Chapter Twenty-Six Jemma
Chapter Twenty-Six JEMMA
This is a beast I have not fought for many years.
‘Ughhhhhhh, help!’ I shout, and listen out in the house for sounds of life. A rumble begins down the hallway and Clara appears breathlessly in the doorway.
‘You rang?’ she asks, grinning way too happily. ‘Oh Jem, dude, you look WAY rough.’
‘Cheers,’ I mutter, rubbing my eyes. ‘Please please can you get me some water? I’m so hungover, I can taste my lungs.’
Clara laughs, moving further into the room.
‘There’s a glass of the good stuff right next to you.
’ She nods at my bedside table and I gasp with relief, grabbing its cool watery-ness with my hot hands and gulping it down.
‘Harry put it there for you before he went to work this morning,’ she says, raising an eyebrow.
‘He’s very thoughtful, isn’t he? Very kind to always be thinking of you like that. ’
‘Uh huh,’ I agree, unable to muster the energy to fight her matchmaking nonsense. Right now I’d let her marry me off to Harry if she brought me pasta, a block of cheese and a Lucozade.
‘Oh god,’ I groan, collapsing back into the pillow.
‘I feel so awful, Clara. Like, so awful that I can’t even feel embarrassed about the way I acted last night.
And I know I was an absolute knobhead at the event, and you guys had to put me to bed.
But that is not even touching the sides, because the head pounding and nausea is too intense. ’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t really get hangovers.’
If I was physically able to stand, I would honestly go murder her in this moment. Look at her, all perky and dressed for the day. What a bitch. Instead, I turn slightly, retching a little, and wonder how I’m going to survive the day.
It suddenly hits me. I left the note yesterday. E might actually have replied. There might be a letter with a name waiting for me right now . And I’m too deathly ill to get there!
‘I need to go to the library,’ I moan, trying to roll over and failing. ‘The note!’
Clara looks sympathetic. ‘I think maybe you should try to cure this hangover a bit first? Have you considered having a tactical chunder?’
‘I feel horribly sick,’ I say feebly, ‘but I don’t think I can actually vomit.’
Clara moves closer, bouncing herself down on the end of the bed. My brain see-saws with the movement. ‘I’ll share my secret with you if you like,’ she says conspiratorially, and I narrow my eyes at her.
‘I’m not putting my fingers down my throat,’ I tell her with disgust and she looks offended.
‘I’m not saying do that!’ She leans in, bouncing the bed again and making me want to die.
‘When I feel rough, what I do is go put my face over the toilet – get as close as I can handle to the bowl – and the’ – she waves her hand evocatively – ‘ odours and weird stains you can suddenly see up close always push me over the edge. Instant puke, every time.’
‘Nice,’ I say. And suddenly the visual she described hits me and I’m running for the bathroom.
I emerge five minutes later, sweat and tears mingling with mascara on my face. I feel too rough to care what a mess I am, but at least being sick has taken the edge off it.
‘Oh, mate.’ Clara emerges from the kitchen, looking at me with sympathy. She’s holding a milky coffee and offers it up. ‘Mia coffee?’
‘I don’t think I can,’ I say weakly, and try for a smile. ‘But thank you, you’re very kind.’
She beams at me, delighted by the warmth, and I feel a pang.
Am I usually so cold? I really have to get over it.
Clara’s a sweet person, and I’ve been pretty horrible to her since she’s been back.
I stagger through to the living room, collapsing on the sofa and feeling the momentary relief of cold cushions on my cheek.
‘I need to get to the library,’ I say again in a sad, low voice.
Clara sits down beside me and – very gingerly like she’s afraid I will snap – puts an arm around me. I let her pull me in, enjoying being cuddled. I honestly can’t remember us ever hugging. Can that really be right? Surely we have? We must’ve at least done it occasionally when we were little.
‘I think the library might have to wait,’ Clara says into my hair. ‘I’ll hit up the Lidl down the road for some hardcore carbs – that’ll sort you out.’
I want to weep at this. It’s the most generous thing anyone has ever offered to do for me. Ever. Or it feels that way right now anyway.
‘I’ll come with you,’ I say, with determination. ‘Some fresh air will help, and I think I need to see the food, to know what my hangover needs. I need to show the monster its prey.’
Clara releases me, then offers a hand to help me stand up. I make my way upstairs to pull a jumper on over my pyjamas, adding a coat to complement the lewk.
The cold air does its job and I feel slightly more like myself by the time we reach the supermarket. As we pass through the automatic doors, Clara is talking animatedly about her new ‘job’ as that actor’s publicist.
‘I thought it was only for one day?’ I squint, picking up a basket as she examines a courgette. ‘Like, literally just this single, solitary event today?’
‘Whatever,’ she says smoothly, moving down the aisle and calling back to me. ‘It’ll only take that long for him to fall madly in love with me anyway.’
I hide a smile, wincing a little at the sudden rush of head pain it causes.
‘Excuse me.’ A woman pushing a trolley taps me on the shoulder. ‘Can you tell me where the nappies are?’
I blink at her. ‘I don’t work here.’
She looks me up and down. ‘Oh. Never mind then.’
‘Jemma!’ Clara calls from the end of the aisle. ‘I found pizzas!’
I hurry over and the pair of us stare in at the array of beige foods. I want all of it: pizzas, garlic bread, onion rings, chips, breaded mushrooms, croquettes, potato wedges, chicken nuggets. ALL OF IT.
A man steps between me and the food. ‘Have you run out of baked beans?’ he asks impatiently and I glare at him.
‘I don’t work here!’ I tell him, matching his impatient tone. He tuts and strops off.
I turn to Clara. ‘What is it exactly about my pyjamas that says I work here?’
She looks me up and down. ‘To be fair, those are the shop colours, dude.’
‘And the mascara smears all over my face just scream professional?’ I comment dryly, piling items into the basket.
‘Excuse me—’ a woman tries to interject.
‘I DON’T WORK HERE AND I’M NEVER WEARING THIS IN PUBLIC AGAIN!’ I yell. Clara giggles as the lady scarpers, looking frightened. I sigh, turning to my sister, who’s shovelling food packets into her basket. ‘So, did that Katie woman send you the details for the job?’
‘Katiezzz, not Katie,’ she corrects me, groaning under the weight of trash-food in her basket.
‘And yes, we have indeed been exchanging many professional emails this morning about my new job and what is expected of me.’ She grins at me happily.
‘Genuinely, I’m thinking this could be it – my new career path!
What if all these weeks of obsessing over Milo was actually the universe leading me to this cool new job?
’ She breathes out. ‘And I’d be amazing at celeb wrangling, don’t you think?
I love going to fancy celebrity parties, I love talking about celebrities and bigging up celebrities, I’d love running errands for celebrities.
’ She pauses. ‘I love, y’know, celebrities .
And sure, this is only one day – one event – as Milo’s PR, but I’m bound to be so great at it, they’ll probably offer me the gig full time.
’ She frowns. ‘Obviously once Milo and I start dating, it won’t be professional for me to stay working alongside my man, but by then I’d be able to move on to other celebrity PR jobs.
Probably for, like, Timothee Chalamet or maybe Leo Woodall.
This is going to open all kinds of doors! It’s my calling!’
She could be right, actually. She has always been celebrity-obsessed, so who knows? This could end up being the job for her. ‘Sounds like a plan,’ I agree, in part to shut her up because the hangover fog is descending again.
We pay at the self-service checkout with minimal frustration and head back out into the cold. Only one person in the car park asks me to find her a trolley and we head for home, laughing our heads off.
As we reach the house, Clara’s chattering away, telling me about a threesome she once had in Barcelona.
‘I thought it would make me feel sexy,’ she says. ‘Threesomes are always super-hot in movies, right?’ She grimaces. ‘And women seem to love it in porn.’
Even in my fragile state, I manage a laugh. ‘You’re not serious? Women in porn are always so unconvincing with their wild oohs and aahs.’
‘Either way,’ Clara shrugs, ‘I thought it would make me feel liberated and sexy, but it was shit. The other woman kept hitting me in the face with her hair extensions. And at one point the bloke poked me in the eye with his elbow. I left in the end – they didn’t notice.’
‘That’s a sad story,’ I tell her sombrely, feeling a rush of affection for my sister.
It’s not just the hangover making me more loving, I genuinely am starting to enjoy having her around.
She’s fun and silly, and she’s been working hard on being less of a pain around the house.
She’s not forcing her will on everyone quite so much.
I think Harry’s been coaching her on how to be a better human.
I insert the key in our front door, my hands only slightly shaking. ‘Let’s get the oven on,’ I say desperately, my mouth already watering at the prospect of all this food. ‘And then you can tell me what this thing is later with Milo.’
‘It’s actually the opening of a new sports centre,’ she says casually, as I head for the kitchen and dump heaving carrier bags on the counter.
‘Milo and one of his co-stars have agreed to take part in a kickboxing class for a social media campaign. It’s to, like, encourage kids to be more active or some other important crap.
’ She titters. ‘I have to join in apparently, so I’m not just standing there looking like a creepy spectator. ’
I glance at my watch. ‘Is 10.45am too early to eat sausage rolls and onion rings?’
‘I’ve signed you up, too.’
I’m not listening as I read the cooking instructions on the back of a packet of crinkle cut chips. ‘It says 190 degrees, but if I stick it on at 220, it’ll be ready faster, right?’
‘And Harry and Salma.’
‘Sod the pre-heat time, it’s going in now,’ I sing, throwing the tray into a lukewarm oven. Even the prospect of carbs on their way is making me feel better.
‘It starts at 4pm, so we’re leaving here at three.’
I set a timer on my phone. ‘It says twenty-five minutes but I don’t think I can wait more than twelve. I’ll just eat them cold and solid, who cares.’
‘Amazing,’ Clara says happily, fiddling on her phone. ‘I’m so glad you’re up for it. I’ve just sent the confirmation email.’
I look up at Clara, taking in some of what she’s saying at last. ‘We’re leaving what at who?’
Her smile is a rictus. ‘Weren’t you listening? Oh well, too late now!’ She laughs. ‘Katiezzz said I should bring people to the kickboxing class to make up numbers, so I’m taking you, Harry and Salma along.’
‘What?’ I freeze halfway through emptying Doritos into a salad bowl. Delicious irony.
‘It’ll be fun!’ she says breezily. ‘Taxi is coming at three because I now have an expense account.’
‘You have a… wait.’ I shake my head, the hangover clouding her words.
‘Well, not technically an expense account,’ she acknowledges. ‘But Katiezzz said I can send a receipt, which will be reimbursed. Harry said he’d cover the taxi for now.’
The waves of sickness that had started to recede are back.
‘Hold on, Clara.’ I try to steady my breathing, focusing on the oven door where food-redemption lies.
‘Just stop talking for a second.’ She waits for me to continue.
‘Are you saying we’re going somewhere – in a taxi – at three today?
Did you say…’ I fight the panicky nausea, ‘… kickboxing ?’
‘Yep!’ She nods excitedly like this is the best thing ever, and not, in fact, the worst thing ever.
I mean, GOD! Going to a kickboxing exercise class on a good day would still be at the bottom of my to-do list. It wouldn’t even be on my list. It would be on my anti list. My don’t-do list. The list of things I would never, ever do, thank u next.
And with a hangover???
‘Oh god, no,’ I stutter, ‘I can’t do that! Are you kidding me, Clara? I can’t .’
She fishes out a Creme Egg from the plastic bags and unwraps it. ‘I’ve told them you’re coming, you can’t bail now. The list is locked in.’ She bites off the top, fixing me with a hard stare, ‘Plus, you do actually owe Milo an apology for being so mean to him last night.’
My hands fly to my eyes. ‘Nooooo!’ I cry. ‘Please don’t shame me! I feel awful enough with this hangover, I can’t deal with an emotional, humiliation hangover, too.’
I peep through my fingers to find her lovingly tonguing white fondant out of the egg hole. This is why I never drink. I’m an awful drunk, I hate Drunk Jemma.
She eyeballs me. ‘Just say you’ll come later and we’ll never mention any of it again,’ she promises. ‘Including your massive argument with the loo attendant over a paper hand towel.’
The chip timer goes off as hazy memories from the party accost me. ‘Oh god,’ I murmur. ‘Just let me eat seven tonnes of yellow food and then…’ I sigh, ‘… OK, I’ll come.’
She squeals excitedly, yanking the chips out of the oven, then peering at them disapprovingly. ‘Jem, these are not cooked at all. They’re barely even warm.’
I grab the tray from her, throwing cold, hard chips into my mouth. ‘I don’t care. I have to go kickboxing .’