Chapter 32
Gemma hadn’t anticipated how Laila’s departure – to return to the houseboat and look after Timothy – would leave such a vacuum.
The house felt hollow and lifeless. It no longer tinkled with Laila’s silver jewellery or thumped with her boot-shod feet.
She wasn’t there for a chat when Gemma got home from work or woke up in time for lunch at the weekend.
It didn’t help that the jar of Nutella Gemma had given Laila was still in the cupboard, reminding her every time she saw it of the void that her short-stay housemate had left.
It also didn’t help that she was still waiting for her social services file to arrive.
It seemed like a hole that would never be filled and she couldn’t stop feeling like something was missing.
She was at once terrified and excited about what it may reveal.
She was told that within forty days – finally – she would have answers, of sorts, to her questions.
Then she thought about having her photo taken for Nick’s article and the wait for the story to be published.
Everything was making her anxious. Nick was certain the piece was going to run, even though it kept getting bumped for more newsworthy events.
Like the war in Ukraine, climate change protests and a celebrity in a bikini who doesn’t look how they did two years ago.
Gemma didn’t like to say she was more than happy to be bumped by anyone who’d had a bum-lift, and that she secretly hoped the photo shoot wouldn’t go ahead.
A heatwave descended on the city and as most of her friends were either already abroad or about to go on their annual summer holiday, Gemma decided she had to keep busy.
There was to be no holiday for her, now that she had to survive on her own financially.
She focused on work and caring for her patients; delivered some homecooked dinners after-hours to Timothy and Laila; and checked in to see how Nick was doing (being dog-less was killing him more than being Ella-less).
She kept in touch with her friends by liking their holiday snaps on Instagram but found they left her feeling empty and gloomy.
While not wanting to pester Phyllida but wishing to offer moral support, Gemma sent motivational quotes to inspire her and silly reels to make her laugh (at least, she hoped they made her laugh).
Sometimes Phyllida replied and sometimes she didn’t.
By the second week of August, Gemma decided to call.
‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch,’ Phyllida said. ‘I’ve been focusing all my attentions on Robert.’
‘I didn’t want to intrude,’ Gemma said. ‘I just hoped things were okay.’
‘After our chat at Timothy’s, I went home feeling inspired.
I wasn’t going to let Robert destroy our marriage or our finances.
Nick sent me his article, which was really very good, and from that I wrote an action plan of where we were going to get help from.
Bullet lists are my forte. First up, is joining Gamblers Anonymous and finding a specialist therapist.’
‘Is Robert on board?’
‘He’s not enamoured with the idea of opening up to strangers, but he knows he has to do something. I can tell that even having me take charge and no longer having to lie has made him feel a little bit better.’
‘What about you, are you getting help?’
‘I’ve found a support group for families and loved ones affected by someone else’s gambling. I have been to one meeting, which was dominated by an eighty-year-old whose wife is fixated with playing the fruit machines and wouldn’t stop talking about it. But I guess it’ll help.’
‘Any time you want to chat …’
‘Thank you, Gemma. How’s Timothy? Have you seen him?’
‘His recovery is slow and he’s getting frustrated. But Laila’s taking good care of him, and Nick and I have dropped off some meals.’
‘I was going to message the group to suggest we postpone our next meeting. Do you mind? I’ve got too much going on at the moment and that will give Timothy more time to get better.’
‘Of course.’
Gemma sensed Phyllida’s relief. Even though she was happy to delay the next meeting, she felt a little glum not knowing when they’d get together again.
The regularity of their catch ups, as much as the nature of them, had been something she’d started to rely on.
They offered her more than just an opportunity to mudlark.
She’d gained a new set of friends, a social life and a support group she’d not had before, with diverse but like-minded individuals.
There was nothing for it, she’d just have to schedule some mudlarks of her own.
By the end of the first two weeks of August, she’d made six trips to the river.
She didn’t care what she found, or if she found nothing at all.
It was about soaking up the setting, allowing the push and pull of the water to tug at her emotions and, ultimately, flush away all the negative ones.
One evening, after the sun had set, she went out at ten o’clock.
She loved the river at night. Sometimes, it was a little eerie, even with her headtorch, but it was always more peaceful and tranquil than during the day.
On a night like this one, when the sky was cloud-free and the moon hung suspended like one of her mother’s white glass Christmas baubles, Gemma could stay there for hours.
What didn’t fill her with joy was hearing from Adam in the middle of the month – despite it being expected. His message began sickeningly breezily, as if he was now suddenly interested in her and what she was doing.
How are you? How’s your work and how’s the mudlarking?
His tone was chatty and happy because, naturally, he was doing great.
Did I tell you I’ve been promoted?
Of course he hadn’t. His disingenuity grated, she knew it was because he wanted something. Butter her up to hurry her up.
We really need to get on with the divorce.
And there it was.
I haven’t wanted to hurry you but it’s going to take time. I’ve spoken to Smithy. He’s going to be my solicitor, by the way, as he’s my mate, after all.
God, you really are a cabrón, Adam, laying claim to the friends you want in the divorce. Gemma growled under her breath and continued reading.
The first step is filling out an online application form. We can either do a joint application or one of us does it. Doesn’t matter either way. Your call.
Gemma would rather swim naked in the Thames than do anything jointly with Adam.
You’ll need your own solicitor, of course. But as long as you don’t contest anything – you won’t, will you? – then we could have this done and dusted in about seven months.
Gemma sighed. Adam had chosen to ruin their marriage, so he could do all the work to extricate himself from it.
I’m very busy at the moment, she replied. Could you do the application?
That was all she wrote. She’d let him stew over whether she’d contest anything. Not that she would. What was there to contest? Certainly not a change of heart.
A couple of minutes later, he sent another text.
We need to sell the house, too.
Gemma felt a stab of pain in her chest. The thought of losing her home now seemed even worse than losing Adam. The house had only ever been good to her. It was her little corner of the world and so close to the river. No, she wasn’t ready. Adam added:
I’ve got the rent to pay here as well as the mortgage. It’s not sustainable.
Gemma wanted to cry. When she didn’t respond, because she hadn’t known what to say, he messaged again.
I’ll have to stop the mortgage payments if you won’t agree.
Was he threatening her? She replied, You don’t need to be nasty about it.
Just stating facts.
Ugh, he could be so patronising!
Well?
She gave no reply. He could stew on that as well.
Gemma?
‘Oh, go away, Adam!’ she shouted and flung her phone across the sofa.