The Love Shack (41 page)

So for now, we are simply taking our absolutely-necessary belongings to the flat we’re renting temporarily (we hope) for the next few weeks. Or probably months.

And because the Fanny Magnet has been returned by the police – and is now packed to the rafters with a duvet, our clothes and Dan’s absolute essentials (which, annoyingly amount to about a tenth of mine), we’ve had to call in the cavalry, in the form of James and his Range Rover.

‘Don’t forget the Tripe Surprise I’ve made you!’ Belinda hollers, marching down the steps and hurtling towards me with a casserole dish in her hand. I clearly hesitate: ‘You don’t look very enthusiastic, Gemma.’

‘Sorry, I . . .’

She takes the lid off the casserole dish and shows me the contents: three ten-pound notes. ‘I thought you’d prefer a takeaway. My treat.’

I laugh. ‘That’s really kind of you, Belinda. I’ll bet it’ll be strange being by yourself in the house, won’t it?’

‘Well, Mum might be able to come home by the end of the week and she’s going to stay in the main house with me at the beginning – if I get my own way, at least. And I’m sure I’ll have company in the meantime.’ She glances at James, then winks at me as the paper boy rides down the drive and hands her a copy of
The Times
.

She unfolds it and glances at the blurb across the top. ‘Ooh, look – I’m in the paper again!’

Belinda’s publishing company weren’t enormously understanding about what they considered to be catastrophic developments in her private life. Even if Belinda had agreed to back down and dump James, the story that one of the world’s most notorious ball-breakers was
in love
was already out – courtesy of the photographer who caught them coming out of the village pub.

Their lawyers were called in, Belinda’s lawyers were called in, and it was all heading towards something horribly messy, until someone at the publishing house made a suggestion: that Belinda revise the book in the light of her recent experience.

It’s now been re-branded –
They’re NOT All Bastards
– and, while not entirely a climb-down (two words that CANNOT BE MENTIONED IN THIS HOUSEHOLD), it has been rewritten as a practical guide to sorting out the good men from the bad, to spotting the ones who are trouble, refusing to put up with any nonsense, and appreciating the good guys when they come along.

They’ve moved the publication date to Valentine’s Day next year and it’s being hotly tipped as one of the books of the year. It is
funny, caustic and wonderfully life-affirming
– at least that’s what the publishers, who are
not
desperate, honestly, say. Belinda has dedicated it to her mother and father.

I don’t know what makes me click onto my phone and look at Facebook, just before I get into the car. When I do, I find a message from Alex.

Gems. After much consideration, I thought it best for both of us if I un-friend you on Facebook. That is going to sound far more truculent than it’s meant, but I hope you understand when I say I’d like to just remember the 16-year-old-you and the great times we had together, rather than sulk over the great times you go on to have with another man.

That said, I really –
honestly and genuinely
– hope you and Dan are happy together and that you have a wonderful life. You deserve it and, from what you’ve told me, he does too. I’ll never forget you, Gems. Even if lemon drizzle cake will never taste quite as nice again. Alex xx

I click onto his profile and see that – sure enough, we’re no longer friends. It’s sad in some ways, but I can’t help thinking he’s right in this case: it’s better to remember the past while you can still do so fondly.

I finally jump in the car, wave goodbye to Buddington and Belinda, and follow Dan to the city, to Liverpool.

Where, after months in the countryside, both of us are fairly certain we belong. When we’d first started house-hunting, there was absolutely nothing for sale in the part of the city centre we both love – the Georgian Quarter. Not that was within our budget anyway.

But after six months – during which our attention was focused solely on Pebble Cottage – that changed. The house we stumbled across on the night we fell out of the Belvedere pub is small but utterly perfect.

It is a stone’s throw from Hope Street, walking distance from the Quarter (and the best breakfasts in town), and the air whispers with the music that spills from the windows of the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts.

There is no sea view, of course, but there
is
a balcony on the top floor, big enough for Grandma’s sweetheart seat and from which you can just about see the river. The living room is bright and quirky, with a high ceiling, generous windows and a Victorian fireplace, with a space above it large enough for the picture I’ve had blown up of Dan and Flossie running into the water in Bala Lake.

I’m not getting my hopes up. Honestly I’m not. We’re at the very beginning of the house-buying process – again.

But there are times when I have to allow myself a ripple of optimism that fate might be on our side this time. Everything adds up, at least on paper: the extra £20,000 of Dan’s means it is 100 per cent within our budget, particularly as the owners of Pebble Cottage had a pang of conscience and returned the money we paid for the repairs.

We put an offer in after two viewings and, although it was accepted, we have a long road ahead of us now – one in which nothing is guaranteed, as Dan and I know more than most. But what have you got if you haven’t got hope?

In the meantime, the flat we’re staying in is tiny, inexpensive, has all the atmosphere of a Travelodge. But as far as I’m concerned, it will do. Because it also contains Dan. And me. And nobody else.

When I arrive, he is waiting with two glasses of champagne. There are candles on the table.

‘Why have you lit candles at 10.45 in the morning?’

‘The booze is perfectly normal then?’

I take a sip of my champagne and he takes the glass off me again, sliding his arms round my waist. Then he lifts up my chin and plants his lips softly on mine, reaffirming his status – officially – as the World’s Best Kisser.

He leads me to the bedroom. ‘What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘Come on, it’s been six months since we’ve been able to do this without the bed squeaking or my mother being downstairs. You in?’

‘I’m in,’ I giggle, as we tumble onto the bed. And then one thought shudders through my head: Dan Blackwood, I love you. And I’m going to give you the shock of your life.

Chapter 72

Dan

Sheila’s son Mark has the same striking blue eyes as her, but that’s where the similarities start and finish. He’s approximately twice her size and with biceps like the inflatable rafts on a cargo ship, even if he keeps saying he’s hardly made it to the gym since Rose was born.

‘The lack of sleep’s a killer,’ he grins, rocking the pushchair back and forth. ‘I used to spend Saturday nights clubbing. Now I can’t make it through
Family Fortunes
without dropping off.’

‘Oh, stop your moaning.’ Sheila picks up the baby and snuggles her. ‘She’s my little angel.’

Mark has driven up from London with Rose so she can have one last cuddle with her before Sheila checks into the Kevin White Unit. She’ll be there for several weeks, at which point he’ll be coming back to pick her up – and has agreed that, at least for the first few weeks, she’ll go and stay with him.

Only Sheila has it in her power to stay clean from then on, but this is a major step towards recovery and she’s worked hard to try and set things up for when she returns, including tapping up an old schoolfriend for a part-time job in a hairdresser’s.

As I help Sheila fill out the paperwork, wish her luck, and then walk out into the street, I feel genuinely optimistic. My mood continues all the way home, despite the fact that the bus breaks down and I get a call from work announcing that I’ve been nominated to attend a Health and Safety workshop next week.

When I enter the flat, Gemma is pacing up and down. She’s wearing the red, screen-siren lipstick I know she puts on when she wants a confidence boost.

‘Don’t sit down,’ she warns me. ‘We’re going out again.’

‘To where? Can’t we get something to eat first?’ I open the kitchen cupboard and in the absence of any crisps, pull out some Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. She slams it shut and nearly negates the need for me to cut my fingernails for the next week.

‘Not tonight. I thought we’d go for a walk.’

She takes my arm and we head downstairs and out into the street.

I have known my girlfriend long enough to spot when she is acting strangely. Equally, I have known her long enough to resist any temptation to point this out. So I decide to roll with it.

We dodge through Friday-night office workers, the throb of music bursting out of the bars. She leads me to the corner of Tithebarn Street, where the business district starts, and we walk in the direction of the river as office doors close and the world around us quietens.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I tell her, as she breaks free and clatters ahead of me. ‘I’m glad of this little diversion. But I’m also slightly surprised.’

‘Why?’ she asks, glancing back.

‘Because you’re not at home with your head in a pile of papers, phoning insurance companies and mortgage companies and shouting at estate agents.’

‘What’s the point in stressing about it? I refuse to let this wind me up again.’

The fresh air has clearly got to her.

We are rounding the corner to Our Lady and St Nicholas Church when the bells begin to ring – pealing out as they fill my ears and vibrate through my chest.

‘They do this every Friday night,’ Gemma shouts, as we approach the garden where we spent our one and only wild night of the last six months. ‘I found out about it the other week. Don’t they sound amazing?’

We descend into the garden as the river glitters on the horizon, golden sunlight streaming through the clouds. She takes my hand again and leads me into an oasis of roses and autumn flowers, a blaze of colour. And as we stand alone in this celestial place, the sun beating down upon Gemma’s face, I lean in to kiss her – but she puts her hand on my chest and stops me.

‘What’s up?’ I mouth.

She smiles. ‘Nothing,’ she mouths back.

Which clearly means
everything
. I’ve been caught out like this before.

I step back and hold up my arms, indicating my bewilderment in the only way I can due to the clamour of the bells.

‘I HADN’T REALISED HOW LOUD IT’D BE!’

I can still only just hear her, despite the conversation taking place several decibels above our comfort zone. ‘LET’S GO THEN,’ I bawl.

But she shakes her head and looks at me in a way that says this has to be going somewhere. I cannot imagine where, but I stay put.

And then she shouts at the top of her voice, from the bottom of her lungs – four words:

‘WILL YOU MARRY ME?’

The bells fall suddenly silent, as if they’re too stunned to continue.

‘What did you say?’ I whisper.

She laughs joyfully. ‘I said, will you marry me?’

The inside of my head does somersaults. ‘Are you serious?’

She nods. ‘I am.’

‘But what changed your mind?’ I ask dumbfounded.

She smiles and whispers, ‘
I just realised that I am an idiot. Because it’s taken until now to realise how much you burn me up, how much I love you. I can think of nothing or nobody I could love more.
Someone wrote that to me in a letter once.’

‘That’s the corniest thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Don’t you dare. It was written by the man I love. Although he still hasn’t answered my question.’

I am light-headed when I reply, ‘You know it’s yes. It was always going to be yes.’

I take her in my arms under a luminous sky. And I realise that of all the things life may or may not throw at me, nothing will match this: loving her with every little bit of me.