The Love Shack, page 20
My arms are by my side because I mustn’t fidget – fidgeting, according to my notes, seems to be akin to satanic worship, and I’m trying my utmost to do as the public-speaking tutor says. Project. Relax. Deliver the words WITH FEELING, which makes me feel like I’m being asked to do my third take in a porn film.
‘Are the children in their bed, for it’s past ten o’clock?’ I conclude, as majestically as I can. I look up hopefully.
Adrian from the blinds company is fixing his comb-over. Jill, the ophthalmology manager next to him, is texting under her folder. The others are either looking out of the window, eyeing up the refreshments table or, in the case of Bob the NHS Manager, fast asleep.
‘Hmm.’ Our tutor, Rosie, rubs her chin, perplexed. ‘Not quite got it, have you, Gemma?’
When Rosie introduced herself, I warmed to her immediately. She’s a round-cheeked, ruddy-complexioned, twenty-first century version of Mrs Beeton, with a booming voice and hand gestures that make her look like she’s conducting an 80-piece orchestra.
She told us we’d be safe with her, that she’d take me and the seven other hapless delegates under her wing. I had dreams of addressing the crowd like Hillary Clinton by the end of the day and so far we’ve been treated to a wealth of insider tips, including learning the first line of your speech by heart so you don’t have to look down, to – her ultimate tip – checking your flies are closed before approaching a lectern.
To be fair to Rosie, everyone else has shown improvement.
But for some reason, while her words are going into my ears and I am completely au fait with the theory, none of it is translating into reality. Which, rounded cheeks or not, is pissing Rosie off no end.
‘I’m sorry to sound exasperated, but everyone else has got this,’ she huffs. ‘Do you remember what I said about delivering with feeling? That’s the point of us using a nursery rhyme. Pretend you’re saying this to a child. You’ve got to entertain them, beguile them. Don’t worry about what anyone thinks. Sound like a loon, we won’t care!’
I nod sullenly, despising myself and my abject failure to beguile anyone but the fly that keeps hovering around my ear. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’
She purses her lips as if she’ll let me off this once. ‘How about we take it from the top?’
I’d hoped to be able to sit down and eat my caramel wafer biscuit in the corner actually. Instead I nod, pick up the words to ‘Wee Willie Winkie’ with trembling hands and remind myself that there are only seven people here. And it’s only a nursery rhyme.
I clear my throat. I pretend I’m all alone, there’s nobody else here, and all I’ve got to do is deliver these funny little words – with feeling – about a weird bloke in his pyjamas running round town and waking kids up. Easy.
I’m about to begin, when I have a small moment of inspiration. I think back to the panto my dad took me to see when I was about seven, Jack and the Beanstalk. I think of how over the top they all were, how animated. The inflection in certain words, the ups and downs of their voices. That’s what she’s talking about! That’s how I’m going to give it all I’ve got!
‘Wee Willy Winkie RUNS through the town.’ Pause for effect. ‘UPSTAIRS! Downstairs. In his nightgown.’ Breathe. ‘RAPPING at the windows. CRYYYING through the locks! Are all the children in their beds? It’s PAST eight O’CLOCK!’ I restrain myself from taking a bow and look up breathlessly. ‘Better,’ Rosie concedes flatly. ‘Right, who’s next?’ I sit down, deflated, as a text arrives. I’m supposed to have turned off my phone, but what the hell. If Jill the ophthalmology manager can get away with it, why shouldn’t I? I surreptitiously pull the phone out of my bag and hold it by the side of my chair as I glance at it. It’s from Alex.
I don’t care what you’re doing, your afternoon CANNOT be worse than mine. x
I compose a text back.
Public speaking course in a crap hotel. Bloke next to me has B.O., there’s no aircon & tutor is a Nazi.
He texts back immediately.
You win x
I’m in the kitchen that night, practising what I’ve learned. It actually sounds better, astonishingly so. I prance round the room, employing the optimum number of hand gestures, doing my best to channel some stature. I make eye-contact with my reflection and begin a speech I fantasise would bring down the house.
‘Baa Baa black sheep, have you any WOOL!’
‘Have you been drinking, Gemma?’ I rotate in shock. Belinda is in her silk dressing gown, an oversized roller propped on her fringe.
‘No. I was practising—’
‘You don’t need to explain! Talking to yourself is usually the sign of someone highly creative.’
‘Really?’
‘Or clinically insane.’
‘There’s only one person around here in danger of fitting that description,’ mutters Flossie, walking in. She’s been for a swim in the pool and is wearing a huge, terry towelling robe and a cap on her head. ‘How was your day at work, Gemma?’
‘Oh, not bad, thank you, Flossie. I was on a public speaking course because I’ve got to deliver a big presentation in a few weeks. It’s not really my cup of tea.’
‘You’re nervous?’ she asks.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Just a guess,’ she shrugs. ‘Try not to be though. Work is important, obviously. But nothing’s worth losing sleep over.’
Flossie stays to chat for a couple of minutes before heading back to her flat, at which point I casually ask Belinda about the reason behind her beautifying session.
‘Are you going out tonight?’
‘Um . . . yes. To Il Buco,’ she says quietly.
‘With James?’
She nods. ‘He wants to get to grips with my trusses.’
‘On a Friday night?’
‘He’s very dedicated.’
‘Are you sure it isn’t a . . . date?’
Her lips twitch as she is poised to deny it, then changes her mind. ‘I don’t know. Do you think it might be?’ she asks, like a cheerleader who’s been invited to the prom.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Oh God,’ she replies, her mind clearly going into overdrive.
‘He’s lovely, Belinda. I’m sure you’ll have a whale of a time.’ She looks uneasy. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Of course. But it’s not a date – honestly. Right, I’d better run. Give Dan a kiss for me, won’t you?’
Belinda being out means that, for the first time in weeks, Dan and I have some romantic action that amounts to more than a fumbling quickie. It turns out it was about time, judging by the mild astonishment on his face afterwards. ‘You were a bit . . . sprightly,’ he comments as I snuggle into his arms, post-coitally fuzzy.
And although he’s only joking I suddenly feel paranoid about whether he’ll read something into the upsurge in my libido.
‘I needed the exercise,’ I reply. ‘I wonder how long we’ve got before your mum comes home?’
‘No idea,’ Dan says, reaching over to open the door slightly so we can hear her come in. ‘Where’d she go anyway?’
‘Out with James. I must admit I was jealous – they were off to that new restaurant in Nantwich. It feels like we’re never going to eat out again. Or drink out. Or just . . . GO out. God, I hate being broke.’
I pull a sulky face for comic effect. But Dan looks entirely serious as he lowers his eyes and says, ‘Yes. Me too.’
That Saturday, Dan and I are finishing breakfast in the kitchen as one of Belinda’s dance lessons is finishing in the conservatory. We’re dragged in for an impromptu twenty-minute session ahead of Flossie’s birthday party, and Dan does his best to pretend he doesn’t enjoy it. He fails miserably at this charade, especially when Bobby suggests trying a lift and Dan has several hilarious (not) opportunities to pretend to drop me.
Afterwards, he goes for a swim while I dig out my interiors folders, deciding that another Saturday night in might be a good opportunity to finally grill my boyfriend about his opinion on the living-room décor.
Only he bursts through the door with other ideas. ‘I’ve made a decision,’ he announces. ‘We’re going out tonight.’
I open my mouth to argue. ‘Don’t argue,’ he says. ‘This is on me. And I won’t take no for an answer.’
Chapter 39
Dan
Mum gives us a lift to Liverpool. I’d forgotten what she was like behind the wheel of a car until now. She leans forward in her seat, clutching the steering wheel like it’s the reins of Santa’s sleigh, employing her horn with wild abandon and hovering at clear junctions for minutes, before tootling across at the exact moment an articulated lorry thunders towards us.
When she drops us off on the Dock Road and we walk into the city centre, it’s clear that Gemma is determined to understand how I can afford this night out. The money is playing on her mind more than anything else: more than any food she’s about to eat or fun she might be about to have.
And it’s the fact that we can’t just enjoy a night on the tiles that makes me realise I’ve made the right decision, even if I’m not in a position to let Gemma into it yet.
I press my lips against her hand. ‘Don’t ask me about it again, Gemma. Let’s just enjoy tonight, for old times’ sake.’
‘You make it sound like we don’t have good times together now,’ she responds defensively. ‘We have a great relationship, don’t we?’
I have no idea where this has come from, but I gave up trying to analyse these sorts of questions years ago. ‘I just can’t stomach another ready meal, that’s all, Gemma. And it was that or my mum’s Balti chicken roulade,’ I grin.
I take her to the Salt House Bacaro, a buzzy little place in Castle Street, without a table to spare. We eat like kings, devouring ludicrous amounts of cheese and wine.
All that matters is that we have good, not-so-wholesome fun together. I want her to let down her hair, unfurrow that brow; I want to light up that face again and make her laugh until she can’t move.
‘How’s Pete’s love-life?’ she asks, as a waitress removes our plates. ‘I could never work out why he dumped Sarah. She was lovely.’
‘She was horrendous,’ I put her straight. ‘Miss Piggy on acid.’
She tuts. ‘You are vile.’
‘Anyway, he’s in love with Jade, he had to dump her.’
‘Oh, still? God loves a trier, I suppose.’
Pete and Jade’s trips to the coffee shop finally resumed this week after he built up the courage to ask her to come again. It’s not entirely clear if it was his sparkling personality or the doughnuts that were the draw.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ I ask Gemma. And when she shakes her head, I say, ‘Let’s get out of here then. We’re going on an adventure.’
It’s a blistering summer’s night, with a clear black sky, dredged with stars. I love walking through the city on nights like this. Past the hipsters spilling out of Camp & Furnace, students making the floors shake in Magnet, girls dressed like birds of paradise in the glare of Concert Square. The streets are incandescent, a playground for grown-ups.
I take Gemma’s hand and we head up Hanover Street, dodging a couple locked in a kiss as I realise too late that we’ve slid into the throng of a hen party. My arse is smacked, and I’d obviously feel violated, if my girlfriend wasn’t informed with a wink that she’s a lucky lady.
She laughs and shouts, ‘I know!’ before teasing me: ‘I take it you paid her for that?’
‘I’m irresistible to all women, Gemma, I thought you knew. But, yeah, the fiver helped.’
We head towards our destination, the courtyard of Our Lady and St Nicholas Church, a secret corner that tonight belongs to us. I can hear Gemma breathing as we step into the garden, a lush green carpet flanked by extravagant architecture.
In the days when I worked in the city, I’d come here at lunchtime and laze in the sun with a cold beer from Ma Boyles Oyster Bar. It’s great in the daytime, but its real magic is after dark, when it becomes a floodlit lagoon of calm.
Gemma lets go of my hand and walks towards the Blitz commemoration at the front of the church, the statue of a boy running up a spiral staircase, his mother reaching out.
She runs her fingers across its cast-iron curves as moonlight shimmers in her eyes. I urgently want to kiss her. But she drops her bag on the grass and flops down on her back. I lie next to her and reach for her hand as the sky swells above us.
‘They do this in Twilight,’ she tells me. ‘I just realised and thought you must think I was being corny.’
‘I’ve managed to never see Twilight,’ I remind her. ‘I still think you’re corny though.’
I roll over on my side and kiss her, her face in my hands. We lie there until our clothes are damp and there are grass stains on our knees. And until the words I’ve said over and over, supposedly in jest, rise into my head again.
I know that if I say them, she’ll grin and tell me to bugger off, a joke in which I’ve been complicit for years.
But tonight, I need to repeat them until the truth is unavoidably clear: Gemma, I want to marry you. And I’m for real.
Chapter 40
Gemma
I’m aware of my phone beeping in my back pocket but don’t want to ruin the moment by reaching for it. Then a lightning bolt flashes through my mind: what if it’s Alex again? If it is, and I don’t delete it now, there’s every chance that at the first moment I take my phone out, Dan will see his name.
Dan opens his mouth to say something and it beeps again. I cannot ignore it. ‘Sorry!’ I cry, sitting up so I’m out of his line of sight as I look at the phone.
It’s from Belinda.
DNT NO WOT 2 DO!
I’ve noticed that she employs her own version of textspeak when communicating via mobile. I have no idea if she’s trying to be down with the kids, but you’d need to be an Enigma-codebreaker to work out what she’s on about. I scroll down.
THINK AM FALLING 4 JAMES. BUT CAN’T BCOS OF BOOK! PUBLISHERS WILL HIT ROOF! ARRGH! ADVICE REQUIRD PLS.
I look at it, wide-eyed.
‘What is it?’ Dan asks.
I’m about to respond, when another text arrives.
WD APPRECIATE YR DISCRETION. I.E. DO NT DISCUSS WITH DAN.
‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘It’s just a minor emergency. Nothing important. Do you mind if I reply?’
He hesitates. ‘Go ahead.’
I lean over and, making sure he’s gazing at the stars and not my message box, start typing.
Are you with him now? If so, enjoy the evening then consider your options tomorrow. Will have a proper chat with you as soon as poss. X
I turn back to Dan.
‘Right! I’m all yours,’ I grin.
He looks at me oddly for a minute, as if he’s got something he needs to get off his chest.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘I . . . nothing,’ he says finally, standing up and offering me his hand.
Our walking tour across the city continues, a Famous Five-style adventure that takes in cathedral graveyards, Liverpool One, Bold Street. We end up in Fleet Street, at Motel Bar, a quirky little place dotted with arty neon and Americana.
We buy scotch and soda and sit at the bar. ‘I miss the city on nights like this,’ I say, leaning woozily into his arms.
A few seconds later, he’s looking at me strangely again.
‘So when are you going to marry me?’ he asks, draining his Scotch.
I laugh. ‘You’d get a bloody big shock one day if I said, “Oh, okay, go on then”.’
He looks strained as he replies, ‘You’re right, I probably would. How did that even become our standing joke anyway?’
‘We were eating chips on the beach in Cornwall,’ I remind him. ‘I’d let you dip yours into my ketchup and you said, “I might have to ask you to marry me for that” or words to that effect.’
‘I knew you were something special right from the beginning,’ he jokes.
‘No, you bloody didn’t,’ I contradict him. ‘You disappeared out of my life for six whole weeks. You’re lucky I’m still speaking to you at all, frankly.’
When she brings it up tonight, I deal with it in the same way as always. With the brutal honesty and regret I’ve felt ever since.
‘It was the worst decision I ever made. And that’s why I’m never going to let you out of my sight again.’
She looks at her drink. Then she raises her eyelashes and leans in to kiss me on the lips, drunkenly, softly. ‘I know.’
Chapter 41
Dan
The morning after that big night out with the Emerson Lisbon gang, I woke up thinking of Gemma. I had fur on my tongue and dehydration in my bones and it was 11.15 a.m. and I was still moderately trashed. But! The existence of Gemma Johnston was going to make everything all right again.
I’d enjoyed the night before enormously. I can’t deny I was concerned that getting serious with someone might change all this, because even though I’d only known her a few days, there was no doubt that that was happening. But overwhelmingly, I wanted to be with her, to feel her skin beneath my fingers, to bury my head into her neck.
I was poised to text her when the doorbell rang. I waited, hoping that Jesse would answer. It rang again. I dragged my corpse of a body out of bed, threw on my jeans and stumbled to the door.
There he was. The man whose absence had planted a chip on my shoulder the size of a container ship and who, despite my determination not to give a toss, I was queasily happy to see.
Dad was wearing a suit that no doubt cost more than I’d spent on my entire wardrobe. Yet the clothes and the man never looked as if they belonged together; it was like looking at a bin man driving a special edition Bugatti.
The five o’clock shadow and yard-brush hair never bothered the women who surrounded him; there were scores of them. I was constantly being told that he had ‘something about him’, that he had charisma, and if I’m honest with myself, I hung on his every word just as the others did.
