Chapter Eighteen Jemma
Chapter Eighteen JEMMA
My house is filling up with furniture. Every day the front door goes with yet another delivery of some crappy old desk or coffee table.
Yesterday, we got an industrial-sized pallet filled with furniture paint and dust sheets, courtesy of Mum and Angela, apparently.
Instead of saving up for their wedding, they’re wasting savings supporting Clara’s latest dream project.
Honestly, I don’t know how my sister talks people into colluding with her on her mad schemes.
I’m pretty sure Harry has ‘invested’ too – he gets all sheepish when I moan about Clara’s mess.
Either way, with our house increasingly becoming a storage facility, I’m spending more time at the library than ever. It’s the only place I can get any peace and quiet.
I take a seat in my usual spot now, at a desk in the corner.
I’m meeting Aarav again today and I have to focus.
I’m behind on some of the research and my boss is getting antsy about our deadline.
I pull out my Dictaphone, ready for some transcribing, and try not to think about E.
There have been a couple more notes this week.
We’re mostly long-hand sharing our favourite passages in the book at the moment.
On page 129, second para down, George tells his friend Melanie that he’s too damaged to ever fall in love again. That speech always gives me a vulnerability hangover.
Page 400, last line, when Julianna admits she’s been lying about her step-father. I cry buckets every time.
I only dropped my last message off yesterday.
The computer system probably won’t have had time to register it, never mind update me on whether it’s been checked out and in again yet.
There’s no way E will have collected it and replied yet.
I won’t even look. I have self-control, I don’t need to look.
It’ll only be disappointing if – when – the book isn’t back yet – or worse, is empty.
But what if it is? What if twenty-four hours later, there’s another note?
That would mean E had been here. Like, here- here !
He could’ve literally been sitting in this very spot, reading my note and thinking about me.
Maybe I should change up my routine, start coming to the library in the evenings so I can bump into him.
But do I really want to know who this person is? Am I ready to meet E?
Leaving my stuff where it is, I scurry over to the general fiction section, eyeing the usual spot. Too Good to Be True is there, but it will only be my note in there. It will only be me teasing E about caterpillars and asking if he ever watched Murder She Wrote .
My heart beating fast, I open the plastic cover, flicking quickly through the pages, holding my breath – and there it is. A new envelope. This time, it’s tucked into Chapter Nine, where Julianna’s friends try to talk her out of meeting up with George.
I hesitate. I have my notebook and envelope set in my bag.
I could write back right now. This could be a new stage to our communications.
We don’t even need to check the book out anymore to pass notes.
I hastily return to my desk, opening his note, sighing over his now-familiar handwriting, and scanning the words.
Hi J,
I feel a little embarrassed by how quickly I’m replying to you.
We seem to be picking up pace but I can’t help it.
I look forward to getting your notes more than anything else.
Which probably makes me sound like a bit of a boring loser – which I’m not denying actually.
I’m hoping boring losers are your bag. Boring losers who are universally despised by tigers, despite best efforts with buns and biscuits.
Anyway, since we seem to be on a daily exchange of notes now…
how is your day going?! I’ve got a busy one ahead, despite striving for boring loser at all times.
I so often feel that all I want from life is to be at home with a book and a blanket.
There should also be a big pile of food at my side, and, ideally, one really good friend on the other.
A friend I’ll mostly ignore as I eat and read.
On the other hand, when things are quiet in my life, all I keep thinking is, ‘Why haven’t I been invited out lately?
! What is everyone else up to that I’m not being included on? !’ It’s sad really.
And, oh look, we’ve come back around to me being a boring loser. Oh dear.
Please don’t be too put off.
E x
PS Pages 59–63 where they keep missing each other at the funfair genuinely makes me roar with laughter every time.
PPS I watched a bit of Murder She Wrote, but I was actually more of a Columbo guy.
I laugh, delighted with his words, craving more. Impatient for the next instalment. I read the note again, drinking it in and dissecting the meaning. I turn to page 59 to re-read the scene he referenced through his eyes, and laugh out loud.
This letter seems somehow more intimate than before. Yes, we’re still joking around and teasing, but there is more here. There is more realness. My heart beats faster as I re-read those words:
I look forward to getting your notes more than anything else.
I feel the same. I feel a lot for him – for E – actually.
And maybe he feels the same way? Is there a chance he has feelings for me, too? And wouldn’t that be insane? After only speaking through these notes? It makes no sense. I chide myself for reading too much into it and pick up a pen.
What to reply? I could ask something more personal.
We’ve talked about our lives, our values, what we like and don’t like, but no real personal details.
No identifying information. What does he do?
How big is the family he’s so close to? Who is his best friend?
Does he have an annoying sister who brings home enormous pieces of furniture?
But personal questions could lead to identifying details. To a name.
I don’t know if I’m ready for all that yet.
Hi E,
Put me off! How could you put me off when you’re so clearly describing how I feel most of the time?
I think it comes down to this: I want to be invited and included in literally everything everyone is doing.
But I don’t want to then have to go do any of it.
Does that make sense? Because I don’t think I’m trying to make sense.
Most of life makes no sense to me. This, here – writing notes to a stranger – makes no sense.
But I look forward to it as much as you, I promise.
It’s so strange to think of you being here, in this library at different times from me. Or maybe even the same time? Maybe we’ve passed each other in the stacks and not known. Does that blow your mind like it does mine? It feels sometimes like I’m talking to you from a parallel universe.
Oh god, this isn’t The Lake House, is it?
And since you mentioned it again (you should really go through this with a therapist), I think – if we ever meet – we should go to a tiger sanctuary to resolve your issues.
We’ll take a variety of food, à la The Very Hungry Caterpillar , and see what takes their fancy.
I’ll help you win them over with one shortbread, two chocolate Hobnobs, three digestives, etc.
I’m not going to write it all out again, my hand is killing me only three biscuits in.
I don’t think I’ve written this much by hand since I was a kid.
But I like it. Looking forward to hearing from you again soon, even if Jessica Fletcher kicks Columbo’s butt every time.
J x
PS Read page 312, where they have the most cathartic argument I’ve ever read. I want us to fall out just so we can have a conversation like that.
I’m interrupted by a deep, familiar voice as I sign the final full stop.
‘Aarav!’ I stutter, standing up and flushing beetroot.
He stands tall and broad before me, always taking me by surprise with his bigness.
I’d forgotten why I was here. Work. Our interview.
‘Um, take a seat.’ I gesture wildly across from me, shoving my note to one side.
He grins, flashing that too-charming smile.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I ask, nodding at the water cooler in the corner, and he shakes his head, looking amused by my flustered greeting.
‘I’m fine, thanks, Jemma. Are you OK?’ His handsome face creases lightly with concern.
‘Yes! Er, yes, totally fine!’ I exclaim, my voice too high. Aarav makes me nervous at the best of times, never mind when I’m caught writing secret love letters to anonymous strangers.
‘Can I get you a water?’ he offers, smiling nicely again, and I cough lightly.
‘Actually, yes, that would be fantastic, if you don’t mind?
’ He grins at me and heads towards the cooler.
I examine his bum – it hardly moves as he walks away.
Those mountains must be such a good workout.
Maybe I should take up climbing? I watch him filling the cup with water, enjoying his dark hair and stubble.
He has this wide back and you can see the muscles move under his shirt. It’s so—
Ugh! Stop it! God, what is wrong with me? These notes seem to have awoken some beast inside. I’ve been celibate for so long, I think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel things. To feel like this . I forgot how mad it makes you feel.
But I have to admit, I quite like it.
I try to order my thoughts. No more on Too Good to Be True or my note writer for now. I can obsess again later. Now I have to work. Aarav is my focus.