Chapter Thirty-Two
Christmas Quackers
Five minutes later, they were buttoning up their coats, and Gemma dug deep into the pockets for her gloves. A chill breeze blew in off the sea as they stepped outside, and she suppressed a shudder.
‘When you said, “get out” I didn’t realise you meant this.’
Matt set off towards the back of the house, where the driveway gave access to the lane.
‘Come on.’
Gemma skipped along behind him, her legs not quite up to the pace. At least it helped warm her up. That wind was bloody cold!
Relieved when Matt didn’t take the lane leading up to the cliff path, she scooted after him, her mind demanding answers to all the questions spinning through her head. Would Matt rejoin the band, pick up the tour again? What about wanting to forge a new path, write music? Was that simply talk?
‘This will do.’ Matt fetched up outside the Lugger, whose lights shone out onto the lane. Smoke curled up from the chimneys and the muffled sound of laughter escaped through the door as two people left.
They squeezed past revellers, all talking at the tops of their voices. Gemma caught a glimpse of Ryther at a far table with what looked like a family group.
Matt reached a closed door and pushed it open. ‘This should be quieter.’ He stood back so Gemma could enter.
‘Afternoon, my lovelies. What’ll it be, then?’ Gavin leaned through a serving hatch – liberally framed in tinsel – in the small snug tucked away at the back of the pub. He sported a festive jumper depicting two ducks in Santa hats, replete with flashing lights.
The only other occupants of the room were Colin the Cod from the village chippy and Tommy the Boat, who raised their glasses as Matt and Gemma passed, wishing them a happy Christmas before resuming their card playing.
‘What do you fancy?’
You , Gemma’s heart whispered.
Pinning on a bright face, she turned to Gavin. ‘I’ll have a G&T – Tanqueray – please. May I have the tonic on the side?’
‘Go and grab a seat,’ Matt instructed, and barely had Gemma shed her coat when he joined her at a round table beside a small hearth that emitted a warm glow.
‘Thanks.’ Gemma picked up the bottle of tonic, poured some into the glass and tasted it. Perfect.
‘Cheers.’ Matt raised his glass of red wine.
‘So?’
‘So?’
Gemma rolled her eyes. ‘You were about to elucidate. At least, I think you were.’
‘Assumptions aren’t good for you, as Harry has found out.’
‘True. But anyway . Come on, Matt! I’m all suspense. You’ve got no excuse, we’re sitting opposite now.’
More’s the pity , she thought, except at least now she could be sensible and focus on what he had to say. Gemma’s eyes fastened on his mouth. What would it feel like…
‘Why are you going pink?’
‘Too near the fire.’ Gemma hastily took a swig of gin, appreciating the ice-laden liquid as it shot down her throat.
‘Claire had an affair with Jake. He’s our— was our manager. Here.’ He flicked through the images on his phone and held it up to Gemma. ‘Dark hair, slim build, black leather jacket. We all wore them. But there the likeness ends. As his face was hidden and Claire claimed it was me…’ Matt shrugged as he returned the phone to the table. ‘Apparently, he got a Christmas gift from Harry in the shape of the sack.’
‘Can he do that, on his own? Isn’t it a joint decision for the band?’
‘Clearly not. Anyway, he’s gone, according to Jonno. Harry claims the tour can go ahead with them managing themselves.’
‘Surely the manager’s in charge of the logistics, arrangements, communication, liaison with countries over entry permits, etc?’
‘They could hire someone specifically to manage that.’ Matt shrugged. ‘I’d had a message before Christmas from Roddy. Ticket sales have slumped, and Harry blamed Jake for dropping the ball on it.’
‘That was because you were dropped, not some ball.’ Gemma was indignant, but Matt merely looked sheepish.
‘When did you say the tour was planned for?’
‘Kicks off in the spring – that’s why the original plan was to congregate at Rivermills in January to rehearse for six weeks or so. We wouldn’t normally need so long, but it’s years since we played together, and I’ve got this new material…’ His voice trailed away, and Gemma narrowed her gaze.
‘But you – we – didn’t write that track with BorderLine Beat in mind.’ She hesitated. ‘Did we?’
He didn’t answer, and she leaned forward. ‘Will you go?’
Matt sipped his wine. ‘There’s only one person who might convince me. I’m waiting on a call back, and I’m not talking to Harry until I do.’
Sophia, no doubt. Did other halves get invited along, or did these men intend to revert to type, be boys alone on the road for the summer?
Gemma took another slug of gin. What the hell did it matter, anyway? She’d be off travelling herself.
‘Another one?’
Matt picked up Gemma’s empty glass and she nodded and watched him lope to the hatch, her heart in tatters.
The inevitability of their parting had raised its head again. Dragging it out – certainly from Gemma’s perspective – would make it even more painful. Her eyes rested on Matt as he leaned against the bar, chatting to Colin the Cod as Gavin prepared the drinks. It was time she womanned up and took control of her life. But where to begin?
Leaving Cornwall would be a good start.
‘Shut up,’ she muttered to the recalcitrant thought.
‘Not a good time, my dear?’
With a start, Gemma looked up. ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you come into the snug.’ She smiled warmly at Ryther. ‘Happy Christmas! I hope you’ve had a lovely time?’
‘Indeed I have, my dear, although’ – he leaned conspiratorially towards Gemma – ‘I shall not be sorry to retreat to the hearth and leave the family to their celebrations. Now, where is that young man of yours?’
‘My… oh! No, no no. Matt’s not mine! He’s there. At the bar.’ She pointed at Matt, embarrassed by the misconception.
‘Ah, of course. Excuse me, Gemma. I’ll wish you a happy new year.’ Ryther walked over to Matt and a short conversation ensued, the elderly gentleman then patting Matt on the arm and raising a hand to Gemma before disappearing back through the door into the main bar.
‘What was that all about?’
Matt didn’t answer until he’d placed the drinks on the table and retaken his seat.
‘I had a good chat with him after the Christmas fayre, up at the hotel. We’re going to meet up when I’m next in London.’
Gemma mixed her drink, puzzled about what they could have to talk about, but Matt’s thoughtful gaze remained on the door through which Ryther had disappeared.
The days between Christmas and new year sped by, and Gemma gave herself a hard talking-to about falling in love with mercurial musicians with a plethora of gorgeous-sounding women in their contacts. Why weren’t any of them called Gert or Maud, for heaven’s sake?
Matt’s phone was almost permanently attached to his ear, despite Gemma’s threat to throw it in the creek, and she caught snatches of conversation as he strode through the living room from the conservatory to the hallway or vice versa. His voice was predominantly happy and enthused, whatever it was he was discussing.
On the morning before Anna and Oliver’s wedding, she saw him pacing to and fro over the frost-speckled lawn, and when he ended the call he came into the house looking flustered.
‘I need to be in London for a few days.’ He held Gemma’s gaze for a second. ‘I’m beginning to think staying here wasn’t my wisest decision.’
‘You didn’t know how things would pan out when you rented the mill. I’m sure it’s served a purpose.’
She turned her back and flicked through Anna’s folder, looking for the instructions on tonight’s dinner. It hurt to look at Matt.
It didn’t help – or did it? – that Gemma had seen the man behind the mask now. What was it he had said in one of those old interviews she’d watched on YouTube recently?
‘People…’
‘Women?’ the interviewer had interjected.
Matt had inclined his head. ‘Are only interested in what I am, not who . I found that out at an early age.’
Well, she’d seen both, and who Matt Locksley was had turned out to be so much more than she’d ever imagined.
‘Hey.’ A hand landed on Gemma’s, stalling its progress through the plastic leaves of the folder. ‘What’s up? You seem…’
To her consternation, Matt took both her hands in his and tugged until she faced him.
‘Look at me, Gem.’
Oh, please don’t, not in that soft, velvet tone…
She raised her eyes to his. Lord, those warm, hazel-rich depths were worth drowning in.
Maybe if it had been Lent she’d have been able to give them up instead of chocolate?
‘Something’s wrong. You’re not yourself.’
A small sound escaped her. ‘Sorry. My head’s a bit mashed.’
Not helped by you rubbing your thumb over the back of my hand!
She wriggled her fingers, hoping he’d release her, but the hold remained firm.
‘Is it your itinerary? Roddy says it’s a nightmare having to do all the negotiations themselves. Hey, you’re a good organiser, I don’t suppose you fancy a new job, tour manager?’
Gemma couldn’t help but laugh at his hopeful expression. ‘Matt, I know zero about bands, venues or promoters. Besides,’ she lied, ‘I can’t wait to get away, resume my travelling.’
Matt’s gaze held hers. Then he cleared his throat.
‘When will you leave?’
Gemma’s chest felt tight. ‘A few days after new year. I’ll head back to my parents’ first.’
Pulling her hands from Matt’s, she turned back to the folder. ‘Go and do something useful, like rehearsing your speech or fetching that shirt you wanted me to iron for tomorrow. I need to get my head around these instructions.’
She was conscious Matt didn’t move for a minute, and forcefully resisted the temptation to throw her arms round him, beg him to ditch Sophia and run away with her.
Ridiculous.
Releasing a soft breath as Matt finally walked away, Gemma watched him head towards the hallway. In some ways, her departure couldn’t come soon enough.