Chapter Seventeen
We All Want Some Figgy Pudding
Though We Don’t Know What It Is
The next morning, Gemma shot into the shower full of anticipation, though a little unsure why.
She did a quick tidy-up, leaving the kitchen spotless – she might be somewhat lacking in the culinary department, but she knew how to clean – sorted out the grate, then headed to the utility.
‘I’ll get back to you,’ she assured the overspilling ironing basket as she retrieved fresh bedding and towels from the cupboard before heading upstairs to strip Matt’s bed, trying not to recall the time she’d found him there almost naked.
The sound of two ducks squabbling drew her to the window, and she scanned the inlet of water, consumed in thought. Matt was a complex mixture. He could be incredibly annoying, and then suddenly charming. Sometimes a vulnerable man-boy who’d never quite stood on his own feet, other times, strong, deep-thinking and…
‘Gorgeous,’ Gemma whispered as she turned her back on the window.
Bugger. Was she starting to seriously fancy him? Could you find a man attractive even if he was a pillock sometimes?
Not wanting to dwell on how her interest in Matt had evolved, Gemma picked up the cleaning trug and headed to the bathroom. Squirting liquid into the loo ought to be a proficient way to dispel any ridiculous thoughts about the man.
Matt was waiting at the quayside, clutching a large box, when Gemma slowed Last Chance and moored up against the jetty.
‘Hey.’ He looked pale, but then he always was.
Gemma held the boat steady as he stepped in, and handed over the thick Barbour coat he’d bought in London along with his life-vest.
‘It’s cold out on the water.’
‘Thanks.’ He shrugged into them and sat down as Gemma unwound the rope, then steered the boat round so it faced upstream again.
‘How’re you feeling?’ She glanced over at Matt. ‘Head sore?’
‘Nope. They think I fainted.’
Gemma rolled her eyes. ‘You don’t eat properly.’
‘No surprise, with you cooking.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Anna says you have to build me up until I feel like the Christmas turkey. Not sure who she’s thinking of feeding me to. Oliver would probably prefer I was stuffed.’
Refusing to be drawn, Gemma mentally reviewed the contents of the cupboards.
‘Chicken soup is apparently a winner,’ Matt added.
Great. All she needed was to catch a chicken and they’d be sorted.
Matt didn’t speak again until they entered the boot room at the back of the house, and he placed the box on top of the washing machine.
‘This is yours. Anna says your aunt dropped it off. It came in the post.’
Gemma’s brow furrowed. ‘I haven’t ordered anything else.’
Matt didn’t respond, dropping his bag and heading back outside, and Gemma headed to the kitchen in search of something that would pass as chicken soup.
Matt had been to inspect the temporary repair to the cottage roof but, as he’d then gone straight upstairs, he hadn’t yet had the full benefit of the living room.
‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed when he entered an hour later. ‘It’s like Santa’s chuffing grotto!’
‘Don’t exaggerate,’ Gemma retorted, stirring the pan on the stovetop. She leaned forward to inhale. Was it remotely chickenish?
‘Surprisingly, something smells good. What is it?’
‘You mean you can’t tell?’ Gemma hastily returned a carton of instant chicken gravy granules to the cupboard. ‘Go sit down and I’ll bring it in.’
For once, Matt did as he was told, and she ferried the bowl out along with a basket of bread rolls from Shari’s café.
He picked up a spoon, then sniffed the bowl. ‘It smells spicy.’
‘Not overly. It’s chicken noodle soup.’
Matt’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is it Anna’s?’
‘No. I… put it together.’
He lowered the spoon.
‘Come on, Matt. The doctors told you to eat, otherwise you’re going to pass out again, and it could be somewhere even more dangerous, like the top of a flight of stairs or on a cliff path.’
‘Fine.’
Gemma turned her back. ‘I’m going to clean up.’
She pulled the door to behind her and hurried into the kitchen, where she rinsed the empty carton of Chicken & Mushroom Pot Noodle and buried it in the recycle bin.
What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Hopefully.
Finally having time to examine the box delivered to her aunt’s, she recognised her mum’s handwriting. Puzzled, she opened it, only to put a hand to her chest, filled with emotion as she beheld the contents – her childhood Christmas gingerbread house, cosily wrapped in thick padding so as to protect it in the post.
‘Is there any more?’
‘What?’
Matt held up an empty bowl. ‘It wasn’t bad.’
Gemma was tempted to tell him he was a good boy. ‘Sorry. I didn’t make much as I thought you’d waste it. There’s pudding coming though.’ She gestured towards the oven. ‘One of Anna’s, so nothing to fear.’
To her surprise (and a little regret – she’d been hoping to eat it if Matt didn’t touch it), the second bowl came back empty too. He had clearly taken the doctor’s orders to heart, which was evident once again when he (nearly) polished off dinner later on, too. Afterwards, he retrieved a half-drunk bottle of red from the kitchen counter and a glass.
‘Are you allowed alcohol?’
‘Under whose rules?’
‘The hospital’s.’
‘They gave me a clean bill of health. I fainted, that’s all. This’ – he pointed to the cut on his cheek – ‘has left no permanent damage. I had no concussion, so yes.’ He waved the bottle. ‘I am allowed a drink. Want to join me?’
Why not?
Gemma poured herself a glass of rosé, but as she turned back from the fridge she found Matt inspecting the gingerbread house, now free of its packaging.
‘Isn’t it lovely? My gran bought it for me when I was little. Mum sent it down for me.’
Matt prodded the roof, which presently sat separate from the main structure, then picked up a gingerbread man and pretended to take a bite of his head.
‘Hey, leave Gingie alone!’
‘Gingie? Is that the best you could do?’
‘I was six ,’ Gemma admonished, taking it from him.
‘It’s pretty obvious it’s fake.’
‘Correction,’ Gemma said, carrying the base over to the deep windowsill running behind the Christmas tree. ‘It’s a real gingerbread house – just not edible.’
‘No fun in that.’
Gemma popped the roof in position, then placed Gingie in his stand. ‘There, it looks perfect, especially with its circular window, like ours.’
Ours? Freudian slip…
Hoping Matt hadn’t noticed, Gemma walked over to the leather sofa opposite the circular window. She didn’t like to admit it, but she felt content now Matt was back, and this did feel sort of home-ish, especially with all the Christmas décor.
She hid her smile as his gaze roamed from the brightly lit tree to the garlands in the kitchen and the holly and yew spread across the deep windowsills.
‘You weren’t joking about loving the season, were you?’
Gemma sipped her wine while Matt took the squashy leather chair beside the circular window, leaning forward to pour himself a glass of red.
‘Nope. Why don’t you? It’s been kind to you, thanks to “This Little Christmas Song”.’
Matt stirred in his seat. ‘I loved it as a small kid. Mum and Dad took me to Lapland. The whole magic of it was…’ He seemed lost for words. ‘Then, it faded. I was an obnoxious teen, grew to hate the house decorated like an elf had spewed tinsel over it, wouldn’t pull a cracker at dinner or wear the paper hat. They’d chuckle at the lousy jokes, and I’d walk out, leave them to it.’
‘And now?’
Discomfort flooded his features. ‘I try to make up for it. I feel even worse now I’ve been reunited with Anna, hating family traditions she would have cherished with all her heart.’
A melancholy air had settled over Matt, and Gemma suppressed the urge to go and hug him. Perhaps better to deflect the conversation away from his own experiences.
‘We have the most fabulous Christmases at home. My parents love it and always made it special when we were growing up. Still do.’ Fond memories flooded through Gemma. ‘Mum refuses to admit Santa isn’t real, even now. It used to wind us up when we were older kids and over it, but now I find it funny. There’s a treasure hunt every Christmas Eve, so we can have one gift early, and Dad still puts out a mince pie and sherry for Santa. He used to tease us so much – bootprints on the hearth, reindeer poo, and he’d take a bite and—’
‘You’re kidding.’ Matt looked appalled, but Gemma continued.
‘It was cocktail sausages with melted chocolate on. Not exactly a flavour sensation, but it fulfilled a purpose.’
Her face fell as she recalled the ornaments she’d bought in Switzerland.
Matt placed his glass on the low wooden table between them. ‘So why has the memory suddenly brought you down?’
‘It’s nothing.’ She summoned a smile.
‘Liar.’
‘Okay, okay. There was this little craft fair in one of the Swiss towns I visited, and one of the stalls had these wooden decorations, perfect for a tree.’
Matt said nothing, his gaze fixed on her, and Gemma continued quickly, trying not to be so aware of him.
‘The carving was delicate – almost like a paper-cut design?’ Putting down her glass, she tried to demonstrate with her hands. ‘Circular, only so big. It had snow-capped mountains and a fir tree, with a deer beside it. I got two so I could give one to my mum.’
Matt tilted his head to one side. ‘You’re talking in the past tense, so…?’
‘They’re gone. In the fire, like everything else I had with me.’
Compassion filled his face, and Gemma blinked as her heart stuttered.
Stop it , she willed it. You do not find him remotely attractive.
‘Sorry. I forgot.’ He leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. ‘Is it indelicate to ask what other mementoes you lost?’
Gemma grabbed her wine glass, taking a slug.
You haven’t noticed the lean midriff he’s exposed either, girl. Remember you’ve given him a Pot Noodle mixed in with some watery gravy and he hasn’t had to go and wash his mouth out.
A small laugh escaped Gemma, unbidden, and Matt raised a brow.
‘Now it’s funny?’
‘No. Not at all.’ She sobered. ‘Okay. I’ll share something personal if you do. Deal?’
Matt said nothing for a moment, his dark gaze skimming Gemma’s features, and she all but held her breath. Would this tentative exchange continue, or would he terminate it much as he usually did?
‘Something that won’t go beyond you and me,’ she added swiftly as Matt stirred in his seat.
Did she honestly think she’d inspired him to confide? Their… relationship, if it could be called that, was tenuous at best.
‘It depends.’ Matt’s eyes remained on Gemma’s and her hand tightened on her glass. ‘If I feel moved by what you share.’
Gemma drew in a quick breath. Here goes nothing.
‘I’d only bought the carved ornaments and some chocolates in Belgium.’ She hesitated as her chest tightened. ‘But there’s one loss that broke my heart. I don’t have much jewellery of value.’ She held up a bare hand. ‘There was some bling I’d collected over the years – car boots, charity shops. I’ll replace them over time. Half the fun is in the looking—’
She broke off, knowing how hard she found it to talk about what was coming.
Matt gave no ground, however. ‘And the irreplaceable loss?’
Gemma’s gaze fell to her lap as she recalled telling her mum. Then she drew in a short breath, raising her head. ‘My gran – my mum’s mum – passed away last year, after a short illness. I was so close to her.’ Her voice hitched as emotion gripped her throat. ‘Before she died’ – she swallowed past the restriction – ‘she gave me a necklace, one that had belonged to her own mum. The chain was heavy, old gold, and the delicate pendant was beautiful, set with the prettiest of amethysts – my birthstone. Gran said it was always destined for me, that every time I wore it, I’d know she was…’ Gemma held her eyes wide, willing them not to fill. ‘ Here .’
She pressed a hand to her chest, unable to utter another word, and took a mouthful of wine.
Don’t you dare weep in front of him.
‘And you’d taken it with you.’
Gemma sniffed delicately. ‘Mum told me not to, but I had this mad dream I’d meet someone, you know, want to dress up… a special date… or something.’
Stupidest thing she’d ever thought or done. Until now.
Matt drained his glass, saying, ‘I’m sorry. Really, Gemma,’ then headed to the kitchen.
He returned with a bottle of water, and Gemma drew in a breath.
‘Your turn,’ she added as he resumed his seat.
‘What?’ Matt took a swig of water.
‘I’ve told you something incredibly personal, that mattered a great deal to me. Fair trade.’
Matt said nothing for a moment, putting his long legs up on the stool. He had slender feet, bare at present, and his second toe on each foot was longer than the big toe.
Wasn’t that meant to mean something?
‘They’re feet.’
Gemma’s eyes flicked up from her study, and her cheeks grew warm at Matt’s amused look.
‘And you’re procrastinating.’
He leaned back into the soft embrace of the chair, the bottle resting on his middle, held in place with both hands. Silence.
Hesitant, Gemma placed her glass on the coffee table. Matt seemed more mellow this evening. Had the fall given him a shake-up… or perhaps a wake-up?
‘Can I ask you something about your music, then?’
Matt’s eyes flicked to meet hers but, before the closed expression she was more used to could descend, she spoke.
‘You’re credited on every release as having written the track.’
Matt took another slug of water. ‘We all are.’
‘But did you actually write the lyrics?’ Gemma persisted.
There was no answer at first as Matt’s gaze drifted towards the log burner, the flames reflected in his dark eyes.
‘Yes.’
‘And the Christmas track?’ Gemma bit her lip as Matt’s expression closed. Was he going to walk out, as he so often had?
‘I wrote the entire lyrics.’
Gemma’s brow furrowed, questions flooding her mind, but Matt stalled her.
‘Don’t ask. It came to me, okay? Perhaps it was a knee-jerk, an homage to the Christmases I rejected.’ He screwed the top onto the water bottle. ‘If it gave me anything in return, it was that my parents – who deserved better – will want for nothing for the rest of their lives.’
‘And did you have a nickname, like Jonny?’
No answer.
‘Matt?’
‘ATM. Like the cash machine.’
‘Why?’
He said nothing for a moment, then stirred in his seat. ‘It stood for Auto-Tune Matt. Harry always said I couldn’t hold a note.’
Gemma was developing a desire to push Harry into a cold bath. This was tantamount to bullying. She cast her mind back through the YouTube videos, but couldn’t recall anyone but Harry taking the lead vocals.
‘Did you ever have a solo?’
Matt threw her an ironic look. ‘What do you think?’
‘Did Harry not have a nickname?’
‘Beyond Hazza, none I’m prepared to share. Right.’ Matt stood. ‘I’m going to bed. Too much oversharing isn’t good for you.’
Gemma watched him leave the room, then flopped back against the sofa. She felt like she had been wrung out and, at that precise moment, she had to agree with him.