The Love Shack (38 page)

‘I will,’ she promises as Rich looks mildly astonished at this turn of events.

Chapter 61

Gemma

Alex can barely look at me. He knows what’s coming and the only way he can deal with it is – mercifully – with his usual sense of humour.

‘How about a piece of cake, Gems?’

‘Not this time,’ I say with an apologetic smile. ‘But thank you.’

He glances at my face. ‘Now I’m a born optimist, but I’ve got to be honest with you, Gems . . . I’m not getting vibes that this is going to be the big, romantic reunion I was hoping for.’

He’s trying to sound joky, but his voice wavers.

And it’s then that the words bubble to my lips that I’ve known since that day Dan and I met – for the second time – on the banks of Lake Windermere. I’ve felt it every day since. Sometimes quietly, obscured by day-to-day difficulties and distractions of the heart. Sometimes loud and clear. Which is how it is now. And how it always will be, deep down, no matter what difficulties and distractions the future holds.

I am now convinced, from the way the sellers have acted, that Pebble Cottage will very probably not end up being ours. A house I’d started to see as inextricably linked to my relationship with Dan. And that has given me a lot to think about.

I can come to terms with losing that house, with its feature fireplaces, original sandstone flagging and gorgeous oak panelled doors. But it’s taken the prospect of losing that to make me realise that I can’t live without Dan.

Telling my teenage love what I’ve decided to do is not an easy thing.

But my decision is unequivocal. What I want – or rather,
whom
I want – has never been clearer.

‘I’m so sorry, Alex. But I’m in love with Dan. And I always will be.’

Chapter 62

Dan

As I march back to the car, my rage about the thought of Gemma seeing someone is replaced by something else entirely. Now, most of all, I find myself praying that she has an epiphany, realises I’m the only guy for her. I fantasise about her telling him she’ll never see him again – because nobody could match my personality, my sense of humour, my massive . . . okay, that might be pushing it.

Even if she tells him none of the above and just pities me too much to leave, I’ll take it.

I’m near the car when my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I close my eyes and pray that it’s her. In fact, it’s Mum. And when I answer the phone I can barely make out what she’s saying.

‘Dan!’ she sobs as I remember that Gemma texted me earlier to say that the press were onto her and James.

‘Oh, Mum, I’m sorry I didn’t call you today. Gemma told me about the journalist and—’

‘It’s not that, Dan.’ Her voice wavers. ‘It’s your grandma.’

‘What about her?’

When she says the next words, I can feel the strength slipping away from my legs as I slump in the car.

‘I’m at the hospital, Daniel. She’s had a heart attack.’

Chapter 63

Gemma

I stand in front of 150 people, so terrified that I’m even unable to pick up my glass of water, without which I know I’ll sound as though I’ve inhaled a bag of Hoover dust.

The words of Rosie, the public-speaking Nazi, pound through my head. Look confident. Project. Stand straight. Work the room. Work the room. WORK THE ROOM.

What the hell does ‘work the room’ mean anyway? I stand, mute, as people drift in after lunch – a lunch I’ve singularly failed to eat because my nerves were too busy ripping apart the lining of my stomach. I’m supposed to be doing as Rosie instructed – walking round, shaking hands, making friends with these people. In her words, ‘Make sure there are no strangers – only friends!’

None of them look like friends. None at all.

Not the fat bloke with the moustache and pork-pie crumbs in his beard. Not the woman with the trowelled-on make-up and nails that could qualify for an architectural award.

None of them could look more like enemies if they wore Rambo headscarves and were toting AK-47s.

When they’re all seated, Sebastian leaps on stage and gives a performance that is effusive, boundless, positively evangelical. And all he’s doing is my introduction.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon,’ he pronounces.

He is quintessential proof that it’s not
what
you say it’s
how
you say it that counts. Because, honestly, nothing that comes out of his mouth is anything other than garbage. But the audience are transfixed as he strides across the podium, charisma and charm almost bursting out of his chest.

‘A wise man once said: “Advertising is the science of arresting human intelligence long enough to get money out of it”.’ He pauses for effect, and for the ripple of mirth to subside. ‘Now I’d like to introduce one lady who plans to do
exactly
that. So, arrest your intelligence, guys and gals, and give a warm welcome to – Gemma Johnston!’

I straighten my back and focus. Then I reach my podium, feeling hot and cold at the same time, ready to embark on the presentation of my career . . . when a mobile phone rings.

The entire audience starts checking their bags and pockets, rustling round with phones as I try desperately – with sweat beading on my brow – not to be put off. My heart is kickboxing as my chest heaves up and down in panicked breaths and I pray that they’d all just stop and turn and look at me again. And more than anything, I wish whoever left their bloody phone on WOULD TURN THE DAMN THING OFF!

‘Gemma, it’s yours,’ Sebastian announces.

Perspiring and scarlet, I scramble across the stage and down the steps to the bag I’ve left on a chair. But by some perverse twist of fate, it’s stuck in the side pocket and, instead of neutralising the situation, I am left wrestling with my bag like I’m Crocodile Dundee, trying to get it out. The audience titters as I finally hit silent, try to stop hyperventilating, put it back in the bag that I then carry up on the stage, where it can do no more harm.

‘Sorry about that,’ I mutter, back at the podium. Only now I’m ready to begin, people have started chatting again; the silence Sebastian commanded has disintegrated and everyone is mid-conversation, except the bloke on the second row who’s now picking bits of pork pie out of his teeth.

Sebastian repeats his call to order.

‘Thanks, Sebastian,’ I say smoothly, trying not to die on the spot as I prepare to read the bit of the speech he’s written. ‘I’m here to tell you about our vision for the future of female contraception. How to turn a woman on . . .’

My voice trails off as I become aware that something is vibrating, right on cue. Then I realise it’s the phone in my bag. Only, nobody knows that. All the audience knows is that one minute I’m talking about getting hot and heavy – the next they’re treated to a soundtrack that’s very like a Rampant Rabbit turned on full.

‘How to turn a woman on . . .’ I repeat, in the absence of any other ideas.

Only, now the bag has taken on a life of its own and is buzzing its way across the stage, edging towards me as if begging for attention.

‘How to turn a woman . . .’

The room erupts into laughter as I dive across the stage again, end the call and muster up a titter, as if the joke was fully intended. I register blankly that the phone call is from Rich as I shove my mobile firmly back into my jacket pocket, unable to start messing about to turn it off again.

Finally, the presentation begins and can be summed up thus: the most wretched fifteen minutes of my life.

This is partly because of the gems of wisdom Sebastian has forced me to come out with (‘We ladies know just how bad fellas can be at remembering those rubber johnnies, don’t we?’) and partly because, every time my phone starts vibrating, I’m forced to raise my voice several notches, leaving the audience thinking I’ve got an elastic band round my vocal cords.

Relief ripples through me as I finally step down from the podium and sit trembling in the front row, listening to Sebastian as my reddened cheeks start to slowly extinguish. And trying to work out how I can get my phone out of my pocket without anyone – particularly Sebastian – seeing.

He’s midway through talking some bollocks about capturing the essence of liberation, when I become aware that everyone’s staring at me. ‘Isn’t that right, Gemma?’ I turn and look around to see if anyone else might go by the same name.

The answer appears to be no. So I take the only option that seems to be open to me, which is to concur with his point enthusiastically, only to realise as he moves onto his next slide that I’ve just agreed with the statement, ‘women want to take control of their own vaginas’.

Refusing to dwell on the fact that Sebastian has just made 150 people – including six directors and the man with the pork pie in his beard – think about my vagina, I reach into my pocket for my phone, take it out surreptitiously and glance at the screen. I have four missed calls from Rich.

I slip out of my seat and run to the exit before anyone can argue. When I’m outside, I phone Rich’s mobile.

‘Jeeze Louise! Your Batphone has been red hot. Where’ve you been?’

‘I’m in a presentation, what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is, my vendors want to talk to you direct after your fella wrote that letter to them.’

‘What letter?’

‘It doesn’t matter, the point is, you need to speak to Mrs Deaver. Now. Directly. I’ve got her number. She hasn’t told me what it’s about – she wants to speak to you, apparently. But look,
if
things were to go your way, there is every chance you could exchange contracts and complete today.’

‘Is that even do-able? It’s 2.30 p.m.’

‘The solicitors both say so. I took the liberty of phoning them after my conversation with Mrs Deaver, just to see – in principle, you know. Gemma, you need to get on that phone NOW.’

‘I can’t, I’m in a presentation,’ I whisper hysterically. ‘Get Dan to phone her.’

‘I’ve been phoning
him
all afternoon and got no response. Look, it’s up to you, but you have two and a half hours before everyone closes for business for the weekend. Do you really want to let this run onto next week and risk her changing her mind again?’

‘I refuse to be backed into a corner on this,’ I say weakly.

‘Really, Gemma?’ he asks furiously. ‘When you’re
this
close?’ My stomach lurches. ‘You could have the keys to this house by tonight. Think about it. In fact,
don’t
think about it. Just phone her!’

My head swirls. ‘Arrghhh! Oh God, okay. Give me the number.’ I grab a pen from the hotel’s reception and have started writing it down when someone grabs me by the arm. I spin round to see it’s Sebastian.

‘Gemma – it’s part two. You’re on. NOW!’

‘Rich, I’ve got to go,’ I say hopelessly. ‘Please keep phoning Dan. Tell him to talk to her and make the decision, whatever it is.’

‘I’ve tried—’ he begins, but I put down the phone and race back into the room, ready to face the enemy for the second time.

Chapter 64

Dan

I become aware that my back pocket is vibrating and only then register that the phone’s been ringing for some time. I pull it out and spot Rich’s number, before pressing ‘off’ and laying it on the hospital table.

Mum is beside the bed, her cheek resting on Grandma’s hand, tears and disbelief in her eyes. Sunlight streams through the windows and casts light on Grandma’s face. As she lies, still and silent, she looks like an angel, ethereal and otherworldly.

I put my hand on Mum’s shoulder and she stirs and looks up at me, her lips trembling. I know I have to be the strong one today. When I was a kid, she used to say after Dad left: ‘You’re the man of the house now, Daniel.’ And although Mum never really needed anyone to look after her, today, I need to step up to the mark.

Mum presses her lips against Grandma’s fingers, then slowly stands as I cuddle her into me. She feels smaller than I’d ever thought of her, thin and birdlike. Or maybe it’s just today’s jolting reminder of how fragile life is, how precious and how short.

Mum tells me she’s going to get a breath of fresh air, before leaving me alone with Grandma. I sit in silence next to the bed for a few moments before a dam bursts inside me and tears spill onto the bleached white bedsheet.

‘I love you, Grandma.’

It feels good to utter the words, though they’re followed by a punch of recognition that I wish I’d been able to say it one last time before this happened.

I run my hand gently over her hair. It’s fluffy and fine, the texture of a baby’s. And for some daft reason it makes me think about her pulling on that swimming cap and taking me by the hand as we went crashing through the waves, with Grandad when I was a little kid, then again just a few weeks ago.

If I’d known then that our Bala Lake swim would be the last time she’d get to do the thing she loved most . . . Actually, I don’t know what I’d have done differently. Perhaps it was the most fitting finale to a lifetime of love for the water.

Of course, I always knew that she wouldn’t be with us forever. But Grandma had this way of skipping through life in a manner that gave the impression that the day when she wouldn’t be around any more would never come. Technically, she is still with us. But it really is technically – in a medically-induced coma, clinging onto life.

Mum was with her when it all happened; she’d called in just as Grandma said she could feel pressure in her chest. The heart attack happened afterwards, when they were in the ambulance. The paramedics sprang into life, and although their actions probably prevented her from dying instantly, the doctors have been clear that the Flossie we’re left with will never be the same again.

Oxygen deprivation. They’re the two words I keep hearing. That and the stark warning that it’s unlikely Grandma will wake up. Her body might have made it through, but her spirit died in that ambulance.

It occurs to me that she might have been a little afraid of death as she grew older; perhaps that was why she went on about her age, underlining the frailties that those around her found difficult to recognise.