I glare at her. ‘The problem is that you knew I didn’t want the money to come from anyone but Gemma and me.’
Gemma stands up and takes a deep breath. ‘Dan. I’m really sorry.’
For a second she looks like she genuinely regrets it.
For a second I feel horrible for giving her a hard time.
I look at the tears welling up in her eyes and want to reach out for her, hold her and pretend none of this has happened.
Then she carries on talking and ruins everything.
‘The fact was,’ she begins, ‘we couldn’t afford this house, these repairs. Not without your mum’s help. And that’s all this was, Dan.
Help
. To get us on the ladder – to give us a step up and make sure that the upheaval of moving here for five months wasn’t for nothing.’
‘So, basically, you’re saying you were right?’
She hesitates, unable to think of an answer. ‘I wish it hadn’t come to that, but I was desperate.’
‘Desperate enough to lie to me? And do the one thing you knew I would never, ever, agree to? Like I say, Gemma, you don’t sound very sorry.’
Her jaw twitches. ‘You know what, you’re right, Dan. At this moment in time, I’m not.’
We glare at each other, in this unflinching, unprecedented stand-off.
‘You’ve marched in here throwing abuse when all anyone’s tried to do is get us out of this house and into Pebble Cottage,’ she argues. ‘Don’t you think that a more appropriate response – to your mother, at least – would be “thank you”?’
‘But I never wanted the fucking money!’ I fire back. ‘I’d prefer to live on the streets than be sponging off my mother at the age of twenty-nine.’
‘It’s not sponging, potty mouth,’ Mum leaps in. ‘How ridiculous!’
‘That
is
ridiculous,’ Gemma snarls. ‘You’ve been banging on for ages about being worried about affording it. Now you can.’
‘Gemma, I jacked in my job and got a new one just to make sure we could afford it. Just to make
you
happy.’
She almost turns purple. ‘You did that for me, did you? For
me
? I never asked you to leave your job. If you want my opinion, you’ve done the wrong thing. You’ll be miserable outside of the Chapterhouse Centre.’
I clench my jaws together. ‘Thanks for your support.’
‘Support? I’ll give you support . . . I’ve been doing every little thing to do with this house. The mortgage application, dealing with the estate agent. Every. Tiny. Little. Thing. I’m not even saying I
mind
. But a thank you might not go amiss – instead of this!’
‘Gemma, it was you who insisted on dealing with everything yourself. YOU HAVEN’T LET ME DO A DAMN THING.’
She’s not listening. ‘And now here you are spouting off that I’ve made the wrong decision about the money. Well, I’VE SODDING WELL HAD IT!’ she shrieks, banging her hand on the table, then wincing visibly. She marches out of the room, nursing her fist.
I march after her.
‘I think you’ll find
I’VE
SODDING WELL HAD IT!’ I shout after her.
She turns and stares at me with a red, tear-stained face. Then she grabs her handbag and roots around in it for her car keys, a look of pure, unmitigated fury in her eyes.
‘That’s it
.
I’m going out,’ she seethes, still scrabbling for the car keys.
‘Fine,’ I reply.
She continues scrabbling. And scrabbling a bit more, until she is virtually screaming at the bag in exasperation, as it refuses outright to give up the keys. Her failure to find them is no surprise, by the way: Gemma’s handbag is the closest thing Planet Earth has to a Black Hole. Anything can get lost in there.
Eventually, she stops, a triumphant look on her face as she drags them out – along with three tampons that tumble to her feet. She hastily crouches down to pick them up, but this has definitely taken the sting out of her big exit.
Which might be why, to the surprise of everyone (including myself), I snigger.
This does nothing to instil a sense of harmony to this situation.
She looks up, fixing a Catwoman gaze on me as if her sole ambition in life right at this moment is to KICK MY ARSE.
‘Don’t say it,’ she snarls.
‘Say
what?’
I snarl back.
‘Do
not
ask me if it’s the “time of the month” – as if the only reason this is happening is because I’m hormonally-challenged.’
The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. I know how much Gemma despises the implication that PMT can be responsible for less than reasonable behaviour.
Which is probably why I cock my head to one side. And I do my very worst.
‘Well, is it? It’d explain a hell of a lot.’
If she
was
Catwoman, she’d pull out her whip and beat me into submission. As it is, she uses the only weapons at her disposal.
The Tampax start flying at me as if I am a human dartboard, one after the other. The first one hits me on the chest, but I’m too quick for the second, ducking nimbly out of the way. I’d be quite pleased with it actually, if the third one hadn’t got me – square on the nose.
Then she storms to the door, without saying a thing, strides through it and slams it behind her, leaving it shaking.
I close my eyes, contemplating how much I’ve hated every minute of this. I can’t claim I’ve never had an argument before, but when a woman aims three Tampax at your head and fires, you know things have reached a new low.
Chapter 50
Gemma
I sit outside Dimitri’s in my car for a good ten minutes before I decide to get out. Trying to stop myself from shaking. Trying to cover my reddened nose with make-up. Trying to unpuff my eyes by putting the aircon vent on full blast and leaning into it (tip: this will never appear in the beauty pages of
Cosmo
).
I wouldn’t say Greek food was my favourite, but Dimitri’s is an institution; colourful, warm and overflowing with character. Besides, I’m not here for the food.
‘Do you have a reservation, madam?’ asks a waiter when I enter.
‘No. Well . . . I’m meeting someone.’
I scan the restaurant, looking for Alex, but there’s no sign of him. He obviously decided that dining alone wasn’t an attractive option, after all. It’s probably for the best, but a wave of disappointment hits me.
I’m unable to work out exactly why I’m here, after driving round aimlessly for half an hour, other than confusion, anger and a vague sense of wanting to stick two fingers up at Dan.
Do I really mean that?
At the end of the day, he’s right that I lied to him, or at least didn’t correct any of his wrong assumptions. But I took the money from Belinda in utter desperation and because it was the only thing that would get us out of a massive, Pebble Cottage-shaped hole.
The alternative would’ve been the one thing
he
found so abhorrent: staying with Belinda indefinitely. Add to that the fact that I spent the afternoon chasing Dan’s father halfway across Chester to tell him what a magnificent human being his son was. To be rewarded for my efforts with a load of abuse from him hurts like hell. I didn’t deserve that. The man who is meant to love me has made me feel like shit, there’s no other way to describe it.
‘What name are they booked under?’ the waiter asks, looking at his folder.
‘Alex Monroe. But don’t worry . . .’
‘He’s outside,’ he replies. ‘Follow me.’
I clutch my bag as he leads me through the restaurant and out into a covered courtyard, where a dozen neatly-laid tables nestle between the lush greenery of oversized potted palms.
I spot Alex and feel my breath leave me.
Then I spot someone else.
Contrary to his last text, he is far from alone and weeping into his Taramasalata. He’s with the woman from Facebook – and has probably already been tagged with the words ‘Fifth date!’
I spin round to leave immediately, taking my red nose and puffy eyes with me. ‘Gemma, wait!’
When I glance round, Alex is out of his seat and bounding in my direction. ‘I hadn’t dreamed you’d actually come,’ he grins. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Fine, yes,’ I mutter, glancing round him. ‘Sorry, Alex – I thought you’d be alone.’
‘Francesca ended up having lunch with her mum instead, which is why she was free in the end.’
‘You’d better get back to her. I’m so sorry.’
Even from a distance, Francesca is gorgeous, more so than in her Facebook picture. Her hair is long and sleek, her makeup flawless, her outfit so effortlessly chic it makes Alexa Chung look like the sort of woman who tries on six outfits in Debenhams before leaving empty-handed because they all make her bum look big.
Francesca also couldn’t look more pissed off that another woman has gate-crashed her date if someone had snapped off the heels of her Manolos and used them as chopsticks.
‘Don’t be silly. Come and join us now you’re here.’
‘I couldn’t, Alex. No. Absolutely not.’
‘Stop protesting, Gems,’ he says, steering me across the room. ‘You know you want to. Besides, Francesca will love you.’
It is clear within ten seconds of sitting down that Francesca does not love me. Francesca hates me. Under the circumstances, I can hardly blame her.
‘Do you remember that day we rode our bikes all the way into town – and got horribly lost?’ Alex asks, his eyes glinting like they always do when he’s reminiscing.
‘How could I forget?’ I mumble uneasily. Francesca looks away.
‘We must’ve been gone for hours,’ he tells her. It’s the first time he’s engaged her in conversation in ten minutes. ‘I was starting to wonder if we’d need a helicopter rescue squad. Obviously, Gems knows that I always knew the way home really,’ he grins at me.
‘Yeah, right.’ I find myself smirking, before I can stop it. Francesca grits her teeth – and I snap out of it.
‘So . . . Francesca, are you a civil engineer too?’ I ask, wanting, for some reason, to make friends with her.
‘No, I’m in the architectural team,’ she replies, as she takes a large, resentful mouthful of wine.
‘That must be an interesting job?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you from Manchester originally?’ She doesn’t sound it.
‘No, Siena in Italy. My parents moved to London when I was three. I came here for work three years ago.’
‘Ah,’ I reply.
‘Will you excuse me,’ Francesca then announces, standing up and heading to the ladies.
I sit back, momentarily relieved. When she’s out of earshot, I lean in to Alex. ‘I feel uncomfortable here. I’m going to say goodbye to Francesca, then go.’
His face crumples. ‘Oh, don’t do that, Gems.’
‘But, Alex, you’re on a date. I feel like a gooseberry. I
am
a gooseberry.’
He leans in to whisper to me, ‘You could never be a gooseberry. Not to me.’
‘I’m not, I—’
‘Stop,’ he says quietly. He holds my gaze when he speaks. ‘You’re not the gooseberry. Y
ou’re
the one I want to be here with.’
I feel myself redden. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? It’s true.’
I stand up. ‘I need to go.’
He stands up too and grabs my hand. But I don’t pull away. I can’t pull away. I like the feel of his touch too much to move. He steps forward so he’s right next to me, brushes my hair away from my face. I like it all. Way too much.
The thought makes my eyes well up, for the second time this evening.
‘Gems, what’s the matter?’ he asks, genuinely concerned.
‘Alex, I’ve had a terrible night and I . . . I just don’t know what to think about anything any more.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Dan and I had a huge row,’ I confess, dropping my head in despair. Yet before I can argue, he’s pulling me into his arms, stroking my hair.
I cannot fully describe the rollercoaster of conflicting emotions I go on as I sink into him, closing my eyes, listening to my racing heartbeat in my own ears.
Pain . . . comfort . . . desire . . . guilt.
‘I’m going to get rid of Francesca,’ he murmurs.
‘You can’t do that,’ I protest. But I know that the reality is, I want exactly that.
He looks deep into my eyes, clearly needing to get something off his chest. ‘Gemma, you’ve had a row with Dan, so I want you to know right now that I’m
not
going to try and exploit that tonight.’
‘I never thought . . .’ My voice trails off as I look down, embarrassed.
He picks up my hand again and threads his fingers through mine. ‘I’m not going to do anything inappropriate, Gemma. Not when you’re so obviously upset. I hope you know me well enough by now to know that I’ve got this terrible affliction – of wanting to do the honourable thing. But I can’t deny it and I’m sure it’s obvious anyway: I wish I was alone with you tonight. That’s the truth.’
My heart is racing even faster now: the air between us feels thick with danger.
‘I need to go, Alex,’ I say eventually, letting go of his hand.
He nods and watches me gather my belongings with a troubled smile. ‘I know, Gems.’
I look up at the door to see if Francesca is returning, but there’s no sign of her. But it’s still time to go. ‘Bye,’ I say, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.
Only, this is no straightforward peck. As our skin touches, I realise he hasn’t moved. And I haven’t moved. We simply stand, with electricity firing through us, drinking each other in until the tension becomes too much to bear.
‘Bye,’ I say, pulling away and hastily heading for the door.
When I get home, Dan is in bed with his back to me. I don’t know whether he’s asleep, or lying awake, too furious to speak. I think about waking him up and trying to talk to him, but my head is already exploding.
So I climb into bed next to him and try to sleep. It proves a futile exercise; I spend all night drifting in and out of slumber, my eyes growing hot every time I wake.
Under any other circumstances, I’d be consumed with regret that I took that money when I knew how he felt about it. And consumed with hurt at his refusal to accept my apology or to try and see why I made what was unquestionably a mistake.
But at the moment, I’m consumed with neither.