The Truth About Gemma Grey: A feel-good, romantic comedy you won't be able to put down
Page 4
Then Tom said, “You’re wussing out of that CrossFit class, aren’t you, Ruby?”
Ruby said, “Oh shit, is that the time? I was totally engrossed in Joe Wicks’s... er... plank technique. I guess I’ve missed it.”
Tom said, “Bollocks! It’s just down the road. You’ll get there if you leave now.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ruby said. “I should really…”
Tom flapped his elbows and made clucking sounds.
“Okay, fine!” Ruby said. “I’ll go. But if I don’t come to work tomorrow because I’ve got stuck in the bath and drowned, I’m blaming you.”
I watched with mounting impatience as she saved her work and shut down her computer. A split second after she stood up, I stood up too.
“See you guys tomorrow,” Ruby said.
“Have a good evening,” I said, and legged it towards the lift as fast as I could.
As soon as the Tube train emerged from the tunnel at Baron’s Court, I got my phone out of my bag. There was no message or missed call from Jack.
On my way, I texted. There as soon as I can. Wait for me!
I checked his Instagram. There was another picture of him and Olivia, this time posing in front of an illuminated departure board at Heathrow. Shit. They were there already.
I willed the train to go faster, but of course it didn’t – in fact, as the gaps between the stations got longer and longer it seemed to go slower and slower. It was ten to seven.
Heaps of time, Gemma, I told myself. Relax. You’ll be there soon. You’ll have five minutes with him, that’s long enough to say goodbye.
I closed my eyes and tried to make myself breathe deeply as the train passed through station after station. But I couldn’t relax. I abandoned my seat and stood by the door, shifting from foot to foot. Only a couple of stops to go.
Then, at Hatton Cross, instead of the doors beeping and closing again, they stayed open. I looked at my watch; so did everyone else in the carriage. Someone sighed and someone else tutted.
“Ladies and gents, this is your driver,” crackled a voice over the PA system. “We’re just being held here for a short time at a red signal, in order to regulate the service. We’ll be on the move shortly.”
I don’t know what his definition of “shortly” was, but it wasn’t the same as mine. It seemed like an eternity before the train set off again – an eternity during which I calculated the time I’d have to say goodbye to Jack decreasing from five minutes to three, then to two. And that was assuming I was even able to find the place where we’d arranged to meet, in front of the WHSmith in Terminal Five.
The rest of the journey felt a bit like an out-of-body experience. At last, the doors opened and I sprinted out, turning the wrong way at first, then getting my bearings. At twenty-seven minutes past seven, I skidded to a halt outside the newsagent, my breath coming in croaky gasps and my top clinging clammily to my perspiring back.
Jack wasn’t there and nor was Olivia.
I looked at my phone. He’d sent a text. Just one text. Sorry, babe, we couldn’t wait. They were calling our flight to check in. I’ll ring you.
My hands were sweating so much that my phone almost slipped through my palms on to the floor. I gripped it tightly, as if it was an unexploded bomb, and checked Instagram again. Jack hadn’t posted anything new, but Olivia had. It was another selfie of her and Jack, holding glasses of champagne.
Through security! she’d written. Dubai, here we come! #Adventure!!
She’d posted it half an hour earlier.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hi everyone!
So this is a haul video – but with a difference! I know you all love watching these and I love watching other people’s, whether they’re about fashion or beauty or… well, anything really! You can’t go wrong with a bit of retail therapy. Anyway, this past weekend I’ve been spending loads of time and even more money in Ikea, TK Maxx and Zara Home – I fricking love Zara Home, don’t you? And I’ve got so much amazing stuff to show you, and I’m going to go through it all in just a minute. But first, I’ve got some really great news to share with you all.
I couldn’t help feeling optimistic as I stepped out of the Tube station into the sunny street. It was a gorgeous July day – although it had chucked it down with rain earlier, now the sun was shining and everything had that washed-clean feeling. The leaves on the trees were bright, acid green against the blue sky. The red buses looked extra red. Even the air seemed to sparkle.
I looked approvingly into the windows I might pass every day on my way to and from work. There was a bakery claiming to use organic, stone-ground flour and specialise in paleo cakes, wafting a delicious smell out on to the pavement. There was a nail bar where I imagined going for manicures that would motivate me to stop biting my nails. There was a greengrocer where I could buy vegetables to make fresh, healthful meals – and an M&S Simply Food, which, if I was being honest, I knew was more likely to become my dinner provider of choice.
Okay, there was also a rather run-down-looking council estate, prefab blocks of flats surrounded by a car park bristling with ‘No Ball Games’ signs. But even that, I noticed, was surrounded by a hoarding promising that it was due to be redeveloped and replaced by shiny glass-walled high-rises with private gardens, a residents’ gym and even a noodle bar. The artist’s impression showed couples sitting on their balconies drinking coffee and nibbling croissants, just as I’d imagined Jack and me doing.
It was two weeks since Jack and Olivia had left. I’d emailed every day to tell him how much I missed him, and sent him links to my YouTube channel every time I posted a new video. My resolution to vlog every day wasn’t going so well, though, partly because between work, four hours every day on the train to and from Norwich, and rushing off after work and during my lunch hour to look at various rooms to rent, I just hadn’t had time. Of course, Jack was busy too – his Instagram was full of pictures of Dubai, then Bangkok, then Koh Tao, where he was working in a diving school and Olivia was doing a yoga retreat.
Knowing that he hadn’t waited to say goodbye had hurt almost more than the fact of his leaving. But, I told myself, it was partly my fault – I’d been late, after all. If he’d missed his flight because of me, it would have been unforgivable. He’d explained in an email written from his seat in Premium Economy class that Olivia had been really stressed about being late, and her stress had infected him, and they’d seen the length of the queue to get through security and panicked. So I’d put my hurt to one side and replied saying that I understood.
And when he didn’t send me another email for five days, I wrote to him saying I understood that too, and how it must all be so exciting that I’d, like, totally understand if he didn’t have the time or the headspace to reply. I did understand – but I didn’t like it. Not one bit. Just a month before, however badly everything else in my life was going, I could think about Jack and feel happy. Now, thinking of him just made me anxious and sad. It was a strange feeling – a kind of shifting of reality, like stepping on to a pavement and finding it covered with ice, and the next thing you know you’re on your arse in the snow and people are laughing at you.
But now wasn’t the time to worry about Jack. I needed to find number forty-seven Manwood Close. The name made me giggle, and cringe a bit, but hey – a stupid-sounding address was a small price to pay for a place of my own. I turned a corner, and the roar of traffic from the main road died away. The street was lined with plane trees and pretty Victorian houses. I could hear a magpie cackling away somewhere above me. I wished I’d brought my camera so I could film how lovely London looked and explain how lucky I felt to be here and why I felt deep down that this, the fifth room I’d looked at, might just end up being home.
Mind you, I’d felt like that about the others, too. The one where the ‘large double bedroom’ was so tiny that the door couldn’t actually open, and the ‘fitted wardrobe’ was a 1980s monstrosity built around the head of the bed, its peach-coloured doors list
ing on their hinges. The ‘relaxed, friendly, houseshare’ where the smell of weed hit me in the face like a fist as soon as I walked in. The one where the advertised room turned out to be accessed through another bedroom, whose occupant was snoring thunderously in bed surrounded by crusty socks. The one I thought was perfect until the girl showing me round cheerfully introduced me to her pet tarantula. This has to be okay, I told myself, I can’t go on spending every single evening trailing around London, and every single lunch break trawling the Gumtree website and sending text messages. I took my phone out now and reread the ad.
Two double rooms available in Hackney house, shared with owners, for six to twelve-month let. We’re a young, professional couple looking for single people, women preferred. Close to transport, all bills and Wi-Fi included. Text or WhatsApp Hannah or Richard…
Okay, the monthly rent was high – far more than I’d budgeted for. But I’d find a way to manage. It wasn’t like I’d be going out much, anyway. And this was exactly the sort of street I imagined Jack and me living on, one day. I quickened my pace, hurrying towards number forty-seven, determined to make a good impression by being exactly on time. This has to work, I told myself. This is definitely, totally The One.
A few seconds after I carefully tapped the chrome knocker – hard enough to be audible, not so hard as to be rude – the door opened. A man and a woman stood in the hallway, looking at me. There was a quick, assessing pause while I looked back at them.
Then the woman said, “Gemma? Come in. I’m Hannah, and this is Richard.”
I followed them through to the back of the house, realising I had just passed the first in a series of tests. The kitchen was immaculate and smelled faintly of baking. There was a bunch of yellow roses in a white china jug on the table, which was covered with an oilcloth printed in pastel stripes. Everything looked new, and everything was spotlessly clean.
It sounds weird, I know, but Hannah and Richard looked clean, too. I know everyone is, really, apart from little kids who’ve been playing in muddy puddles and people who sometimes sit next to you on the bus and you’re too embarrassed to move away, but they seemed to radiate freshness.
Hannah had long, very straight red hair and porcelain skin with a scattering of freckles. The hand she gave me to shake was cool and soft. Richard had an immaculately trimmed beard and shiny conker-brown hair. They both looked like they spent a lot of time ironing their clothes, and Richard’s shoes gleamed with polish. I’d never met anyone who’d actually admit to polishing their shoes before, and certainly not anyone who ironed their jeans. I remembered a quiz Emily had written for work – ‘You Know You’re Normcore When…’ – and wondered if they were early adopters of the trend.
“So, Gemma, tell us a bit about yourself,” Richard said.
Stage two of the assessment centre, I thought.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, of course. So I’ve just started a job in London – I’m a writer for a new media company – Clickfrenzy, you might have heard of them? And I’m living with my mum in Norwich at the moment, which is fine but not ideal, obviously, with the commute and everything. So it just feels like the right time to make a new start.”
“Do you know the area at all?” Hannah asked.
“Not very well,” I admitted, but I didn’t admit that I’d chosen it on the basis of a Google search: ‘coolest places in London’. My new start, my new life, if I was going to succeed in my goal of showing Jack what he was missing, depended on my being able to vlog about on-trend coffee shops, vibrant street markets, quirky boutiques and, hopefully, achingly hip cocktail bars where I would hang out with admiring men and fabulous friends. Okay, I hadn’t actually met any of them yet, but that was just detail.
“We’re still exploring it ourselves,” Richard said.
“We’ve only just moved in, you see,” Hannah said. “And it’s obviously a bit of a stretch financially, hence renting out the rooms. Every little helps, doesn’t it?”
I remembered the rent they were charging for the room, which to my mind wasn’t little at all. But I said, “Yes, of course it does,” then added sycophantically, “It’s a gorgeous house.”
“Isn’t it?” Hannah said. “We were so lucky to get it, we never thought we could afford Hackney.”
“When we first started to save for our deposit, it was still really gritty round here,” Richard said.
“Or vibrant and cosmopolitan, as I prefer to think of it,” said Hannah.
“Yes, darling,” Richard said. “But now it’s up and coming. Especially now they’re knocking down that dump of an estate.”
“Actually, it’s more upped and come,” said Hannah. “So we thought that we were completely priced out, and then this place came on to the market.”
“It was a total wreck,” said Richard. “And it still went to sealed bids. We had to do everything: rewire, overhaul the heating system, new windows, new roof…”
“And since we were doing that we thought we might as well do the loft too,” Hannah said. “It adds so much value.”
“As will the side return extension, when we get around to doing it,” Richard said. “But that won’t be for a couple of years yet.”
I thought, They’re only a few years older than me, but they act like they’re ancient. Would this have happened to Jack and me? Did it happen to everyone? Surely not.
“But when we do, I’ll be able to have my dream kitchen,” Hannah said. “With a utility room and integrated appliances and a boiling water tap.”
“When we discuss these things, Hannah-banana,” Richard said, “it would be helpful if you could retain at least some semblance of a grip on reality.”
It was really weird – for a second it was like they’d forgotten I was there. Richard didn’t sound angry – he’d even reached over and given Hannah’s cheek a little pinch that looked quite affectionate. But her face went suddenly still and even whiter. I couldn’t care less about damp-proofing and side returns, and I didn’t know boiling water taps were even a thing to aspire to, but clearly, whatever they were, they were a bone of contention between my would-be landlords.
Then I remembered that I was meant to be impressing them, and making them like me enough to offer me one of the rooms – which, if what I’d seen of the house so far was anything to go by, would be Buckingham Palace standards of luxury compared to what I’d seen before – and that meant contributing something to the conversation, as opposed to sitting gawping at the two of them and wondering what it was about integrated appliances that had made Richard look fleetingly furious and Hannah briefly frightened. I remembered an article I’d read at work that morning: ‘20 Things People Say About London Property That Make Us Wish They’d STFU’.
“You’ve got to get on the property ladder before the bottom rung is out of your reach,” I said.
“Exactly,” Richard said, and Hannah nodded, visibly relaxing.
“Would you like to see the room now?” she said.
I followed them upstairs, half-listening to Richard’s running commentary about double-glazing and penetrating damp. The house was beautiful. The room they showed me was big and airy, with a window that overlooked the garden. The bathroom, compared to the mould-ridden horrors I’d seen earlier in the week, was a haven of white-tiled luxury.
Then Richard said, “We’re up in the loft, of course, and we’ve our own en-suite. You and the other lodger will be on your own on this floor.”
That settles it, I thought. So what if they’re Mr and Mrs Weird? They wouldn’t be able to overhear me when I recorded videos in my bedroom, and that was the biggest selling point of all.
“It’s lovely,” I said. “When were you looking for someone to move in?”
“As soon as, really. We’ve got five more people coming round this evening,” Richard said. “And more tomorrow – nine, I think.”
“Eight,” Hannah said. “The nurse and the accountant cancelled, but the trainee police officer is coming round first thing, remember?”
“But we’re hoping to make a decision before the end of the week,” Richard said.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Hannah said.
I gave myself a mental high five. Clearly, I had managed to pass another stage of their test, even though no one had told me there was going to be one, or what texts I needed to study.
I followed them downstairs again and sat in the immaculate kitchen and heard about Richard’s job in the City and Hannah’s as a primary school teacher. I made interested noises when they showed me about a zillion photos on Richard’s tablet of the house before and during its renovation and talked about ceiling roses and floor joists.
“The plastering was the worst,” Hannah said. “The dust gets absolutely everywhere. I’ve been mopping the floor constantly since we moved in and every day there’s more.”
“Hannah-banana is extremely house-proud,” Richard said. “One of our priorities in choosing who will be sharing our home with us is that they treat it with the same respect we do.”
I said, “I know just how you feel. It’s one of the reasons I’m so looking forward to having my own space – so I can make it all serene and homely. Not that I’d paint the walls or anything, but just – you know, soft furnishings and things. Although it’s homely already, of course.”
They exchanged a glance that told me I had scored another point.
“And what do you do outside of work?” Richard asked.
Hannah said, “I mean, we just want to make sure that people are a good fit for us. In terms of your social life and things.”
I said, “Obviously, I’m hoping to get to know more people in London once I’m living here. But my boyfriend is off travelling at the moment, so I won’t be having guests overnight or anything like that. I spend quite a bit of time online.”
I considered telling them that I would be spending most of my evenings in my room, alone, filming videos. But even though I knew that was probably exactly what they wanted to hear, I couldn’t quite make myself say it. I felt oddly shy about it – embarrassed, even. Although for the people I knew online, making YouTube videos was a totally normal thing to do, lots of other people just didn’t get it. When Mum walked into my bedroom the first time and saw me filming, she completely freaked out. I think she thought I was making amateur porn or something. Even when I pointed out that firstly, I had all my clothes on and secondly, if anyone wanted to get their rocks off watching me talk about eyelash curlers and stippling brushes they were most welcome to try, she remained deeply suspicious of the whole thing for a long time. It’s an age thing, I guess – either you’ve grown up with YouTube being a thing or you haven’t. And Hannah and Richard were just old enough for me not to be sure which group they’d fall into.