completion.
Of course, we still haven’t exchanged contracts yet. It should happen in around a week, so I could technically still call a halt to this whole thing right now. But that doesn’t feel like an option.
I’ve started to get this vague sense that Alex and our move to Pebble Cottage are interconnected.
That once we’re in the house and our happy future is secured, I’ll never even think about Alex again, just as I hadn’t for twelve years previously. Not much, anyway.
As Dan heads out to the supermarket to replenish our multitude of Value foodstuffs, I log on to my emails and find myself re-reading the message I wrote to his dad the other day.
Last night, we found ourselves on the subject of his New York disaster, and it reminded me just how badly they’d got on with each other. I can’t help thinking my email might have been another one of my bad ideas.
Dear Mr Bushnell,
My name is Gemma Johnston and I’m your son Dan’s girlfriend. I’m sorry to contact you out of the blue but I wanted to introduce myself and also to congratulate you. You made one of the best men I’ve ever met in my life, an accolade I don’t bestow lightly.
I know Dan has mentioned a few times how much he’d love it if he could introduce me to you next time you’re in the UK. I have no idea when that might be, but if it’s any time soon, then please drop me a line as it’d be a lovely surprise for Dan. I know how much he loves and admires you.
With my best wishes,
Gemma
At least he hasn’t responded. If that remains the case, I can pretend it never happened.
I’m about to log off, when an email pings into onto the screen. It’s from Alex.
Gems – how’s it going? Forgive the intrusion, but given that we’re no longer going to be seeing each other in the flesh, I wondered if you’d consider being Facebook friends instead? Or do you prefer to remain a woman of mystery? There’s a link to my profile below if you feel inclined to find me. It’s safe to say I’d
probably
respond positively to a friend request from you. But I’m guessing you already knew that ;-)
Alex x
I hold my breath and click on his profile. His settings are public – the direct opposite of mine – so all his pictures are there, for all to see. Or rather,
me
to see. I scroll through them with a pounding heart, filling in the gaps in my knowledge of him.
It’s strange looking in on this other life: the house where he lived in Cape Town, the friends he had . . . and girlfriends too. Because, despite what he says about only having one other serious relationship, it’s clear from the women who’ve tagged him that he hasn’t exactly lived a life of monastic restraint.
The albums go back as far as 2007 and I’m pleased to see that he doesn’t look good in
all
the pictures – in fact, there are a couple where he’s quite obviously caught too much sun and his nose looks like one of Belinda’s bacon rashers.
But there’s one, buried somewhere in 2009, in which he’s in the centre of a group of friends at what looks like a pool party. He’s laughing and looking directly at the camera and, before I can even stop myself, a thought pops into my head about whether I can remember what it felt like to kiss him.
‘Gemma!’ There’s a knock at the door.
I log off as quickly as I can, slamming shut my laptop and heading to the door.
When I open it, Belinda is scuttling towards her bedroom, beckoning me in. I dutifully head over. ‘Got a min? Dan’s out, isn’t he?’
I remember her text last night and brace myself.
‘Yes, but—’
She hauls me by the arm into her bedroom. I’m hit by that unravelling wonder primary school children get when they catch a glance inside the staff room. It is an exercise in taste, and with the exception of the odd Jo Malone candle and the vast four-poster, surprisingly minimalist.
‘I’m sorry about the texts last night. I was feeling a bit lost,’ she confesses. ‘You haven’t mentioned it to Dan, I hope?’
‘No,’ I promise.
‘Or indeed anyone?’
‘Not a soul.’
She descends with a forceful plonk on the wicker chair in front of her bay window. ‘It goes without saying that I need to end this,’ she sighs, circling her middle fingers on her temples until she looks poised to drill a hole in her head. ‘I can’t possibly publish a book rubbishing the fundamental idea that men and women are compatible at the same time that I embark on a relationship.’
‘Is that what it is then, between you and James?’
She looks up. ‘I know it looks like that. But despite how enjoyable it is, even I know that I’ve fallen foul of nature’s cruellest psychological trick.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I might think, in my weakest moments, that I have feelings for him. But the reality is more complex. Or more simple.’
‘Which is?’ I ask, bewildered.
‘My hormones! They’ve gone off like an explosion in an HRT clinic. Once they settle down, there’ll be nothing left.’
I hesitate, wondering how I should phrase the next sentence. ‘What if your feelings for James were real?’
She looks at me as if she’s about to put a dunce hat on me and send me to stand in the corner. ‘I doubt it, Gemma. There’s only one route open to me.’
‘Which is?’ I ask again.
She answers with a tremble in her voice. ‘I need to put the brakes on this before it goes any further. I’ve got to get rid of him. Tell him that once the pool room’s done, that’s it.’ She looks at her hands.
‘Perhaps you can have a chat with your publishers, explain the situation . . .’
‘It would be no good, Gemma,’ she tells me. ‘It’s the book or him. And everything is telling me that my career has to come first. I’m going to have to arrange to meet him tomorrow on neutral territory, the Brown Cow or somewhere. Then I’m going to tell him that’s it.’
I suddenly wish I could ask Dan’s advice about this, rather than adding it to the heap of secrets I’m keeping from him.
She narrows her eyes. ‘What is it?’
‘Oh . . . nothing.’
‘Are those repairs done yet?’
‘Just about.’ I try to maintain eye-contact with her momentarily – and before I know it she’s virtually got me pinned down, with the same look in her eyes as Carrie from
Homeland
after refusing to take her pills.
‘What’s wrong, Gemma?’
‘Nothing at all!’ I leap up.
‘Now look here. You might be able to pull the wool over Dan’s eyes, but—’
‘I’d never pull the wool over . . .’ but my voice trails off as I realise this isn’t a path I want to go down. I put my head in my hands.
‘Tell me. I won’t tell a soul.’
And so, unable to think of a way out of this, words start spilling out of my mouth. I’d be abysmal in any torture situation. I tell her that I’m worried to death about our financial situation generally. I tell her that I’ve secretly agreed to pay half of the repairs without having a clue how I’m going to cover the shortfall it leaves. And I tell her that we’re racing towards completing on the house sale without any of this being resolved. I obviously keep quiet about Alex – I think that’s quite enough to heap on her plate.