Chapter Two Jemma
Chapter Two JEMMA
I knew I shouldn’t have come out of the loo. I was perfectly fine, immersed in my library book, reading the latest note from my pen pal, and safely hidden away from all my Great-Aunts.
I mean, look what happens when you face real life. You have to deal with the Claras of the world, and their latest bout of attention seeking.
Standing in front of me, my sister shrugs.
‘God, it’s not a big deal, Jim-Jems. I just wanted to avoid a bunch of questions about my love life.
’ She says this like it’s nothing. Like dragging my flatmate into her stupid lies and grandstanding isn’t a big deal.
She waves a hand now, dismissively. ‘I thought it would be funny.’
Next to her, Harry is turning beetroot. ‘I’m really sorry, Jemma’ – he babbles when he’s nervous – ‘it all happened so fast. I was outside, about to knock on the front door, when your sister appeared out of nowhere and…’ He trails off, looking between us with fear.
He’s acting like his loyalties are divided.
But he’s my friend, not hers. We live together!
And he and Clara have never even met before.
Yet here she is, hanging off his arm, telling everyone they’re a couple.
She’s only been here five minutes and I’m already exhausted by her behaviour.
Mum gasps, turning to Angela beside her. ‘That’s right!’ she murmurs. ‘I thought I recognized him. He’s Jemma’s housemate – we met him in passing when I helped her move in!’
Clara sighs. ‘Yes, yes, it was all my idea. Mia cuppa!’
I squint at her. ‘Do you mean mea culpa?’
Clara giggles. ‘Or maybe I have a friend called Mia who wants a cup of tea?’
Mum frowns. ‘Who’s Mia? I don’t remember a Mia.’ She turns to Angela again. ‘Do we know a Mia?’
Angela considers this, turning to her daughter for assistance. ‘Buffy, haven’t you got a friend called Mia? Didn’t she come for a sleepover once?’
I only met Buffy for the first time earlier today, but I already know she won’t put up with this kind of nonsense. She gives her mother a withering look. ‘Don’t talk to me. I couldn’t give a shit about any of this.’
‘Mea culpa!’ I say again, my voice high. ‘Clara meant mea culpa. As in ‘my fault’. There is no Mia!’
A Great-Aunt throws herself forward. ‘My middle name is Mia!’
I glare at Clara as Great-Aunts in every direction erupt into debate about the Mias they know. One of them asks if Marias count and then announces that all the Marias she knows are dead anyway. This kicks off a loud, confusing chat among the Great-Aunts about how everyone they know is now dead.
Observing the mayhem, Clara grins slyly and throws her hands up with exaggerated innocence.
‘OK, fine! Whatever. I was having a vape outside and saw this handsome thing approach up the driveway.’ She winks at Harry and he reddens even more.
‘So I asked if he’d mind pretending to be my date for the evening.
’ He turns slightly reproachfully to Clara.
‘Yes, your date,’ he says pointedly, some of his redness receding. ‘I didn’t realize you’d tell everyone I was your fiancé.’
Clara shrugs disinterestedly again.
‘Haz, you should be thrilled to be my fake fiancé,’ she smirks, then rolls her eyes at my expression.
‘God, Jim-Jems, do you want to chill out?! It was just a laugh! I did it because I’m sick of everyone interrogating me constantly about my dating life, then looking at me all sad-face-emoji and telling me it’ll be my turn next.
As if I want the hassle of a bloke around, leaving pubes all over my stuff. ’
This is a lot. This is Clara being her most… Clara. I glance automatically at Angela and her daughter for their reaction. The former looks frightened, the latter amused. It’s the first time I’ve seen Buffy almost smile.
Clara sneers sideways at a slightly startled Harry.
‘I mean, come on! As if I’d date this guy.
’ She catches my annoyed expression. ‘Sorry! I mean, he’s obviously good-looking and stuff!
But he’s not Mia cup of tea on any level, y’know?
He’s not… I dunno? He hasn’t got that’ – she snaps her fingers in his face – ‘je ne sais bad boy? I need a bit of whisky in my coffee, if you catch my drift. Sorry, Haz.’
He looks perplexed. ‘Whisky in your – is that an actual expression?’
She shrugs, no trace of remorse. She’s always mean to guys and I hate it. I also hate that they usually love her for it. I can feel my cheeks getting red. Stress always makes my rosacea flare up; just another reason to resent Clara being here.
Ughhh. Why did I come downstairs?
I hug the library book I’m holding close to my side, thinking about the note tucked away inside the front cover.
A month ago, some random woman left me a short, handwritten note in there, scrawled on fancy stationery.
The mysterious note writer – who I’m affectionately calling Karen for now – scolded me for bending the front cover.
Utter nonsense, for the record – and I told her so in my reply.
We’ve been exchanging funny, silly notes ever since, swapping favourite book recommendations, best fictional characters, and – today’s note – our top five romance tropes.
I consider making a run back upstairs to hide with Karen.
I’m suddenly aware of Mum at my elbow. ‘So,’ she says hesitantly, eyes searching my sister’s, ‘Clara, sweetheart, are you saying you’re not engaged? This isn’t your fiancé? Or even your boyfriend?’
‘No, Mum, GOD!’ Clara rolls her eyes at her, like she’s the dumbest person ever.
‘Oh,’ Mum says, looking embarrassed. ‘Well, it’s all very confusing.’
Clara meets my gaze and tries to give me a complicit look, like, Isn’t Mum silly ? I narrow my eyes, glaring back, my face hot. We’re not on the same side.
‘Oh come on, Jemma!’ She throws up her hands. ‘I haven’t seen you in years and the first thing you want to do is have a go at me? Over, like, nothing?’
I sigh, trying to calm down. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m overreacting.
After all, the fake fiancé trope in romance novels was number one on that list I gave pen pal Karen, so surely this is…
funny? I glance over at Harry, who’s watching me anxiously for a reaction.
I push down any remaining anger, swallowing the hard lump in my throat.
I put a cool hand to my boiling cheeks, trying to calm the redness there.
I don’t really want this to be mine and Clara’s reintroduction. Sure, I’m not exactly buzzing to see my sister again, but I should make an effort. She won’t be here very long. It’ll be a few days, maybe a week, then off she’ll flounce, back to the US where she mostly wants nothing to do with us.
When she first moved over there, she messaged quite a lot, updating Mum and me about all her comings and goings.
Revealing various temp jobs, detailing people she’d met or celebrities she’d spotted outside designer stores.
But as her life picked up pace over there, she forgot about us so fast. For the majority of the last five years, we’ve mostly kept track of Clara’s life via the regular Instagram posts: weekend hikes with friends; glamorous-looking nights out in fancy clubs; expensive meals I can’t comprehend or pronounce.
But emails and texts mostly went unanswered. And mostly unsent, if I’m being honest.
‘Sorry,’ I say begrudgingly, and I see Harry’s shoulders relax an inch. I meet Clara’s eyes and smile brightly. ‘It’s great you’re home. How long are you staying anyway?’
Her eyes narrow and slide away from mine. I watch as she switches her weight from one leg to the other. She clears her throat.
‘Hmm?’ she says, examining her fingernails.
‘Clara?’ I prompt, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. I can feel the heat returning to my face because I recognize Clara’s confessional body language.
She looks directly at me at last. ‘Well, actually, I have good news!’ She smiles widely – her fakest smile. ‘I’m done with America. I’m moving home. Not moving, actually – moved! This is me, moved back to the UK. Aren’t you pleased? I’m back for good!’