Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jingle Bells, Tidal Swells
Are we?
Could she pretend this was a date, then? It sounded like a date…
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see. I need to talk shop with you. Go and get your things.’ Matt glanced at his phone. ‘We’re walking and I don’t want to miss serving time. I’ll never hear the end of it if you have to live off crisps or a pickled egg for the afternoon.’
‘I could always have both,’ Gemma threw over her shoulder, though she shuddered inwardly at the thought. Then her brow furrowed as she scooted up the stairs to tidy her face and hair and change into her favourite sweater. Shop? What did Matt want to discuss? The size of the ironing basket? Could she buy a different fabric softener, or try her hand at a beef Wellington?
Matt was nowhere in sight again when Gemma returned downstairs, and she donned her warmest gear and fastened her walking boots.
Waiting for him, she checked her phone and, for what felt like the millionth time that day, went onto Instagram. Nothing from Harry, yet he still hadn’t blocked her. Casting a glance down the hallway as she heard movement from upstairs, Gemma quickly went into messages and followed up her last one.
If you’re as interested in injustice as the song implies, I may be
able to help.
With nothing to lose, Gemma hit send, then tucked the phone back in her pocket as Matt emerged into the boot room.
Despite her contrasting emotions – and inner conflict over interfering with regard to Harry – Gemma looked forward to the walk and lunch. Matt had sold the riverside pub to her, and she’d already taken a sneak peek online at the menu. Besides, it was a chance to spend time with Matt, just the two of them, before one day there was a last time.
They crossed the wooden bridge over the gushing stream where it fed into the creek, and navigated the root-strewn path upwards through the bare trees opposite Rivermills. It felt chillier as they reached higher ground, following the stony, uneven path round until it ran parallel with the River Polwey, passing swiftly below them towards Polkerran and the sea. The strong aroma of woodsmoke furled upwards from some cottages further down the banks, and black crows cawed mournfully from the uppermost branches of the trees.
Matt continued to stride on ahead and, out of breath, Gemma paused, her hand resting on a nearby trunk. The trees here concealed the sheer drop down into the water, stretching out their branches as though trying to prevent themselves from tumbling over, and she shivered.
Matt stopped and turned round. ‘Come on, slowcoach,’ he called.
Tucking her hands into her coat pockets, Gemma resumed the walk, her gaze fixed on Matt’s back. These fledgling feelings she had for him were a complication. She’d been an idiot. Why on earth had she agreed to do this damn job?
About five minutes later, she could detect rooftops through the branches of the trees, and they reached a stile. Matt scaled it with ease, and, as Gemma clambered up and perched on the top, he held out a hand. Would he notice if she whipped off her gloves so she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers?
‘Are you going to stay up there forever?’
Gemma drew in a short breath and took his hand, glad the momentum of jumping down hid her involuntary shudder, and she dropped his hand. The narrow path was bordered on both sides now by high hedges, blocking the view of the river below, but, as they finally reached a wider tarmacked lane, Matt fell into step beside her.
‘I booked a table. The pub’s a popular watering hole for walkers, so Anna tells me.’
‘I’m looking forward to it. Breakfast seems a long time ago.’
She followed him down the lane into Polwelyn, past properties of varying sizes but all commanding a stunning view of the river below, and descended into the heart of the village, and there, on the waterfront, was the Smuggler’s Arms.
Matt walked down to where the water lapped the low kerb. There were a variety of small boats attached to moorings, mostly covered for the winter, and, aside from the sound of hammering from a nearby boat shed, no sign of life.
‘Is the tide coming in?’
Gemma brushed hair out of her eyes to glance at Matt, her heart clenching as his rich hazel eyes met hers. Flustered, she fished out her phone to check the time. ‘Yes. Why?’
He nodded towards a sign fastened to the pub fencing next to the narrow road passing between it and the water.
Warning: Road prone to flooding at high tide.
Underneath, in thick black marker pen, someone had added: Free parking for emmets. There was a smart-looking Range Rover parked on the roadside and behind it a large BMW.
‘This could be more fun than watching Netflix,’ Matt said. ‘Come on, let’s hope we’ve got a window seat.’
Gemma followed Matt into the pub and was immediately charmed by it. There were low black beams, strewn with fairy lights, an inglenook fireplace emitting a warm glow, weathered red leather banquettes against black wood panelling and the shining horse brasses so common in long-established hostelries adorning the upright beams. A collection of toby jugs hung from the ceiling above the bar, with a dartboard and shove ha’penny table in a far corner – no doubt a concession to the locals.
Gemma’s phone vibrated against her hip. A notification.
‘I’m just popping outside.’ She gestured at the door and fled through it.
At first, her heart dipped. It was from her mum. She skim-read it – only a question about a gift for her dad – and tapped a quick reply. She was about to pocket the phone, but quickly checked Instagram, and there it was. A message from Harry.
I’m listening. For now.
For a moment, Gemma faltered, suddenly indecisive. Was this taking interference too far? She chewed her lip as she returned to the pub. Matt sat at a table by a window overlooking the water, and she admired his profile as she approached. The breeze had caressed his thickly layered hair backward, leaving his forehead more exposed, and her breath caught in her throat. What would it feel like to be approaching him if they were together, on a real date?
But it’s not a date. You’re the one that needs to get real.
Gee. Thanks.
After ordering food and getting drinks, Matt finally got to the purpose of their lunch.
‘You know I’ve been putting down some new music?’
Gemma nodded, sipping her wine.
‘I need some lyrics for this track I’m writing. It’s a pretty straight-down-the-middle pop track, aimed at a mature vocalist – nothing teeny-bop or dance. Something with a deeper meaning. I want this track to touch people who might have been going through a tough time emotionally, you know, perhaps they’ve been in a failed relationship and they’re beginning to realise what they’ve lost. Lyrics that put a positive spin on it.’
‘For the band?’
Matt’s expression was serious. ‘No.’
Keenly interested, Gemma leaned forward. ‘Who’s it for?’ Was he thinking of testing his vocals after all?
As if he knew the direction of her thoughts, Matt shook his head and picked up his pint. ‘Not me. I’m not sure where I’ll go with it, but I have in my mind artists I think would be right for it.’
‘That’s excellent! I wondered why you seemed so motivated.’ Gemma grinned at him. ‘I thought it was the joy of spending time at Polkerran’s Christmas fayre.’
To her surprise, Matt looked a little uncomfortable as he took a swig of his beer. ‘You’d be surprised what a day out can do for you. Hold on.’
He picked up his phone to take a call, and Gemma shook her head at him.
‘You and that damned phone!’
Matt pulled a face at her as he got to his feet. ‘Sophia! Hi.’ He walked over to the end of the bar, and Gemma strained her ears to catch what he was saying, then hated herself for doing so.
‘Stop it, stop it, stop it,’ she intoned, taking another slug from her glass. ‘It’s Matt’s life, leave him to it.’
The tension in her midriff, however, which was ever present whenever she was in the same room as Matt, intensified.
‘Fabulous. Yes, another dinner would be great.’ Matt was approaching the table again. ‘Perfect. I’ll see you there. Bye.’
Returning his phone to the table, he resumed his seat, but he didn’t meet Gemma’s eye, merely picked up his pint and stared out of the window.
Their food arrived and they both tucked in, hungry after their walk. Gemma still wasn’t sure why Matt had been telling her about his music, but he came alive when he spoke of it.
‘Tell me more about the current song you’re working on.’
Matt swallowed a chip, then cleared his throat. ‘I’ve already got the chords written and I’ve an idea of the vibe I’m after. What I now need is two verses and a chorus – a big chorus – which will repeat at the end…’ He hesitated, brow furrowed. ‘Or maybe three verses. And there’ll need to be a middle eight.’
‘Which is?’
‘You know.’ Matt waved his knife. ‘The section of a song near the middle, eight bars in length.’
‘I’m none the wiser. But that doesn’t matter. Who are you getting to write the lyrics?’
Perhaps Sophia is simply a lyricist? This notion lifted Gemma’s spirits, and she practically beamed at Matt across the table.
Popping a chip in his mouth, Matt chewed, his now thoughtful gaze resting on Gemma. ‘I hope you’ve guessed, especially as you seem so happy all of a sudden. Think of it as an Adele track, so tugging on the heartstrings, piano based and maybe with some string or drums in there too.’
Gemma laid down her fork as a suspicion came to her. She narrowed her gaze at Matt. ‘Are you asking me to write lyrics?’
Surely he would simply laugh, and tell her not to be so stupid? Of course he wasn’t thinking of Gemma putting words to his music.
Matt, however, said nothing, merely picking up another chip, his expressive eyes fixed on Gemma.