Chapter Twenty-Eight Jemma
Chapter Twenty-Eight JEMMA
I’m going to vomit. I’m a thousand per cent going to vomit. And we haven’t even started the exercise part yet.
I look out of the taxi window, taking in the busy roads whizzing past. We’re a few minutes away from this sports centre and I just need to focus on something – anything – that isn’t me being sick.
Today’s hangover has not improved and I never made it to the library.
It’s possible eating a large pile of uncooked fried foods didn’t help, but I’ve decided to wholly blame the prospect of this mad exercise.
Who the hell would voluntarily attend a charity kickboxing class in front of the world’s social media? I glance over at my sister.
Clara.
‘Oh my god, I cannot wait for this!’ Salma shouts from the front seat.
And Salma, it would seem.
Beside me in the cab, Clara and Harry bicker happily about how he performed on the phone as her fake manager this morning, when he had to give a reference to Katies.
‘I still don’t think we needed to create an entire fake LinkedIn profile,’ says Harry, bouncing lightly in his seat as we mount a speed bump too quickly.
‘Of course we did.’ Clara is exasperated. ‘Katiezzz is very thorough. You think she wouldn’t have checked your LinkedIn to see if you really were the managing director and CEO of Celebs R Us?’
Harry grumbles. ‘But did we really have to make an entire website for Celebs R Us?’
‘Yes!’ Clara scolds.
‘It was really very convincing,’ Salma adds nicely. ‘I particularly enjoyed the page listing all the fake celebs you represent. Who knew Beyoncé, Adele, Brad Pitt, Barack Obama and Leonardo DiCaprio were all clients of Celebs R Us?’
I nod, trying to gather my frayed thoughts. ‘I also thought it was a brave choice to claim you represent Princess Diana when she’s been dead for thirty years.’
In the front, Salma snorts, adding, ‘My favourite part was the section of the website exclusively dedicated to rating the hotness of various famous men called Chris.’
‘That was my idea,’ Clara says proudly. ‘I’m going to add in a poll so the public can vote with me.’
‘Ooh, I missed that!’ I say, pulling out my phone and finding the Chris page. ‘Hmm,’ I frown, ‘personally, I’m not sure I would’ve had Christopher Walken ranked higher than Chris Evans and Chris Hemsworth, but I guess we are a rich tapestry of different tastes.’
Harry laughs as Clara looks stricken. ‘I don’t think that was meant to happen,’ he says as she quickly examines the website on her phone.
‘Shit,’ she says, ‘I’ve put Christopher Plummer above Chris Martin, too. And Christopher Lee is higher than Chris Rock! Chris Rock is so much hotter since he got slapped at the Oscars.’
Harry opens his own phone, suddenly looking frantic as he scrolls. ‘Where the hell is Chris Messina? If he isn’t in the top ten, I don’t know what hot is anymore.’
‘Chris Pine is my Chris,’ sighs the taxi driver out of nowhere.
We exchange a look. ‘Er, cool,’ Clara says, eyes darting back to her phone.
‘Oooh, I forgot Chris Klein ever existed!’ I cry, looking up from my own phone. ‘He was my American Pie crush.’
‘Whoops!’ Harry makes a face. ‘Looks like Chris Brown has ended up being pretty high on the list, too.’
Clara grimaces. ‘OK, I know he’s the worst, but I do actually fancy him a tiny bit.’ She brings her hands up defensively. ‘I know, I know! There’s something wrong with me.’
We all regard her with horror as the taxi driver mutters something about tanking her rating with a one star.
Clara looks worried, knowing she’s lost the room. ‘Um, I think we’re nearly here.’ She leans forward. ‘Anywhere here, please, mate,’ she says robotically and the taxi driver sighs, pulling over.
‘That is the twenty-fourth time someone has said those exact words to me today,’ he whispers in a sad, quiet voice as we all pile out shouting our thanks.
There is a buzz around the sports centre reception, with people milling about excitedly, talking in animated whispers. It would seem the ‘celebrities’ have already arrived.
‘Shit,’ Clara mutters, checking her phone for the umpteenth time. It’s almost four, but it’s her own fault we’re late.
After crawling into a ball in the shower, I successfully managed to throw on a pair of jogging bottoms and a hoodie, emerging – on time – in the hallway to find Clara sitting on the chest of drawers giggling with Harry.
She practically hissed when she saw my outfit, immediately insisting on re-dressing me.
I had no energy – mental or physical – to fight her, so now I’m here, wearing tight, high-waisted pink leggings and a stripy crop top.
My boobs are so smooshed together and yanked up, I keep grazing them with my chin.
It’s obscene and I feel hideously self-conscious, but I’m also too ill to care.
Our arrival attracts a few head turns, followed by disgust at our civilian-ness. I catch a few interested eyes lingering around my chin-tits and pick up speed as we head through the entrance. I mean, I would hang my head in shame, but there are two sacks of fat in the way.
‘Come on!’ Clara shouts, sounding a bit panicked. ‘I’m supposed to have met Milo half an hour ago.’ She flags down security and we’re directed down a corridor that smells like fresh paint.
Music is blasting from a room up ahead, and we exchange panicked looks as we realize they’ve started without us.
‘Shit, what do we do?’ Clara is crestfallen, then glances anxiously around our group. ‘Shall we just leave? Make a run for it?’
I’m about to agree wholeheartedly when Harry jumps in, looking quite cross. ‘No!’ he tells her firmly. ‘You can’t do that. We’ve committed to this – you’ve committed to this, Clara.’
Salma nods firmly. ‘We just have to go in, be brazen. Come on.’ She gestures at the door and Clara looks to me anxiously.
At last she mutters, ‘Fuck it,’ and leads us through the glass door, where the music is suddenly overwhelmingly loud.
The large, already-sweaty group have paired off and are pounding each other, wearing big gloves.
A huge man at the front shoots us a disapproving look but Clara has spotted her client.
‘Milo!’ she squeals loudly, waving over and leading us to his corner spot. Phone cameras are pointed in his – and our – direction as he pauses, mid-punch.
I am mortified, staring at my feet as we cross the room to him, people tutting in all directions around us. The sickness recedes, replaced by the acceptance that I am among the worst of people who ever lived.
How am I here? How am I in a live-streamed exercise class – kickboxing , no less! – with the worst hangover of my life, my face on fire, surrounded by strangers and celebrities? And I was late .
This isn’t me at all.
‘Clara!’ Milo looks genuinely happy to see her. He pulls her in for a quick hug and I see her breath catch momentarily.
To be honest, I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the guy is unbelievable .
Offensively hot. Even in his shitty gym clothes, you can see he’s all angles and sexy bumps.
His hair is a touch too long, as is the stubble on his face.
It’s just enough to make him seem real. I’ve barely taken any notice of Book Boyfriend , but I’ve definitely seen him in something else.
A film, maybe? Something much better than stupid Book Boyfriend anyway.
We must only be a few minutes into the class, but perspiration already dots his forehead; he’s been working hard.
He turns to the rest of us. ‘Hey, you lot,’ he greets us amiably, his eyes stopping at my chin. Or a few inches below. I feel my face burn redder.
‘Hi,’ I say shyly as Harry throws himself in Milo’s direction.
‘HEY, MATE!’ he practically yells, startling his man crush, who takes another second to return the smile.
‘All right, Harry?’ Milo replies, dazzling with that TV star charisma.
Salma, Clara and Harry all swoon under his gaze and I feel myself straighten up, determined not to follow suit.
However embarrassing this whole thing is; however red my face is; no matter how much my nipples are currently stroking my ears…
I will not succumb to this idiot’s good looks.
I know I was horrible to him last night about the show – and he didn’t deserve it – but also he kind of does.
After all, he is still guilty of the crime: he has ruined my favourite novel with his stupid show.
‘ERRRR,’ the teacher at the front is glaring over, ‘WE HAVE STARTED THE WARM-UP, CAN WE ALL GET BACK TO THE CLASS, PLEASE?’
Shame-faced, we pair off to pound on each other.
Salma takes the pad and I don the gloves, trying to throw punches that cross my body.
The teacher shouts at us to work harder, but I can’t.
The waves of sickness come with every beat of the music.
Every pathetic, weak little punch I throw brings with it a painful thud in my head.
Within a few minutes I’m smelling myself, and I smell like red wine. It’s all so, so bad.
‘Booze is seeping out of my pores,’ I whisper to Salma, who nods sympathetically.
‘I know, babe, I can smell it,’ she admits, grimacing.
‘Oh god,’ I murmur, praying for a break. I just need the teacher to give us a thirty-second water break, so I can disappear to the loo and not come back. I stare over at him, willing him to call a halt to things. Please, I silently beg. Pleeeeease.
‘OK, hold it there!’ shouts the buff instructor and I pant with relief.
‘We’re swapping partners around.’ What? No!
Give us a break, for the love of GOD. He moves around the room, personally pairing people up as I anxiously seek out an exit route.
Could I just make a run for it? No way, there are too many excitable boxers between me and the door. There’s no escape.
Huge hands grab me by the shoulders and physically move me away from Salma.
‘You,’ the instructor shouts in my ear, ‘are going to be kicking… him .’ He dumps me in front of the worst possible partner and I stare at the ground, mortified.
It’s Milo Samuels. Not only am I horrified by my drunken actions last night but I’m also well aware of all the camera phones now directed straight at me and him.
I glance over at Clara, who is eyeballing me. ‘ Apologize! ’ she mouths and I sigh, trying to meet Milo’s eyes.
There is a long silence. He’s looking at me with trepidation. ‘You OK?’ he asks warily.
I must be an absolute state.
I lick my lips and swallow hard, tasting my own sweat, which is easily twenty per cent proof.
‘Yep,’ I say abruptly, then regret it. Sighing, I try again.
‘I’m… Clara says I have to… I mean, I am very…
um…’ I take a deep breath as the instructor starts screaming at us to roundhouse kick the pads.
‘Milo,’ I try again and he waits patiently.
‘I’m very sorry about my behaviour last night.
’ My chest gets tight. ‘I was very drunk and I really don’t drink very often because, well, I mean… you saw. Drunk Jemma is a twat.’
He laughs heartily, then looks embarrassed as people glance over.
I take a step back, attempting a kick and nearly falling over. I continue speaking quickly, in a low voice, ‘But being drunk doesn’t excuse my rudeness, so I am very sorry.’
He braces against a pad as I try again to kick it – and fail.
‘You don’t have to be sorry, Jemma,’ he says, and something in my stomach flips at the way this handsome man says my name.
I’m starting to see what Clara’s been talking about.
‘I thought you were funny,’ he adds, half smiling.
‘And I liked how much you care. It… matters, it really does, and I like that you said how you felt. Even if it took all the alcohol in the room to get you there. I liked… all of it.’ He smiles slowly and my stomach goes again. I think I actually kind of—
Oh wait.
No, that’s not fancying, none of this is fancying feelings – it’s puke. I gag, my mouth filling with sick, and his face falls. We stare at each other, my chipmunk cheeks full of acidic liquid.
‘Are you…?’ he asks, and I nod slightly, trying so desperately to stop. It takes another half second but I manage to swallow it back down. I have never been more disgusting in my life.
‘Wow,’ he says, eyes wide as the instructor at last calls – after seventeen thousand hours – for a break. ‘Maybe you should go to the loo?’ Milo suggests nicely, understandably horrified, and I nod, too ashamed to say anything.
I turn to go, speed-walking through the throngs of people drinking from expensive-looking water bottles. The door is there, thank god, but before I can reach it, I come face to face with a familiar dickhead.
It’s the last person in the whole world I’d expect to see in this weird gym class in the middle of London; it’s fucking Mack from the library.