Chapter Twenty-Two
They Said There’d be Snow this Christmas.
They Lied. This is Cornwall, After All.
Gemma slept badly, something she couldn’t explain other than having drunk caffeine too late at night, as she and Matt had spent several hours staring at the screen of his laptop as he looked at the other options offered by the online educator he’d signed up with. He was keen to do something other than music, and eventually he made a decision and went to bed.
Yawning behind her hand, Gemma watched as two gigs went past the entrance to the creek, oars pounding the water in rhythm as they headed upriver against the tide. She scooped up the duster and polish, having given the conservatory a quick clean, and went back into the living area. Matt wouldn’t surface for at least an hour. She’d have a rousing cup of coffee and then tackle the washing machine.
She felt a sense of well-being but wasn’t sure why. The Christmas tree twinkled at her and she eyed it sternly.
‘It’s not because he’s home,’ she told it firmly.
Methinks you protest too much…
‘Whatever,’ Gemma pronounced breezily as she headed down the hallway to the boot room. It was one week to the Christmas fayre, Matt was back from London, the veil lifted on his secretive behaviour – a large part of his stress – and life was good.
The following week fell into a pattern.
Gemma’s day would start with working through the house and switching on all the lights, then the opening of her advent calendar.
She continued to carry out her housekeeping duties, although she’d decided to encourage Matt to be a bit less lazy, especially after he caught her using two wooden spatulas to scoop up his underwear from the floor.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Gemma had dropped the items into the washing basket.
‘This is a linen basket, Matt.’
Matt had smirked. ‘Those aren’t made of linen.’
‘Fine.’ Gemma had folded her arms. ‘Let’s rename it. I’ll draw up the paperwork to make it official. It’s now the dirty washing basket.’
It almost worked, although it was clear, the next time she went in to clean his room, he’d been using it as target practice, judging by the items balled up around the base and a random sock hanging off the picture frame above it.
The cooking wasn’t exactly improving, but Matt’s appetite had, and Gemma’s efforts didn’t cease. With a combination of Anna’s phone advice, the freezer stock and Gemma’s creativity – a sludge-green, formless dish, which Matt claimed tasted like feet, had so far been the pinnacle of her failures, much to his amusement, closely followed by a treacle tart so brittle it had shot across the room when she’d tried to cut it – she managed to keep going without poisoning him, and by the end of the week was feeling as though she’d scaled a mountain.
Matt spent less time in the studio. After all, he hadn’t got a tour to prepare for, and he didn’t need to hide away to study because it was no longer a secret within the house. He settled at the dining table most days, making a start on the coursework for his English language A level. When Gemma asked him about how and when he’d reveal what he was doing to Anna, he said not until he’d passed an assignment with a decent grade. Knowing Matt’s songwriting talent, she didn’t think it would be long.
Gemma kept him supplied with coffee and he even occasionally ate one of her baked offerings. What was more, he seemed to be enjoying the studying, much to his surprise, and as a result the mood in the house lifted.
Every evening, once tucked up in bed, Gemma would review Harry’s Instagram for new posts, stories or reels and react to them, occasionally commenting; but again, no response, although he had replied to a couple of people lately.
To increase Gemma’s spirits, she kept checking the Polkerran village website for updates on the upcoming fayre, until finally it was Saturday morning.
Polkerran Point Christmas Fayre TODAY!
Gemma’s heart swelled with happiness as the image popped up on the village’s social media page. Then, the anticipation faded, and she sighed.
For some reason, this morning Matt had refused any breakfast, and, when she’d asked why, he’d merely disappeared back to his room. He had dipped into the wine bottle a bit too much the night before, which was odd, as he’d barely touched a drop all week. Was he just hungover?
‘No, it’s more than that,’ Gemma mused to the walls, as she paced up and down the sitting area. The rapport she felt they’d developed over the last week seemed to have dissipated.
‘What now ?’ she enquired of the circular window. ‘What’s taken hold of him this time?’
The window didn’t respond, merely drew Gemma towards it, and she peered out across the end of the creek to the trees on the opposite bank. Placing her hands on the frame, she pressed her nose almost to the glass. A thick frost coated everything in white. It might not be snow, but it looked as good.
Despite the effective heating inside, she could sense the iciness emanating from the still waters, where wisps hovered like the fringes of a silken veil.
‘What are you doing?’
With a start, Gemma spun round. Matt stood by the empty fireplace, arms folded across his body as though he couldn’t get warm. She longed to go over and wrap her own arms round him, hold him close, transfer the heat from her body to his.
‘Checking the weather.’ She waved a vague hand towards the window. ‘If this doesn’t lift, we may have to walk into Polkerran. When a fog descends on the river, it’s impossible to navigate in a small boat. You can completely lose your bearings, which is a tad problematic.’
‘What, for a seasoned boatwoman like you?’ Matt’s tone was mocking, and Gemma glared at him.
He still had the ability to wind her up, even though she knew she was falling for him. Thank goodness her passport was due back any time now, and she could start making plans to resume her travels.
‘What time do you need to be there?’ Gemma gestured at the guitar case on the sofa.
To her surprise, Matt sank onto the nearest chair, his head dropping into his hands.
‘I don’t want to do it, Gem.’
Gemma’s heart – which had been thawing for some time – dissolved into a puddle of goo, and she shot across the room.
Matt didn’t look up and, tentatively, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t shrug it off, so she squeezed it, and he raised his head to meet her gaze.
‘I told you, I’ve never performed on my own. I know it sounds stupid. Childish, even. I had dreadful nerves when there were four of us, but I wasn’t up front and centre. Harry lapped it up. I tried to be more like him, but I don’t have it in me.’
‘But you can sing. I’ve heard you trying lines out when you’ve got that music playing on your laptop. I mean, it’s a different tone to the band, but so it should be. Your voice is deeper.’
Matt drew in a long breath. ‘And you remember my nickname?’
Gemma had no answer and, to be honest, was perfectly content rubbing Matt’s shoulder. The back of his neck was exposed as his head lowered again, and tentatively she eased her hand along and rested it against his skin.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered.
There was silence for a moment, then Matt’s head came up again, and she dropped her hand.
‘Saying nothing is good. I don’t want to hear platitudes like, it’ll be okay, or you’re great and they’ll love it. I feel raw. Naked. And terrified of failing again.’
Gemma tried not to notice the time, but she knew they needed to try to get over to Polkerran before the tide became too low. She threw a wary look out of the window again. The tendrils of fog hadn’t become any more substantial.
‘How about we go over there, take your guitar, and we’ll leave it in the back room at the Lugger for now. Let’s be punters at the fayre for a few hours, have a bit of lunch. There’s no playlist, it’s an open mike thing. No one has mentioned your name particularly, have they, and there are even rumours my great-aunt Dee is going to have a go! If you don’t want to do it, we’ll find a reason and leave, and I’ll bring you back if the tide permits, or we can stay over as planned.’
Matt flopped back in his seat, his dark eyes raking Gemma’s face in bewilderment. ‘You’d do that? When you’ve talked of nothing but the fayre for weeks? You’d cut it short?’
For you, yes. I would.
Pretending nonchalance, Gemma raised both hands, palms up. ‘It’s a day, that’s all. Christmas happens every year, there’ll be other ones.’
It took a few more minutes of persuasion, but eventually Matt was dressed and donning his thick jacket and Gemma, who’d been ready forever, herded him down to the boat with their overnight bags and the guitar.
‘What got you into it?’ She gestured at the instrument as she steered Last Chance out onto the river and turned for Polkerran.
Matt stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankle, his gaze on the bare branches opposite, which bowed down to honour the dark-green waters swirling past.
‘Music was my world. I loved sounds. Even when all I had was a recorder for school, I liked to pipe notes and try to make up tunes.’
Gemma steered past a couple of moored boats, then looked back at him.
‘And?’
‘I didn’t know back then, but I think it’s in my blood. My adoptive parents weren’t musical, though they appreciated it well enough. But Anna has since found out from the cousin who raised her that our parents toured music festivals. She gave me a copy of a photo she now has of them in a field somewhere, each nursing a guitar.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Probably explains the obsession with it.’
Gemma said no more, turning back to concentrate on steering the boat as the bridge emerged from the mist. Every day she discovered more about this man, who had depths deeper than the water passing beneath them.