Chapter Eight Jemma
Chapter Eight JEMMA
It’s got to be a woman, right?
Only women have imaginations like this. Only a woman would be so madly in love with a romance book that she’d write a note to a stranger about it. Surely. But she – they – haven’t technically given me any specific reason to think they’re female.
I’d formed a picture in my head of Karen over these last few weeks.
My mysterious ‘TGTBT co-fan’ is a tall, elegant brunette; about the same age as me.
She’s got big hips and a wide, unthreatening smile.
I try now to picture someone else – a man – and everything goes wibbly.
Suddenly the notes don’t feel as fun and silly. They seem – I don’t know – charged .
Is there a chance I’ve been swapping notes for a month… with a man?
I dump wet cutlery onto the draining board, trying not to feel resentful as I reach for dirty plates in the sink.
When I left the house this morning, everything was clean and tidy.
Clara hasn’t even had the decency to wash up her crap, despite clearly doing nothing with her day.
I can’t believe how at home she’s made herself in just a couple of weeks – in my home.
And now she and the others have made me doubt everything about my pen pal.
I mean, if Salma’s right – if the notes are flirtatious – then, apart from anything else, it’s just not an effective way of doing it. What if someone else had checked the book out? What if the note had fallen out without me noticing?
I scrub at a particularly stubborn bit of crud on the back of a plate. How does Clara even get food on the back of a plate ? It’s almost like a talent how messy she is.
Behind me I hear my sister saunter into the kitchen, casually opening the fridge to inspect its contents. I bet she’s been in that furry onesie all day. It must be filthy by now.
I internally sigh, trying to swallow down the resentment. It’s not her fault I’m a petty, tidy person.
‘It starts in a few minutes!’ Clara calls excitedly across the kitchen. ‘ Book Boyfriend , I mean. You’re coming in, right?’ She pauses when I don’t react. ‘You will give it a chance, won’t you?’ She sounds almost nervous, like she’s asking me on a date.
‘Sure!’ I try to match her brightness, because she’s trying .
But I’m dreading this. Too Good to Be True just won’t translate well on TV.
It’s too multi-levelled and layered. It’s a bloody onion of a book.
An uncooked, inedible, undigestible onion that sits in the fridge – in the salad drawer – waiting to be peeled by the right pair of adoring hands and added to some kind of vegetable medley.
I’ve lost track of my own analogy.
Back in the late noughties, they actually tried to do a straight-to-TV film of the book, not long after it was published.
It was bad. I mean, it was good-bad. Camp and kitsch with model-gorgeous leads who spent their screen time eye-boning the camera.
The movie was hard-trashed by critics – those who bothered to review it, that is – but it kind of has a special place in my heart.
It’s a bit pure and well meaning in its cheesiness.
And they didn’t feel the need to rename it.
‘Have you had dinner?’ I immediately regret asking Clara the question. What am I, going to offer to make her food now? After she’s sat around in her onesie all day, watching TV and ignoring all the mess she was leaving in her wake? Up her fucking bollocks I am.
I turn to face her and my bravado slips. She looks a bit pale. She needs looking after, she always has.
She shrugs. ‘Kinda.’ She regards me with big sad, cow eyes.
‘I mean, I’ve sort of been grazing all day.
For lunch I had a Toblerone I found in the cupboard, followed by some leftover spaghetti that was in the fridge.
Then I had eight Ferrero Rochers, three of those mini Malteser Reindeers’ – she pauses – ‘which I assume were Christmas leftovers, so I hope they weren’t out of date.
’ She waves her hand, not really caring.
‘And then I had a Marmite sandwich because I’d overdosed on sweet stuff, but after the salty sandwich I fancied sugar again, so I had some biscuits I found in Harry’s room.
He also had a packet of beef Hula Hoops, which were delicious but now I keep burping.
And they’re like beefy, starchy, almost solid burps, y’know what I mean?
’ She gently punches herself in the chest, releasing more beefy gas into the room as I stare at her, my disgust growing.
She swallows hard. ‘I was going to come find some kind of vegetable or fruit because I worry about scurvy, y’know?
But I didn’t want to take the piss by stealing food.
’ She brightens. ‘But if you’re making dinner, I wouldn’t say no! ’
There is a long silence between us before I find my words.
‘ You ate my Toblerone?! ’
She grimaces. ‘Oh, god, that was yours? I thought maybe it was Salma or Harry’s, and I’m totally going to replace it, I swear.’ She checks her watch. ‘Look!’ She changes the subject quickly and smoothly. ‘It’s time for the show!’
She flees the room, heading for the living room where I hear her flicking through channels, adverts booming for suntan lotion and garden centres. ‘Starting in two,’ she yells through as I breathe, trying to steady myself.
OK, so far, living with my sister again has been hell, but we just need to find our rhythm. We survived eighteen years when we were kids; we can manage a few months while she gets back on her feet.
I head for the living room, fighting a craving for beef Hula Hoops that will never again be satisfied. Flopping onto the sofa, I fold my feet under myself as the opening credits begin to roll on the TV.
And that is all I can manage.
I know immediately that I will – that I do – hate the adaptation. The music they’ve used and the font on the credits immediately grate, and they open with a scene I recognize as halfway through the book where the heroine – Julianna – is waiting on a date. Yeugh, how dare they.
I leave the room and head for the kettle, furiously filling it too full of water.
I’m evolved enough to recognize this as ‘resistance to change’, but ughhhhhhh, they’re clearly going to wreck the whole thing. I can’t watch it.
From the living room, I can hear the action unfolding as the kettle wobbles into life.
A couple are bickering; full of charged barbs that will – very obviously – turn quickly into blistering chemistry.
Even without seeing the action, I recognize them as the main characters from the book, Julianna and George.
I don’t need to see them to know the actors will be all wrong.
I place the real Book Boyfriend – Too Good to Be True – on the counter.
Its shiny plastic cover is warm from my armpit and I stroke it lovingly as the kettle finally boils.
I throw a peppermint teabag into my favourite mug and pour in water, ignoring Salma as she shouts from the living room, asking where I’ve gone.
This is an early edition from the mid-noughties.
They’ve reprinted it with a new cover since then, and I know there will be another cover released soon, one featuring the two actors yelling at one another on the screen through there.
I can’t stand TV tie-in covers. I get that it’s meant to attract new readers but it only ever puts me off a book.
‘Oh my god!’ Clara is shrieking as she appears in the doorway.
‘You need to come watch this, Jim-Jems, the main guy is so fit ,’ she breathes.
‘Come look at him!’ Her eyes are wide, her pupils blackened.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so good-looking before, he’s all, like’ – she waves her hands enthusiastically – ‘square jaw, black eyes and thick, sandy hair. And the shoulders ! They have to be seen to be believed.’
Yuck yuck yuck. I always pictured George in the book as being dark haired and slim.
I sip my too-hot tea and pick up my book, reluctantly following her through to the living room.
On screen, the heroine, Julianna – who is all wrong as predicted – is telling her friends about her terrible date with George. In my lap, I cradle Too Good to Be True , thinking again about the note writer.
Of course it’s a woman. It’s bound to be a woman. She’s Karen with the good hair.
I open the front cover, the plastic lightly squeaking in my hand.
Anita used to write the date it was due back on the inside sheet.
But that’s considered an old-fashioned way of doing things now.
They use an electronic notification system these days.
You get a text reminding you when your three-week session with a book is almost up, and a notification when a book you’ve requested comes in.
I have a standing request set up for Too Good to Be True whenever it’s taken out by someone else.
By the only someone else.
I account for about half the dates listed there in Anita’s handwriting.
The other person started checking out Too Good to Be True about a year and a half ago.
I wish I knew more of who they are; this other obsessive reader of my favourite book.
Of this copy. It’s strange, right? Why would anyone take the same library book out over and over again?
What kind of weirdo would… I mean, other than me , obviously.
But I’ve always thought of myself as quite a unique weirdo.
And I’ve been checking this book out since I was a kid; why would this person suddenly be interested in it?
Sigh. I just wish I had a name. Karen doesn’t feel right anymore, not now Salma and Clara have tossed everything I thought up in the air.
Are our notes really flirty, like Salma said?
And why haven’t we exchanged at least some basic information about ourselves?
It’s so frustrating that the answers are at my fingertips.
I know Anita knows exactly who the mysterious note writer is, but she’s obsessively strict about stuff like that.
Sometimes she acts like the library is MI5.
Hmm, I guess I could ask the other librarian, Mack.
But there’s a good chance he’ll tell me to eff off.
Ever since he started, he’s been a surly, mean knobhead.
I don’t understand why they hired him. After all, shouldn’t librarians be friendly and helpful?
Mack just glowers around the room, looking furious whenever anyone asks him anything.
I can’t stand guys like him, who think just because they’re good-looking, they can treat people however they want.
But he might tell me something about the other Too Good to Be True reader – if only to make me go away?
I pull out the small, lined piece of paper and re-read that very first note, wondering about the person behind it.
It’s definitely a woman; it’s got to be a woman.
Maybe the flirty vibe Salma picked up on is because this female note writer thinks I’m a man!
Or else I’m just being embarrassingly heteronormative.
Just for fun, I picture a tall man with dark hair scribbling out this note.
And then I picture some cranky old lady who tells racist jokes and tuts about women drivers.
Maybe I don’t want to know the real person behind it. Maybe I want to keep the mystery because – let’s face it – reality never matches up to the fiction. Maybe not knowing is more fun.
I sit up straighter, still ignoring the ongoing nonsense on the screen.
And who cares if it’s a man or a woman! This person is my friend. We talk about books. We share a sense of humour and a passion for romance novels. This is someone I enjoy speaking to and it doesn’t matter what Salma, Harry and Clara all think.
So why do I suddenly feel so freaked out?