The Truth About Gemma Grey: A feel-good, romantic comedy you won't be able to put down

by Sophie Ranald

  I was surprised by how okay I looked. My bedroom was tidy-ish. The fairy lights sparkled prettily over the headboard of my bed. I was in focus. My skin looked smooth and a bit glowy. My hair covered my ears. I even sounded quite good – even though my voice sounded strange, as it always does when you listen to yourself on a recording, it was less squeaky than I’d feared, perhaps because I’d cried so much over the past twenty-four hours. I changed the lighting slightly to make everything look brighter and less yellow, and I deleted the bit at the beginning where I was saying, “Hello? Hello?” like an idiot to check that my camera was actually recording, and the bit at the end where I got up and pressed the button to make it stop.

  There wasn’t much else to do. I could have cut out the bits where I stumbled over my words and umm-ed and err-ed, and the bit near the end where my voice went all wobbly and I had to wipe away tears and do a massive, gross-sounding sniff, but I didn’t. I uploaded the video, and this time, I deliberately chose the option that would make it public. And then, for good measure, I went on Twitter and told my followers what I’d done.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hi everyone!

  So, first of all, thank you so much for all your lovely comments and likes on my last video – I can’t tell you how much it means to me. The last few days have been really, really hard, but I kind of feel like I’m not alone. Every time one of you reaches out and says you’re thinking of me, or you’re going through something similar, or whatever, it feels like a lovely little virtual hug. You are all, like, truly amazing.

  So today I thought I’d talk about something a little bit different. As well as everything that all of you have been doing to make me feel better – to make me feel a bit cherished and supported – there are other things I’ve been doing for myself too, to help put a smile on my face and also just look after myself a bit. Because when you’ve gone through a break-up, it’s so easy to just wallow in it, and that doesn’t do anyone any good.

  But before I start, some of you might be thinking, “What the actual frick is this girl doing with a teddy bear? Is she seven?” Well… Part of me can’t believe that I’m about to introduce the world to my teddy, but that’s exactly what I’m about to do. Even though he hasn’t learned how to use the internet yet, he gives truly awesome hugs, and he’s been here for me through all my tough times for twenty-four years. I can honestly say I don’t think I’d be brave enough to make these videos at all without him here by my side, and if that makes me look stupid – hey, it won’t be the first time! So, everyone, meet Stanley. Stanley, gimme a high five!

  For once, I was up and ready for work way earlier than I needed to be. I even had time to paint my nails, which were looking distinctly the worse for wear – the orange gel polish I’d put on a week ago was growing out and chipped around the edges. I’d go downstairs and do it in the kitchen, I decided, and while the new polish was drying I’d have a proper breakfast – eggs, maybe, or some of the organic seedy granola I bought in the health food shop on the high street and hadn’t yet got around to opening.

  Also, I could check my YouTube channel and see how my new video was doing. I’d wanted to look the second I woke up, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t even checked my email. It was weird – part of me was eager to know whether people had seen it, liked it, commented on it – but a far bigger part was frightened that, after how kind and lovely my followers had been the first time, the tide would now turn. Maybe I’d been boring? Maybe I’d looked and sounded stupid? And anyway, what possible reason could anyone have for caring about me, my life and my relationship woes? Most probably, the people who’d commented on the first video would simply ignore this second one and move on to whatever new thing the internet had to offer them today.

  If there was one thing I’d learned at Clickfrenzy, it was that you couldn’t count on your audience being loyal. And if there was another thing I’d learned, it was that consumers of online media had the attention spans of particularly fickle goldfish. Anyway, I’d wait until my nails were painted and my breakfast made, I decided, and then wake my phone up and find out the worst (or, I secretly hoped, the best).

  As it turned out, though, I didn’t get to have a leisurely appraisal of my social media over breakfast, because when I got down to the kitchen, Amy was there. And she wasn’t alone.

  “Morning, Gemma,” she said. “Er… This is my housemate, Gemma. Gemma, this is Kian.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “All right?” Kian said. He was leaning against the kitchen counter drinking tea, looking as comfortable as if he was in his own home – more comfortable than I felt in the house, if I’m being honest, and it was my home. It was Amy who looked awkward and a bit shy – well, you do, don’t you, the morning after the first time you bring a new boyfriend home. Although anyone who brought Kian home would be perfectly entitled to punch the air and go, “Yes – result!” because he was quite seriously hot – about six foot two of pure muscle, with a buzz cut and a jawline Zayn Malik would be proud of.

  But then I took another look at the two of them, and re-evaluated my take on the situation. Amy was wearing her gym kit. Kian was wearing trackie bottoms and a T-shirt. And okay, maybe after you shagged someone for the first time, you’d make him a cup of tea before heading out for a run. And maybe he’d have gone on your date, or whatever, in his loungewear. But it didn’t seem all that likely to me.

  “Kian goes to the same gym as me,” Amy said. “We arranged to meet up this morning for a workout in the park when I finished my night shift, and he came back for a cuppa.”

  “And now I need to head off,” Kian said. “I’ve got work to go to, unlike some people who get to kip all day.”

  Which I thought was a bit off, given that Amy had been working all night. But she didn’t seem to mind – she laughed and stuck her tongue out at him, and he reached out a hand as if he was going to caress her face, but then ended up just chucking her under the chin.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  “Likewise,” Kian said. “I’ll see myself out.” He rinsed his mug in the sink and put it on the dish rack to dry, picked up his bag and headed for the door, then stopped, turned back and said to Amy, “I’ll WhatsApp you, okay?”

  We heard the front door carefully close, then Amy sort of squeezed her arms around herself and gave a delighted little shiver.

  “Sorry, Gemma,” she said, although she didn’t look sorry at all. “That must have been a bit weird, coming down for your breakfast and finding him here.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “No worries at all. I was just going to do my nails, though, which might have spoiled the mood a bit.”

  “Oooh, were you?” Amy said. “What colour?”

  “Just this.” I fished my nail varnish out of my bag. “It’s like a greige – I thought it would go with everything but now I’m not sure I’m loving it.”

  Amy looked at it. It would be fair to say she looked askance at it. “No,” she said. “Not loving it either. Want to use some of mine? I’ve got loads, and I’m only allowed boring clear at work, so I only get to do mine properly when I’m off, and then I only get to wear it for a couple of days, which seems kind of pointless.”

  “Cool,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll stick the kettle on.”

  A few seconds later, I heard Amy’s trainers come pattering back down the stairs and she plonked a huge make-up case full of nail polishes on the table. I’m not lying – there must have been at least seventy bottles in her hoard, plus loads of cuticle oils and quick-drying sprays and undercoats and other bits and pieces whose function I could only guess at.

  “How long have you got?” she said.

  “An hour, maybe? Normally I have zero time in the mornings, but I woke up early.”

  “Cool!” Amy said. “I’m going to go crazy. Do you mind?”

  I briefly weighed up the value of a healthy breakfast against having really amazing nails. The nails won easily.

  “So,” I said, ever so casually a few minu
tes later, when Amy’s head was bent low over my hands so that it would be easy for her to avoid meeting my eyes if she didn’t want to. “Kian seems nice.”

  The brush moved smoothly over my nail, an even coat of aqua varnish following it.

  “You think?” Amy said.

  “Yeah! I mean, he’s fit, obviously. But you know that.”

  “Oh my God,” Amy said. “I’ve fancied him for ages. I thought he’d never, ever notice me. The gym’s full of these really hot girls – why would anyone pick me?”

  I opened my mouth to say that of course they would, Amy was gorgeous – the way you instinctively do, even when it’s not true, although in her case it totally was. But she carried on talking before I could say anything.

  “And then the other morning I was doing bench presses without anyone spotting me, which you shouldn’t do really, because it’s dangerous and you can drop the weight on yourself. But I thought, whatever – I wasn’t lifting anything really heavy anyway, and I know what I’m doing. And he just came over and put his hand under the bar, like this—” She gestured, sending a splatter of nail polish off the brush and on to the stripy oilcloth. “Oops. Fuck. Hold on.”

  She saturated a cotton ball with acetone and carefully blotted the stain away. “Just as well there’s a cloth on there. Rule twenty-four, isn’t it: ‘This is your home, but it’s ours, too. Please treat our belongings with as much care and respect as you would your own.’”

  We met each other’s eyes and both started to giggle.

  “I know, right?” I said. “Anyway, go on about Kian.”

  “So he helped me with my workout, and we got chatting, and he said, as it’s so hot out, why didn’t we meet up in the park and train together sometimes. And I said I’d love to, but it was hard with my shift patterns, and he said that was cool, because he works weird hours too. So we met up this morning and we had such a great time.”

  “Wicked!” I said. “So, do you think you’ll see him again?”

  “Who knows?” Amy said. She looked up at me again, and her dark eyes were full of doubt. “The thing is, Gemma, I’m totally shit at relationships. I just seemed to get it wrong when I was a teenager, over and over. So I said to myself, no more. I’ll focus on my career and get that sorted, and then maybe everything else will fall into place.”

  “Maybe everything is falling into place now, though,” I said. “Maybe things will work out between you two. Or maybe they won’t – maybe it’s just, like, a dry run? After all, you’ve only seen him at the gym and then met up with him this morning and had tea, right? It could be the beginning of something, or it could be nothing at all. Don’t stress – just go with it.”

  “I know,” Amy said. “You’re totally right. I shouldn’t be stressing about it – but that’s what I do. You don’t, I can tell. You’re totes sorted, with the love of your life coming back to marry you once he’s finished travelling.”

  Her words shocked me as much as if she’d thrown a glass of cold water in my face. For a while, thinking about her and my nails and how much time I had before I really, really needed to leave and go to work had made me forget about Jack. And even before that, the total weirdness of talking to the internet about how I felt had somehow insulated me from what was really going on.

  But now I was made aware of my situation as harshly as if it had only just changed. I’d told Hannah, Richard and Amy that Jack was off travelling for six months, maybe a year, and that when he got back we’d be looking for a place together. That was true, then. Now it wasn’t. Now I was single, unequivocally so – dumped and dealing with it in a terribly public way that suddenly seemed also to be terribly stupid.

  I wanted, briefly, to confide in Amy. Her hands on mine felt safe and gentle. She’d trusted me enough to tell me things about herself that were private and important. But then I heard Richard and Hannah coming downstairs, laughing at some private joke. Quickly, Amy pulled a piece of kitchen towel off the roll and put it underneath my hand before misting a film of cold spray over my nails.

  “There you go,” she said. “They’ll dry really fast now.”

  I’d been so engrossed in our conversation that I’d barely concentrated on what she’d been doing. Now I looked, and felt my face spread into a delighted grin. My nails were an even pale blue, except every alternate finger was painted with a perfect, puffy white cloud.

  “That’s so fucking insane,” I said, just as Hannah said, “Pfft, it really stinks in here.”

  The moment of closeness between Amy and me had evaporated as quickly as acetone.

  I said, “Oh my God, I need to rush or I’ll be late again. Thanks for the incredible nails.”

  Amy said, “No bother. I should get some sleep.” And she gathered up her collection of manicure stuff and headed upstairs.

  Hannah said, “Earl Grey or English Breakfast, Rich? And do you want eggs or porridge?”

  I wasn’t early any more, but I wasn’t too late to stop for a coffee at Daily Grind. I’d got used to chatting to Luke and his assistant while I waited for my order, and the assistant seemed to be getting used to the job, too. He didn’t mess up so many orders now, and he was starting to recognise his customers – when he saw me, he grinned and said, “Cappuccino and an almond croissant?”

  “That’s right,” I said, smiling. Whatever his reason was for needing to work there, I really hoped he’d stopped fucking up and wasn’t going to get the sack.

  He handed me my drink and I handed him a tenner, but instead of putting it in the till he paused and looked at me.

  “Is your name Gemma?”

  I thought, How does he know? Then I remembered my video, and that just a couple of days before, it had felt like the whole of the internet knew my name. I wished I could disappear into the glossy wooden floorboards.

  “That’s me,” I muttered.

  “You do YouTube videos, right? Make-up and stuff?”

  “I – yes, I do. A bit. Hardly anyone watches them, though. How did you…?”

  He laughed. “I recognised your voice, then I realised I knew your face, too. My niece loves your videos. I was at my sister’s place over the weekend and she made me watch about five of them back-to-back, then she went off to her mum’s bedroom and put loads of make-up on. My sister went absolutely mental. Zara’s only eleven.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I mean – that her mum was cross. I didn’t want to be a bad influence.”

  He shrugged. “I told my sister she’s going to have to get used to it. Zara’s growing up, after all. Would you mind if I took a selfie of us for her? She’d be so excited.”

  I hesitated, then I thought, What harm could it do? I was putting my image online almost every day – what difference would one selfie for an eleven-year-old girl make? So I said yes, and he came out from behind the counter and we put our faces close together and he took a photo on his phone.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’m Raffy, by the way.”

  “Gemma. But you knew that. Nice to meet you, anyway.” I fumbled my coffee and croissant into one hand so I could shake his with the other. It felt awkward to greet each other formally when we’d just been close enough for me to smell him – his hair had a faint fragrance of coffee.

  “I’d better get on,” I said, seeing the queue behind me building up.

  “Have a good day,” he said. “See you later. And thanks.”

  “That’s okay.”

  As the door swung shut behind me, I heard one of the other customers say, “Who do you think she is, then?”

  “No idea. She’s tall enough to be a model, but…”

  Then the door closed and I couldn’t hear any more. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  I spent my lunch break reading back through the comments on my vlog, and reading new ones for the first time. Alongside all the sweet, supportive messages, there were more and more questions. Although they were all different, they were also all the same.

  What do you do when you’ve been dumpe
d?

  How do you mend a broken heart?

  How do you make yourself get out of bed in the morning when all you want to do is pull the pillow over your head and cry?

  And the problem was, I didn’t know the answer. Although I’d had my fair share of rejections and minor bust-ups, I’d never had my heart broken because, before Jack, I’d never been in a proper relationship. And now that I had, I’d responded in the stupidest way imaginable, and that appeared to have started a chain of events I could never have predicted. I got out of bed in the mornings because if I didn’t, I’d lose my job and then I wouldn’t be able to pay the rent – but that wasn’t exactly groundbreaking advice to pass on to the people who’d asked, and nor was it enough to fill more than about sixty seconds of YouTube time.

  As for mending a broken heart – well, mine wasn’t mended by any means. But the shock of finding myself suddenly known to several thousand people on the internet had been pretty effective at distracting me from it. But again, as relationship advice went, “Dumped? Pro tip: try making a twat of yourself online, because that will make you feel even worse!” was probably not the kind of wisdom Dear Deirdre would dispense.

  So I turned from my YouTube channel to Google and searched for ‘getting over a break-up’.

  There was no shortage of advice out there; the problem was that a lot of it couldn’t really be made to work in the context of fifteen minutes of me talking to a camera in my bedroom.

  The best way to get over a man is to get under another, seemed to be a popular axiom. Which was all very well, I supposed, but although I was grateful to my viewers for all their kind words, I wasn’t grateful enough to go out and pull some random stranger and shag him on camera.

  Get out in the fresh air and work up a sweat, were the bracing words I found on another forum. Exercise releases endorphins, the feel-good hormones that are guaranteed to leave you with a smile on your face and roses in your cheeks. And, when you’re ready to start looking for a new relationship, you’ll be toned, glowing and looking better than ever.