Chapter Four Jemma
Chapter Four JEMMA
I’m actually living inside my own nightmare.
Or I will be, once she finally gets here. Because of course Clara is late. She’s always late. She’s a late person .
Late people are the worst. The worst! They think it’s hilarious, this thing they’ve decided is a personality trait.
News flash, it’s not a personality trait, it’s just plain rude and inconsiderate.
You’re leaving everyone waiting for you, as if their time isn’t as valuable as yours.
Just because you couldn’t get up when your alarm went off.
Or you wanted to stop for a coffee. Or you got distracted by some shiny thing on the way.
Clara always gets distracted by shiny things.
‘Should we be throwing some sort of housewarming, d’you reckon?’ Salma is looking at me quizzically, as she stirs her tea. It’s my mug she’s using, but I’m fine with that. Or at least I’m almost fine with it. Salma and I are working on me not letting small stuff like that get to me.
But it’s my favourite mug!
‘God, no.’ I shudder, trying to focus on the question, instead of the mug she’s now sipping out of. Ugh, now I want a cup of tea and I would’ve liked to drink it from that mug.
Never mind, it’s not important.
‘You only throw housewarmings for people you like. Y’know, for someone who is actually welcome in your home,’ I say moodily and Salma spits a bit of tea back into my cup.
‘You’re such a fecking bitch!’ she cackles, even though she is definitely the mean one in this friendship. ‘She’s your sister – your twin sister!’
‘Fraternal twin,’ I mutter, but Salma is undeterred.
‘This is her hour of need, Jem. You have to be there for your sister – your twin sister!’
Everyone does this. Everyone acts like being a twin is something momentous and holy. Some huge sacred duty bestowed from on high by the heavens and I should be blessed and honoured to sacrifice my whole life to ensure Clara’s happiness.
The trouble is, my twin sister is a selfish dick.
‘The only reason she’s moving in with us is because Mum didn’t give me an option,’ I warn.
‘She knew we’ve been looking for a fourth housemate and insisted on Clara having the room.
She said it was the perfect solution to both our problems, and Clara would be somewhere safe, where she wouldn’t have to worry about her.
’ I sigh. ‘I’ve never known Mum to be so pushy about something.
She never puts her foot down. But of course she did it for her darling, precious, little Clara. ’
Salma raises her eyebrows at my bitter tone and slurps from the mug that means nothing to me, I’m fine with it. She grins. ‘Your generous mum has also – let’s not forget – given us three months’ rent up front to cover the room. It’s not like we could’ve said no to that anyway!’
‘Blood money,’ I mutter furiously.
After Mum finally came clean last week, admitting to Clara that her old bedroom had been turned into Buffy’s shrine to Olivia Rodrigo, there were a lot of tears.
Mostly from Clara, who acted like it was the biggest betrayal to ever befall a human being.
How dare our mother get on with her life, five years after her adult daughter willingly moved abroad, hardly to be seen again.
Mum told her she could stay on the sofa for a few days, but there literally wasn’t anywhere else for her.
My old bedroom has long since been a home office and is now full, floor to ceiling, with Angela and Buffy’s belongings.
Clara wailed for an hour and Mum promised she’d make things right – offering to cover her rent while she got back on her feet.
And then Mum looked over at me and got this happy expression on her face. Which is when I should’ve fled the room, house, country.
Of course Salma and Harry loved the idea of Clara moving in.
We got left in the lurch by the last guy, who moved out practically overnight.
And you wouldn’t believe the number of weirdos who’ve so far called about the spare room.
One bloke specifically needed to know if we ‘walked around in bare feet’ and another asked what our policy was on in-house nudism.
The other day, I got quite close to offering the room to my bookish pen pal Karen while writing my latest note – I got that desperate!
So, objectively, I can understand them being excited by the idea of Clara as a housemate.
Who’d turn down a known entity that comes with a lump sum of rent?
Well, I would. Obviously.
Sadly, I didn’t get a choice.
And – to be fair – Salma and Harry don’t even know about the notes yet.
I don’t know why I haven’t told them; I guess I just like having a secret.
I march over to the kettle, refilling it and flicking the switch as Salma regards me with an amused look.
‘I thought you couldn’t drink caffeine after midday,’ she comments, slurping from my mug, and adding grudgingly, ‘I would’ve made you one.’
‘Clara brings out my need for stimulants,’ I comment dryly over the hissing kettle. ‘It’s so typical of her to fall on her feet like this. Mum’s never offered to pay my rent. Or forced others to help me. But of course, there’s always someone to catch Clara when she messes everything up.’
‘You’ve never needed it, though, have you?’ Salma points out unhelpfully.
‘You’re my best friend,’ I remind her. ‘You’re not allowed to tell me when I’m being unreasonable, just tell me I’m right.’
‘You’re absolutely right, completely reasonable, and definitely not being a bitter old hag,’ she confirms in a loud voice.
‘Thank you,’ I say sombrely, choosing not to hear any sarcasm. I turn to face her, staring at her fearfully over my steaming tea. In a mug I don’t like. ‘I know I’m being irrational, Salma, but can you… can you please promise me you won’t end up liking Clara more than you like me?’
She looks shocked. ‘What?’
I swallow, feeling vulnerable. ‘I know it sounds silly, but our whole lives, everyone always fussed over adorable, fun Clara. She was the pretty twin, the one who got invited to parties, the popular one with a constant string of boyfriends.’ I swallow again.
‘Meanwhile I was just the loser nerd, obsessed with her books, hiding away in fantasy worlds, with fictional friends and imaginary boyfriends. At school I barely had my own name, I was always just Clara’s sister .
That’s how people knew me – if they knew I existed at all.
My name honestly felt like it was actually Clara’s sister for years.
I didn’t have an identity of my own.’ I pause and she waits patiently for me to continue.
‘You don’t know what it’s like growing up, always being compared to someone. ’
‘I have sisters,’ she protests and I shake my head.
‘Not twin sisters. Literally everyone you meet wants to compare you. They want to know who’s taller, who’s fatter, who’s prettier, whose nose is the straightest.’ I sigh. ‘Clara’s nose is so straight.’ Salma puts down her tea. I eye the mug moodily as she pulls me in for a cuddle.
‘You are a beautiful, brilliant, kind person, Jemma. You’re no longer in your sister’s shadow.
You have a life, friends, a cool job working with the thing you love best – books – and who even wants a smelly boyfriend anyway?
They only sweat and fart and leave semen stains everywhere.
’ She pauses. ‘Actually, that’s only if you’re lucky.
Mostly it’s food stains.’ I snort into her shoulder as she continues.
‘Just because Clara’s going to be living here for a few months doesn’t mean you’re going to end up being that lonely, rejected kid again.
’ She squeezes me tighter and I try to listen; to let her words sink in.
But she didn’t know me at school. Salma and I only met a few years ago at a work party.
I complimented her hair, and instead of saying the usual woman-stuff – ‘Oh it’s disgusting!
I haven’t washed it in a month! Look at the split ends!
I’m an ugly monsterrrrrr!’ – she replied, ‘I know, it’s amazing, isn’t it?
’ Which was when I knew I had to make her my friend.
Although obviously I don’t tell people that origin story; I say it’s because we both work in media.
I’m a research assistant for an author and Salma’s a radio presenter.
Just a local station, but still, she was instantly the coolest person I’d ever met and remains so.
But I knew even back then – just like I know now – that we wouldn’t have been mates if she’d met me as a loser teenager.
‘I love you,’ she says into my hair. ‘You’re my favourite person in the world, and if you need me to be mean to Clara I will, OK?’
I pull halfway out of the hug, a small smile on my face.
‘Thanks,’ I say quietly; sincerely. ‘But that’s OK, you don’t have to do that. I know I’m being a dick.’ I sigh. ‘There’s just something about Clara that turns me into a resentful kid again, I can’t help it.’ I sigh again, deeper this time.
‘Are you having a moment?’ Harry hovers awkwardly at the door. ‘Or can I join in for a hug, too?’
‘Get in here!’ Salma yells at him and we all laugh as we fall into each other’s arms.
‘Is Jemma drinking coffee ?’ Harry squints at me. ‘At this hour?’ When he is shocked, Harry gets so much posher. He’s already the poshest person I know, but the vowels get even more exaggerated when he’s surprised by something.
‘She said she needed stimulants to cope with today,’ Salma shares solemnly. ‘She’s also just done a few lines of cocaine.’
‘Have you really?’ Harry blinks at me with concern and I laugh.
‘Harry, you’re always so gullible.’ I give him a playful shove. ‘You really should have worked out by now that Salma is a massive pathological liar.’
‘Oi!’ she protests, then adopts a thoughtful expression. ‘Actually there was a guy on my show this week who’s campaigning to get micro-dosing legalized and it sounded great. I might give it a go.’
‘Micro-dosing?’ Harry screws up his nose.
Salma snorts. She loves to shock the private school boy in him. ‘Small daily doses of psychedelic mushrooms,’ she explains, and he blinks hard.
‘I’ve never done drugs,’ I comment, a little embarrassed, and Salma looks amused.
‘I only did them a few times at uni. The last time, I thought I was Mufasa from The Lion King . I climbed up on the table and started giving wise speeches from the sky. It was fun.’
I snigger as Harry nods agreeably. He’s always very agreeable; I assume it’s a posh thing.
See? See how good my life is now? I don’t want things to change. I don’t want anything – or anyone – to disrupt my perfectly calibrated existence.
But not much can get in the way of Hurricane Clara.
The front door bangs and my sister’s familiar trill fills the house.
‘I’m here!’ she calls out breezily. ‘I know, I know! I’m late.
I got an email from 23andMe who said I have new DNA relatives.
Jim-Jems, did you know we have a fourth cousin called Marjorie who lives in Utah?
’ She appears in the doorway, pink-cheeked, hair in a messy bun.
‘Oh! And a relative called Denton somewhere over here! Isn’t that a cool name?
Imagine being called Denton. Think of all the doors that would open up for you.
Everyone would just automatically assume you were awesome.
You’d probably never have to apply for a job – everyone would just give you opportunities off the back of your cool name.
He’s probably, like, an influencer, or a baker with his own owl café in East London.
’ She takes a breath. ‘Anyway, I’ve messaged them both and asked if they want to come to a family reunion I’m organizing.
I’m sure Marjorie would be delighted to make the trip from America. ’
My head lolls backwards and I stare at the ceiling. She’s been here forty-five seconds and I’m already exhausted by her. And I hate being called Jim-Jems.
Salma is laughing like a traitor, waving my mug around and asking follow-up questions about Denton. Harry looks perplexed, but he hasn’t told Clara to shut up, so he’s a traitor, too.
‘Where’s your stuff?’ I blurt, and she looks surprised.
‘Oh! It’s outside. It’s just a few suitcases. I don’t have much.’ She shrugs, then glances at Harry. ‘Do you mind, Haz?’
He shakes his head, backing out of the room to obey immediately. ‘Of course not.’
‘Clara!’ I gasp. ‘He’s not your butler. You’re late – as always – and now you expect everyone to drop everything and do your bidding.’
‘Ugh.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Chill out, Jim-Jems! I will totally go and help him.’ She bounces out of the room. ‘I need to tell him where to put everything anyway.’
I clench my teeth at Salma, who raises her eyebrows, looking amused. ‘Don’t let the small stuff get to you, Jem,’ she reminds me lightly, dumping my mug on the draining board.
I nod tightly, fighting the urge to pick it up and hurl it at the wall.