Chapter Thirty-Five
Mast Christmas
After everyone had dispersed from the village hall, Gemma, Phoenix, Nicki and Jean headed down to Karma for a coffee and to chat about how beautiful the wedding had been.
Gemma felt completely flattened, the day having been such a mixture of emotions. All the time they’d been stacking chairs and sweeping the floor, she’d hoped Matt would turn up, but not only was there no sign of him, there was no message either.
As it was New Year’s Eve, Phoenix and her partner had a party to go to in Mevagissey. When she left, Nicki went home to give Hamish a reprieve from the boys. They had a sitter coming round later and were off to the Lugger for the evening, and after saying goodbye, Gemma joined her aunt to walk back up the hill to Potter’s Meadow, wishing she’d brought her flat boots. The heeled ones looked fabulous, but they were killing her.
Much as she loved Jean, Gemma wasn’t tempted by her invitation to join her and the Hot Dames (her menopause support group) for dinner at the bistro, and once she’d changed into jeans and a jumper, she went out for a walk to try to blow away the lowness of mood that had settled.
‘It’s because it’s over,’ she whispered into the stiff breeze that had strengthened since the morning. ‘A series of endings.’
Not only Christmas, but the new year was almost done with, and then there was nothing to do but leave Cornwall. The job, after all, was always meant to be a stopgap.
Gemma sidestepped some revellers coming out of the Three Fishes, and paused on the harbour. There were no sounds or lights on in the boatyard, but the sail lines continued their relentless clicking and clacking against the masts, and the water repeated its constant lapping against the stone wall. Her gaze drifted along the bay towards Westerleigh.
Was Matt there? He had intended to spend the night, but never mentioned his plans for New Year’s Eve. Had the waylaying involved an invitation for the evening?
‘None of your business,’ Gemma reminded herself as she turned her steps back to Potter’s Meadow.
Loneliness crowded in upon her and she speeded up, relishing the breeze tearing at her auburn curls.
She passed a few holidaymakers, some with young children, others walking dogs, and exchanged ‘Happy New Year’s with them, but once back at the house her mind remained on a frustrating loop over Matt: where he was, what he was doing, why he’d been distracted by something after the reception.
Not in the mood for a proper meal, Gemma ate a mince pie, then another one, skimming through her phone to look at the photos she’d taken earlier.
Fetching her music journal, she opened up the lyrics to the song she’d yet to share with Matt, a ballad to unrequited love.
Where are you now?
Where did you go?
Memories fade like melting snow.
Where are you now?
Did you not know?
I can’t bear it, must I go?
‘I need wine,’ Gemma muttered, heading for the kitchen. ‘And I need a chorus.’
Barely had she poured a glass when her phone rang.
Matt.
Willing her stomach to stop gambolling like waves rolling onto a beach, Gemma took a slug of wine. ‘Hey, what’s up?’
‘I thought you’d be having a good old knees-up in the village hall.’
‘I’m thirty-eight, Matt, not eighty-three.’
‘Fair comment. I’m going to London tomorrow now. I’ve got too much to sort out.’
‘With Harry?’
‘Amongst other things. You’re right, it’s time we talked things out.’
‘The trains are a bit limited, with it being New Year’s Day.’
‘I’ve got a car picking me up, but would you run me to Rivermills and back first?’
‘Why don’t you go from Polkerran in the morning, if you’re staying at Westerleigh?’
‘Because I only have my wedding clothes and what I came over in. I’ll be away a couple of nights.’
They had agreed to meet on the jetty at ten in the morning, and, as soon as they were aboard Last Chance , Matt pointed at the wheel.
‘Can I have a go?’
‘Why?’ Gemma’s brow furrowed. ‘I thought you liked being chauffeured?’
Rolling his eyes, Matt walked up to the cabin. ‘When you leave, I’ll have to be able to get myself to and fro, won’t I? At least until I decide what to do.’
Gemma stood aside, her hand still on the wheel. ‘Okay. I’ll manage the speed for now. Six knots is the max, as you know, but we’ll go a bit slower at first.’
To be fair, there was little to negotiate, with no sailboats active at this time of year and only the little passenger ferry going to and fro from one side of the cove to the other.
‘Remember to go round the back of the ferry, not cross in front of it. And if there’s another boat around, power gives way to sail, and fishing boats have right of way.’
They reached the bridge without mishap.
‘Does it matter which arch I go under?’
‘Use that one when heading upstream, and that one when you come this way.’
They emerged unscathed on the other side, but then Matt’s phone pinged and he fished it out, one hand still on the wheel but his eyes on the screen.
‘Matt!’
‘Oh, damn.’ He swung the wheel, skimming against a large buoy and rocking the little vessel. His phone shot out of his hand to land on one of the bench seats.
‘That’s no way to treat Elsie!’ Gemma huffed out a breath. ‘If you don’t take a break from that damn phone—’
‘I know.’ Matt held up a conceding hand.
‘You need to pay attention to your surroundings at all times. Respect the water.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Matt saluted, then gestured for Gemma to take over, turning his attention back to the message on his phone.
He spent the rest of the short trip tapping into his phone, but, when Gemma moored up, he helped to ferry the bags into the house before disappearing up to his room.
It was cold inside, so Gemma turned up the heating and focused on getting the log burner going. She then made her way methodically round the house, turning on all the Christmas lights. It might be the end of the year, but it was still the festive season until Twelfth Night.
If only it was so in Gemma’s heart, which seemed full of coal, as though she’d been on the naughty list for thirty-eight years. It felt distressingly permanent.
‘Just need to pop down to the studio.’ Matt came into the living area and dropped a large holdall, his laptop bag and a leather backpack onto the sofa.
He insisted on being given a second chance at steering the boat as they headed back to the harbour in Polkerran Point, but when his phone rang Gemma took over again, shaking her head at him. Matt remained oblivious, talking through directions to someone who was clearly coming to meet him.
With his bags loaded in a limo that must have had to hold its stomach in along the cove’s narrow lanes, Matt raised a casual hand, said he’d message when he was due back, and with that he was gone, and, if it was at all possible, Gemma’s mood sank even lower.
The day passed quickly, however. With her departure imminent, she could hardly leave the stripping of the tree at Rivermills until Twelfth Night. Taking down all the decorations seemed to take longer than putting them up, or perhaps it was simply that Gemma’s enthusiasm was muted.
Once evening came and the tide was back in, she ferried the boxes over to Polkerran, where Jean met her to take them up to the house, and Gemma returned to nothing but the bare Christmas tree.
Not wanting to look at it, she repaired to the conservatory with her laptop. Her upcoming itinerary didn’t interest her. All she could think about was Matt and what he might be doing, so she busied herself refining the ‘First Date’ lyrics and working on the chorus for the ballad.
Another massive storm was coming, predicted to bring torrential rain and wind to the south-west, but with a massive snowfall predicted for a swathe across the middle of the country. As the Peak District could be engulfed even when it was clear everywhere else, her parents expected to be snowed in, and Gemma was on tenterhooks about getting there.
The next day, she heard from Matt.
‘The band are arriving on the evening of the fourth.’
The same day Gemma was due to leave. A firmer line couldn’t have been drawn under everything. Gemma drew in a breath. ‘So, it’s back on?’
‘They’re coming to rehearse, bringing the crew – a sound engineer, they’ve contracted a tour manager and his PA, who’ll oversee things. There’s a housekeeper coming.’
‘What about Jonny?’
‘Hold on,’ Matt cautioned. ‘Let me take this.’
The line was quiet for a few minutes, then his deep voice came back on. ‘Sorry. Estate agent. You’ll still be there when I get back?’
‘Yes, briefly, but I need to get ahead of this storm.’ Gemma frowned. ‘Why are you talking to an estate agent?’
Surely he wasn’t buying yet another property? Before he could reply, a female voice could be heard in the background, and Gemma’s skin grew cold.
‘Upstairs,’ Matt called. ‘Wait a minute, Gemma.’ His voice was muffled, but still decipherable. ‘Oh, and, Sophia, can you check my bedroom?’ His voice warmed. ‘Thank you. Right.’ His voice came more clearly down the phone. ‘Sorry about that. What did you say?’
‘Nothing. Message me your ETA. I’ll send you the tide options.’
The call ended, and Gemma threw herself into cleaning the house from top to bottom, determined to keep a lid on her whirling imagination.
She only had one bag left to take over to Polkerran, and thankfully the replacement boat Matt had asked for was already moored down on the jetty outside the studio – how he’d cope with Float my Boat , she wasn’t sure.
Not your problem, she constantly reminded herself, though it was small consolation. Her role as his housekeeper, sometimes friend, sometimes nemesis, was over.
Having Matt back in the house was such a painful pleasure, Gemma wasn’t sure where her heart was, so desperately did she wish to escape the present despair; and yet how much did she want to never leave him?
Matt, on the other hand, had crowed with delight over her final polish of the ballad lyrics, which she’d offered to him on a clean sheet, tucking the music journal under the cushion in her room where she kept it. There was no way she’d let him see some of her other attempts or the scribblings about the feelings that had inspired them.
He made no comment on the subject being so different to what they’d first talked of, and went down to the studio with his laptop intent on putting the full demo together, not resurfacing to eat or say goodnight.
Gemma rose early on the morning of her departure and peered out of the window. Although the incoming snowstorm wouldn’t touch the south-west, its path was right across the middle of the country and sweeping up into the north-east. She was on an early train but would she reach the Peak District ahead of it?
To her surprise, Matt came into the kitchen, just as she ended a call with Peggy. She found it hard to look at him as she placed the phone on the countertop.
‘Peggy says the builders will drop off some tiles this morning, with a view to finishing the cottage roof.’
‘That’s great, it’ll be needed when Jonno gets here this evening.’
‘I haven’t got time to make breakfast, sorry.’
‘No problem.’ Matt smiled warmly at Gemma and she did her best to return it. He seemed so much happier since his trip to London. ‘I’m going downstairs, want to lay down the next track. Let me know when you’re off.’
When Gemma returned downstairs, bag in hand, Matt was nowhere to be seen and, judging by the faint sounds from the studio, his early-morning inspiration was in full flow.
Surveying the living area, she sighed. It had been depressingly bare these last couple of days, devoid of the tree and the sparkling lights.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Gemma reassured it. ‘You’ll soon be full of life again.’
She crossed the lawn, shivering as she placed her bag in Last Chance , moored next to Float my Boat , then hurried over to the studio, keen to get the farewell over.
Matt was on a chair in front of the console, his long legs stretched out, booted feet resting on a speaker, the mobile to his ear, but he looked up as Gemma came in.
‘I need to go, Sophia. I’ll call you later.’
There was a pause, and, hating herself for it, Gemma strained to hear the reply, but the words were indistinguishable, and perhaps that was for the best.
‘Yes! Thanks so much for the last few days.’ The warmth and enthusiasm in Matt’s voice was the best possible wake-up call, and Gemma turned for the door as he added in a lower tone, ‘You too. Bye.’
Matt had donned the Barbour. It suited him so well, with the collar turned up, his hair just touching it. A shadow dusted his cheeks and his rich hazel eyes portrayed a depth of feeling as he approached her on the jetty.
Sophia clearly stirred his emotions. Gemma didn’t want to think about how much. Matt fetched up in front of her, and she tucked her hands into her pockets. It would be ludicrous to simply shake his hand. Yes, she’d been employed by him, but if there was one thing she knew it was that they’d become friends.
Matt obviously agreed, because he stepped forward and pulled Gemma towards him, wrapping his arms round her, and – for this one time – she allowed herself to sink against his body and rest her head against his shoulder, the lyrics of their song rushing through her head.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said, his voice unusually gruff.
Tears rose unbidden, and Gemma squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
I can’t bear it , her heart whispered. Must I go?