The love shack, p.10
The Love Shack, page 10
‘What about the budget?’
‘It was half-price. Anyway, I found a solicitor.’
‘Oh, brilliant.’
‘And phoned the mortgage company to tell them we want to proceed.’
‘Sorry it’s all landed on you.’
‘It’s probably easier if one of us takes charge,’ she says tiredly. ‘We’ll know where we are then.’
I pull off my shoes, socks and jeans, then slide into bed as the scent of bubble bath on Gemma’s skin fills my head with primal thoughts. My eyes drop to her lip-balmed mouth and I have an urgent desire to kiss her. Her eyes dilate as I edge forward . . . and am rewarded with a loud, uncompromising SQUEAK.
She lets out a long breath and gestures to the living room below. ‘Has your mum gone to bed yet?’
A blast of camp-tastic music sears through the ceiling.
‘No, she’s watching her Glee box set. Hopefully she won’t be long. We could, you know . . . resume matters when she’s asleep.’
Gemma smiles and snuggles into my arms, where I hold her. And hold her. For two long, tortured hours, I hold her.
When my mother finally turns Glee off and plods upstairs, Gemma is fast asleep, her mouth slightly open. And it’s looking very likely that she wouldn’t stir if Jamie Dornan bounced in here on a space-hopper and suggested a game of Spin the Bottle.
Chapter 15
Gemma
Dan and I visit Pebble Cottage again on Sunday, despite my failure to work out where we’re getting the extra £4k – and the fact that we don’t have an appointment. Rich has threatened to take out a restraining order if I don’t stop phoning to check that no other interested parties have been allowed to view it since our offer was accepted.
We pull up in my car and step out silently. Even before I peek through the window, I notice features I hadn’t spotted earlier: the little shelf below each windowframe perfect for a lavender box; the original tiles on the front step, patterned like a silk scarf. Even though there’s no furniture now, everything about the place feels like home, from the location to the size, to the old-fashioned fireplace in the living room.
Dan squeezes my hand and I experience a wave of unease about his enthusiasm for this whole thing. Particularly now the mutual tolerance between him and his mum is wearing thinner than her Threshers’ loyalty card.
And, although I’d never say it, I’m starting to find her fairly difficult to live with myself. It’s not just the fact that she has absolutely NO filter, or that she is always right about everything, or that she can be so overbearing that we never get a moment to ourselves.
Being alone with her is akin to locking yourself into an interrogation room: I’m bombarded with questions about Dan, his job, his financial situation, his health – all the usual stuff mums are interested in, but which Dan prefers to keep on a need-to-know basis. Which leaves me with the uncomfortable feeling that in answering her, even vaguely, I’m somehow betraying him.
‘I can’t wait to be in there, can you?’ I ask Dan.
He glances down at me. ‘I can’t wait to be in anywhere but my mum’s.’
I frown. ‘You don’t mean that, do you? Not after we’ve had an offer accepted and it’s all happening. This is the only house for us as far as I’m concerned, and—’
‘Gemma,’ he interrupts, ‘we’re going to do everything in our power to get this house, okay? I will do everything in my power to get it. But don’t ever forget that you and I would live happily ever after, whether it was here or somewhere else.’
I nod as he kisses me. ‘I agree completely. But it won’t be somewhere else. It’ll be here. Just so you know.’
He laughs. ‘Yes, I think I’ve got that message, loud and clear.’
A few days later, I’m daydreaming about our Happily Ever After – in Pebble Cottage and nowhere else – as I’m on my way to the filming of an advert I was involved in scripting. I pull up in an overpriced car park in Manchester and head towards the Northern Quarter.
Its bars and cafés are as bustling as ever on a sunny Friday afternoon, with outdoor seats at a premium and the weekend crying out to start early.
As I walk through a cloud of coffee-shop aromas, I picture my future with the man I love. My head is filled with visions of nights in front of our beautiful fireplace and Sunday mornings in our tastefully furnished bedroom.
But as my eyes drift to a small round table in one of a dozen pavement cafés, all those thoughts – and any others – vanish from my head.
I stand and stare, feeling winded, unable to believe what – or rather whom – I’m seeing, for the first time in twelve years.
Alex Monroe. The one-time love of my life.
It’s difficult to describe my physical state as I attempt to look unfazed, holding my breath and hardly able to feel my legs, even if they’re still technically walking. I slow down to make certain it’s him, the confirmation of which makes my heart pound harder and faster than can possibly be good for anyone’s health.
Eventually, as I’m about twenty feet away, my legs refuse to go any further and I stand watching as he reads a newspaper, like he always did, even when we were seventeen. He doesn’t look twelve years older, at least not in a bad way. The soft features of his younger face have become more mature, more angular, altogether more impressive.
I take a small step without knowing whether I’m going to politely cough and ask if he remembers me, or throw myself into his arms with tears in my eyes.
However, when I’ve caught my breath long enough to start to approach, a woman – slim, blonde, intelligent-looking – appears at his side and places two drinks on the table, before sitting down next to him.
He is immediately deep in conversation. And in that split second I find myself desperate to know whether they’re together, even though there are a dozen more pertinent questions, not least what the hell is he doing in the UK? He smiles and runs his hand through his thick blond hair, a gesture so painfully familiar to me, yet one I’d entirely forgotten about until this moment.
And it’s that, accompanied by my cascades of adrenalin, that makes me realise I don’t want to be here. The thought of seeing him after all this time and being introduced to a girlfriend, fiancée, wife . . . I instinctively feel repulsed by the thought.
He glances in my direction. And suddenly, only drastic measures are open to me. Namely, I have to hide.
Unfortunately, I am not in the dense jungle of the Amazon Basin with as much vegetation and camouflage that a girl could hope for. I am in central Manchester in strappy sandals, and the only thing I can find in the way of cover is a large specials board.
I dive behind it and crouch, panting, as if on the run from an armed gunman whose house I’ve burned down, dog I’ve run over, and whose grammar I corrected on Facebook.
‘You okay?’ A waitress with short spiky hair and a friendly, if mildly condescending smile bends down to talk to me.
‘I’m just . . . I’m hiding from someone, that’s all,’ I breathe. Even as I say it, I know I’m being ridiculous.
She frowns and straightens up. ‘Okay. Only, you’ve rubbed off half our specials there.’
I pull the back of my black top so I can examine it, realising I now have part of the line king prawn, lime & ginger skewers smudged backwards on me in chalk.
‘Oh God, sorry.’ I glance around the board again and see Alex still there, still talking.
I force the uncharitable thoughts tumbling through my head about his female companion to stop. Had I expected him to spend the last twelve years pining for me, for God’s sake?
‘Go out the back way, if you like,’ the waitress suggests.
I hesitate. ‘Would you mind?’
‘Course not,’ she grins, as I stand up and let her bundle me through the restaurant. Fellow diners look on as I optimistically wonder if they think I’m some sort of political fugitive – frantic but noble.
When we reach the door, the waitress grabs me by the arm and looks intently in my eyes. ‘Word of advice,’ she whispers. ‘I got caught shoplifting when I was fourteen and got away with it. At your age, you wouldn’t stand a chance.’
Chapter 16
That night, more than any other, I want Dan’s arms around me. I can’t explain why, beyond an instinctive need to sink into him, breathe him in and remind myself why I’m so lucky to have him.
Just him.
His text arrives as I’m turning into the gates of Buddington.
So sorry Gemma – something’s come up at work. Back as soon as I can.
I sigh and throw the phone onto the passenger seat. It beeps again.
I love you xxxxx
I open the door with the key Belinda gave me, even though it still feels like I’m breaking and entering, and am assaulted by a barrage of music from the conservatory.
There, I discover Belinda and her friends in an array of high-visibility Lycra, having a dance lesson from an older, significantly sprightlier man.
‘It’s my daughter-in-law!’ exclaims Belinda as the others take the opportunity to pause and catch their breath. ‘Come and join us, Gemma – just get your shoes and socks off. Bobby’s run us ragged!’
I attempt to suppress any visible alarm. ‘It looks brilliant, Belinda, but I’m shattered after work. I’m just going to have a bath and something to eat. Sorry to be boring.’
The music that pounds through the ceiling is an eclectic and extremely noisy mix of disco classics. I run a bath and slip in, watching the surface of the water pound to each Chaka Khan track as if Godzilla is en route to tear the roof off. Even with my headphones on the highest setting, it fails to drown out six women squawking, ‘I’m ev’ry womannn!’
I close my eyes and try to clear my head – of everything. But all I can think about is seeing Alex today. About whether he saw me. And about why I couldn’t bring myself to go and say hello.
Pressure builds in my brain, in direct contravention of the state of relaxation I’m attempting to achieve. Eventually, I pull myself out of the bath, climb into my dressing gown and head to the bedroom to flick through a copy of Marie Claire magazine. I’m unable to take in a word of it.
I consider going to make my dinner now, throwing myself at the mercy of Belinda and her friends. But I’m feeling so rattled by what happened today that I haven’t got the energy to face them or anyone else. Except perhaps one person.
I pick up my phone and text Dan, asking him if he’ll be long.
Twenty minutes later, he hasn’t responded. And I’m still trapped in this room with an empty stomach and tortured brain. Quite suddenly, the music stops. I give it a minute or two, then creep to the door and prise it open in time to make out that they’re leaving to go for drinks.
The door slams. Footsteps crunch on the gravel. Car engines fire up, then fade away as they disappear up the drive. The house is still, silent – until another text arrives.
Gemma, so sorry. Eat without me, please & I’ll sort myself out x
I fling myself onto the bed as a mental image of Alex forces its way into my head again. He’s bulked out since we were teenagers, that slightly reedy frame no longer so skinny. I wonder if he realises how much better he looks? I hope so, as he was always mildly self-conscious about his body, though I could never work out why. I thought he was gorgeous until the day we kissed each other goodbye.
I shake the thought from my mind as I listen carefully for evidence of anybody else in the house. Then I creep to the top of the stairs and eventually realise I have Buddington all to myself.
When I get to the kitchen I take out a fork and plink it through the film on one of the ready meals I’d stocked up on yesterday. Then I place it in the microwave and wander round the room, idly picking up knick-knacks and examining them in a bid to divert my thoughts. I run my finger across the polka-dot spoon rest, then pick up the fridge magnet from Sorrento. My eyes drift slackly across to a drawer, which I open.
‘Gemma?’
‘ARGHH!’
I slam shut the drawer, before I spin round to be confronted by Belinda. She raises both eyebrows. ‘I only wondered if you wanted a G&T.’
‘Oh. Oh,’ I repeat. I glance at my curry. It feels rude not to. ‘Why not? It’s definitely past Wine o’clock, isn’t it?’
‘Wine o’clock? Gemma, this is Pissed o’clock.’ She holds up her drink. ‘If I’m on my sixth you can join me for your first. They’re not recreational in my case. I need a few to loosen up the joints before a dance lesson. My Moonwalk’s shocking otherwise.’
She pours me a G&T – with a healthy measure of G – and I take a sip. As my chest warms, this strikes me as a better alternative to sitting upstairs, with nothing to distract me except the memory of a boy I – mostly – stopped thinking about years ago.
As the evening unfolds, one G&T becomes four – and it’s not just the joints that loosen up. Belinda’s stories about Dan are impossible to resist, even if he’d burst a blood vessel if he could hear. She’s like a walking version of Heat magazine, she’s so indiscreet. Hours pass in minutes as the gin disappears and I gain a growing sense of being very, very drunk. And if I’m drunk, Belinda is positively plastered, something that became abundantly clear when she picked up a pair of tongs and plinked a used tea-bag into her drink instead of a slice of lemon.
‘Dja-ya know, half of the stuff I wrote – about men, I mean – the publishers wouldn’t even put in the book.’
‘Really? Why?’
She sloshes back her gin. ‘Despite the title, which my editor Angela insisted on, they wanted my book to be mainshtream. I wasn’t supposed to be some hairy-armpitted radical feminist,’ she slurs. ‘I was supposed to be Everywoman. The woman in the street. Of which a very large majority have been badly treated by men.’
‘You really think it’s a majority?’
She nearly spits out her drink. ‘Of course. The things the average man is capable of don’t bear thinking about. They’re animals. ALL of them.’
My skin prickles. Dan isn’t an animal, I’m certain of that. And Alex wasn’t either. Both are nothing but lovely. ‘I’m not sure I completely buy that, I must admit,’ I say. ‘Yes, there are idiots, but there are lots of good ones. I happen to love men, generally.’
‘You’ll learn,’ she snorts.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Belinda. I’m not some simpleton who believes in fairytales. I don’t even particularly want to get married myself.’
She swallows another large mouthful. ‘Dan mentioned that. Why not?’
‘Oh, a variety of reasons,’ I say vaguely, though in truth I never could pin down my unease about it, beyond the fact that my (still married) parents haven’t been the greatest advert.
‘The thing I find difficult to get my head around,’ I continue, ‘is how you can align your views with having a son. He’s a man.’
‘Nobody’s perfect,’ she laughs. ‘Besides, although I will always love him – hell, I’d jump in front of a bus for him – he’s been no angel either, you know. He’s his father’s son, after all. He’s changed his ways since he met you, but who’s to say that’ll last forever?’
Indignation ripples through me as I pour another drink, feeling as though I need something fortifying. ‘You mean you think he’ll treat me badly? Do the dirty on me?’
‘Oh look, I’ve got high hopes for you two. But it’s not beyond the realms, is it? Sorry, Gemma,’ she shrugs, looking far from it. ‘But that’s what men do. It’s that simple.’
I feel a surge of defiance. I’m aware that this is partly due to the booze, and partly because I feel so weird after today. But fundamentally, Dan is my boyfriend and I love him – and the idea that I have to defend him against his own mother is, frankly, awful.
I tell myself to get a grip and put a lid on it, so instead of spurting out something I might regret, I stand up and mutter something about needing the loo. I get into the hall and dig out my phone, before dialling Dan’s number, hearing it go to voicemail, and leaving a message.
‘Dan, are you on your way home yet?’ I hiss in hushed, drunken tones. ‘Your mother is . . . well, it’s all jusht getting out of hand. She’s talking all this nonshense about . . . look, it doeshn’t matter.’ To my alarm I note that I’m also slurring quite badly and entirely failing to get to my point. I compose myself. ‘If I’m honest, Dan, there was one moment when I felt like strangling your mother tonight. And unless you get home soon, I couldn’t rule it out.’
And then I look up and see Belinda standing at the doorway with an expression like the mother in Stephen King’s Carrie, just before she stabbed her in the shoulder.
Chapter 17
Dan
I have spent this evening in A&E with a seventy-nine-year-old lady called Jennifer, with whom I’ve been working for three months after her husband, a retired rail worker, died suddenly last year.
He’d looked after all their bills, so when she was left alone – grief-stricken and with no children to help her – she’d struggled to stay on top of them. For six months before she was referred to the Chapterhouse Centre, she’d been living on a friend’s sofa. Recently, after I’d found accommodation of her own for her, she’d been making good progress. Until tonight.
The accident had happened after Jennifer tried to make herself some proper, deep-fried chips – the ones her husband liked – but had fallen asleep in the living room and forgotten they were on the stove.
I arrived to find her in an ambulance and the house virtually destroyed. Thankfully, doctors think she’s going to be all right, but it’s fair to say it’s been a long night for all of us. All I want to do is jump in the car, fling on some tunes, fantasise that I’m in a Lamborghini and go home to kiss my girlfriend.
I turn on the phone and listen to Gemma’s message. She is angry, upset and so far from sober that her impassioned speech sounds like she’s simultaneously attempting to gargle with Listerine. By the time it ends, with Gemma threatening to inflict GBH on my mother, I am seriously concerned that the scene at home may resemble a Mexican street brawl.
