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

by Sophie Ranald

  I laughed, not knowing whether to be amused or shocked that they were so staggeringly indiscreet about the work attributed to them.

  “Who did write it, anyway?” I asked.

  “Guy called Jamie Fletcher,” Charlie said. “He’s a journalist. Writes for Heat magazine. He’s here somewhere. Go on, mate, get Gemma and me a drink.”

  Reluctantly, Gus sloped off to the bar. Charlie draped his arm around my shoulder and leaned in close. I could smell his aftershave – it was something citrussy and sharp.

  “So, who do you want to hear about? Go on, ask me anything. I know everyone here.”

  “Since you knew me, I guess you do,” I said.

  “You’re different,” Charlie said. For a second, our eyes met. His were a deep denim blue, framed with long lashes so dark and feathery they looked like they’d been applied in a salon. Then he looked away again. “You’re new.”

  I felt a little lurch of disappointment. Was he only talking to me because I was an unfamiliar face in what I was beginning to suspect was a highly incestuous world?

  “Okay, then, tell me about the girl over there, dancing – the one with the blonde hair and the amazing legs.”

  “Maddie,” Charlie said. “She’s got a fitness channel. All about her yoga and raw food diet. She went out with Gus for a bit, but he finished it because she’s so incredibly boring. She used to turn up at the flat with all her food for the day in Tupperware boxes and then she’d spend all the time looking at her watch waiting for it to be time to eat again. Nice girl, though.”

  “And him? Over there by the bar on his own?”

  “Glen Renton,” Charlie said. “My God, you really are new to this, aren’t you? Glen’s got, like, eight million subscribers. That’s more than a million more than us. Everyone fucking hates him, though.”

  Before I could ask why, Gus reappeared with our drinks. “One Power Rinse, one Mangle,” he said, handing them over. I looked at him and Charlie again. They were so similar – yet there was something entirely different about them. Like a pair of very beautiful shoes, a left and a right. No – like those mask icons that people use to represent theatre, totally identical, except one’s happy and the other sad. Charlie was all cheer and energy; Gus wasn’t. There was something subdued about Gus, a restraint, as if he was keeping an important part of himself firmly battened down. But for me, the difference was far clearer and more visceral. I didn’t know why, but I knew it for sure: I fancied Charlie and I didn’t fancy Gus. And that was a good thing, because it was Charlie’s arm that was still casually draped around my shoulders.

  “I’m going out for a fag,” Gus said. “Coming?”

  “Okay,” Charlie said. “Don’t let Sloane see you, though.”

  I didn’t say anything. I waited for Charlie to move his arm from around my shoulders, which I’d take as my signal that our conversation was over and it was time for me to leave. But he didn’t, so I let myself be guided back towards the door. Gus hurried ahead of us, extracting a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of his dinner jacket as he walked.

  He pushed open the door just as one of the doormen said, “I wouldn’t go out that way if I were you, mate.”

  But it was too late. The street, which had been empty and silent when I arrived, was now heaving with people – mostly, from the brief glance I was able to get, teenage girls. I could hear a babble of excited chatter, which turned instantly to screams of excitement.

  “There’s Charlie!”

  “There’s Gus!”

  “Oh my God, it’s actually them!”

  “Gus! Charlie!”

  A hundred camera flashes exploded; Charlie’s arm dropped off my shoulder as if I’d suddenly become radioactive. Gus shot backwards, almost knocking me off my feet and spilling my new drink, fortunately not all over me. The door slammed shut.

  “Fuck,” Gus said.

  “Someone must have leaked the venue details,” Charlie said.

  “Where the hell is Sloane?” Gus said.

  “Right here.” She appeared behind us. “I see you guys have met Gemma. Cool.”

  “It’s fucking madness out there,” Gus said. “Every fourteen-year-old in London’s camped out outside the door.”

  “Yeah,” Sloane said. “No idea how that could have happened. I guess someone must have seen Harry leaving and put it out on Twitter.” She looked pleased, I thought, and not entirely surprised. But I had no opportunity to analyse her expression.

  “We could go out there,” Charlie said reluctantly. “Sign some books. Give them some selfies.”

  “No fucking way,” Sloane and Gus said at the same time.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Sloane said. “Without proper crowd control, those kids are going to get hurt. It’s a health and safety nightmare.”

  “What about my fag?” Gus grumbled.

  “You’ll have to wait for that,” Sloane said. “We’re going to have to smuggle you out of here. There’s no way you’ll get out the front and now they know you’re here they won’t leave until gone midnight.”

  “Gemma’s coming with us,” Charlie said. “Unless you have to be somewhere else?”

  I thought about playing hard to get, pretending I had another, even better party to go on to. I thought about work the next day, and the three cocktails I’d drunk already without any food. And then I thought about how Charlie’s body had felt holding me against him, the echo of fragrance I’d smelled on his skin. I remembered how everyone in the room had turned and watched us as we walked towards the door. “I… No, I don’t have to be anywhere,” I said.

  Sloane looked at me, a cool, assessing stare. “Right. Great. We’ll get all three of you out then. Give me five.”

  She disappeared into the crowd. Charlie, Gus and I finished our drinks and waited. A couple of people I didn’t recognise came over to say goodbye and thanks for the invites, and film themselves doing so. Gus removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth when the cameras were on him, then put it back afterwards.

  Then Sloane reappeared. “Right. One baseball cap, one fedora, two pairs of shades, one parka. I borrowed this lot from the staff here – I’ll pick them up from The Factory tomorrow. And one Berry Boys T-shirt. Hiding in plain sight, right? Who wants what? Gemma doesn’t need a disguise; no one will recognise her. Not yet, anyway,” she added, almost under her breath.

  After a brief tussle over who got to wear the fedora and parka and who’d be stuck with the T-shirt and baseball cap, which Gus won, we were ready to escape.

  “Uber back to The Factory?” Sloane said.

  What’s she talking about? I wondered. But before I could ask, Gus said, “It’s only half nine. I want to go on to Shoreditch House.”

  Sloane’s eyes narrowed. “Now, Gus, you know you can’t…”

  “Calm down, Sloane. Just for a couple of drinks. I’m not going to fall out of there at three in the morning with coke on my tie.”

  “That’s what you said last…” she stopped. “All right. Charlie, promise you’ll make sure your brother’s on best behaviour.”

  “I don’t want to go to Shoreditch House,” Charlie said. “I want to go home with Gemma. If Gemma wants to come. Do you, Gemma? You’ll love The Factory. We can watch Netflix and chill.”

  “Netflix and chill?” I burst out laughing. “Do you think I’ve been living under a rock?”

  Charlie blushed, and I liked him even more. “We’ve got a hot tub on the balcony,” he said.

  “I want to go to Shoreditch House,” Gus said, as petulantly as a child.

  I said, “Maybe if the guys left separately, people wouldn’t be so likely to recognise them. If they’re watching out for twins, I mean.”

  “Good thinking, Batman,” Charlie said.

  “Yes,” Sloane said. “Good call. Right. You two head off, and I’ll go for a drink with Gus. Just the one, mind.”

  Gus agreed, looking mutinous at the idea of being chaperoned on his night out, and Charlie and I left the
back way, through the kitchen, pausing only for a selfie with a Romanian waitress who almost dropped a tray of glasses when she saw him, and climbed into the waiting cab.

  Now that we were alone, I felt suddenly shy with Charlie, and I sensed he felt the same – or maybe it was his brother’s absence that rendered him silent and awkward. Maybe he could only function as part of a double act, I thought, looking across the expanse of leather seat to where he sat biting the skin around his thumb and alternately looking out of the window and staring at his phone.

  We said nothing to each other the whole journey, which is not quite as bad as it sounds, because it was one of the shortest cab rides I’d ever taken in my life. Normally, I’d have walked and not given it a second thought, or jumped on a bus if my shoes were hurting. But in Charlie’s world, you got a cab, even if it only took five minutes.

  “The Factory,” the driver said.

  “Cheers, mate,” Charlie said, opening the door and swinging his long legs out. For a moment, I considered asking the driver to take me home, or tapping the Uber icon on my own phone and asking him that way. But then Charlie appeared on my side of the car and opened the door for me, and offered me his arm to help me out, his sweet smile in place again, and I was lost.

  “Welcome to The Factory,” he said. “Manhattan-style loft living in the heart of east London. It used to be a factory that made – stuff, I can’t remember what. Buttons or something, probably. It’s a landmark architectural development, appaz. That’s what the estate agent said anyway. Come on up.”

  I followed him into the lift and he pressed the button for the third floor. Clearly, Charlie Berry took the same approach to walking up stairs as he did to walking along streets. I was going to tease him about it, but there wasn’t time; the lift opened, we stepped out and Charlie unlocked a bright orange-painted door.

  “My God,” I breathed, stepping in. “It’s huge.” The polished concrete floor spread ahead of me for what seemed like miles. In the distance, I could see a group of sofas, a dining table and chairs, and a space-age kitchen. The exposed brick walls were hung with massive canvasses splashed with brilliant colour. Mismatched industrial-style light fittings hung from the steel beams. There was camera equipment everywhere: lights, tripods, reflectors and other things whose purpose I could only guess at.

  “So this is where the magic happens?” I said, trying to sound off-hand and not a bit impressed. But Charlie seemed impervious to my sarcasm.

  “Like it? We sometimes skateboard around,” Charlie said. “Gus wants to get a Swegway.”

  “Maybe a bicycle would be better,” I said. “Or a season ticket for the commute between the door and your computer.”

  He laughed. “Anyway, let’s have a drink. And I’m starving, aren’t you?”

  I realised I was. And although I knew I shouldn’t have any more to drink, I wanted to take the edge off the sudden rush of nervousness I felt. I followed Charlie across the expanse of floor to the kitchen and watched as he opened a glass-fronted fridge and took out a bottle of champagne. Then he opened the freezer and looked gloomily inside.

  “Fucking fish fingers,” he said. “That’s all me and Gus ever cook. Fish finger butties.”

  “I quite like fishfinger butties,” I confessed.

  “So do we, obviously. But I can’t kiss you if we both taste of fish.”

  How entitled was he, I thought, assuming that I was going to kiss him. And then I realised that it was in no doubt – I’d come here, hadn’t I? I’d let a man I’d just met bring me home. Obviously, I was going to kiss him – and kissing would only be the start of it. And at that moment, I didn’t care whether that was sensible, or safe, or what he’d think of me afterwards.

  I watched his strong brown hands unwrap the wire cage from the top of the champagne bottle and pull the cork out with an easy twist. He took two glasses from a cupboard and said, “Since there’s no dinner, shall we have a go in the hot tub?”

  I remembered my black bra, which was stuffed into my handbag and anyway had a massive hole in it where I’d poked a thumbnail through taking it off, and my nude cotton pants, which were totally invisible under clothes and totally hideous without them.

  “I’ve got nothing to wear,” I said.

  “Oh,” Charlie said. He looked briefly flummoxed, then he peeled the yellow Berry Boys T-shirt off and chucked it over. “Why don’t you put that on? I won’t look.”

  He took the bottle and glasses in one hand and opened the door to the balcony, letting in a rush of warm night air and traffic noise. “I’ll be just out here.”

  I hesitated, then slipped off my dress and draped it over the red suede sofa, put on the T-shirt and followed him.

  The balcony was almost as huge as the living room, surrounded by plants in pots and open to the night sky. A haze of steam rose from the blue water where Charlie lounged, his body hidden by bubbles.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said. I put one foot into the hot water, then the other, then lowered my body in. The T-shirt billowed absurdly around me, and we both laughed. “Guess I won’t be doing any swimwear special vlogs.”

  “Guess not,” Charlie said. “Although if I had to choose someone to model a Berry Boys T-shirt, it would be you, right now.”

  He handed me a glass of fizz and we clinked and drank. I let my legs drift in the water, and they drifted inexorably towards his. I felt my foot touch his naked thigh, and then his hand reached down into the water and began caressing my ankle. I took another gulp of wine – my throat felt tight and my breath was coming faster, as if I’d been dunked under the water and just come up.

  “I’m glad you came, Gemma,” Charlie said. “I didn’t think you would.”

  “Don’t girls always, when you invite them?”

  “I hardly ever do,” he said. “Like I said, you’re different.”

  It’s not true, said the sensible part of me. He’s telling you what he thinks you want to hear. He must bring girls back here all the time. He must have girls camping outside every club he goes to, wanting him to take them home and show them his hot tub. But I didn’t want to believe that, and the gentle, teasing pressure of his fingers on my leg made me not care anyway.

  I looked at his lean shoulders rising up out of the water and longed to brush the droplets from his skin. His hair flopped down over his forehead, whatever products he’d used in it no match for the steam. He pushed it back and I wanted to touch it too. My foot found his chest and slipped down over the hard muscle of his stomach. Jets of water were pummelling my body as firmly as hands; I wanted to feel his actual hands touching me everywhere.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking you’re too far away,” I said.

  And then with a rush and a splash we were kissing each other, our glasses abandoned on the floor, my hair floating in the water like seaweed.

  I’d never snogged anyone in a hot tub before. Maybe people who’ve had more practice know a graceful and elegant way to do it, but I didn’t, and Charlie didn’t appear to, either. We slipped off the seats and got water in our mouths. The sopping wet, too large T-shirt kept getting in the way. It was awkward and hilarious and sexy as hell.

  “Come on,” he said eventually. “Let’s go inside.”

  He took my hand and we stepped out of the water and back into the flat, and stood dripping on the concrete floor, our bodies pressed together. It was his touch, not the rapidly cooling, sopping wet fabric against my skin that made me shiver, but he said, “You’ll catch cold.”

  I said, “No, I won’t.” I peeled the T-shirt off and dropped it on to the floor with a loud splat. I started to giggle and couldn’t stop, and then I was kissing him again, kissing him and laughing and gasping with pleasure as he touched me.

  “What about Gus?” I managed to say. “What if he…”

  “They won’t be home for ages,” Charlie said. “When Gus says one drink he means five, and Sloane will do what he wants.”
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  He pulled me down on to the sofa and we kissed some more, and I reached down and touched him through his soaking wet boxer shorts and heard his groan.

  “I haven’t got…” I said. “Have you…?”

  “Bedroom,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  I lay back and watched him hurry across the room, his legs slightly too long for his body, almost gangly, his skin smooth and tanned. He came back a few seconds later, stepped out of his underwear, snapped on a condom and took me in his arms again. I closed my eyes, loving the way our damp bodies felt together, waiting for his kiss.

  “Gemma,” he said softly. “Is this okay? Are you sure?”

  I opened my eyes and saw my smile reflected by his, his beautiful eyes crinkling at the corners. He had a dimple in his right cheek, another thing that made him different from Gus, different from anyone – unique and perfect.

  “I’m very sure,” I said.

  Half an hour later, we lay together listening to a church clock somewhere strike midnight, our skin drying and our breath returning to normal.

  “I think we’ve ruined your sofa,” I said, looking at the dark, wet imprint of our bodies on the suede.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’ll buy a new one. Or Sloane will tell the interior decorator to.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yeah, why not? We didn’t choose any of this stuff – we wouldn’t have a clue how. You should have seen the place where we lived before. It was a right dump. This is pretty cool though, don’t you think?”

  “It’s amazing,” I said. Then I trailed my finger down his torso, lightly, from throat to groin. He shivered. “You’re amazing too.”

  “How’s your heart?” he asked.

  “My what?” I could still feel it beating hard in my chest, but it was returning to normal. “I’m not going to have a coronary, if that’s what you mean. Although it was pretty close there at one stage.”

  “I don’t mean that! It being broken, I mean. Your vlog…”

  “Oh, that.” I paused. If I could see inside myself, into whatever part of me my feelings were kept in, what would it look like? Different from how it had looked that morning, for sure. I’d imagined that there was an emptiness somewhere, a Jack-shaped wound that would never heal. But I couldn’t feel it now. I felt sated, happy, a bit drunk and very hungry. “I don’t think it’s broken any more.”