I scrolled and scrolled some more, and turned over to the next page and the one after that. The comments kept on coming, horrible things about me, my face, my bedroom, my clothes, my life.
She’s just become so false.
Her vlogs are all the same now. It’s all just product placement.
Did you see that smoothie thing she made? God, it looked like vomit. I almost threw up watching it, but then I laughed instead. She’s just tragic.
She must be making so much money. I wonder how Charlie feels, knowing he’s being used like that.
I don’t think Charlie cares. Their subscribers have gone up too, even though their channel’s been shit and boring for ages. Why not pretend to be sleeping with some shallow wannabe if it makes you another quarter of a million quid a year?
It’s Gus I feel sorry for. They used to be so funny together and now Gemma’s there in the flat with them all the time and Gus just sits at his laptop with a massive face on him.
Yeah, don’t feel sorry for Gus Berry. There are lots of rumours going round about him and they really aren’t nice to read.
OMG, really? Link please?
Sorry, can’t link here. This site’s already threatened with being shut down. We don’t want Ripple’s lawyers on us again ;-)
I know Gemma in real life. At least, I used to know her. I feel like I don’t any more. As soon as she got famous – if you can even call her famous – she basically dumped all her old friends.
That was followed by a crying emoji, and the poster was called TranceyNance – the name Nancy used on Twitter and Instagram. It wasn’t exactly cast-iron evidence, but it was pretty close. And there was enough truth in what she said to really, really hurt.
That was it – I’d seen enough. I closed the window. I felt sick and somehow dirty, as if I’d been caught doing something wrong and shameful. The comments on the new video were bad enough, but all along, for months and months, people had been saying these things about me and I’d had no idea. It felt like a betrayal – like when I’d found out about Jack and Olivia, only in a way even worse, because although almost all these people were strangers, their vitriol was aimed directly at me. And they knew so much about my life – they watched my videos, they followed me on social media, they probably even interacted with me, and they came here, to this other corner of the internet, to talk about how much they hated me. I remembered the two girls I’d posed for selfies with just a couple of days before – did they read this stuff? Did they think these things about me?
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to hide away, to delete my vlog and every other trace of my presence from the internet. Then I remembered the contract I’d signed with Cantaloupe, the commitments I’d made to them with barely a glance at the impenetrable small print, which Sloane said was their standard terms and conditions. I remembered Hannah, and remembered how, just a few minutes before, I’d thought that no price was too high to pay for helping other women like her.
I called Sloane.
“Gemma! How are you doing? I’m so sorry about yesterday.”
For a moment I couldn’t think what she meant. Then I remembered – the puppy, Gus, Charlie. I couldn’t believe it had only been the previous evening; it felt so long ago and so unimportant.
“That’s okay,” I said. “It really doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, what a relief, I was worried you were upset. Gus gets like that sometimes – he can be a bit temperamental. So talented, right? Anyway, I guess you’re calling about your new video? You brave girl, I am so proud of you, I just love it when our creators embrace causes close to their hearts. Maybe something a teeny bit less hard-hitting – sorry, that probably isn’t the best phrase to use – would have been more appropriate, but never mind. The point is, you’re supporting something you’re passionate about, and we love that. So well done.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But, Sloane, it’s not that – have you seen what people are saying? Have you seen that other site?”
“YouTruth? Oh, sweetie, don’t give that another thought. They’ve been around for ages. Most of the people who post there are unsuccessful vloggers themselves. So much jealousy, so much bitterness! We just let them get on with it, unless they overstep the mark into libel, and then we take action. It doesn’t make for pleasant reading, does it? I mean, if you’ve got nothing nice to say, why say anything at all? But that’s what the internet is like. Haters gonna hate, right? Hardly anyone reads YouTruth anyway, it’s just a handful of spiteful trolls. I’m amazed you were able to get on it at all, actually – the build’s so amateurish, it falls over all the time.”
“But the comments on my channel – the things people are saying about me being paid for the video…”
“Gemma, I know how upsetting these things are. But you’ve done nothing wrong – we’ve always been completely upfront about your affiliate links and the products you’re given for honest reviews, right? Maybe you could do a little post saying how hurt you are, updating people about how your friend’s doing, and keep linking to the cause – it’s a good one and you’re a wonderful ambassador to raise awareness. And then rise above it! There’s so much exciting stuff in the pipeline for you. I had a call earlier from Elle magazine… But we’ll talk in more detail about that later. And don’t worry about what’s happening below the line on your channel, okay? Interact, respond, build relationships, and ignore the haters. We’ve got it all in hand. That’s what we’re here for. I’m so sorry, I must dash into a meeting now but we’ll chat tomorrow. You take care.”
She ended the call and I looked at my phone, frustrated. She didn’t seem to think any of it was that important. And the comments had been so awful, so hurtful and untrue. Masochistically, I opened YouTube to look at them again.
But they had gone. Now the only people posting on my channel seemed to be full of gushing support, saying how wonderful I was, how obvious it was that the video was totally natural and unscripted, how they trusted my integrity completely. How much they loved me.
I’d been away from my desk for half an hour, I realised. One thing was for sure, I didn’t feel a bit tired any more. My heart thumping, adrenaline sizzling through me, I went back up to the office and made the round of teas and coffees.
“God, that took you long enough, Gemma,” Tom said. “We were all, like, dying of thirst here.”
It was only later that afternoon, once I’d finished writing my article for the day (Baked-Bean Paws, Pink Noses And The World’s Fluffiest Tummy – 21 Cats That Have Smashed The Cute Barrier), that it occurred to me that there might be a reason why today was the first time I’d seen so many such negative comments on my channel. Sloane, or one of her minions, must have been moderating them all along.
Five thirty came, and there was the usual, almost imperceptible sense of anticipation in the office. I’d realised quite early into my tenure at Clickfrenzy that the advertised working hours were just that – advertised. In reality, everyone arrived early and worked late; I always tried to be at my desk by nine o’clock, but Tom was always there before me. Whenever I went out for lunch, I’d leave Emily eating a salad at her desk. Jim once got so engrossed in a story that he missed the last train back to St Albans, where he lived, and ended up sleeping on the sofa in the meeting room.
Still, at the official close of business, most of us began to look longingly towards the lift. Everyone wanted to go home, but no one wanted to be the first to leave. I watched Callista push back her chair, stand up and stretch her shoulders – I knew how she felt; mine were aching too – and thought with relief that if she was leaving on time, I could too.
But she said, “Anyone want a coffee?”
Tom said, “Yeah, go on then. Cappuccino, please.”
Hermione said, “I’d love one, but I’ve got to go to a reception at Number Ten tonight; I need to be out of here in ten minutes.”
I could almost hear the exhalations of relief around our pod. Hermione’s thing might be work, but it was a jolly just the sa
me and once she had gone, the floodgates would open.
Ruby said, “I really wish I could stay and finish off this story, but I’m way behind on my ClassPass round-up, and there’s a yoga studio down the road I should check out.”
Then I saw Jim come out of the lift, walk through the office, drop his laptop bag and sit back down at his desk.
“I thought you had a five o’clock off-site,” Ruby said.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Jim said. “It finished a few minutes ago. Why?”
“Oh, no reason.” Ruby looked defeated – as indeed we all were. By passing up the chance of heading home even five minutes early, Jim had officially won that day’s round of passive-aggressive presenteeism.
“I’ll have a decaf tea, Callista, if you’re making,” he said.
“I’m on it,” Callista said.
I picked up my jacket and said, “Night everyone. See you tomorrow.”
Someone had to end the evening stalemate, I told myself – it might as well be me.
It was only when I got to the Tube station that I realised I didn’t actually know where I was going. Home to Hannah and Richard’s house, or back to Charlie’s? I hadn’t spoken to Charlie all day – the usual flood of texts and WhatsApp messages from him had turned into a drought. We hadn’t had a row – we just hadn’t spoken, at all. Was he pissed off with me? He had no right to be, I thought, crossly. I, on the other hand, was perfectly entitled to be pissed off with him. The previous evening and the discovery of the horrible underworld of hateful comments about me had swept all thoughts of Charlie from my mind, but now, the more I thought about him, the more pissed off I became.
I’d done nothing wrong. I could have called Gus out on his rudeness, but I hadn’t. Maybe I should have made the effort to get in touch with Charlie at some point during the day, but as he’d know from my vlog, there was a totally legitimate reason for my radio silence.
Stuff him, I decided. I’d go home. I’d see how Hannah was. I’d finish cleaning the glittery bathroom. I’d have something to eat – I suddenly realised I was starving. And maybe, before I went to bed, I’d call Charlie and find out what was up. Maybe.
When I emerged from the Underground half an hour later, I found myself automatically glancing into the window of Daily Grind. Raffy didn’t work there any more – I knew he didn’t, and I didn’t expect to see him there. But there he was. Not behind the counter frothing milk, or wiping surfaces with a spray bottle and a cloth, but sitting at a table – the table I’d come to think of as mine – working intently on a laptop.
I paused. Was it really him, or some other bloke with similar hair? Then he looked up, saw me, and waved.
I ducked into the coffee shop and went over to him.
“Hey,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”
I said, “I haven’t been around in ages. It’s all been a bit weird. I’ve been mad busy, and… yeah. I haven’t been around much. What are you doing here?”
He said, “What, I’m not allowed to sit in my mate’s shop and catch up with some work?”
I blushed. “You know that’s not what I meant. I meant it’s great to see you. How’ve you been? Have you found another job?”
“Gemma,” he said. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. That’s why I’m here, actually. I knew if I hung around here for long enough you’d come in for a coffee. I don’t have your number and I could have contacted you on social media but that felt a bit…”
“Stalkerish? And loitering at the coffee shop at the end of my road isn’t?”
He laughed. “I’ve got all the smooth moves.”
Our eyes met and I smiled, and felt the strange lurching feeling inside me that I’d felt before when he looked at me. It lasted for a few seconds, longer maybe – me standing by the table looking down at him and him looking up at me, both of us smiling. I almost didn’t want to say anything that would break the moment, the connection I felt – but then Raffy’s phone rang.
“Hi Vicky,” he said. “Yeah, I can talk. What’s up? He did? Right.”
There was a long pause. I could faintly hear a woman’s voice, speaking quickly and excitedly, but I couldn’t make out any of the words and I didn’t want Raffy to think I was earwigging on his call. I moved away, but Raffy reached out and touched my arm.
He turned his laptop around. On the screen, he’d typed, This could take a while. Here’s my number – call me when you can.
I hesitated, then I thought, what did I have to lose? He could find me on WhatsApp or Facebook or Twitter or practically anywhere else online if he wanted to – but I had no idea how to contact him. I didn’t even know his last name. So I tapped the eleven digits into my phone, then checked that I’d got them right.
“Vicky, I know you feel strongly about this,” he was saying. “But I’d question whether it’s the right thing to do. I mean, these are people’s lives we’re talking about.”
Then he mouthed, “Call me.”
I said, “Okay. See you later,” and walked out, feeling obscurely disappointed. I wandered aimlessly into the supermarket next door, trying to decide what I felt like eating – which was actually really hard, as it often is when you’re ridiculously hungry – and trying to make sense of my feelings.
Raffy clearly wasn’t interested in me. He’d made that all too clear, all those months before, when I’d made my humiliating, drunken attempt to hook up with him. He’d asked me to call him – but it was probably something about my vlog. Maybe Zara, his little niece, wanted an autograph or something. Or he wanted me to go and deliver leaflets with him about the redevelopment of the estate. I barely knew him, I thought, staring blankly at the fridge full of ready-meals and throwing a lasagne, some sushi and a Vietnamese noodle thing randomly into my basket. Whatever I thought I felt – that connection, that thing – was probably not real. I wasn’t thinking straight. Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. I was clearly experiencing some sort of emotional hallucination brought on by tiredness and stress, I decided, adding a block of cheese, a bottle of salted caramel sauce and a massive baking potato to my shopping. And anyway – can of sweetcorn, loaf of sliced bread, a bunch of pink tulips for Hannah – I had a boyfriend.
I had a boyfriend. At least, I thought I did. If Charlie had decided to dump me, I hadn’t got the memo. Not yet, anyway. I needed to find out what was going on. I needed to speak to him – but first, I needed to check online for anything that might give me a clue to the reason for his silence.
I paid for my shopping, but before heading down the road for home, I glanced again through the window of Daily Grind.
Raffy was gone; the shutters had been pulled half down and a girl I didn’t recognise was wiping the tables.
The house was empty too. I opened the door cautiously, frightened that Richard might be there, even though I knew it was impossible. But when I called, “Hello?” I knew I didn’t really need to wait for an answer – it had that silent, still feeling that places have when no one’s home.
I put my bags down in the kitchen and found a jug for Hannah’s flowers. She’d mentioned that she might go and stay with her sister for a couple of nights, until whatever needed to happen to get a restraining order against Richard had happened. Hopefully they’d still be fresh when she came home. Amy must be over her virus and back at work.
It was strange, but I realised that whenever I’d been alone in the house before, I’d felt a tension, a sense of apprehension, as if something was about to happen. It was why I’d got into the habit of going straight up to my room and staying there with my camera for company. I didn’t feel that now. The house was very quiet, but it was a peaceful sort of quiet. I looked around the kitchen and saw again the room I remembered from my first visit – a homely, prettily decorated, tidy space that people could fill with happiness.
I tipped my groceries out on to the table and looked at them without enthusiasm. Then I put everything away on my shelf in the fridge, stuck four slices of
bread in the toaster and put the butter dish on the table. Please remember to use a butter knife, said the Post-it note in Hannah’s writing. For some reason, reading it made me want to cry.
“Snap out of it, Gemma,” I said aloud.
When my toast had popped, I slathered butter and peanut butter on it and sat down with my tablet. Charlie and Gus had posted a video that afternoon. The title was ‘Playing with our new puppy’. I pressed play.
“Hey all of you,” Gus said.
“Hello!” said Charlie.
“We’re the Berry Boys.”
“As you know.”
“And there’s someone we’d like you guys to meet.”
The camera cut to Taylor, sitting on the floor looking up expectantly. Gus threw a treat for her and she dashed across the floor to get it, skidding on the concrete and overshooting her target, then trotting back and crunching eagerly. She really was incredibly cute, I thought.
“So this is Taylor,” Charlie said.
“Named after Taylor Swift, who we, like, totally love,” Gus said.
“She came to live with us yesterday, and she is just the most adorable thing ever,” Charlie said.
I felt a tiny twinge of resentment, then told myself not to be so mad – there was no way I could be jealous of a tiny puppy.
“So we’ll show you some of the stuff we’ve got for her, to help her feel at home here,” Gus said.
“We think she’s been really missing her brothers and sisters, because she kept us up, like, all night, howling like a lunatic,” Charlie said.
“That and peeing,” Gus said. “Oh my God, the peeing.”
“Puppies pee,” Charlie said. “You heard it here first.”
“So anyway, this is her bed,” Gus said.
“And we’ve got a bowl for her water and a bowl for her food.”
“And this cool harness and lead.”
It was only a matter of time, I thought, before Sloane delivered a load of designer dog stuff for them to include in their videos, with affiliate links below the line. Then I told myself not to be so horrible and cynical – they were clearly smitten with her. It was really cute to watch. That must be why Charlie hasn’t texted today, I thought – he’s just been busy, either puppy-sitting or catching up on sleep. Bless.
The Truth About Gemma Grey: A feel-good, romantic comedy you won't be able to put down Page 24
