The Love Shack, page 18
‘So, this is a nice place, isn’t it? I know Liverpool a lot better than Manchester to be honest, apart from the Northern Quarter, which I like a lot. It’s a great city – you’ll love it, I’m sure. Not that I’m here all the time – just occasionally with work. What made you choose a job in Manchester? I’d always assumed you’d go off travelling the world somewhere and never come back to the UK again.’
I become aware halfway through this soliloquy that the just looking is still happening, so I continue for as long as I possibly can before coming up for air.
‘Gemma.’ He smiles. ‘Let me get you a drink, then I’ll fill you in – on everything.’
‘Oh! Sorry!’ I glance at the menu I appear to be clutching. ‘I’ll have a cappuccino. But I’ll get it, don’t worry.’ I grab my purse, but he puts his hand on mine. ‘It’s fine, let me.’
I look down, momentarily stunned by the feel of his fingertips on my skin. He withdraws his hand. ‘I insist,’ I say firmly, clambering up to head to the bar.
Only as I try to catch my breath and order the coffee, I realise that I used my last cash in the car park. Obviously, there is no way I’m going to go and bum some off Alex, not in the opening moments of a reunion (though to call it that makes me wince). So I hand over the first bit of plastic in my purse, my credit card.
‘Sorry, there’s a £5 minimum charge on all cards,’ the assistant tells me.
‘Oh . . . okay, I’ll take a cake as well,’ I reply reluctantly, eating being the last thing on my mind.
We then go through the charade of him cutting a piece of lemon drizzle cake the size of a house brick, before he announces that their card machine is on the blink and he’ll have to bring it back to me at my table once the payment has gone through.
I return to Alex and place the plate in front of him casually. ‘Would you like some cake?’
He laughs, his eyes sparkling as he catches mine. ‘Go on then, I’ll share it with you.’
‘Oh, I don’t want any,’ I fluster.
He smirks and holds my gaze. ‘What made you think I would?’ And for some reason, that mischievous look on his face makes me laugh too.
‘Maybe you just looked like a man in the mood for some sponge cake,’ I smile.
He picks up a fork. ‘Right then. You obviously haven’t forgotten that I never say no to cake.’
Actually, I had forgotten. But now he mentions it, the first summer when we were together, we’d always end up in the little patisserie over the road from where he lived, working our way through their jewel-coloured pastries. If he’d continued with this daily sugar rush, you’d never know it. I’d be a stone and a half heavier if I had – which is another one to add to the list of good things that came of our break-up.
‘In answer to your question, the move here wasn’t really planned,’ he tells me. ‘I’d worked on big building projects all over South Africa for a while, but I fancied a change of scene. Then this came up – the chance to work on a project in Manchester. It’s a six-month contract and they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’
He nestles his fork into the cake, cuts off a piece and, distractingly, brings it to his lips. I tear my eyes away and decide to keep talking. ‘It must feel strange being back in the UK.’
‘A lot’s changed in twelve years, but people are the same the world over – I’ve learned that much. Nice to see a familiar face though.’
I realise I’m smiling again. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Just under two months. Still re-acclimatising really.’
Having been a maelstrom of nerves before I arrived, this whole encounter suddenly feels astonishingly enjoyable.
I wouldn’t say it’s as if we’ve never been apart – there are moments when I feel like I don’t know him at all. But at other times, especially when we reminisce, it’s like putting on your most treasured pair of shoes and becoming aware that they still fit and have the ability to make your heart soar.
He’s still got that open, easy personality and mildly flirtatious sense of humour. He looks, essentially, like a grown-up version of himself, which I suppose is exactly what he is.
Yet this new history he’s accumulated – with different people and places from mine – is one I can’t get enough of. I tell him more about Dan and he tells me about his only other serious girlfriend, with whom he broke up two years ago. He’s now single: the woman I saw him with in the Northern Quarter was just a colleague.
I suspect we could fill an entire afternoon catching up if I didn’t have to get back to work.
‘I’m seriously glad I tracked you down, Gems,’ he concludes when I tell him I have to leave.
I nod. ‘Me too, Alex.’
Then he puts his hand on my elbow and leans in to kiss me on the cheek again. The smell of him floods my senses.
I pull away sharply.
‘Next time, we should meet after work,’ he declares. ‘Then we’d have all night to talk this rubbish.’
He registers my expression and clearly regrets opening his mouth. ‘Sorry . . . that was the most presumptuous thing I’ve ever said.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, hating that I’ve embarrassed him. ‘It’s been fantastic to see you.’
‘But getting together again is a no-no?’
I’m trying to think of a diplomatic response when the full implications of this hit me: that I might not see him again for another twelve years. Or indeed ever. And in that moment, I get a rush of that same, hideous feeling I had when I was standing at the airport as a teenage girl, saying goodbye to him for what I thought would be the last time.
‘I understand totally,’ he tells me. ‘But just so you know, my intentions were entirely innocent. You and Dan are obviously made for each other and I wouldn’t dream of—’
‘Of course,’ I interrupt. ‘Of course you wouldn’t. I feel stupid now.’
‘Gems,’ he says softly, reaching out for my hand. My heartbeat doubles in speed when he touches it. ‘Don’t feel stupid in front of me, please. I’d be mortified.’ My eyes meet his and, for just a heartbeat, I can’t tear them away. Then I snap out of it.
‘Let me know if you change your mind, won’t you?’ he says.
I nod, but make it clear that my decision stands.
‘Bye, Alex,’ I whisper. And as I exit the coffee shop, my thundering heart makes one thing clear: I can never, ever meet up with him again.
When I get back to work, I bump into Sebastian in the car park. He’s dressed in a suit the colour of chalk, with a blue polo neck. He looks like a cricket umpire at a Eurovision party.
‘Heeeyyy!’ he says, Arthur Fonzarelli-style, his smile so dazzling it makes my pupils twitch.
‘Hello, Sebastian.’
He glances at my car. ‘You know, in some ways I envy you, Gemma.’
‘Oh?’
‘There you are in your economical little vehicle which must’ve cost, what – a grand?’
‘Yes, my boyfriend and I are buying a house so—’
‘To make an insurance claim on that must be a doddle. I, on the other hand, am having NO END of trouble with my insurers. The excess is a fortune, my No Claims is in tatters and it’ll still be three weeks before I get my car back. Whoever did this must have the morals of a sewer rat.’
I decide to change the subject. ‘So has your contact at Bang said anything about me presenting the new condom campaigns?’
‘If I ever find out who did it, I’m not sure I’ll be able to restrain myself,’ he snarls, ignoring me completely.
‘Only, I’d been thinking about whether I’d be needed at all,’ I say, ignoring him completely.
‘I think this sort of thing should carry a prison sentence.’
‘A voice-over might have a greater impact, unless of course you’d reconsider presenting it yourself?’
He looks at me and I finally appear to have got through to him.
‘Hanging’s too good for them,’ he declares. ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘Absolutely,’ I mutter, and hurtle up the stairs as fast as I can.
When I reach my desk, Sadie is mid-confrontation with Jeremy, our favourite traffic manager. He’s twenty-one, sweet, good-looking, and usually her top source of office gossip. For her to fall out with him would be like M pissing off the CIA.
‘Sadie, my love. See reason, please,’ he begs. ‘This is a new client and we’ve got to cut them some slack. I know it’s going to mean extra work on Thursday, but it has to be done.’
‘We can’t take on any more revisions!’ she shrieks. ‘If I have to do another revision I WILL GO POSTAL.’
He looks at her sympathetically. ‘Don’t do that, sweetheart. It’d be terrible for office morale,’ he says, deciding to leave it there.
As he disappears, Sadie slumps into her seat. ‘I can’t cope with this.’
‘We’ll absorb it if we do a couple of late nights,’ I reassure her.
She nods glumly. ‘You’re right. I need to focus. I just . . . just . . . I can’t cope with the deception,’ she hisses, leaning in with a trembling lip. ‘I saw Sebastian this morning and I’m starting to think he won’t rest until the perpetrator is DEAD.’ I decide not to tell her about the hanging comment.
‘You were so right. I should’ve owned up in the first place,’ she tells me, shaking her head dementedly. ‘But I can’t cough to it now or he’ll sack me.’
‘Sadie, you’re not going to be sacked. It was an accident.’
‘The weeks of lying weren’t.’
Which is, of course, true. ‘Then maybe you should think about coming clean,’ I suggest.
She looks horrified. ‘I screwed up mightily, Gemma,’ she says hoarsely, ‘but if I want to keep my job – which I do – I need Sebastian to never, ever know about this.’
‘Know about what?’ We look up to see Sebastian looming over us, hands gripping the hips of his chalk-white trousers.
I recount the story to Dan the following day after we’ve driven over to Liverpool for brunch in The Quarter, our favourite café in our favourite part of a city we’ve both grown to love over the years.
We’d dreamed of buying a house near here once, until it became apparent that the smaller ones that we’d vaguely hoped might be within our budget never came up for sale.
‘How did Sadie get out of that one?’ he asks.
‘By the skin of her teeth. I leaped in and mumbled something about how we needed to finish off some amends we’re working on, and didn’t want him to see until it was finished.’
After we’ve eaten, we stroll along the cobbles of Hope Street and I find myself holding Dan’s hand just a little tighter than usual, kissing him a little longer as we reach the car. And reminding myself, with every word that comes from his mouth, just how much I love him.
Before we head back to Cheshire, we drive to Liverpool Watersports Centre and pull up in the car park, just as the sunshine that has dominated the morning starts to fizzle out. It’s still a hive of activity. There are eight year olds having kayaking lessons, windsurfers heading across the dock and a girl heroically attempting to master water-skiing, but looking like she’s slipped a disc while squatting to sit on a Portaloo.
‘The shop’s over here,’ Dan tells me, as he marches up a walkway and pushes open the door. Inside is an Aladdin’s Cave of watersports gear, with vividly coloured wetsuits, dry-suits, sailing wear and any number of other items for which I won’t even pretend I know the correct terminology. A peculiar sensation engulfs me.
I want to buy something.
ANYTHING.
I have absolutely no desire to get in any water, obviously. But I haven’t indulged in any retail therapy for months, and suddenly have a burning need to do the one thing guaranteed to take my mind off things: shopping. I’m aching to purchase something so badly, it’s as if my purse is incontinent.
As Dan looks around, I start eyeing up a snazzy yellow Dinghy top, trying to work out any possible use I might have for it.
‘Gemma, I think I’ve found one,’ Dan says, holding up a wetsuit. I go over to take a look.
Flossie’s eightieth birthday is in just over a month, and although most of the swimming she does is in the pool these days, she has been known to swim outdoors, as recently as last year. Personally, I’d have played it safe with a set of pearls or something, but then I’ve never had a grandmother quite like Flossie. I’m not sure anyone has.
‘Mum’s going over the top on the party organising,’ Dan says as he takes the wetsuit to the counter and waits for an assistant. ‘She’s absolutely determined about us doing this dance for Grandma.’
‘I think she probably would enjoy it,’ I tell him.
He suppresses a smile. ‘I had a horrible feeling you’d think it was a good idea.’ He glances through the window as the sky turns even darker. ‘Looks like we’re not going to be able to eat outside tonight.’
I tut. ‘It was gorgeous in Manchester yesterday too.’
‘What were you doing in Manchester?’ he asks.
It’s a simple enough question. It should have a simple enough answer.
Yet, Dan can’t fail to notice that blood drains from my face so fast I almost need to sit down. ‘Hmm? Oh, just a meeting. Filming. A meeting and some filming,’ I splutter, then I wonder why the hell I’m lying. ‘I also met up with someone I used to know back home. He’s been working abroad and is in Manchester temporarily so I thought I’d just say, you know . . . hi.’
‘Oh right,’ he shrugs, as – mercifully – an assistant approaches the desk to serve him.
I casually stroll away, pretending to look at some surfboards as I take deep breaths and try to stop my heart from exploding. And it’s then that I feel my phone vibrate.
I pull it out of my bag and register Alex’s name. The only option open to me is to dive to the exit like I’m trying to save a penalty.
I’m outside the shop when I answer, glancing through the window to check that Dan remains otherwise engaged.
‘Hi,’ I squeak.
‘Hi,’ he replies.
I hate myself for how happy I am to hear his voice, despite being near-paralysed with anxiety.
‘Gems – I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I left a message.’ I realise I must have had my phone on silent. ‘You left your credit card at the bar yesterday.’
I close my eyes and try to breathe. ‘Oh God, what an idiot.’
‘He was very apologetic.’
‘I mean me, not the assistant.’
‘Ah,’ he laughs. ‘Look, I know what you said about not meeting, but I don’t think I should put this in the post.’
‘No,’ I mumble, checking on Dan again as I feel sick with dizziness. ‘I’ve got two cards, I can just use the other one for the moment. Then I can get my credit card from you next week.’
‘Okay,’ he replies.
‘Okay,’ I repeat.
There’s a silence again, one that feels more awkward than when I was with him yesterday.
I glance up and see the assistant handing Dan the bag containing his wetsuit.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say hurriedly. ‘But I’ll text you and arrange to get it. Thanks.’
‘No problem,’ he replies. ‘And, Gems?’
‘Yes?’ I swallow, my heart ready to combust as Dan approaches the door.
‘It was . . . spectacular to see you again. I loved it.’
‘Me too,’ I whisper, ending the call as the door opens and Dan walks towards me.
Chapter 35
Dan
As the house sale drags on, there are times when I have to think hard to recall why we’re putting ourselves through this, especially when Gemma seems permanently on the verge of having kittens – generally stressed out and not really her usual self.
Then she arranges to drop into her friend Allie’s new house in Hoylake – with a housewarming present that smashes our budget – a label you could apply to a box of PG Tips these days.
‘What did you end up getting?’ I ask as we pull in. ‘Something from Poundland?’
‘Picture frame from Utility,’ she replies. ‘It blew the budget but friendship is more important than some things. I did get some Tupperware from Poundland though. For our new place.’
‘So we haven’t got a sofa, a washing machine or indeed the place itself yet, but at least we’ve sorted out something to keep our cheese in.’
I can honestly say that house envy – an affliction that grips Gemma regularly – is something it’s never occurred to me to have. But even I feel slightly weak at the knees when we walk into Allie and her boyfriend Steve’s place.
It’s not huge, but it’s the most supremely cool pad I have come across in quite some time.
The kitchen looks like George Lucas’s take on a 1950s butcher’s shop, with black tiles, stainless steel surfaces and the biggest bastard of a light you’ve ever seen.
The living room is white. All white. I’m talking furniture, carpets, the lot – it’s so bloody white that I’m half expecting God to open the curtains and glide in. This is all offset by a wall of technology, with every piece of kit the fine men and women of Apple, Sonos and Sony could possibly conjure up in their beautifully geeky minds.
‘You’ve got a white sofa,’ I say, the same awe in my voice as when I first set eyes on a Game Boy, aged seven.
‘Everyone comments on the sofa,’ Allie laughs. ‘I’m not sure if we’re brave or just stupid.’
‘You can get away with a white sofa when you haven’t got kids,’ Steve says. He’s a graphic designer. Nice guy. Very hairy, like the fifth member of Mumford & Sons. ‘You could have one in your new place.’
‘We haven’t got kids, but we’ve got me,’ Gemma says. ‘Anything white that I own draws red wine to it as if it’s magnetic.’
I pretend to whisper conspiratorially to Allie, ‘You know what a pisshead she is.’
Gemma gives me a prod. We stay for a coffee, then, before we return to Buddington Hall, decide to do a detour past Pebble Cottage.
As we pull up outside, a text arrives from Pete asking me to phone him for ‘urgent advice’, but as his definition of urgent differs from mine, I defer the call until I get home. Instead, I unplug my seat belt while two workmen carry a replacement skirting board through the door.
