“So, first of all, let me tell you guys a little about Cantaloupe. I thought the name must mean something to do with wolves, but I googled and it turns out it’s a kind of melon. Every day’s a school day, right? And it was started by Ivy Savage, the Victoria’s Secret Angel, and a guy called Colin Colbert, who has actually massaged Beyoncé. I know, right? So when I was offered the opportunity to try some of their range I was like, ‘Yes please!’
“The first thing I noticed about these products was how totally gorgeous they smell. It’s like a blend of something citrussy – lime, I think – and something floral. And it’s just really fresh and feminine. I can imagine going out every day smelling like this and getting all the compliments. And the second thing I noticed was how beautifully packaged they are. You can see the colour scheme – everything’s coral and rose gold, so it’s kind of princessy but also really grown up and sophisticated. But you can’t see the actual quality – how solid and expensive they feel. They even make the best noises when you open them. Listen.”
I picked up a compact mirror and opened it. The case made a clicking sound that was undeniably satisfying. I pushed back my hair and looked at the camera. It seemed to be watching me expectantly.
The problem was, piled up on my bed was a collection of beautifully packaged, gorgeously scented things I couldn’t image anyone, ever, actually wanting to use.
The mirror, for all its pleasing heft in my palm and jewel-like casing, was so heavy I couldn’t imagine wanting to carry it around with me, and so pretty that if I did, I’d be constantly afraid of losing it. There was a lovely pink and copper lipstick caddy that suffered from the same problem – and the additional problem of being a lipstick caddy in the first place. I mean, who ever uses one of those? I’d had to turn once again to Google to find out what one even was. It was all I could do to remember to put a tube of lipstick in my handbag in the mornings, never mind remembering to put it in a special little case first.
There were hair masks and foot masks and things called pillow masks, which, confusingly, you wore on your face and not on your pillow at all.
There was a thing called a Himalayan salt lamp, which looked like a large, cumbersome tea light holder but apparently had magical powers and when lit would release negative ions or positive vibes or something into the atmosphere. It smelled wonderful, but – negative ions? Google suggested that the science was dubious at best. But I couldn’t say that, of course.
I looked around me at all the stuff scattered on my duvet, and looked up into the waiting eye of the camera. I had to finish this video. I’d promised Sloane. I’d even bought a new ring light for my camera with money I didn’t have, in anticipation of earning it back if Cantaloupe liked me.
“Come on, Stanley,” I said. “Let’s do this thing.”
Two hours later, I was done. I’d picked out the least outlandish of the products and thought of nice things to say about them (and found some not too nasty critical things to say too, because Sloane had mentioned that that would add authenticity to my content). It was hard to imagine any content less authentic than what I’d just posted, but it was going to have to do.
“Stanley,” I said, “if I say the word ‘gorgeous’ one more time, my tongue is literally going to fall out.”
My teddy didn’t say anything. I said, “And your eye’s going to fall off if I don’t get my act together and sew it back on, isn’t it? And then where would we be?”
I kissed his threadbare head, then played the edited video one last time, just to make sure I wasn’t obviously gurning at any point, and that the bit where I said, “What the fuck is the fucking point of all this fucking stuff, anyway?” had been removed in its entirety. Then I went online and posted it on YouTube and linked to it on Twitter and Instagram. I was done. I’d done my best.
I remembered how, just a few hours ago, I’d been envying Charlie his easy life, his ability to make an amount of money that was unimaginable to me without having a real, proper job. I was beginning to understand, now, why Gus rolled his eyes to heaven when he saw Sloane’s number on his phone; why they’d been so annoyed when she had vetoed their condom challenge video; why Charlie said, “More fucking editing,” when he reached for his laptop in the morning.
I could almost, but not quite, understand why any content for their channel, even making a fool of me, was fair game.
“That’s that done, anyway,” I said to Stanley. “I’m bloody starving now. I wonder if I’ve got any food in the fridge.”
Wearily, I packed all the stuff back in the shiny Cantaloupe box. I’d have to get rid of it all somehow – I wasn’t going to use any of it. I could put it on eBay, I supposed, but that felt like it would be compounding my dishonesty. I could take it to the charity shop, but the idea of carrying the box another step made me want to cry. I tried to push it under my bed, but it wouldn’t fit, so I shoved it into the corner of the room under the window. I’d decide what to do with it tomorrow.
I thought about calling Charlie, but then I remembered he’d said he and Gus were going to yet another book signing. Amy was working a night shift. I looked around my bedroom, at the tasteful furniture and the white duvet and the fairy lights and the closed door, and felt suddenly claustrophobic. My phone buzzed with the first of the rush of comments and tweets that came, now, whenever I posted a video, and I realised I’d never felt so lonely in my life.
Then the solution came to me – it was obvious. I’d go out. I’d go down the road to the pub and see if Raffy and Luke were still there. It was only nine thirty – they’d probably even still be serving food. I could have a burger and chips and a glass of wine, and chat and socialise like a normal person. I didn’t even need to change or put on make-up – I’d done my face before I started filming.
“Right,” I told Stanley. “That’s it. Decision made. You hold the fort here.”
I laced up my Converse, picked up my bag and opened my bedroom door, giddy with excitement and relief.
“This feels almost like having a life,” I said aloud.
But just as I started down the stairs, I heard the front door open and Richard’s voice.
“… ever make a fucking fool of me like that in public again,” he was saying – almost shouting.
I paused. Shit. I didn’t want to go barging in on them in the middle of a row.
“Richard, I didn’t. Seriously. I didn’t mean to do anything…” Hannah sounded almost pleading, and definitely as if she’d been crying.
I retreated into my bedroom, pulled the door shut and sat down on my bed, trying not to make a sound.
“What, are you saying you can’t control yourself? That you got drunk at a work event with my colleagues because you have no agency? Because if so, you need help, Hannah.”
“I’m not drunk! I had three glasses of wine.”
“You’re lying. You look drunk, you’re acting drunk. You embarrassed yourself and you embarrassed me.”
I sat on my bed, frozen. Their voices were coming clearly up the stairs from the living room; either they didn’t know I was home, or they didn’t care. I simply didn’t know what to do – interrupt them, and hope I could somehow defuse the situation? Somehow I got the sense that it was beyond defusing. And anyway, it was private. Normal couples didn’t play out their relationships in public, like Charlie and I were doing. Normal couples had rows, didn’t they? Probably one or both of them would apologise and they’d go to bed and have make-up sex and in the morning it would all be forgotten.
“I didn’t mean to, Richard, honestly. I was just trying to be sociable. I was just…”
“You were fucking hitting on every man you spoke to. Jesus. It was sickening to watch. Even Lawrence, and he’s gay, for Christ’s sake. If you could have seen yourself.”
“I know he’s gay, Rich! He couldn’t be more obviously gay if he tried! I was just chatting to him. I thought it would be okay to talk to him, because he’s gay. After what happened last time, I thought…”
; “What do you mean, ‘last time’? Would that be the time at my brother’s wedding, when you turned up dressed like you were going out on the pull in Liverpool on a Saturday night, and practically snogged my cousin on the dance floor and then fell over your own feet because you were so pissed?”
Hannah said, “It was a wedding, Richard! Everyone was pissed. I said I was sorry, afterwards.”
Richard stopped shouting. His voice was very quiet now, so quiet I had to strain to hear him. “Yes, you did say you were sorry. You apologised and you promised it wouldn’t happen again. And clearly you didn’t mean a word of it. Either that or, as I said, you just can’t control yourself.”
“Please, Richard,” Hannah said. “Don’t be like this. I don’t know what to do any more. It’s like every time we’re out with other people and I’m having fun, we end up having a massive row about it.”
“Well, there’s a simple and obvious solution to that,” said Richard. “If you can’t be trusted to behave decently around my friends, then I can’t attend social events with you.”
“But you don’t like it when I go out with my own friends, either,” Hannah said. “It’s like you don’t want me to have a life at all.”
“What friends would those be?” Richard said. “That slapper Helena? Karen, or whatever her name is, who hasn’t bothered to even get in touch with you for six months? You don’t have any friends, and quite frankly I’m beginning to understand why.”
“Karen only doesn’t talk to me any more because you…” Hannah began, then she seemed to change her mind, and started again. “Rich. Darling, please. It’s like we can’t even talk about stuff we don’t agree about without bringing up all this ancient history. I hate having rows like this.”
“You bring it upon yourself,” Richard said. “You’re your own worst enemy. It’s like you can’t see how you’re destroying our relationship with your thoughtlessness. Tonight was an important event for me. Senior management was there. I should have been networking, furthering my career, not having to leave early with my drunk girlfriend because she can’t be trusted to behave decently in public.”
Hannah said, “Richard, for God’s sake, I’m not… Look, I’m sorry. Maybe I don’t understand the way you do things in the corporate world. I had a couple of glasses of wine, I was chatting to your colleagues. I thought I was doing the right thing. If I wasn’t, I’m really sorry.”
No! I wanted to scream. Don’t apologise to him! Why the hell should you apologise when he’s being a complete bastard and it sounds like you did nothing wrong? But then I thought, How do I know? I wasn’t there. Maybe Hannah did get drunk and flirt with this Lawrence guy. Maybe Richard was embarrassed. But still, somehow, I knew whose side I was on, and it wasn’t his.
“This is what you say every time. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. I won’t do it again, Richard. Please be nice to me, Richard.’ And then you go and do just the same bloody thing again and again. I’m tired of it, Hannah. You make me tired. I’m going to bed. You can sleep down here on the sofa.”
I heard his feet thump up the stairs past my door, and found myself holding my breath as he passed. But he didn’t stop; he carried on up the stairs and I heard their bedroom door close.
I sat in the dark and listened, but I couldn’t hear Hannah at all. If I heard the sound of her crying, I’d go downstairs and talk to her, I promised myself. But I heard nothing, and I did nothing. It was too late now for me to go out, and I didn’t feel hungry any more, so I waited for a bit, listening to the silence, and then I took off my make-up and got into bed. Even though every bit of me was thrumming with tension, I was so exhausted I fell asleep straight away.
In the morning, Hannah and Richard were having their tea and porridge at the kitchen table, just the same as every morning. If I hadn’t known, I might not have noticed that there were deep shadows under Hannah’s eyes, and Richard didn’t say a single word to her in the time it took me to eat two pieces of toast and honey, get my things together and leave for work – which, admittedly, I did as quickly as I possibly could.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Good news!” Sloane said. “Cantaloupe loved your video. Really loved it. They’re over the moon about working with you. They love you! So I thought we should have a quick catch-up about that, and then talk about some other exciting ideas I have for you.”
It was lunchtime, and we were sitting in the snow-white meeting room at Ripple Effect. I’d practically sprinted there from the office in order to get there for the assigned time, and I knew from experience that the meeting was likely to take up my entire lunch break. I looked longingly at the jar of jelly beans on the table, but resisted. I had two huge spots on my chin and could feel an ominous tingling on my top lip that I was sure was going to erupt into a hideous, painful cold sore.
In the couple of weeks since I’d overheard Hannah and Richard’s row, I’d been spending more and more time at Charlie and Gus’s place. I told myself it was because I wanted to be with Charlie, and I did, of course. But there was more to it than that – after all, if all I wanted was to be with him, couldn’t we just as easily hang out and sleep and eat takeaways and make videos in my bedroom in Hackney? Charlie’s flat was more comfortable, I told myself. He had better cameras and decent lights. It made sense for me to be there – and besides, I didn’t want Gus to ever think that I was somehow stealing his brother away from him.
I justified my decision to myself like that, but I knew there was more to it. Whenever I was in my own bedroom, I felt ill at ease, constantly listening for raised voices. I avoided the kitchen and the living room in case Richard was there. I felt awkward about having eavesdropped on their argument. I didn’t want them to know I’d intruded on their privacy in that way, even though I hadn’t meant to. And I couldn’t get rid of a lingering sense of guilt – a nagging knowledge that I should have intervened to support Hannah. But I hadn’t, and it made me want to avoid her as much as I wanted to avoid Richard. And so, gradually, more of my clothes and toiletries were making their way from my room to Charlie’s flat – the previous week, I’d even tucked Stanley into my bag and moved him over.
“Now,” Sloane said, “I know you think I’m a total old woman about this, Gemma, but it really is important that you maintain a presence across multiple channels. I noticed you were on Twitter yesterday and that’s great, there was such cute interaction between you and Charlie – so adorable, honestly, I could just eat the two of you up – but it’s important that you interact with your fans too, and that means spreading your wings – you need a presence on other social media too, and not just when you upload a new video. Your fans want to see as much of your life as possible, so tell them what you’re up to, even if you don’t think it’s that interesting, and, more importantly, show them! And I know we’ve talked about this before, but we really do need to get a blog set up for you. We can get one of the juniors here to do most of the writing, but only with input from you. After all, you’re the creative force behind SparklyGems!”
She paused for breath, and I stopped nodding in agreement, although my chin did rise and fall a couple more times from sheer momentum. I looked at the jelly beans again, then looked away. I fought the urge to yawn. I didn’t want to make excuses, but Sloane always seemed to forget that I had a job – that responding to comments from my viewers and “interacting with other content creators” online as she had instructed meant that I hadn’t texted Katie or Nancy for weeks (although, I realised, they’d pretty much stopped texting me, too). It meant rushing through things at work and then sneaking off to lock myself in the loo with my phone. And Charlie was the same – he texted me loads during the day wanting to know what I was doing and making plans to see each other again, or sometimes just sending me links to stuff he’d found online to make me laugh. Just that morning, he’d sent me a link to my own ‘These Cats Hanging With Their Besties Will Melt Your Heart’ post. I hadn’t the heart to tell him to look at the byline.
Sloane had instructed me t
o post new content on my channel every day, which meant hours of editing, filming and a constant low-level worry that I was going to run out of ideas. It also meant I was permanently knackered.
I know, I know – I’m whinging about living a life I knew my viewers would kill to have. I was living the YouTube dream – I had a gorgeous boyfriend who was mobbed by fans whenever he went out, which meant I got mobbed too. I got regular deliveries of free products to try (redirected by Sloane to Charlie’s apartment, so carrying boxes on the Tube was a thing of the past). I was making more money from my channel, and the payments, even though they were only a few hundred pounds a month, made me tingle with pride whenever I looked at my bank balance online.
But even that wasn’t without its problems, because whenever I did log in to see whether a payment had arrived from YouTube, I was forced to confront the fact that I was haemorrhaging far more money than I was bringing in. Every night out with Charlie and Gus meant buying something new to wear, because I couldn’t possibly pose for selfies with his fans in a top I’d bought from Primark three years before. Doing make-up videos meant buying new products to use in them. And even though Charlie always insisted on paying when we went out, I felt so guilty about it that I was forever buying random presents for him to make up for it.
So although I couldn’t properly quell the doubts that kept surfacing in my mind – the feeling that I wasn’t actually in control of the direction my life was taking – I was too busy to care.
“So I’m thinking we need to set up some collabs for you,” Sloane went on. “Something around healthy eating, with Maddie, because I know the two of you have that in common.” There went my last chance of grabbing a handful of jelly beans, I thought. “And maybe a shopping trip with Carly – we’re talking with Bicester Village about some potential synergies, so you could spend a day there together and then post a haul video. How about that?”
The Truth About Gemma Grey: A feel-good, romantic comedy you won't be able to put down Page 19
