The Love Shack (37 page)

Chapter 58

Dan

Is Gemma having an affair?

That’s the question that burst into my head, the moment I opened my eyes this morning. I know things haven’t been as easy between us as before we moved to Buddington. But did I think they’d got so bad that she’d run into the arms of someone else? I must admit, I didn’t.

The possibility that she’s sleeping with another man fills me with a jagged rage. It boils up in me in the shower as I’m getting ready for work and grips me by the throat as I’m pulling on my clothes.

And as I head downstairs minutes after she’s left, it is still there, refusing to let me listen to the other possibility: that this might be innocent. It occurs to me that the only way I’d definitively find out the answer is by following her to wherever she’s going tonight.

The thought is loathsome. But what the hell is the alternative?

I hear Mum on the phone in the living room, so leave without saying goodbye as Gemma’s tail-lights turn out of the driveway.

I’m about to get into the car, when I’m reminded that Grandma wasn’t feeling well. I’m late for work, but head to her annexe, where I find her sitting on the sofa in her dressing gown, watching the breakfast news.

I knock at the window and she looks up, startled, then gestures to me that she’s coming to the door. She pushes herself up unsteadily and takes slow, deliberate steps to the door.

I’m shocked by how weak she looks, the grey undertones of her skin.

‘Grandma, are you okay?’ I hold her arm and help her back inside.

‘Not feeling myself, I must admit. Come in. Let me make you a cuppa.’

‘You should be over at Mum’s,’ I tell her. ‘I think she should call a doctor.’

She sits down on the sofa, forgetting the tea. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘I’ll go and get her.’

‘Danny?’ I turn round again. ‘Let’s have that cuppa first. Flick the kettle on, won’t you?’

I make the tea and bring it over on a tray, just as she likes it. Tea pot. Milk first. Three sugars. Grandma has never believed in depriving herself.

‘I loved that day we went to the lake,’ she says with a quivering smile.

‘I’m glad. You’re a madwoman though. You technically shouldn’t be doing things like that at your age.’

‘What’s the point in sitting around all day? That’s not living, is it?’ she argues. ‘Anyway, I wanted you to know how happy you’ve made me. Not only at the lake, but just by being here. You and Gemma. It’s been wonderful.’

I fail to answer.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asks.

‘Nothing.’ I look at my hands. ‘Just . . .’

She rescues me from having to continue. ‘It must’ve been hard for you two. I can see the pressure you’ve been under. You haven’t had many breaks since you’ve tried to buy this house, have you?’

‘Not really, Grandma. It’s been strained lately, I must admit.’

‘That’s understandable.’ She shakily brings the tea cup to her lips and takes a sip. ‘Make sure you keep it in perspective though, won’t you?’

I look up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘One of the benefits of old age is realising what really matters. Houses, surveys, the stresses you’re under . . . they seem so crucial now, but they’re all fleeting things. Love, on the other hand: that’s important.’

I lower my eyes.

‘Danny, what’s the matter?’

Much as I love her, I don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Grandma about my fears that Gemma is having an affair.

‘Don’t worry, I don’t want to pry,’ she whispers. Then she reaches over and holds my hand, her papery fingers gripping around mine. ‘But let me tell you this. You two belong together. I’ve never felt more certain. So make me a promise that you won’t let her go. She’s not perfect, Danny. Nobody is. But if you love somebody, you need to be gentle with them. Forgive each other. And never forget what’s really important.’

Chapter 59

Gemma

I sit alone in the meeting room at work, rehearsing my presentation for this afternoon and making certain I’m strong on the bits that were written by Sebastian. I produce all the inflections Rosie told me to, and wind up sounding very much like I’ve got a screw loose.

But just as I reach my final slide, I slump in my chair and can’t think about the presentation any longer.

All I can think about is Dan. Alex. Me.

I pick up my car keys and leave the building.

From the moment he came back into my life, there was only ever one man for me. I’ve had my second chance and I’m not about to blow it now. Because what I feel for him couldn’t be clearer. And the thought of letting him slip away from me burns inside me like a firework, fierce and brilliant.

Love was easy when I was Alex’s girlfriend, all those years ago. It was all-consuming and simple, and the world was a glorious place inside that little bubble where we lived.

With Dan, things have been difficult, complicated and far from black and white, at least in the last couple of months.

Alex wants me to make a decision.

But in truth it was made long ago.

And I’m furious with myself that there was ever any doubt of it. Though perhaps Belinda was right about one thing: our heart plays tricks on us sometimes. The key is recognising the tricks for what they are.

Alex has never looked more handsome as I push open the door of the same Icelandic coffee shop where we met, back in June. He’s in civvies – jeans and a pale checked shirt that makes him look healthily tanned – and is chatting to a waitress as her eyes glint.

He glances up and stops talking. She looks over too, before moving quietly away. Then he stands and walks slowly forward, his face breaking into an enormous smile.

Chapter 60

Dan

Since the moment I made the decision not to follow Gemma, I’ve been trying to work out why, for whatever reason, I’m apparently not that kind of guy.

Though part of me wonders if I’m being that noble. Maybe I’m scared I’d get there, discover there
is
someone else, and be unable to face the consequences of that. Because infidelity is something I couldn’t live with, I know that much.

So, effectively, it would mean no more me and Gemma. No more house. No more happy ending. And I can’t face that. As appalled as I am at how infinitely and dangerously I love this woman, I don’t want it to get to that point. I want her to change her mind. I want her to choose me, not him, whoever the fucking bastard is.

My alternative course of action – the one I decide to pursue – is one I can’t explain. In lots of ways, it defies logic. It only comes to me once I’m behind the wheel of the car, driving aimlessly with my temples throbbing. It’s then that I realise, finally, that there’s only one place to go.

Pebble Cottage looks sad and empty this lunchtime. The builders have gone and there are no vans outside, none of the bustle we’ve come to expect. There’s a dent on the doorframe, a casualty of the equipment that’s been hoisted in and out over the last few weeks. I stand in front of the house and think about Gemma and me. Our future.

Whatever she’s done – or is doing – I just cannot imagine this place without her. As I look inside, a fantasy ignites in my brain and I picture us in there: her, me, maybe a baby toddling around. God . . . am I really thinking that? It appears that I am.

Does this make me a pathetic, deluded fool?

Possibly.

But more than anything, it makes me realise that I’ve taken way too much for granted. This is the woman I love, and I am gripped by a feeling that I can’t just sit around whinging about her going off with someone else. I’ve got to fight for her.

I pull my collar against my neck and walk towards the beach, as the wind picks up.

There is, however, one problem with fighting for her. No matter how convinced Hollywood is that women love a good, old-fashioned punch-up, in my experience this is far from the case.

The one and only time I have come close to getting in a fight before today, it was with an 18-stone bloke over a parking space. He swore at Gemma. It was not acceptable. But she did not hold my coat and look on in admiration while I defended her honour. She just grabbed me by the shirt as if I’d taken leave of my senses and hissed, ‘What are you
doing
?’

I clamber down onto a rock and sit with my legs dangling as I watch the ebb and flow of the tide, pondering one question.

How do I win back the heart of the woman who means everything to me?

I glance back in the direction of Pebble Cottage and draw in a lungful of air. I promised her a home with a view. It’s time to deliver.

The stationery in Heswall’s branch of Tesco isn’t quite Liberty’s finest, but it will have to do.

I find the nearest drinking establishment, a trendy cocktail place with a champagne bar on the other side of the village. It’s warm and lively and I’m lucky to get a seat at the end of the bar, where I take pains to avert my eyes from the couple next to me, who are snogging so furiously they could’ve dived for pearls since they last drew breath.

I order a Coke, pull out my pen and begin writing. The words emerge with surprising fluency for a man who never usually considers himself poetic, except when his back is against the wall.

Dear Mrs Deaver,

I realise that writing you a letter is unorthodox and that, technically, we’re only meant to deal with one another via our estate agent. But I hope that when you hear what I’ve got to say, you’ll understand why I wanted to make contact.

My girlfriend and I fell in love with Pebble Cottage the moment we walked into it. Not just for the usual reasons: location, nice fittings, good-sized kitchen, even though it has all of those things.

But because, quite simply, it felt right – no, perfect. Everything about it made us believe that we’d finally found our home, and after the number of viewings we’d endured, that was no mean feat. I hope you had some happy times there. Because it feels like a house that was loved and cared for – and that’s exactly what we want to do with it too.

I know you’ve received a higher offer from another party, one we don’t have the money to match.

I won’t insult your intelligence by stressing that we’re ready to buy now, risk-free, with all the surveys and legal work already completed. You know all that, and also that you would incur considerable expense and inconvenience if you were to start a sale – with different buyers – afresh. Despite that, Gemma and I take nothing for granted.

I wanted, simply, to give you an insight into what it would mean to us if Pebble Cottage became ours. Gemma in particular has dreamed about living in a house like yours for her entire life.

And while I wouldn’t expect you to make a decision based solely on the pathetic (though genuine) pleas of a man you’ve never met, I wanted to let you know that the answer to that question – what it would mean to us – can be summed up in one word: everything. It would mean everything to us. I hope you give us a chance to make our dreams come true.

With my best wishes,

Daniel Blackwood

I fold up the note and check the time – it’s almost 1.30 p.m. The estate agents might be closed for lunch, but I’ve got Rich’s number and, although he hasn’t answered one of my calls yet, I can only try. As I dial the number, a phone along the bar springs into life:

‘DIAMONDS ARE FOREVERRR!’

I look over in time to see the male half of the snogging couple stick out his hand and grope around on the bar, refusing to unlock his tongue from the woman’s tonsils. They finally prise themselves apart and he answers sounding so breathless you’d think he’d just completed a heptathlon.

‘Hello, Rich,’ I say.

‘Sorry, but I’m at a conference in Slough at the moment,’ he replies, as his female acquaintance puts her lips on his neck as if she’s attempting to remove his Adam’s apple via liposuction. ‘High level – team-building stuff, you know.’

I put down the phone, stand up and go and move next to them.

‘Hi, Rich,’ I repeat. The girl removes her lips and looks up at me, clearly momentarily worried I might be her dad. She looks about twenty, with bleached blonde hair, a nose ring, and eyes made up like Bette Davis in
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

‘Wha . . .? I’m busy,’ he says, straightening his tie.

‘Your conference in Slough, I know. I won’t keep you,’ I grin, pulling up a chair. ‘Don’t mind if I join you, do you?’

He looks at the girl. ‘Don’t answer that,’ I say, before he can speak. ‘I need a favour.’

A sulky little frown appears on his face. ‘What?’

‘I need you to give this letter to the owners of Pebble Cottage.’

‘What does it say? I can’t accept bribes. I’ll need to know the content.’

‘It’s easier if I read it to you.’ I take out the letter as he rolls his eyes.

By the time I’ve finished, Rich appears to want to throw a bag over my head and drown me in the River Dee for squandering his precious snogging time. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He snatches the letter from me.

‘That was just about the best thing I’ve ever heard.’

I look up and the girl’s eyes are bright pink. ‘Oh my GOD!’ she sobs, grabbing the napkin and giving it the sort of blow that could dislodge brain cells. ‘That’s
so
romantic. Rich – we have to make sure they get this house.’

Rich looks alarmed. ‘I can’t. My client is the owner, not the buyers. I have to get the vendor the best deal they can. There’s one and a half per cent at stake here. The point is,’ he goes on hurriedly, ‘this is totally unconventional.’

‘And totally gorgeous,’ she gushes. ‘You believe in true love, don’t you?’

Rich looks as though he’s unsure what will explode first, his head or his trousers. ‘My mum always said I was a “new man” but—’

‘Rich, you’re the man.’ I stand up and slap him on the back, before turning to the girl, who’s dragging Rich in the direction of the door, presumably to force him to spring into action. ‘This is a good guy you’ve got here,’ I tell her. ‘You want to keep tight hold of him.’ I wink in a manner I hope he might appreciate.